The Book of Malachi

by T. C. Farren

  * * *

  The tooth-extracting Indian whoops with joy as I catch his hands, then frets compulsively in Hindi or some dialect. Will he cooperate tonight, or will he make a big noise and sabotage the mission? I cross the space the good giant inhabited. Sneak my Samsung beneath my brace, type to the Australian, ‘Can you keep him quiet tonight?’

  ‘I can try.’ Barry scratches behind his ear. ‘Maybe we should leave him.’

  Upstairs, Tamba is tapping the screen of an app. Is he playing Fruits against Ghouls?

  ‘We can’t. It’s all or nothing. There’s only one power switch.’

  The skinny rapist nods, incredulous. ‘They’re not even leaving me.’

  Barry gives me his flabby fingers. ‘Do you think we have a chance?’

  I hide my terror, type, ‘No clue.’

  ‘One thing I can do is swim. My father let me eat as much KFC as I wanted, but he made me go to swimming lessons.’ Barry gives me his soft feet. ‘I loved it once I was in. But it’s a long way from the changing rooms in your speedo when you’re a fat kid.’ He laughs, asks desperately, ‘Do you think we’ll have to swim?’

  I type beneath the brace, ‘We will have to see.’ This is all I have to offer him.

  * * *

  The skinny rapist bestows an awed gratitude on me, but he and Josiah are the ones I would leave behind. If the rapist survives this crazy mission, I must personally make sure that someone, somewhere takes him into custody. Josiah too. And the Australian. They should never be released into society.

  I finish the rapist’s feet, bury his towel in the disinfectant. I sigh, exhausted by the terrible responsibility.

  As Hamri used to say, I will have to cross that bridge.

  The next few prisoners thank me in languages I can’t even guess at. Stop, I want to say. The chances are you will drown or be shot down by a desperately tired war vet.

  I am relieved to reach Andride, my fellow Bhajoan. As I lop off his nails, he picks up my secret tremors. ‘Are you scared, Malachi?’

  Tamba’s knees are up, his chin digging into his chest. His shoulders twitch with the ecstasy of killing ghouls with his thumbs. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was masturbating.

  I shrug. ‘My life is not worth living if I turn a blind eye.’

  But my fear keeps hitting me in sickening waves. Am I about to orchestrate another massacre?

  ‘I’m scared too.’ Andride laughs feverishly. ‘I can’t swim.’

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  Sorry Hamri.

  I say nothing to Andride about the size of the sharks’ teeth. I wipe his hands gently, hope he knows to keep his fingers pressed together while he is scratching towards the surface of the sea.

  * * *

  When I reach the priest killer, he interrogates me. ‘I worked on the docks in Larache in the winter. Does the lifeboat have an electric winch? I knew those ones from the big ships.’

  I think of the metal mount near Romano’s lifeboat. Is that it? I nod uncertainly.

  ‘What is the distance to the water? Maybe fifty metres?’

  I nod. At least.

  The priest killer sighs. ‘It’s not as easy as you think.’ He watches me work on his feet. ‘Do you have a radio to call for help if we get onto the sea?’

  I glance up at the glass. Tamba is still smashing ghouls with pieces of fruit.

  ‘Maybe.’ I type quickly. ‘Do you know anything about yacht radio systems?’

  The priest burner shakes his head. He translates my question into Arabic. Andride translates into what must be French. There is a thoughtful, frightened silence.

  I try the magic concept. ‘Does anyone know how to work a black box?’

  The tooth-pulling Indian starts to chatter. I turn his way. He is tapping at his head with a good, short nail that I have just clipped.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ the priest killer asks. ‘Does anyone know Hindi?’

  Charmayne snaps at the Indian, ‘Speak English, Vihaan.’

  The Indian stares at Charmayne, taps his head manically, ‘In the navy. In the navy.’

  Oh, please. A crazy man as my communications assistant. I cast around, plead wordlessly, Can anyone else help me?

  ‘Leave it, Malachi,’ Charmayne warns me. ‘Tamba’s watching.’

  Tamba stands up, kneads his eyes with his knuckles like a tired child.

  He announces through my intercom, ‘Time to eat.’ His microphone clicks off. He disappears from the window.

  Down the aisle, Madame Sophie says tremulously, ‘I’m so scared of big waves.’

  Big waves? I want to laugh. Is this what Madame Sophie thinks of the mountainous sea thrashing with a species of shark that chopped Frances in two pieces?

  Sorry, Frances. I am so, so sorry.

  The same sea that drank the solo sailor’s blood will hold us up to the vicious sun, let it peel our skin then fill our lungs, forty of us, with the tiniest of gestures.

  But Vicki says kindly, ‘Come on, Sophie, after what we’ve been through, the sea is nothing.’ She grins. ‘The only thing is, you’re going to have to mess up your hair.’

  ‘Man, Vicki!’

  Their sweet laughter bruises my intestines.

  Am I making the same mistake? Am I murdering my classmates?

  Their laughter trails into silence as I hurry past them, crash my tools on the trolley. I feel a feather of consternation floating from Vicki but I let it fall to the floor, almost run from the hall.

  * * *

  I stare up the spiral stairs, try to make out the cover of the power switch Tamba spoke of. The handle of the surveillance door twists. I scurry on, my heart stampeding. And I have not done one single heroic thing.

  * * *

  I take a leak, as they say, in the privacy of the concertina bathroom. Listen to my musical pee.

  I’ve got to do something drastic to hold on to the deck key.

  I try to visualise the locking system, a mixture of digital and old-fashioned penetration. Piston into cylinder. My brain tries to push through nerve ends that never did grow dendrites. I was not born with my mother’s good reason. I am a hopeless dreamer, I realise now, like Hamri.

  Hopeless.

  But my eyes in the mirror are a strange golden hue, cleansed by the tears and the trauma of the last week. I smile tentatively. I like the look of me.

  I wash my armpits in the basin. Wipe at the oil stain from the sewage pump, rub green soap into it. I scratch the black mark with my nails, which seem to have grown quicker than usual in this place. I go to lunch with a big wet patch on my chest.

  * * *

  Tamba’s knife and fork are suspended in the air as he stares into his plate, fascinated. ‘What is it?’

  ‘At home, we call it tomato bredie.’ Janeé slaps down a pastry. ‘And steak and kidney pie.’ She must have pulled the pie from the Ice Age, then abused it with her microwaves.

  Meirong arrives and takes her place next to Olivia. We all watch her with an air of tight expectancy. She spoons in tomato stew so fast, it’s like she has a secret proboscis. Meirong’s hair has become slightly stringy since this morning. She is sweating a bit. Did she hold a scalpel in the doctor’s rooms? No. Her white dress is quite unblemished.

  She knocks back a tall glass of colourant, smiles suddenly. ‘It’s looking good. No losses so far. We’ve got five organs safely in the incubators.’

  Olivia and Janeé burst into delighted laughter. I pick at my pastry while the three women across from me guzzle their tomato bredie like vampire bats. I expect them to tip over any minute and hang by their tails.

  Tamba scoops out the insides of his kidney pie. ‘Freaky, wasn’t it, that prisoner hanging from the roof?’

  If I survive, I will use the word ‘freaky’.

  ‘I thought it was you, jamming the system,’ Meirong says.

  Tamba nods self-righteously. ‘You know what thought did.’

  Planted a kidney and thought a prisoner would grow.

&nb
sp; The three women stare at their pastry. Janeé says, ‘I know what we need.’ She teeters backwards, stretches for the trolley. Olivia and Meirong lean forward instinctively. Janeé snatches a huge bottle of tomato sauce and pops off the lid. She shakes it too hard. Plop. Plop. It lands like a hippo’s shit hitting the earth. I pull flakes off my incinerated pastry, suck on them.

  ‘Malachi?’ Olivia says worriedly.

  I stab a kidney, blow on it.

  ‘Is there another pie for me?’ Tamba asks.

  Janeé stares at the shattered pastry on his plate.

  ‘I like the insides,’ Tamba says defensively.

  I push my pie across to Tamba. He pushes it back to me. I shove it his way. Take it. The three vampire bats pause in their feeding.

  ‘You haven’t eaten!’ Tamba snaps.

  What he is saying is, Fuck you, Malachi, for making me feel guilty.

  A short, harsh grunt issues from my throat. Not a single soul has mentioned the solo sailor. Not once.

  I impale a kidney, thrust my fork at Tamba. He surrenders, takes it between his teeth like he knows he’s going to need the haemoglobin.

  Meirong has made tomato-sauce patterns on her plate, somewhat curved and chaotic for a meticulous woman. In a few seconds she will ask me for her key to the deck. It is time to put myself at risk.

  I pour myself a glass of the juice. Slug it down. The stump of my tongue prickles, then stings. The membranes of my mouth catch alight. The fire spreads beneath my cheekbones, even my eyes itch. My scalp tries to lift up and fly towards the portholes above us. A hundred bees bite into it. I scratch it with my hands, scratch, scratch, scratch, but my hands are afflicted too. Tiny eruptions appear on them, red blisters that make my fingers go stiff. I stare at my hands, watch them popping up like tiny volcanoes.

  Olivia’s eyes go as wide as a bush baby’s.

  ‘Oh, no. Allergy. Quick!’

  She grasps my wrist with shocking strength, drags me to my feet. I collide with Meirong’s elbow so red juice spills on the table, drips to the floor. Olivia pulls like a steam train as I scratch at my eyes, add a tight little cough to my symptom picture.

  * * *

  She drags me through the door of her laboratory, rips a drawer open. The little plastic sacs are still draped on the counter, waiting. Antibiotics, must be, to stop infection in the cells of my evil friends once the doctors have hacked their treasures from them. Olivia drops a clutch of tiny bottles on the counter, flicks through them with a finger, muttering, ‘Anti– Anti– Anti–’ She falls on a brown bottle with a trampoline top. She fits a hypodermic needle into a syringe, stabs her needle into the rubber lid.

  In the tiny mirror above the basin, I see Meirong hurry in. ‘How bad?’

  Olivia narrows her eyes, draws the fluid up.

  ‘Must I call Doctor Mujuru?’ Meirong asks.

  Olivia shakes her head, doesn’t bother with conversation. She raises the syringe to the light, presses out a pustule of air. It pre-ejaculates onto her flowery sleeve. A hippie with a hypodermic. God help me.

  Olivia undoes my belt buckle.

  Meirong steps back, darts her eyes to the wall of the laboratory. She thrusts out a hand. ‘Malachi. I need that key.’

  Olivia struggles to undo my zip. ‘Not now. Please.’

  I pull my zip down with stinging fingers, drop my trousers to my feet. Shove my boxer shorts past my knees.

  In the mirror, Meirong stares at my bare bum like it is a wild animal on the loose in the city. Olivia stabs the needle into my flesh. It bites like a knife tip. I think I hear the surface cells of my skin pop. Meirong watches her squeeze the fluid slowly in.

  Olivia rubs the site of the injury. ‘There,’ she breathes.

  I deliberately leave my white trousers at my feet. Meirong keeps staring at my black arse, not with revulsion, not with lust. But something close to it.

  She is ashamed of my beauty.

  ‘Get the key, Olivia. Keep it for me.’ Meirong disappears from the mirror.

  Olivia stares at my good buttocks, thanks to my years of running on the spot. ‘Can you feel it working?’

  I feel it. A relaxed sensation is coming over me, spreading from my hypothalamus all the way to my knees. My stomach feels fluttery. It feels just like love.

  Olivia’s yellow tinge returns to her cheeks. She announces happily, ‘Metorizine.’ She smiles like she and I share the same bloodstream. ‘A very powerful antihistamine.’

  I bend towards my dropped trousers, give Olivia a deliberate, clear view of my swinging testicles.

  She stares at my penis, backlit by the laboratory light. ‘God in heaven!’

  It is not my stallion anatomy that is taking her breath away. It is the lightning strikes on the loose tissue of my genitals. I turn as I pull up my boxer shorts, give her a full-frontal view.

  Olivia swivels towards the wall, grants me my dignity. ‘Who did that to you?’

  I watch her in the mirror, slide two plastic sacs off the counter. Shove them into my shorts.

  Olivia keeps her back to me, chokes with pity. ‘I’m so sorry, Malachi.’

  I snatch the other three sacs, stuff them in. Pull up my white trousers, do up my zip.

  ‘Was it torture?’

  Of course I remain mute. I thread my belt buckle, tighten it.

  ‘Oh, Malachi.’ Olivia peeps to check that I am decent. She makes a feverish promise: ‘When I get home I’m never ever going to let my little boy out of my sight.’ She shakes her head, forever haunted by the sight of my private parts. ‘It’s terrible, what people do.’

  Olivia forgets to ask me for my key.

  * * *

  I hurry away with my stolen goods, pass the empty canteen. The table is clean and tidy, the sachets of salt pointing up to the roof. A few drops of red juice still stick to the floor where Meirong was sitting. It’s just a matter of time and she will come for me. I’ve got to think of something more practical than drinking poison.

  I’ll have to switch keys. But how do I give up my key card to the prisoners?

  I stop in my tracks.

  Salt.

  I backtrack along the corridor, slip into the canteen. I grab a sachet of salt, drop it in my pocket.

  A slim extract of the sea, a slim chance of succeeding, but I have no choice but to clutch at straws. Or should I say, sachets of sodium.

  I swing into the bedroom, peel the antibiotics from my skin. I pack them inside my pillowcase, flip the pillow, plump it.

  Sorry, Cecilia. Sorry, Hamri. I know how hard you tried to teach me honesty.

  The antihistamine blesses me with their forgiveness, carries me to the dead-end door. I raise the key card, open the door a tiny bit. I prod my fingers into the metal pocket that receives the latch, explore the depth of it. It is exactly as I thought.

  I shut the door behind me.

  * * *

  Tamba is waiting at his window for me. His eye sockets seem deeper, giving him a zombie look.

  ‘Are you sorted, Malachi? Did Olivia give you something?’

  I nod serenely, collect my cutting tools from the trolley. Despite all the organs that he ate, the poor man is clearly suffering from severe anxiety. Welcome to the truth, dear Tamba. No coffee, no codeine. Just damn consequences.

  He watches me walk towards the prisoners. I dare not smile at Vicki sitting so shamelessly, her knife notches adorning her cow’s-milk skin. It was she who gave me the strength to show my scars to those women. I stroke her violet eyes with mine, thank her silently as I go past her gorgeous knees. Perhaps Vicki and I could get naked one day and laugh about it, compare our scars. It might be a simple effect of the Metorizine, but as I walk down the aisle I feel Vicki’s swollen lips press against the top two of my thoracic vertebrae.

  * * *

  I don’t know what happened to Charmayne over lunch but she seems to have lost her big-match temperament.

  ‘It’s risky, Malachi. It’s stupid.’ She gives me her hands moodily.


  Tamba’s eyes are still on me. I strap her fingers in, work slowly, as if Olivia performed a lunchtime lobotomy on me.

  ‘We’re all going to die tonight.’

  My heart jerks from its restraints. Charmayne is right.

  Her hibiscus lips pull down sulkily. ‘I don’t believe that shit about souls and cocktails on the rooftop.’

  I remember now; she did her terrible deed on the roof of a high rise.

  Sorry, Charmayne.

  It must be hell when heaven makes you think of two flying men in suits. But all I can do to show my sympathy is wipe her toes clean.

  As I lock Charmayne’s cage, a grating sound jars the frightened peace among us. All of us look up. The panel in the wall next to Tamba’s kiosk grinds open once more. A cage sways and judders along the roof. Another one cranks behind it, followed by another, until five cages form a broken train, hammering our ears with metallic echoes. As they shunt closer, my eyes catalogue a swathe of red, raised edges, hundreds of black stitches. One of the patients is wheezing. Is it Shikorina?

  The cages hang suspended while Tamba calibrates his switches. He sweeps two hands down his desk, plays his climax. The cages descend in unison. Moments before they crash to the floor, Tamba slows them. We hold our breaths as they land gently on their metal cradles.

  Nice flying, I would say if the pilot was my friend.

  Shikorina is breathing like the doctors have punctured something. I stare into her cage. The colour pink is weeping from her solar plexus. Oh, no.

  I clap my hand over my mouth. Something comes up. There is a pea up my nose, I can feel it, even though I haven’t eaten any since Friday. I press my switch, flutter my fingers to show fluid dripping.

  Tamba guesses my affliction. ‘Pull yourself together, Malachi. You’ve got to get used to blood. We rinse them twice a day when they’re post-operative. Watch.’

  A white spray thrusts from the nozzles above the last five cages. Shikorina shrieks.

  I cover my ears. I don’t care if Tamba thinks I’m useless. The rapist hunches his hands into bony fists, but not a sound comes out of his mouth. The spray must be ice cold, straight from the sea, but Angus endures it as if he is glad of the extra punishment. Shikorina shreds the air with high-pitched screams.