Graft (26 page)

Sol peers into the car. The woman's arms are thrown forward as if she was paused mid-tantrum. There's a metal protrusion from her ribs, a dark hole in the fabric of her clothing.

“What is it?”

“Bloody clever is what. How else you gonna defend yourself with this as your livelihood?”

“She shot you? With that?”

“Aye. Heard the bastard coming out. Mental whirring sound. She was quaking, screaming like it was painful. I bent forward in time, but I still had my paddle up.”

“And she's–”

“I frigging hope so.” Roy taps the Luger against his chest. “Crap driver, anyway.”

“You shot her?”

“No – I didn't bloody have to. After this little party trick, she just, I don't know what else to call it, shut down on me. Swear to God. Just turned herself off.” Roy snaps his fingers. “Poof.”

Sol shakes his head. “I thought it was me flashing at you.”

Roy curls his lip. “Nah. She just didn't want us going where I wanted to go.”

“Where?”

Roy points up the carriageway. “Next left.”

“Services?”

Roy nods, then looks carefully, if dispassionately, at his hand – fascinated by his visible tendons, his inner workings.

Sol opens the door. “Hop out,” he says. “You're gonna need that patched pretty quick.”

Roy plants his feet, ungainly. “No shit,” he says, curling his fingers in around the wound. With his other hand he waistbands the Luger and reaches inside his jacket. Out comes a wad of cash – by some magnitude fatter than the bung Sol found in the Lexus. “This'll see me right,” he says, waving the money. “Come to something when a crate of guts is worth more than a person, eh?”

“How much is that?”

“Ten Gs at least. Right here in the glovebox.”

Sol shakes his head.

“Get on with it then,” Roy says. “Before some do-gooder tries doing us a bloody favour. Or them eyes in the sky come down for a closer look.”

“You're leaving her like this?”

“No. But we are.”

Sol's throat tightens. “We can't.”

“Why? It's your doing.”

“I didn't bloody
shoot
her!”

Roy frowns. “You wanted to get your own back, far as I can see. Inspector fucking Clouseau. But – and I've got this sussed – you still don't know how you're gonna pull it all off. My game's simpler. It's do or get done over. And I didn't shoot her, either, so get that straight.”

Sol looks away. “You shot that biker back there.”

“And I'd do it again tomorrow,” Roy says. “Listen: there are two types of person left in this country. Fighters and victims. And I'm not gonna be a victim over ten grand
or
you.”

Another HGV passes, air turbulence rocking the car on its bushes. Sol scowls. “She's coming with us.”

“Have a word with yourself,” Roy says. “And get shoving her car off the road – I'm too crocked to help.” He nods at the Sierra, to Y. “Seriously, man. Ask yourself. Is this for her? Or is it for you?” Roy waves the cash in Sol's face. “Because I'm alright with this, me. Get involved with a few more drops like that and I'm a happy bunny indeed.”

Sol's disgusted. “What, and sack off the armour project? Let your Reverend down?”

Roy doesn't say anything.

“Thought not. You're a bad liar, Roy. You care. You know you do–”

“Don't be a smartarse, Solomon.”

“Tell me what she told you about these services.”

“Well what would you say with a gun poking in your face?”

Sol scratches his head.

Roy puts the Luger against Sol's cheek. “You'd say whatever I fucking wanted you to say. Now shut your gob and get this maw wrapped before I go and bleed out on you. I'll fill you in after that.”

“What was she called?”

Roy starts tearing a strip from the hem of his shirt. “This one? Sandy.”

“Sandy,” Sol repeats. “Sandy.” And he takes Roy's wrist and starts to bind the hole.

Y
couldn't tell
how many of her brothers and sisters were travel-sick. Hours on the move had left the trailer floor sopping wet, and the pitch of the container made things worse at the back.

Y was at the back. Around her feet the sawdust had clumped up to expose slippery patches that shifted across the trailer floor like warm spots in a lake. Her hips hurt from standing – femurs ground against dry sockets, pestle and mortar. Her arms, too, ached from bracing against the bodies of her brothers and sisters, who wriggled against each other's sweat-slicked bodies to stay upright.

The air was superheated in there, almost chewy. Thick with sweat and urea. These smells didn't change, but their effects came in waves: Y, swaying, taking shallow breaths, regularly pinched her nose, all she could do to not vomit herself. Several times she clamped so tightly she tasted blood.

Mostly she held her eyes shut, arms tensing against the flow of corners, camber, sudden braking. When she could, she held the trailer's subframe, spare hand spread out on the canvas roll sides – also sopping with moisture – in a vain attempt to cool her system. When she did look around, she saw her brothers mop running sweat from their skin with their blousons. Her sisters were also down to vest tops or less, using what space they had to fan and towel themselves, and each other, with their headscarves. Y used hers to try and comfort the nearest child: a young girl who couldn't seem to stop shaking.

The truck rattled unremittingly. At the front of their trailer, hidden by the seething bodies, collapsed forms, a boy screamed and repeatedly struck his head against the subframe. In a way, if she could disconnect the sound from its source, he gave Y something to fixate on: a rhythm that distracted her from the full bladder she couldn't bring herself to release; from the wetness running between her feet; and from pushing deeper into her infinite memory-mist.

More miles in half-time. Y concentrated on not throwing up. One retch and that'd be it – so she staved it off by remembering how chunks can get caught between your throat and nose. She tried to think of nothing but breathing – the internal sound of the air on her epiglottis; the purr of exhalation across her dry lips. The subtle liquid that rustled in her ears with the trailer's yaw. She tried to comprehend her new lightness. And she counted things – corners, creases in the fabric. The boy's skull beating beating beating on metal –

At last the lorry stopped, and a painful white flooded in. The roller door filled its housing and the silence of the moment struck her: so many of Y's brothers and sisters were broken, past caring.

The man outside had a scarf pulled up to his eyes. He was the driver, at a guess. For the shortest time the man stood and took them in, just as they did him. Left to right, his eyes full of them. Finally he shook his head. Y saw his makeshift bandana ripple as if he'd said something to herself. It might've been a prayer.

Beyond the driver, Y made out more vehicles. A grassy verge to the left. Pewter sky. There was a flat-roofed building surrounded by people in fatigues.

The driver spoke inaudibly and began pulling Y's brothers and sisters from the trailer. He was grabbing whatever he could get hold of, and a round of shrieking followed. The smell of diesel and vomit intensified, a heavy musk. Others joined the driver now, five or six big men at least, and yelled in at them over the racket, unaccountably furious. Y was pushed towards the trailer exit by her brothers and sisters behind. She inhaled, and she waited.

Y did well to stay up as long as she did. When finally she slipped, someone caught her ankles and dragged her backwards through the mess. She twisted, hands grabbing at lumps of sawdust, a kind of human porridge that caught then disintegrated between her fingers. Soon she was over the bumper, on the ground.

Hauled up from the gravel, Y was shepherded into a group standing nearby. She span across them, apologized awkwardly through gesture. She was covered in muck, a breeze chilling her damp skin. The pain didn't matter – unconsciously or not, she'd been conditioned for worse – but she winced as someone leaned down, hand on her thick shoulder, and brushed the muck off her knees.

From the truck trailer she watched a boy with a ballooned forehead tumble to the tarmac face first. He landed between two white lines, and nobody helped him for an uncomfortably long time – the gathering more intrigued than concerned. Then apathy came unstitched as the handlers realized he wasn't moving. They quickly closed around the boy and dispersed again. On his feet now, he looked haunted. And even from a glance, Y could tell he shared her biomods. The same conditioning. His changes were mostly hidden beneath the blouson, but his gait gave it away. It was the frame; the overdeveloped lats and rolled-forward shoulders.

Y waved, tried to get his attention. He seemed lost. She moved towards him, but as she did a thick arm came down to bar her passage. Oblivious, blood from his forehead curving like parentheses around his gormless features, the boy ambled away.

Y sought other faces she might recognize from the mansion; from the training lawns, from her neighbouring cradles. It was useless, though: their features were smudged, their outlines blurred. All things assimilated, amorphous and beige. Mouths seemed drawn on, smears on canvas. Eyes like black buttons. Everyone's hair so regulation-short. And when she looked forward, above the spectral steam that rose from their wet bodies, between the tallest and the shortest, Y caught glimpses of dark bags hanging from the lighting poles. Rows of black sacks on heavy ropes, binds wrapped around their middles.

The sacks triggered something. It manifested as imprecise dread, and she couldn't fathom the link – it was as if the sacks represented the kind of truth that vanished if you looked straight at it. She cursed. Imagine a scar you've always had but don't remember earning…

She span to the edges – a strip of shale between faded white lines, and the overgrown shrub beyond.

Then someone prodded her sharply in the ribs. “Oi,” they said.

Y span, and her attention zeroed to a tall woman holding up a photograph as if to compare.

“Are you Y?”

Y didn't respond.

The woman turned the picture. Y saw an image of herself sleeping, lined in.

“Love,” the woman said calmly. “I'm on your team.”

Y chirped.

“Long way to come, that,” the woman added. She watched Y, considering her, then nodded. “A mission. Must be nice to have some clean air, mind. Suffocating, those trailers. I hope they've looked after you.”

Y studied the woman. Her long-sleeved robe couldn't mask a formidable outline. Going by the smoothness of her forehead – its length accentuated by a high ponytail, top-knotted like a hat – Y doubted she was much older than her, though her face held a mass at stark variance from the fatless, razor-boned people around them. Her eyebrows, too, were much thicker than Y was used to seeing. She carried a broadness and a presence – indifference betrayed by sympathetic eyes – that had somehow dimmed the background.

“Quiet mouse aren't you?” the woman said. A fractional softening around her mouth told Y she'd noticed the pendant. The woman cocked her head. “You can say. Did they look after you?”

No response seemed better than lying.

The woman frowned. “Maybe you're cold. Are you cold? Is that it? You look a bit cold.”

Y was cold. But she didn't give that away, either.

The woman pretended to look disappointed, and even wagged a finger. But this movement was gentle, too. Then she took Y's hand and pushed what felt like a smooth, heavy stone into her palm. “Grip it,” she said. “It'll warm your cockles.”

Y clasped. Heat came immediately and spread along her arm.

The woman beamed, gave an exaggerated glance to either side. “Don't show it about,” she said, “or they'll all want one.”

Y held the stone against her stomach, and the woman seemed pleased.

“I scanned all your reports yesterday,” she told Y. “I like a rebel. Just my cup of tea. But you won't make any trouble for me, will you?”

Y shook her head.

“Of course you won't. And as you're probably wondering, this glamorous place we're meeting is called Knutsford Services. A car park, really, and the coffee's terrible. But I promise you're nearly there now. I'm here to get you moved, a quick vehicle swap, another one further along, and then you'll be well on your way.” She glanced round and leaned in, conspiratorial. “It's all very long-winded, if you ask me. But they reckon it's the only way to outfox the drones.”

Y nodded blankly.

“Manchester's a good city,” the woman said. “No fires or floods. No rioting for a good few years, come to that. You might be mistaken for thinking someone's forgiven it.” The woman repeated herself slowly. “Man-ches-ter. Had the biggest night there once. Took myself dancing, back in the olden days. Funnily enough, I only remembered as I was coming here to meet you – so thank you for that. And I'm Sandy, OK? San-dy. Like a beach. I'm your chaperone. Like a tour guide. Would you mind popping a spare hand on here?”

The woman held out a thin tablet.

Y, without hesitating, pressed her palm onto it. The surface vibrated softly, snapping her out of a peculiar trance.

“That's lovely,” Sandy said. “More nonsense, I know. But like they say, you don't get paid if you don't prove trade. Now before we head off, a bit of housekeeping. Can I ask you to keep your headscarf on? It's for your safety and ours, and blah, blah, blah.”

Y's shaven head tingled. She draped the scarf, cold and damp, over it.

“Suits you,” the woman said, and gave her little nod. “Really does. Now let's go. There's a special convoy this way, just for you.”

As they walked together, the stone still radiating, Y thought her brothers and sisters were looking at Sandy in reverence. A goddess figure, a black angel, her head haloed by the angle of the gallow-lights above. If Sandy had noticed their appreciation, she didn't show it. After a minute, she said, absently, right into Y's ear, “You've been brave. I know you might be confused. A little afraid. But there's no need now. There's even air-con where you're going.”

Y smiled weakly. A little crackle slipped out.

Sandy said, “See the cars over there?”

Y did. Several off-roaders and a pickup set down on its haunches. Privateers squatted in its flatbed, rifles prickling. Above them, the black sacks turned and creaked in the breeze.

“That's yours,” Sandy said. “Keep going, if you don't mind, while I fetch some extra signatures from your delivery driver.”

Y kept walking until she reached the off-roaders. The row of swaying bags was right above her head.

“Oi!” Sandy shouted after her.

Y turned.

“Headscarf!” Sandy said, and mimed putting it on. “Let's think, please Yasmin. Important stuff, this!”

Y nodded and swivelled back to the nearest off-roader. Then she froze and span. The warming stone dropped to the floor and shattered, soundlessly, into a mandala of delicate pieces. The woman called Sandy was striding away, a funny bobble to her walk. Had she misunderstood? Maybe it was her ears – something wrong with the implants, something playing up. Y watched Sandy with a blooming sadness; again the eerie sensation of floating away. It was an echoed realization: she was too light for this place, this box with cold grey floors, a grey ceiling, ever-stretching grey walls.

By now Sandy had gone inside the rotted pavilion standing at the heart of the services. A ring of barriers had been raised around it. As the privateers in the flatbed looked on, Y tried to rationalize what Sandy had called her. It was the wind. It was the medication. It wasn't a name – it was confirmation bias. And even if were real, even if it had meant something, it still carried no clues to a life she once had – no name could possibly hold such power. She assumed nothing of her past – had only glimpses, vagaries; images of structures, landscapes, abstractions. The rest had been cut away. She was joining up the wrong dots.

And yet.

Y stretched out the headscarf and wound it round her neck. In spite of herself, she replayed what Sandy had said once more. Then, her chest imploding with blunt-force pain, she promised to make herself forget she'd ever heard it.