Halfhead

by Stuart B. MacBride

  He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the ones lined up along the side of the truck. ‘That many.’

  ‘You must keep some sort of records—’

  ‘Look, Mister, we ain’t their keepers. We just picks them up and drops them off. OK? Gie’s a break!’

  Will dropped off the tailgate and stared at the line of new halfheads, all clutching their cleaning materials and waiting for instructions. This was madness: they were halfheads. Between them they wouldn’t have enough brains left to break wind, never mind assault a Bluecoat officer and evade a Network security team. It wasn’t just unlikely, it was impossible. He was just making a fool of himself.

  ‘We all done here, James? Entertaining as this is, Dougie an’ me gottae go dae some actual work, but.’

  Will gritted his teeth, forcing out the words, ‘Thank you for your cooperation.’ Then he turned on his heel and stomped back into the hospital, doing his best to ignore the derisive laughter that erupted behind his back.

  She watches him leave: face all crumpled, shoulders all slouchy. Poor thing. What he needs is a woman’s touch. She gets a warm feeling inside at that. A woman’s touch, with a very sharp blade.

  It was easy to change lines, to become one of the incoming domestic slaves, rather than the outgoing.

  When the line snakes away from the Roadhugger and in through the hospital doors she goes with it. They all line up like good little soldiers, then a bored-looking orderly assigns them their tasks.

  She tries to look completely bereft of intelligence as the bored man tells her to go and mop the floors in the mortuary. As she slouches off towards the lifts she sees the orderly get to the end of the line and examine his clipboard.

  ‘We got one too many…’ He frowns, then shrugs. ‘Ah well, waste not want not.’

  Dr Westfield catches sight of the big glass and bronze clock hanging over the reception desk. It’s not even five o’clock yet. She still has six hours to go.

  Six hours and a head full of bees and broken glass.

  Peitai…

  She will find herself a nice private room and have a shower. A long, hot shower to cleanse away all the dirt and filth and menial labour of the last six years.

  Then she’ll be nice and clean for Dr Stephen Bexley. He’ll give her back her face and her life, and she’ll take his. Then she’ll pay that nice man from the Network a home visit.

  He almost had her tonight—almost ended everything before it had really begun.

  One good turn deserves another.

  Will sat on the edge of the treatment bench and tried not to wince as Doc Morrison poked and prodded his bruised ribs.

  ‘You know,’ she said, standing back, watching him sitting there in his pants and socks, ‘you’re becoming a bit of a fixture round here. How about you stay out of trouble for a month or two? Let absence make the heart grow fonder.’

  ‘I’d like to,’ Will smiled, ‘but you’re just too much woman for me to resist.’

  ‘Very funny. Get your clothes on.’ She slapped a couple more blockers into his hand and invited him, politely, to get the hell out of her office.

  Jo was waiting for him outside, a patch of bright pink sitting on her forehead where the graze used to be.

  ‘That looks nice,’ he said as they walked towards the lifts.

  ‘So much for natural flesh tones.’ There was still a touch of frost in her voice. She punched the button for the rooftop landing pad and they stood side by side, waiting for the lift to show. ‘How’s your ribs?’

  Will shrugged. ‘Doc says they’re healing. What about you?’

  ‘Slight concussion and a patchwork head.’

  He smiled and wrapped an arm round her waist. ‘All in all a lovely day then?’

  ‘Yeah. Great. Remind me to go out with you next time I’m feeling suicidal.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’ He let go of her and tried not to sound hurt.

  They stood in silence.

  Will bit his lip and took a deep breath. He wanted to apolo gize, tell her she was important to him, that he didn’t mean to push her away…But looking at her standing there, her face all clenched tight, he couldn’t find the words.

  He looked away.

  He’d screwed it up again.

  22

  Doctor Stephen Bexley stands in the middle of the operating theatre. He’s on his own—good boy. She watches him though the observation window as he twitches and fidgets. Her new head sits on the operating slab beside him, beautiful and radiant in its bath of nutrients.

  She should be happy, but all she feels is sick and twisted. The episodes are getting worse: flashes of pain, bright lights, and the old man. The past won’t leave her alone.

  She pulls out her datapad and picks her way quietly down the stairs and into the operating theatre. Stephen doesn’t hear her enter, he’s too busy biting his fingernails. He shrieks when the cold, artificial voice says: ‘ARE YOU PREPARED?‘

  ‘I…I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.’ He looks around the room as if seeing the large banks of machinery for the first time. ‘I’ve disabled the cameras and set up an artificial anaesthetist and…’ He runs out of words and just stands there, slack and silent. The dark circles under his eyes have grown and his salt and pepper hair is uncombed.

  He doesn’t look fit to operate on a cat.

  Her hands dance over the datapad’s keyboard as she gives him some words of encouragement. ‘STEPHEN, YOU ARE THE FINEST CLONEPLANT SURGEON IN THE COUNTRY. YOU WILL DO A WONDERFUL JOB AND MAKE ME BEAUTIFUL AGAIN. NO ONE ELSE CAN DO THIS AS WELL AS YOU.‘

  He doesn’t look as if he believes her.

  ‘REMEMBER THE JENKINS’S CHILD? YOU MADE HIS LIFE WHOLE AGAIN. YOU ARE A GENIUS.‘

  Something like pride sparks in Stephen’s eyes and he nods, then straightens up. Stands a little taller. He must be desperate if this kind of banal flattery makes him feel better about his miserable little life. Or the short portion that’s left of it.

  ‘Yes, well,’ his voice has become a lot firmer, almost masterful, ‘if you could hop up on the operating table we’ll get you plugged in.’ His hands shake as he prepares the IV drips. Then he takes a deep breath and slides the needles into her skin like the expert he is. She barely even feels it.

  Numbness creeps out from the centre of her chest. She can smell her own fear. The last time she lay back on an operating slab they took everything away from her. Everything. She fights to keep the panic in check, but it’s acid, eating at her belly. She can see Stephen busying himself with the prepar ations, but it’s the other surgeon she hears: the one that stole her life.

  We begin by splitting the lower jaw.

  Her breathing becomes erratic, rapid, and somewhere behind her a machine starts to bleep—upping the sedative.

  From the corner of her eye she can see Stephen wheeling the surgeon’s wand into position. There’s a test block mounted beside the wand, a chunk of polished granite, nicked and scarred from previous operations. She wants to scream, to make it all stop, but the drugs hold her solid.

  Stephen pulls the operating hood over his face. ‘We’ll begin by marking the edge of the peel area,’ he says, talking to an audience of junior surgeons, students and nurses that isn’t even there.

  Doctor Westfield can barely feel the tug of the marker on her skin as he runs it around her neck. She’s slipping away into chemical darkness, still terrified by the surgeon from six years ago, his long thin fingers and the pain they bring. Her mind caught in a loop of panic and horror. She doesn’t even hear the low buzz of the wand or feel her old face being whipped away into a thin, red mist. But an image flashes before her—his name, written on her medical records.

  She knows who the old man is.

  The apartment was as cold as it was empty, but that suited Will’s mood just fine. He sat in the dark, Alba Blue belting out through the speakers, an open plastic of whisky on the coffee table, and the keyboard in his lap. The only light in the room came from the screen in front
of him, the notes he’d ‘liberated’ from the hospital’s computers casting a ghostly white glow.

  He hadn’t managed to speak more than a dozen words to Jo as the Dragonfly took them away from the hospital. Instead he’d just stood there like an idiot, trying to get something to come out of his mouth. Trying to say something that would make her understand that he didn’t mean to be distant. That he liked her a lot. That he wasn’t really an arsehole.

  ‘Remind me to go out with you next time I’m feeling suicidal.’

  Great. Just what he’d wanted to hear: Fucking perfect.

  Forget about it. It didn’t matter. So Jo didn’t want him any more. Big deal. He was happy here anyway. On his own. In the dark. Going slowly mad.

  No wonder he was seeing things.

  Chasing halfheads through Glasgow Royal Infirmary like a lunatic.

  Still, at least he’d managed to salvage something from today’s fiasco—the files he’d downloaded from the hospital servers.

  He poured another measure into his glass.

  Ken and his boss had been busy half a dozen years ago.

  Mr Tokumu Kikan, Ken’s employer, had been a registered surgeon at Glasgow Royal Infirmary for almost six months. From the look of things he’d managed to perform nearly every halfheading the hospital did at that time. His list of ‘clients’ read like a Who’s Who of Glasgow’s criminal over-belly. Serial killers, kidnappers, rapists, politicians: you name it he’d…Will froze, his heart pounding, as he read the name ‘Doctor Fiona Westfield’.

  Maybe he had something to thank Ken and his boss for after all: they’d mutilated that evil bitch.

  According to the records, Kikan only performed the pro cedure on a handful of others after her. As if no one else was really worth the bother.

  Ken Peitai started working for the hospital not long after Doctor Westfield’s crimes became public knowledge. He’d been employed to work on the PsychTech database, tidying things up before the project was unceremoniously dumped.

  Will checked the dates against the bonus payment he’d found. They matched. When Peitai finished working on the PsychTech database, Kikan made sure he got a massive golden handshake.

  Why would a surgeon care about a glorified datamonkey?

  Will scowled at the screen. ‘What were you really doing, you nasty little squit?’

  What was in the PsychTech files that Peitai didn’t want him to see?

  He took another swig of whisky.

  Of course, the real question was: why were Peitai and Kikan playing doctors and nurses in the first place?

  The world doesn’t hurt as much as she’d expected. It’s cold and clammy and her throat feels as if she’s swallowed razor wire, but it’s bearable. She reaches up with a trembling hand, almost afraid of what she’s going to find.

  ‘You’ll feel groggy for an hour or two.’ Stephen’s voice has lost its nervousness; the surgical arrogance is back. ‘The operation was a complete success. I’m particularly happy with the nerve regeneration.’ He makes a theatrical gesture that oozes self-satisfaction. ‘Some of my finest work.’

  Her shaking fingers brush against something that feels tight and swollen: her chin. It worked! The hand carries on up her face; there are lips, taut cheeks, a smooth forehead and hair. Long, matted, sticky hair, still full of nutrients.

  ‘Try not to move about too much,’ he says as she peels her eyes open.

  The light stings: makes her head swim, makes her stomach lurch. Stephen stands beside the operating slab, close enough for her to reach out and squeeze the life out of him.

  She wants to ask for a mirror, but all that comes out is a hissing grunt.

  ‘Don’t try to speak. Your new vocal chords need time to settle in.’

  It takes an almost Herculean effort to pull herself upright. Something’s not right. Burning pins and needles race up and down her body. She shouldn’t be feeling like this.

  ‘Having problems?’ He’s gloating…the bastard has done something to her!

  She tries to grab him by the throat, but he dodges easily. Grinning. Her arm flails out, throwing her off balance. She tips off the edge of the operating table and crashes to the floor—pain rips through her entire head. New nerve endings screaming and burning.

  ‘Not so fucking big now, are you?’ He spits at her: a thick globule of white, frothy sputum that splashes on her face like jism.

  Stephen takes two steps back—getting a bit of a run up—and then his boot smashes into her stomach. More pain. ‘WHERE’S MY WIFE?’

  She drags herself onto her hands and knees, but Stephen kicks her again and sends her sprawling.

  ‘Feeling a bit under the weather? That’s what happens when you mix your narcotics.’

  A tiny moan escapes her brand-new lips.

  ‘How about it, Doctor? Want me to hurt you some more?’ He aims a kick at her ribs and she can only bounce with it. ‘Where is she? GIVE ME BACK MY WIFE, YOU BITCH!’

  Oh God…everything hurts.

  She lies there, on the floor, gazing up at the theatre lights, trying not to cry. This wasn’t meant to happen: he was beaten, he belonged to her.

  Stephen grabs her shoulders and drags her across the polished marblette, back towards the operating table. All she can do is wave a feeble hand in his direction. With a grunt he hefts her off the ground and throws her down on the stainless steel surface. She didn’t know he could be so strong. So masterful.

  ‘You have a lovely face you know,’ he says as he drags her all the way up the table. ‘You were right: I am a genius. Oh, it’s a little swollen just now, but that’ll all settle down in a day or two.’ He wheels the surgeon’s wand back into place, then grabs a mirror and shows her just how beautiful she is. ‘Such a pretty face. Be a shame to ruin all my hard work, don’t you think?’ The wand screeches as he fingers the hair-trigger, slicing a corner off the test block, sending it clattering to the floor.

  ‘You told me you had nothing to lose. Well now you do.’ He holds the wand’s cold tip up against the swollen end of her chin. ‘How would you like to go back to the way you were?’

  ‘Drrrrrnt…’ It is barely a word, but she forces it out through her aching throat.

  ‘Was that a plea for help? Was it?’

  She nods her head, hot tears running down her cheeks.

  ‘Plllllssssssssssssss drrrrrnt…’

  He drops the wand to the tabletop, where it skitters and clanks on the cold metal surface. ‘Tell me where my wife is!’

  ‘Cnnnnnnnnnt tllllllllk.’

  He grabs her datapad and presses it hard against her face. Nerves creak and burn.

  ‘You can’t talk, but you can type, you fucking bitch! Tell me where she is, or so help me I’ll peel your head apart!’

  Her hands fumble with the smooth ceramic rectangle and it slips, bounces off the edge of the operating table and falls to the floor.

  ‘Stupid, clumsy bitch!’ He slaps her. It’s like a knife’s being driven through her face. Skinpaint and skinglue shift beneath the surface of her cheek, threatening to tear the muscle loose. It’s not been attached long enough for the fibres to bind themselves to the bone.

  She curls up agony as he stoops to pick up the dropped datapad. She has worked so hard! This isn’t how it’s meant to happen!

  Something cold and hard rolls against her forehead and she reaches up, snatching it with both hands.

  ‘Right, you cow.’ He grabs her by the shoulder, wrenching her over onto her back. ‘Type!’

  The wand screeches in her hands and Doctor Stephen Bexley screams. ‘Jesushhh, oh fucking Jesushhh!’ He’s on the floor on his hands and knees, clutching at his left cheek—there’s a big hole in his face that goes all the way through to his tongue.

  Carefully she swings her legs out over the edge of the slab and lurches to her feet. Her head pounds and her ribs ache and for a moment she comes close to fainting…but she doesn’t. Instead she yanks the test block out of the wand’s holder and batters Doctor Bexl
ey over the back of the head.

  She feels a lot better now. The operating theatre’s bio-scrubber is plugged into her arm, pulling the blood out and purifying it, before pumping it back in again. Naughty old Stephen’s chemicals are being flushed clean away.

  He lies on the operating table, strapped in nice and tight, his eyes as wide as dinner plates. He’s scared and so he should be.

  She pats him on the cheek—the one without the golf-ball-sized hole in it—and pulls her new face into a smile. It’s hard work. She hasn’t done it before.

  ‘Yvvvvvv bnnnnnn nnnnnte…’ She has to admit: she doesn’t sound good.

  But she’s still doing better than Stephen. The only sound he can make is a strangled sob from the smooth-edged hole in his cheek. If she peers into it she can see his tongue, ringed in a circle of cut-through teeth.

  Poor lamb. And his day’s about to get even worse.

  She pulls out the datapad and types the words for him.

  ‘YOU HAVE BEEN NAUGHTY,’ says the cold, artificial voice.

  He doesn’t reply, but then he can’t: his lips are stuck together with skinglue.

  ‘WE HAD A DEAL, STEPHEN. AND YOU TRIED TO TAKE MY FACE AWAY.‘

  Tears roll down the sides of his face like tiny waterfalls. The wound in his cheek must be causing him some discomfort. She could give him a couple of blockers, make it easier for him, but she doesn’t want to.

  ‘I TOLD YOU WHAT WOULD HAPPEN TO YOUR WIFE IF YOU DISOBEYED ME.‘

  He bucks and writhes against his restraints. It doesn’t help. She checks the clock on the theatre wall: nearly half past six in the morning. People will be here soon, cleaning and polishing and preparing for the first operation of the day. But she really wants to make Stephen’s last few minutes special.

  ‘I WAS GOING TO LET HER DIE. BUT NOW I HAVE TO MAKE AN EXAMPLE OF HER.‘

  He screws his eyes shut. Bangs his head off the stainless steel tabletop. Cries.

  ‘SHE WILL TAKE DAYS TO DIE BECAUSE OF YOU. LONG, PAINFUL DAYS. PERHAPS I WILL SEND HER HEAD TO YOUR CHILDREN AS A KEEPSAKE.‘

  She pauses and makes a noise that could almost be mistaken for laughter. It is rough and it hurts, but it feels so good! She leans in so close that her eyelashes sparkle with his tears.