Skeletal

by Emma Pullar

  Behind me the giant front doors are closed. There’s no point in trying them. I know they won’t open. Above are long beams of cobweb laden lights and around me the walls are depressingly grey. To my right is a square, glassless window. Under it, on a shelf, is a peculiar device; a trapezium shape (I think) with a clear disk on the front and a bent bar placed on the top. Not knowing what I’m meant to do, I take a step towards the object on the table. My tired eyes reflect in the plastic disk, face surrounded by the numbers 1-9. I move my head, checking over my reflection. I look like a Glo-Girl who’s taken a beating from a client. Bruised cheek, lip split in two places, and my hair looks like one of those killer crows tried to make a nest in it. Look how far I’ve come in improving my life. Go me!

  ‘Hello?’ I call through the dark hole in the wall. ‘Anyone there?’

  Silence.

  I poke my fingers into the round holes on the disk and accidentally pull back on the number four. It spins, making a clicking noise. I lean closer. What do these numbers mean? A ringing noise erupts from the object, and the banana on the top vibrates. Panic. I didn’t mean to break it. The ringing echoes loud in the corridor. How do stop the sound coming out? I try the finger holes again, the disk spins around but the ringing doesn’t stop. I grab the top, it lifts off and the ringing cuts out. I stretch out the curly cord attached to one end. How odd. There’s noise coming from the round end. I put it to my ear.

  ‘Hello.’ A quiet, electronic voice says.

  ‘Hello?’ I say, uncertainty shaking my voice.

  ‘Megan Skyla,’ the robotic voice replies. ‘Take your ID card to room nine immediately.’

  ‘What ID card?’ I ask.

  The voice doesn’t answer. It’s replaced by a strange flat tone. I lower the voice receiver back onto the hook. Then jump back at the appearance of an outstretched arm through the dark window. I take the card from its fingers and immediately the arm withdraws back into the shadows. I step sideways and trip over my knapsack. Crow must have dropped it, along with me. I can’t believe he walked off and left me. Asshole! I stoop and sweep my bag from the dirty floor, then make my way down the ominous passage, treading quietly. Two rodents scurry along the edge of the wall as if they own the place, stopping only to squeak at each other.

  Rock Vault is a stark contrast to The Spiral, I think to myself. I run my hand along the dark crumbling walls, dirt building up on the tips of my fingers. Deeper into the prison, I pass doors that look younger than the walls. Have people tried to break out and they had to replace the broken doors? These doors look brand new and new things would never be wasted on Skels. The Mutil are often thought of as having more strength then regular people. Elders say if sight is impaired, the other senses become stronger, so if you take away the mind does the body get stronger? Maybe they hold Mutil behind these doors before they sling them out on to the streets.

  I flip my ID card between my fingers. On it is a small-scale map of my palm print, my name and assignment: Megan Skyla. Sanitationist. I fucking hate this card. It says nothing about me.

  In a few short strides, I reach door number nine. It’s ajar. I knock once and then slip inside. The room I find is not what I’m expecting. Clean, sterile. A whimper comes from a reclined chair in the centre of the room. I approach it. Next to the chair is a small table. On the table is a tray and on the tray, is a bloody, black-smudged cloth and some tiny bottles. A bright light shines down on the young girl holding her arm by the wrist as if she slit it. Her face is hidden by a mess of dark braids. Her quiet sobs drop tears onto her wrist, no cuts, just black lettering surrounded by inflamed, irritated skin.

  ‘Hey,’ I say softly. ‘You okay?’

  ‘I’m not dead, so I suppose that means I’m okay.’

  The girl doesn’t look up at me. She continues to weep.

  ‘Andia,’ a deep voice bellows into the room, followed by a tall muscular man wearing his guard scarf tied tight around his bald head. He tosses a tattoo gun onto the tray then lifts the girl’s wrist and wraps it in a clear film, ‘You can go. Follow the corridor to the end and turn left. The other sanitationists will see you to your sleeping quarters.’

  Andia nods and gets up, her eyes downcast. She glances in my direction for a split second but doesn’t recognise me and I hardly recognise her. Last time I ran into Andia was at Showcase. She was smiling and happy and … how did she end up in here? I don’t get to ask her. She picks up her bag and tears out the door. Her sobs and staggered steps slowly fade away as she moves down the passage. The bulky guard is staring at me.

  ‘Er … do you want this?’ I ask, handing him the ID card.

  ‘Take a seat,’ he replies, snatching the card from me.

  I sit down in the reclining chair but I don’t lean back. I feel awkward and stiff. I scan the tray, drawn to the tattoo gun. My eyes settle on the needle. I hope it’s clean. The guard perches on a stool opposite to me, it buckles and shifts, too small for his muscular backside.

  ‘Try not to tense up,’ he says in a disturbingly silky tone, like he’s about to give me a massage. ‘The tenser you are, the more it will hurt.’

  He gives me back my ID card. I pocket it and gingerly place my arm on the table. He grips my wrist and wipes the skin with what I can only assume is a sterilised cloth, at least I hope it is.

  ‘Why do I need a tattoo?’ I ask, before the needle touches my skin.

  ‘So we know where you belong,’ he replies, matter-of-factly.

  I want to yell at him, slap his face and say, this isn’t where I belong! But I don’t.

  ‘You don’t brand city Skels like slaves,’ I say, instead.

  Impatience clenches his prominent jaw.

  ‘Skels move around in different jobs. Some become hosts or guards, scrubs never leave.’

  ‘Never leave,’ I say, deflated.

  ‘You’ve been saved from the Dark Angel.’ He grunts. ‘You owe Central your life. Be grateful for that.’

  Owe Central my life? Ha! What life? I want to spit in his face but it’s not wise to spit in the face of someone holding a fine needle to your skin. The needle starts to buzz. The pain scratches, then stabs down to my bone, my voice catches in my throat and I’m unable to utter another word. I wasn’t tense before but I am now. Holy fuck! I grip the chair with my free hand, the other one twitches and my fingers flinch as if my tendons are being pinched. What’s he trying to do, tattoo it on my veins? A cloth wipes across my wrist at intervals. I close my eyes and will my mind to block out the pain. When the buzzing stops, the guard speaks.

  ‘You’re done.’

  I open my eyes. The guard wraps my wrist in the clear film then releases my inflamed arm. I shake with fretfulness. Not because of the pain or because I’m scared to be back in prison where people are tortured, mutilated, killed, and chopped into Morb food, but because not only will I probably never see the light of day again – I’m now marked for life. The last of my freedom removed by the permanent black symbol on my skin, in a place where I can’t cut it out without bleeding to death. The linked black lines resemble an R and a V for Rock Vault. A least, I think that’s what it means. I stare at the black ink and realise it’s more than that, the way the letters are linked together suggests the ‘R’ is a person kneeling, hands tied to the bottom of a rock, the ‘V’ is made up from the bottom part of the R and the top of the ‘V’ has a line swept to the right like a ledge, symbolising the rock. The same emotions that took hold of Andia take hold of me. I will always be identified as a scrub. This is my forever home, not inside Bunce’s heart, but inside this prison.

  ‘I have other duties, you know.’

  I snap out of my trance and struggle out of the chair. Eyes glued to the clear wrap covering the swollen markings on my arm, I mindlessly reach down, scoop up my knapsack and hurry out of the door.

  ‘Follow the corridor to the end and turn left. The other sanitationists will see you to your sleeping quarters,’ the guard grunts at me.

  The passageway is
cool, the walls retain no heat. I’m glad of it because my dry mouth is starting to drive my instincts. Hunter-seeker. I need water. My boots drag anxiety across the concrete floor. Water. Andia. Sleeping quarters. Duties. My stomach makes a popping sound and hunger is added to the list. I turn the corner. Thump! I collide with a body, topple off my feet and fall backwards onto the cold floor.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ a soft voices drifts down to me, ‘I didn’t see you.’

  A hand reaches down and I grab it. The stranger pulls me to my feet and the shock of the fall is nothing, compared to the shock of white hair and milky complexion I’m faced with. Penetrating pink eyes smile back at me. A faded yet deep scar traces around the right eye and down a lily-white jaw. I’m motionless for what seems like a decade. The stranger still has hold of my hand. He turns my wrist over and notes my tattoo. I instantly tug away from the creature’s grip. He doesn’t seem offended. He grins at me.

  ‘Actions speak louder than words,’ he coos with a voice too soft for his sharp features. ‘Yet your eyes tell you to ignore my gesture of kindness.’

  For a moment words fail me. He thinks I’m being rude, when all I really am is shocked.

  ‘Er … thank you for helping me up.’

  The strange albino man bends and scoops my ID from the dusty floor. He examines the card in his colourless hands.

  ‘Hello … Megan,’ he says, smile widening, cherry pink lips stretching into the whiteness of his cheeks. I snatch the card from him.

  ‘It’s Skyla,’ I snap. ‘No one calls me by my first name.’

  ‘Leave her alone, Dove,’ a deep voice booms down the corridor, accompanied by the sound of heavy boots, clomping clumsily towards us.

  A tall, weighty man in uniform stops beside us. I recognise him, no mistaking that crooked nose, probably been broken a few times by other guards for touching their personal Glo-Girl or by the Glo-Girl herself for taking without paying. This guard was sat next to Crow at Showcase, the one who laughed at my exposed breasts. I address the pale stranger.

  ‘Your name’s Dove?’

  Dove nods.

  ‘He doesn’t know how to talk to people,’ says the guard, dismissively.

  My back finds the cold wall. I’ve unknowingly backed away. The guard leans over me. My cheeks burn a little. He runs his fingers down my shoulder and around the shape of my breast. I let his fingers wander while I try to think of a way to stop him from doing anything more to me.

  ‘Have you still got that pretty dress you wore to Showcase?’

  His fingers reach my thigh. His lips close to mine, hook nose almost touching my cheek. He smells like he’s run a marathon through dog shit. I turn my face, his fingers push between my legs, he rubs them up and down.

  ‘You like that?’ He breathes heavy on my ear. He rubs my leg, not where he intends. Dumb oaf. I clench my jaw. I want to break his fingers. If only I had my knife!

  The guard has no thought of Dove being right there. No permission from me and he doesn’t care. I wonder if he’ll try to rape me with Dove idly watching. The threat is real. This guard has no moral compass. When I was a small girl, I used to hide under my blanket at night thinking it would protect me from monsters. Now, I feel trapped with only my fear for company, a monster has hold of me and I’m without my protective blanket. I’m at the mercy of the guards and I’ve never seen them show much of that.

  ‘I do,’ says Dove unexpectedly.

  ‘Do what?’ the guard stops rubbing my inner thigh and rounds on Dove, angry at being interrupted while playing with a new toy.

  ‘Know how to talk to people,’ Dove says, smiling.

  ‘Don’t talk much sense though, do you?’ grunts the guard. He turns back to me. Reaches for my breast but is put off again by the white man in the corridor with us.

  ‘I do.’ Dove says, simply, ‘I’m talking sense now. What’s this if not a sensible conversation?’

  ‘See! He’s impossible,’ says the guard, shaking his head at me.

  I get the feeling Dove only speaks when it’s absolutely necessary, and it seems he felt it necessary to save me from this guard’s advances.

  ‘Fingers!’ A male voice echoes off the walls.

  ‘On my way!’ the guard named Fingers shouts back. He points his thumb at Dove. ‘He goes days without talking and when he finally does open his lily-white lips, the biggest load of bullshit comes out! Watch out for this one. He’s a fucking basket-case.’ I nod. ‘I’m sorry he ruined our moment; next time I’ll take you somewhere we won’t be watched,’ he grins, uneven teeth, a crocodile’s smile. He cups both my breasts and squeezes, I freeze and resist the urge to knee him in the balls, ‘Mmmm, they feel as good as they looked at Showcase,’ he releases me and walks off, looks over his shoulder and winks, ‘See you around.’

  Once Fingers is out of sight, relief washes over my body and I breathe out the tension. He’ll be back for me though and next time he’ll catch me alone. I make a mental note never to go anywhere in here on my own. No knife, one guard I could take, more than one, no dice. I add the name Fingers to the hit list in my head, right next to Clover.

  Even though I think Dove tried to help me, he puts me on edge; his freakish eyes stare through me. He has a lunatic vibe about him. Dove doesn’t say anything about what just happened. His expression remains vacant. I’ve never seen anyone so pale. His eyelashes are invisible, his pink eyes are unnaturally far apart and his eyebrows are hidden under a mop of white hair. He looks other worldly; the Morbihan are not this light. What’s wrong with him? I want to ask him so many questions. Why are you so white and not in a hover-chair? What are you doing in here? What’s going on with your eyes? Only gang members tattoo their eyes to show which part of the city they belong to, and none of them have chosen pink as their gang’s colour. Plus, gangs tattoo the whites of their eyes, whereas Dove’s irises are pink.

  ‘So,’ I say timidly, ‘did your parents give you that name?’

  Not the question I most wanted to ask, but it is the politest I can muster. Dove shrugs.

  ‘Are you Morbihan?’

  Dove frowns and shakes his head. I sigh. I have a feeling this is going to be like trying to pry glory from an addict’s hands. I change the subject.

  ‘Do you know where the sleeping quarters are?’

  Dove nods.

  ‘Can you take me there?’

  Dove nods. I wait for him to move but he doesn’t. I raise my eyebrows.

  ‘Can you take me there now?’

  Dove nods again, but still doesn’t move.

  ‘Let’s go then,’ I say softly, like I’m talking to a child.

  Dove turns his back on me and I follow him a little way along until we reach a dead end. I peer around for a door. Nothing. I turn back to my guide to find he has disappeared. I frown. Where’d he go? I feel around the back wall with my hands, maybe there’s a secret palm-pad. All I find is dirt. I clap it from my palms and glance down. I’m standing in a hole. We’ve walked down an incline. I crouch and find a crawl space. I can’t see what’s at the other end. It’s the only place Dove could have gone. I kneel on the gritty floor, my knees complaining about the hardness of it. I crawl through the tight space. It stinks. If rock and brick could sweat, this repugnant odour would be the result. When I reach the other side, Dove is waiting for me, smiling, like he’s brought me to the fair. I take in the room. It couldn’t be less like the fair in my childhood book. I didn’t think I would ever find a place worse than a prison cell. I was wrong, and this is it.

  Lights shine in pockets around the enormous, high-ceilinged, humanoid warehouse. On both sides, giant metal structures tower above us, mile-high ancient metal ladders providing access to beds stacked virtually on top of each other. Except to me they’re not beds – they’re cages.

  ‘New sanitationists reside in block one,’ says Dove, finding his timid voice again.

  I follow him into the pit of despair. The stale air and odour of sweaty feet makes me retch. Eyes follow me and I t
ry not to connect with any. I pass dirty face after miserable dirty face. This place is a graveyard for hope and happiness. We arrive at the back of the room in front of an almost empty and dilapidated block of beds. The rusty ladder looks as if it will crumble as soon as I step on it.

  ‘If you need to relieve yourself,’ Dove points to a hole in the floor in the far corner, behind our bunk block. ‘Do it there.’

  I put on a fake smile.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, and Dove bows his head, he turns to leave, I catch his arm. ‘Really … thank you.’

  Bow lips smile back at me, and I’m sure he understands I’m thanking him for sticking around when the guard groped me. I watch his messy white locks as he strides back towards the entrance.

  I study the rickety, giant cages and spot Andia on the second bunk. I don’t want to be too high up, but I don’t want the bottom bunk either. Visions of rats crawling over my body and the structure collapsing on top of me dance maliciously through my mind. Third bunk it is. I sling my knapsack over my shoulder and start to climb. The rickety rungs wobble with my ascent. I pass Andia, but her light is off and her face is buried in a pillow. I reach my sleeping quarters and climb onto the bed. It’s lumpy, as if the thin mattress has been stuffed with sand and broken glass. My pillow is flat and smells of mothballs, and the city issue blanket is riddled with holes and tears. At the end of the bunk are some makeshift shelves. I don’t bother unpacking the few possessions I have. I can’t allow myself to believe I’m staying in this hellhole. I throw my boots and bag onto a shelf and flick on the dim light above my head. I lie in silence, listening to whispers coming from other blocks. I peel the clear film from my wrist and stroke my finger over the tattooed slave symbol. The ink might be permanent but I’m not going to be. I reach up and click the switch. Lights out.

  34

  Scrubs

  I’m woken by a collection of sounds; voices, footsteps and running water. I sit up, rub my eyes and will them to focus. My tired body tells me I haven’t slept for more than an hour; this feeling is not helped by the lack of windows, which makes it feel like it’s still night. My body might not agree but the bustle and chatter indicates morning has broken. There’s a long snaking line of scrubs behind the bunk block directly opposite me. When my eyes properly adjust, I notice they’re all lined up chest to back, genitals to buttocks, completely naked.