The New Girl (Downside)

by S. L. Grey

  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind,’ Ryan says as he hefts the box under his arm.

  ‘A pleasure to, to, uh...’ she says, and a look of confusion passes her face again.

  ‘Thank you, Madam Shopper,’ Jane says, heading to the front door.

  The woman follows them silently, as if she’s lost, and watches them from the doorway as they walk to the lifts.

  As the lift closes behind them and ushers them back to their level, Ryan asks, ‘How do people live like this? How can the Shoppers have so much while the normal people have to fight for...’ But Jane looks at him with such opacity, as if he’s talking French to her, that he drops it. He doesn’t want to be told ‘that’s the way it works’ again.

  Jane picks at her bean stew while watching a Ministry announcement on TV. ‘It’s toothsome,’ she says, half-heartedly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ryan says. ‘I know you would have preferred to just eat them raw. I shouldn’t have interfered.’

  ‘No, no, Mr Ryan. It’s toothsome.’ She pushes her bowl away. ‘I have phantasms about returning upside again on another project. There is abundance there. Perhaps Node Liaison Penter Ulliel will call on my services again. The Encounters project was a success and there is talk of more.’

  ‘I wish I could go back too. I miss my daughter.’

  ‘You are indebted,’ she says. He remembers those words from some time in the blotted recent past. They make him afraid; they make him feel very far from home.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ he says.

  Jane stares at the TV screen with a blank face.

  In the small bathroom, Ryan takes off his clothes and gets into the shower. He rubs the soap over his body with a blank sense of contentment. He remembers being troubled recently, but the fact that it’s hard to recall, that it seems so far away, serves to amplify his calm.

  The soap travels over his biceps, his chest, his stomach. As it goes, Ryan feels it sketching him out, mapping his body, reminding him of who he is and how he’s changed. There is no tension in his thighs as he laves; his calf muscles are firm and pain-free. He works up a lather in his hands and cleans his buttocks and moves around to his crotch, feeling the absence there, the empty sack where his balls once hung.

  He remembers it, like a film playing out, but he can’t bring himself to feel anything. They cut his testicles out like a minor procedure. He was sitting in an office cubicle, like a client at a bank, and someone drilled a hole into the back of his head; he can’t remember the person’s face, just a shock of orange curls like a novelty wig. Then the person hooked his legs into metal stirrups on the sides of the cubicle and sliced into his scrotum. He wasn’t wearing any pants.

  He cleans under his limp penis, the back of his skull pulsing pleasant feelings through his body and calming his mind.

  Chapter 23

  TARA

  Tara’s vision is blurry, as if she’s looking through a veil of thin gauze, but far as she can tell, she appears to be in a spacious white-walled room. A private hospital ward? No, it can’t be – she’s sitting slumped on a soft surface, some kind of couch upholstered in slippery, slightly greasy fabric, rather than lying on a gurney. She keeps absolutely still, listens for anything that could give her a clue as to her whereabouts. Hears nothing but a faint mechanical hum that seems to be emanating from beneath the floor. Fighting to keep the panic at bay, she tries to turn her head again. It feels too heavy for her neck; she can barely hold it up. And there’s something wrong with the air in here – it’s heavier, as if she’s miles underground; there’s a slight burn in her lungs as she struggles to draw in enough oxygen.

  Just where in goddamned hell is she?

  She needs to think back – stretches her mind to remember the last thing she did. Recalls some sort of altercation with Stephen and Olivia, followed by a desperate desire to go somewhere – where, though? – vaguely remembers driving. A car accident? The memory is out of her grasp. Can’t quite catch it. She attempts to stand, gasps as her thigh muscles cramp, pain shooting down her legs, spiralling into her joints. She sinks back down.

  Wherever she is, there’s something wrong with her; she’s groggy, feels detached, as if she’s coming round from an anaesthetic. Is she hurt? Has she been in an accident? She runs her hands over her body, recognises the familiar cloth of her jeans and sweatshirt. Despite the shooting pains in her legs, she can’t feel any obvious wounds, and the strap of her bag is still looped over her chest.

  Her phone! Yes. She scrabbles in her bag, roots past her keys, a bunch of tissues, an old tube of lip-ice – finally feels the comforting shape of her BlackBerry. She pulls it out, presses the ‘1’ key – the speed-dial to Stephen’s number – hears the beep-beep-beep of the battery dying. Keeps trying anyway. Turns the phone off and on again. Nothing – it’s dead.

  Fuck. Not even enough life in it to send a text.

  Blinking frantically helps. Her vision is still hazy, but gradually she begins to make out individual shapes and textures. It looks like she’s in some sort of high-end apartment. The room is featureless, but the materials used to build it are expensive, top of the range. Marble counter tops, white stone floor, white walls, no paintings or decorations. Like a blank high-end showroom. And apart from the couch, there’s no furniture in here except for a low glass coffee table, on which she spots the only flash of colour in the room. She leans forward, blinks again and her sight finally clears. Sees some kind of book or brochure – the source of the colour – and next to it... Is that...? It is! Baby Tommy’s head! She reaches for him, willing her body to obey her. Jesus, everything aches. Her muscles, even her skin. She’s sure she hasn’t been beaten – she doesn’t feel bruised or broken, more as if she’s contracted a virulent strain of swine flu. She touches her forehead. Does she have a temperature? Her palms are clammy with nervous sweat; she can’t tell if she’s too hot or not.

  She manages to grasp Baby Tommy’s head. It calms her. She drops it on her lap and picks up the brochure. It’s heavier than she was expecting, and she barely has the strength to hold it up in front of her eyes. There’s a photograph of a generic mall aisle on the cover, gold, embossed script printed across the top of it. She loses focus again, squeezes her eyes shut, and when she opens them she’s able to make out the title: ‘You’re Here Now, Upside Citizen, so Why PANIC? J’

  What the hell? She flips the page, sees a double-spread of Comic Sans writing. It looks like a list – some kind of index, maybe? It takes all her concentration to stop the words distorting in front of her:

  1) Welcome to the Wards! 6–7

  2) Welcome to the Mall! 18–9

  3) So you want to Factor, how do you apply? 25–16

  4) Victuals and other Ablutions 26–30

  5) Shopper Etiquette 19

  6) Drone Management and Navigating Bureaucracy 34–277

  7) Everything you wanted to know about Penetration but were afraid to ask 55–56

  8) Getting Around: The Lift and Other Hazards 101

  9) Hey! Don’t Use the Stairs! 77–98 (includes bonus illustrations!!!!)

  10) Ten Top Tips for Successful (and painless!) Recycling 88–89

  11) The Meat Tree and Other Myths 1–5

  12) Epilogue: The Policy of Leaving

  ‘Mrs Tara Marais? May we converse with you?’

  A figure steps into her line of sight – tall, skeletally thin. Bright red hair. Tara draws in another deep breath. Did she black out again? She has no memory of seeing the woman entering the room.

  Don’t panic!

  Wait – she’s seen this woman before... The girl, the new girl... Jane. This is Jane’s mother. And then it hits her. The house. The statue house. She remembers a man – a man in the kitchen. A man in a hat – had some sort of deformed hand. Does this mean she’s still in that house? One of the rooms in that awful house? She breathes in deeply again, sniffs the air. Detects some sort of chemical odour, cleaning fluid maybe? That place smelled musty. No. She’s somewhere else.
/>   ‘I know you,’ Tara manages.

  ‘Yes. We’ve conversed before. I am Penter Ulliel, Deputy Node Liaison for the Ministry of Upside Relations.’ Another figure appears behind the woman – a man – stocky, a large square-shaped head. ‘And this is Bakewell Klot, a Management Security Agent on secondment to the Ministry.’

  Groggy she may be, but Tara’s hit with an urge to giggle. What the hell is this? The man’s attired as if he’s about to go to a fancy-dress party in some kind of old-fashioned admiral’s outfit, and he looks as if he’s one step away from a major cardiac event; his skin is purple, wormy pink veins pulse in his forehead. The hysteria vanishes when she notices the pistol shoved in his belt. ‘Charmed to meet you,’ he says in a high, girlish voice.

  ‘May I?’ Jane’s mother drags the brochure out of Tara’s hands. ‘Did you read it? One of our recent upside assimilants has drafted this guide for new intakes’ edification. Was it helpful?’

  Tara opens her mouth to speak – to say what, she’s not sure – when she’s swamped with a surge of dizziness. She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, waits for the bright spots to die away. Opens her eyes again, sees Jane’s mother – what did she say her name was? Petra? No, Penter – staring at her concernedly. ‘What have you done to me? Am I drugged?’

  ‘We’ve learnt that acclimatisation can be confusing. Your penetration shunt will help make this...’ – Penter waves a hand around the room – ‘experience more palatable.’

  ‘My what?’

  Jane’s mother frowns. ‘Your shunt has been fitted, hasn’t it?’ She touches the back of her head, just below her ear.

  Tara mirrors her gesture, runs her fingers over her own neck, touches some kind of scabbed hole below her own right ear. She presses it gingerly; the wound feels spongy, not like any kind of abrasion she’s had before. Presses it again, expecting to feel a bright surge of pain, but it’s oddly numb. Removes her fingers, notices, with clinical detachment, that they’re bloody. Is this why her head feels like it’s stuffed full of cement? Did that guy in the kitchen pistol whip her or something?

  ‘We understand that you are still acclimatising,’ Penter says. She points at Baby Tommy’s head. ‘But I would appreciate it if you can tell me what this is.’

  Tara swallows. Her saliva tastes as if she’s been drinking blood. She really wants to tell this woman to go to hell, but when she opens her mouth, she finds herself answering the question. ‘Um... Baby Tommy. It’s a baby. A Reborn. A... doll.’

  ‘And Father – Varder Batiss – requested that you make this?’

  That name. Varder Batiss. She knows that name. Tara fights once more to unjangle her thoughts, put them in some kind of order. Then, all at once, she gets it. They are all connected. Batiss. Encounters. That pervert, that maintenance man – Ryan. The house. Jane. And Martin. Yes! She was at the house looking for Jane after Martin disappeared when that guy in a hat did something to her. Knocked her out? Shot her, even? But apart from that abrasion on her neck she just feels sick rather than injured. Whatever this Penter woman says, they must have given her something. Drugged her. Poisoned her. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Varder Batiss’s private quarters.’

  ‘Where?’ The apartment, if that’s what it is, looks, feels, expensive, high-end. Somewhere in Sandton, maybe? If she could only look out of a window, get her bearings. But there don’t seem to be any windows. ‘How did I get here?’

  Penter sighs. ‘Varder Batiss, Mrs Tara Marais, is a Player. You have been illegitimately purloined from the upside.’ She shares a glance with the purple-faced freak. ‘He instructed a node agent to transport you to the Wards for unauthorised recycling, charging you with contractual breach. But, of course, the contract was never authorised by our Ministry.’

  Upside? Recycling? Ministry? What the hell is this woman talking about? That this Batiss person kidnapped her? And is Jane’s mother in on it? Why, though? ‘And Martin?’

  Jane’s mother frowns. ‘Martin?’

  ‘My stepson. He... he was at Encounters. He’s missing.’

  Penter relaxes, beams at her. ‘Ah. The primo viable. We have good news for you, Mrs Tara Marais. The viable is already safely integrated into the system. Its penetration and deployment were a great success!’

  Jesus, Tara thinks. These people are clearly deranged. ‘Look, my husband is a lawyer. He’s connected. He’ll be looking for us, he won’t stop. You have to let me go. Let Martin go.’

  Penter and Purple Face share a chuckle. ‘You are not a prisoner here, Mrs Tara Marais. You were brought here erroneously. You can exit at any time.’

  ‘I... can?’

  ‘Of course. Unless you choose to integrate, of course. There are several options for a—’

  Tara waves her off and gets to her feet, trying not to scream as the pain in her thigh muscles intensifies. At least her head has cleared somewhat.

  ‘Apologies for the discomfort,’ Penter says. ‘When you arrived at the Wards you were prepared for harvesting. The discomfort will fade. The shunt you have received will facilitate both your forgetfulness and your speedy recovery.’

  Tara slams her fists on her legs, wills herself to take a step, just one. Move. She sweeps the room, sees a door three or four metres to her right. She stumbles forward. The soles of her feet are numb, but every movement sends fresh agony shooting through her muscles as if red-hot knitting needles are being skewered into her legs. She reaches the door, grasps the handle, waits for them to stop her, for that purple-faced freak to pull out his gun.

  Neither Penter nor Purple Face move, but continue to watch her with blankly polite expressions. Are they torturing her? Playing with her? It can’t be this easy. She turns the handle, expecting the door to be locked, but it opens smoothly onto a long, empty corridor as bland as the apartment itself. There’s a bank of lifts at the end of it.

  ‘But before you exit,’ she hears Penter say behind her, ‘may we ask for your cooperation?’

  Tara hesitates, looks over her shoulder. ‘My... what?’

  ‘We are confused.’

  Tara almost laughs again. ‘You’re confused?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Tara battles again to clear her muddied thoughts. Recalls someone telling her – or maybe it’s something she’s read – that the best thing to do in a dangerous situation is agree and cooperate with the aggressor. Penter doesn’t appear to be dangerous – although Tara’s certain she is mentally ill – but she can’t be sure about that freak of a man. And she can’t forget about Martin. She needs to find Martin. This woman knows where he is. That’s all she needs to concentrate on now. She’ll make sense of all this other crazy shit later. ‘If I... cooperate, will you take me to Martin?’

  ‘That would be most irregular.’ Purple Face chuckles.

  ‘Indeed it would,’ Penter says. ‘But not unprecedented. It is possible that we can accelerate a special authorisation. Bakewell Klot, would you initiate the process?’

  ‘You are certain, Liaison Ulliel?’ Purple Face says in his weird squeaky voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I will.’ He bows his head and shuffles towards the door. Tara steps away from it and cringes as he brushes past her, watches as he waddles down the corridor towards the lifts. Now it’s just her and Penter. Could she overpower her? If only she didn’t feel so goddamned woozy.

  ‘Please,’ Jane’s mother says, gesturing towards an identical door on the opposite side of the room. ‘I would most appreciate if you would enter through there.’

  ‘And then you’ll let me go? Take me to Martin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  What should she do? Christ. There’s no way she can trust this woman, but what choice does she have? Martin. Martin has to be her priority. She hesitates, then hobbles towards the door, keeping an eye out for anything she might use as a weapon, but the counter tops and surfaces are free of clutter.

  Penter holds the door open for her, waves her forward with a sweep of her hand. ‘Please.
I would be most appreciative.’

  ‘What’s through here? Hey, is Martin...?’ She steps past Penter, voice dying away as she takes in the wholly unexpected sight in front of her. What the fuck is this now?

  The room she’s entered – which is half the size of the impersonal kitchen cum living room area – is stuffed full of vintage furniture and clutter, most of which appears to date from the fifties. Tara gradually realises that it’s arranged in twee tableaus: a kitchen area complete with a Bakelite larder cabinet and Formica table, and a facsimile of a cosy lounge with a plastic-covered three-piece suite behind it. But that’s the least of its bizarreness. Someone – the mysterious Varder Batiss, perhaps? – has posed a collection of mannequins, waxworks and several of those lifelike silicone sex dolls on and around the furniture. Swallowing a burble of hysteria, Tara stares at a waxwork figure of Princess Diana wearing a ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron; it’s frozen in the act of serving a plate of plastic cupcakes to a tableful of busty blond sex dolls dressed in flowery dresses.

  Tara shuffles further into the room, the throbbing in her legs momentarily forgotten, and claps her hand to her mouth to hold in another humourless giggle as she spots a male silicone sex doll, a pipe glued into its O-shaped mouth, leaning against a faux mantelpiece, apparently sharing a joke with the familiar-looking waxwork standing next to it... Jesus, is that George W. Bush? It’s like being in the middle of a chaotic movie set or museum – Madame Tussauds for the insane.

  She squeezes past the Dubya model, careful not to knock against it, aware that she’s still unsteady on her feet. Several figures are lolling on the plastic-covered lounge suite – a poorly rendered Nelson Mandela waxwork flanked by a couple of maniacally grinning naked child mannequins – all of them staring straight ahead at an ancient television set.

  Tara looks down, feels her breath stop in her throat.