by T. C. Farren
Tamba wipes frantically at his face, claustrophobic. ‘Stop!’
I attack him relentlessly. What did they do to Dominic?
‘Idaho State Penitentiary for Serious Psychiatric Disease.’
How do you live with it?
Tamba hooks his feet on the bed frame and rubs at the punctures. ‘I’m battling, Malachi.’ His voice cracks, lets his tears through. ‘He was cool, Dominic.’
I strike while he is vulnerable. You know how you feel about him?
Tamba raises his arm, wipes his face with the soft inner flesh of his bicep.
Multiply that by forty. I dare to look him in the eye, now that he has erased the blood. You will be half a man. Every day hiding from the other half. It’s a life sentence.
Tamba pinches at the needle marks on his arms. ‘Better than California State Prison.’ He leaps to his feet. ‘I can’t take the risk!’
Their ghosts will have supper with you, sleep with you, follow you to the toilet. What will you do then, take more drugs?
Tamba crumples onto the cabinet. ‘I’m an addict, Malachi . . .’ His watery tears don’t even have the decency to form droplets.
I crawl on my hands and knees, collect the white pages strewn around the room. I tear them into tiny pieces. They can go to the same place as my shattered Nokia. Let the sharks eat my futile plea. I crush the paper strips between my palms, walk towards the bathroom.
Tamba talks to my hopeless spine, ‘The only way is to shut off the power.’
I stop in my tracks.
‘You’ve got three seconds before the second generator kicks in. The cages will unlock for three seconds. All of them.’
I turn slowly to face him.
‘The power switch is under my stairs. Second one from the top. All you have to do is lift the cover.’ Tamba stabs a finger at me. ‘They’ll catch you, Malachi. The whole deck has cameras.’
Uh uh. No. There is one blind spot.
Tamba leaps off the cabinet. ‘Romano will kill you.’
I reach for him, still clasping my torn petition, but he dives away from me.
‘I don’t want to know!’ He stops at the concertina door. ‘If you tell me, I’ll bust you.’ He slams the door behind him. I listen to the gushing tap, my hands still in prayer position.
What must I do with my broken words, eat them?
I glance at my timepiece. 6.55 a.m. I drum on the bathroom door. Tamba slides it open, his chin dripping. I thrust our tattered conversation into his wet hands. As he takes the torn paper, I grab hold of his hand and pull it to my lips. Kiss it. Tamba jerks his hands back, his face a mask of wet shock. He drags the door shut.
I smile ruefully to the ancestors who might be watching me. I forced my love onto a single tip of Tamba’s thumb.
6.56. No time to get dressed. I lift an arm, sniff. I smell strangely like fish. I glance down at my shabby angel’s attire. There is a streak of oil on my shirt from the sewage pump. I rub feebly at it. I have no time to wash or dress like a hero. I must be punctual. Now, more than ever, I must make no mistakes.
I slide Meirong’s deck key beneath my mattress, the most original hiding place in human history.
* * *
I hurry along the corridor to the canteen. Must I free all of them?
Josiah. The rapist. Must I save them too? They deserve this slow death, surely.
What of Charmayne, and the fat Australian? If I free them, I will be aiding and abetting the life of murderers.
I try to remember the judge’s list. Samuel, Andride, Eulalie, Lolie. My darling Vicki. He said any free country would give them asylum. The others would surely go straight back to their old jails. I stumble down the three random steps.
One thing I know is, no matter what happens, they will never be able to scrub off their skins. Josiah’s Seleka worms will continue to lay and hatch, lay and hatch inside his anus. The priest-burner’s melted fingers will marry him to the priest every time he reaches out to press an elevator button, touch a lover.
Tamba comes thumping after me, his Jesus sandals flapping. He is still zipping up some white jeans, his father’s broad chest still bare. He tugs a cream-coloured shirt over his head. We walk one behind the other wrapped in a terse, silent contract that says, The last ten minutes?
They never, ever happened.
* * *
Romano is sitting with Meirong at the breakfast table, looking belligerent. The two of us make sure that our eyes don’t crash. Meirong is in a tight-fitting white dress, like a nurse in a pornographic movie. Her lipstick is too thick, too red. She chose the colour of the prisoners’ blood on cutting day. Insensitive. Her hair has recovered its shining discipline – no more cows have ventured out to sea to lick at her parting.
Meirong has no time for niceties this morning. She thrusts her hand out. ‘Key card, Malachi. It’s been worrying me all night.’
I let out a dismayed, ‘Ah.’ I pat my pockets, flutter my fingers near my neck. I hit my head like an under-par, imperfect idiot.
Meirong picks up her fork, impales an unnaturally red vienna. ‘Get it straight after breakfast.’
Janeé bounces two of the viennas onto my plate.
Meirong asks me, ‘Tamba has told you we’re operating today?’
‘I told him,’ Janeé crows cheerfully. She has a huge white apron tied around her waist like she suspects there might be spatters.
Meirong throws a cutting glance at Tamba. She eats three red viennas in succession, pours herself a second glass of raspberry juice. Is it a boss’s thing, this passion for red colourant? She downs half the glass. It makes me itchy just to watch her.
Feeling sweeter, she briefs Tamba about the security status: ‘They’re motoring in circles, moving very slowly due south. They’re almost out of range. To be safe we’ll keep security tight for one more day.’
She tells Romano, ‘One last double shift.’
Romano crushes his viennas against his palate. He eats his toast more tenderly, gazing into space, honey dripping from his lips. The man will be exhausted by tonight. Surely.
Olivia breezes in wearing her white lab-coat and a long white skirt. Look at us. Did someone put out a memo saying wear white to breakfast?
She shrugs off her coat. Beneath it she is wearing a pleated blouse with fat, pink flowers. Her hair is unbrushed, she looks like a happy hippie. Her blue stains have turned purplish beneath her eyes as if her excitement is beating her up, killing her. She has slapped on some pink lipstick but missed and got her teeth. Olivia’s eyes shine weirdly as she boasts, ‘If everything works out, Timmy will get his lungs by seven tonight. They say he’ll only spend three nights in ICU. Isn’t that amazing?’
‘Fantastic,’ Tamba says sincerely.
‘Oh, oh, oh, I wish I was at home –’ Olivia stops, recovers her tact. ‘But I’m happy to wait here for six months. It’s nothing. My granny will take a photo and send it with Mr Rawlins.’ Olivia scoops her honey off her toast, sucks her finger noisily.
Did her granny not teach her manners?
I dip my spoon into the cup of honey. Janeé urges me on happily, ‘We’ve got a two-litre jar of it.’
‘It’s kind of Mr Carreira to share it,’ Meirong says primly. ‘Susan Bellavista sent it to him as a gift.’
So that was what was in the copper vase with the red ribbon. It looked like an urn for the ashes of forty corpses.
Tamba scoffs, ‘Yeah, like a pot of honey can make up for Dominic.’
‘Tamba,’ Meirong warns.
Tamba shuts up but I know what he means. Idaho State Penitentiary for Serious Psychiatric Disease.
Oh, God.
Will Dominic’s fate seem like a funfair compared to the disaster I am about to bring about?
I take a bite of honey toast. Yumm. Bees buzz in my head. Somewhere I think I can hear cuckoos.
Araba’s mother kept a blue cuckoo at the door to their hut. I made every excuse to take the footpath past their place in the hope of seeing my love
eat her corn porridge or put on her socks and shoes. The cuckoo always burst out laughing and made me hurry past.
Seriously, Malachi. Cuckoos at sea?
Tamba shoves into my daydream. ‘Five subjects fewer today. The surgeries come back at . . . What time, Meirong?’
‘Eleven thirty.’
‘They’re too groggy on day one to hurt themselves with their nails.’
Meirong nods sternly. ‘Best to leave them to rest.’
It’s the kindest thing Meirong has ever said about the prisoners.
She twirls her spoon in the honey. She closes her eyes and sucks like a kitten.
‘Meirong?’ Romano says.
When she opens her eyes, Meirong looks drunk on honey. She gets clumsily to her feet. ‘Malachi, the key.’
I get up, my mind darting like a kankabi moth caught in a gas lamp.
‘Meirong,’ Romano repeats. She seems not to hear him. Romano jumps to his feet. ‘Meirong!’
Meirong swings. ‘Sit.’
But Romano towers above her shiny head. ‘You made me wait, the last harvest.’
‘Mr Carreira is still checking his emergency lists. He says he will try this time to allocate a heart for . . . for . . .’
‘Milja!’ Romano snarls the name of his reason for living. He sits down grudgingly. In my mind I can hear it, the high-pitched whine of Romano’s pain squeezing out, the frequency too fine for our logistics freak.
‘It’s half past,’ Meirong says. ‘Come, Tamba, we’ve got to winch those subjects up.’ She stabs her finger at me. ‘Give the key to me at lunch.’
She sweeps out in her pornographic white to supervise the winching of Shikorina, Lolie and three other unlucky prisoners through the roof.
Romano’s flesh still screams with silent misery, but he arranges his wiry limbs in a dignified exit. Janeé and Olivia get up in unison, bump into each other. Olivia disappears into Janeé’s clasp, so all that’s left is a thatch of blonde static under Janeé’s chin, a scrap of pink flowers under one armpit.
Olivia comes up, suffocated and pink. ‘God bless us,’ she breathes. She sails from the canteen.
Janeé stays to stack the plates, which stick together as if with glue.
In a little while, Shikorina will present Olivia’s baby with a spanking new pair of lungs, and a quiver of blood vessels for Janeé’s useless son.
How on earth will the child killer manage to climb from her cage after this, never mind hurry up a thousand metal stairs? What of the fat Australian? Surely he is not fit enough to run for his life?
A sinking feeling bolts me to my seat. It is too much. I am not suited to this heroism.
I ladle two spoonfuls of honey onto my last slice, take a bite. A sweet calm comes over me. The prisoners will have free choice for three seconds. Free will, courtesy of Malachi the mute, the lover of honey.
Thank you to the bees. Even the ones who killed a thief at the off-ramp eatery. I read about it in the taxi.
Thank you to the spring that grew the blossoms the honeybees sucked.
Thank you, Susan, for the gift. I am so sorry to ruin your career, but it might pay you back for all those chocolate-flavoured farts.
I take another bite. Delicious.
Thank you for the taste buds I still have in my cheeks. And for my beating heart, leading me inexorably towards the sea.
* * *
I collect my white towels for the very last time.
At the door to the hall, I let my key card do its magic. Open the door to my second chance.
* * *
* * *
The last five cages are already missing. Their cradles lie empty, their feed pipes hang uselessly. The prisoners are all craning their necks, gazing up at a cage swinging by its thick chain near Tamba’s surveillance glass.
‘Help me . . .’ a girl’s voice drifts from the roof, ‘Ple-e-ase.’
‘Be calm, Lolie!’ the desert strangler soothes.
Through the glass, Meirong is standing over Tamba, prodding at something on his DJ desk. She steps back, exasperated, flings a few words at his dreadlocks. She disappears. Tamba sits hypnotised by the tears glittering on Lolie’s cheeks, her kohl eyes terrified.
Her cage is stuck.
‘Don’t worry, you’re safe, Lolie!’ the social worker shouts. ‘They have too much to lose.’
Andride is right. If the chain snaps, they will risk three priceless GM spleens.
‘Help me-e,’ she cries.
‘Close your eyes!’ Madame Sophie shouts.
Lolie shuts her eyes tightly. Madame Sophie begins to sing, ‘Rocka-bye baby on the tree top . . .’
‘Oh, God, Sophie,’ Vicki groans.
Tamba is watching this fascinating movie without sound. He squeaks through my device, ‘The engineer is coming. Bear with me, Malachi.’
But what the heck is he doing besides staring at Lolie? I glare up at Tamba, send him a silent message. That’s the girl they tortured with the plastic bag.
It’s as if Tamba hears me. He swivels on his chair, scoots far away from the beautiful, distressed assassin. I hurry to Samuel’s cage. He senses my urgency, shoves his hands into the sheath.
I bow over them, type beneath the leather shield. ‘Tonight. Get ready. I am going to switch the power off. Your cages will unlock for three seconds.’
Samuel’s fingers curl with shock. The prisoners near us gasp, strain their ears to hear my spokesman over Madame Sophie’s singing.
‘There’s a search going on for Frances –’ I stop. It’s too complicated. ‘We can try to catch up with them.’
Samuel’s eyes glow with courage. ‘When?’
‘I will come in at midnight.’
‘When the wind blows . . .’
Lolie’s eyes are closed, she’s clinging to Madame Sophie’s tender soprano.
‘. . . the cradle will rock.’ Madame Sophie leaves out the last, catastrophic lyrics.
Above us, Tamba is still cowering from his conscience, out of sight.
I type quickly, ‘We can try to launch the lifeboat.’
‘Do you know how?’
I shake my head.
Samuel says, ‘I filmed a launch once from a container ship. I was doing a feature on piracy.’
Across the aisle, Josiah shuffles out of his lethargy. He sits up straight, his scarred eyes slowly letting in light.
I type to Samuel, ‘We might get shot. There’s a soldier on deck with an AK97.’
Samuel nods. ‘Romano.’
I glance at him, astonished.
‘Dominic told us,’ Vicki murmurs.
I have a vision of Vicki’s lungs exploding before Romano’s machine gun. I dare not look at her face or her breasts in case it comes again. I look down, type fervently, ‘If you don’t want to take the risk, just stay in your cage.’
But Vicki’s dark eyes grab hold of me, press my breath from me. ‘I want to.’
The old witch nods and smiles. ‘Let’s go and see the sun rise.’ She sounds like a young heroine in a Grave Escape TV show.
The information travels down the aisles in short, sharp sentences. ‘Three seconds . . . Midnight . . . Malachi . . .’
I clean Samuel’s feet gently. Please God let them hold him upright for the first time in fourteen weeks. I hit the buckle, set them free.
‘Thank you,’ Samuel says simply, the look in his eyes like the dying lioness when we saved her cubs.
As I clip the witch’s fingers, they say my name down the aisle, achingly pretty. I drop the clippers on my sneaker, pick them up. They think I am a hero but I am a fumbling idiot. And Madame Sophie’s incessant singing is driving me insane.
* * *
Vicki slips her crooked, cute toes into the brace. ‘Why are you risking your life for us?’
Her question tugs at my vocal chords. I glance up. Tamba is sitting with his back to Lolie, staring at his wall of computer portraits. Is he watching Vicki? I catch her baby toe between my fingers, squeeze it. Point up at Tamb
a, put my finger to my lips. I press each of Vicki’s funny, swollen toes one by one. I can’t help it. There is something about sex and death. I feel my penis come alive, remember the love I showed it last night. All I want to do is take Vicki’s sweet, clean toes into my mouth.
Vicki suppresses a giggle. The purple vortex of her eyes does some weird tantric trick.
‘Ticklish,’ she breathes.
I see a flash of Meirong’s white outfit high above us. I slip my phone back in my trousers. It knocks my penis, tells it to go to sleep. I hurry through Vicki’s feet, that today seem dangerously sexy.
* * *
A metallic grating sound rattles the air above us. The hatch slides open next to the surveillance station. A thin man appears in the rectangular space, a torch shining from his forehead. He wears loose white overalls, like he too got the memo. Is this snail the same man inside the fire suit on Sunday? He shines his headlight to the roof, his eyes ghoulish below the beam. His fingers are long protuberances poking a spanner into the machinery above him. Is he going to cut the chain and let Lolie crash to her death?
We listen to the clank of his metal tool, the click, click of some stubborn ratchet. Tamba’s fingers are poised on his table top as if he is about to play a piano piece. He refuses to look at Lolie, but Meirong’s eyes are stripping the poor girl’s bare skin inch by inch. I think I hear her snort.
The engineer raises his radio to his mouth. Tamba presses a switch.
Lolie’s cage sways wildly, shunts towards the shadowy opening.
‘Good luck, Lolie,’ someone says dolefully.
Meirong watches us with her hands on her hips. Some kind of silence thickens in the glass box, I can almost see it.
* * *
I keep my eyes down for five more prisoners. When I get to the desert strangler, he says urgently, ‘I worked for three months on an oil rig off Eritrea. They taught us the lifeboats.’ He frowns anxiously. ‘I will try to remember, Malachi.’
Try, Gibril, try.
I glance up. Meirong gives me a wisp of a smile. She gives Tamba’s shoulder the ghost of a stroke, perhaps some kind of frail apology. Then she turns on her heel and departs with just a shimmer of her pale thigh.
I cleanse the strangler’s sinful hands for the last time in my life. I thought he was from the desert. How the heck did he end up working offshore? Perhaps he will regale me with his story while we die slowly of thirst on a mysterious sea.