The Grief Team (16 page)

Roy Glyn alternately seethed with rage and boiled with desire.  These emotional states, mitigated as perhaps they might have been by maturation beyond his twelve years, were brought about by the cool indifference and even outright disdain with which Ferria d’Mont had greeted him upon his return from Outside.  Roy’s expectations, which had nothing to do with reality and everything to do with his vivid imagination, pictured himself undressing Ferria, cupping and sucking her plump breasts, and then fucking and more fucking…all this to wondrously happen as soon as she laid eyes on him again.  He imagined it just as if it had played on the Jumbotron in SkyDome, in the moo-vees.  He had not pictured himself being ignored, not thanked, told to take a bath because he smelled like shit…the ultimate insult had been his dismissal until the next morning, with a couple of coins dropped into his hand so he could get food.

Ferria had disappeared inside one of four available Toronto Nation Guest Suites in the E.C. for visiting dignitaries, where she had taken advantage of the shortened visit by the Celtic Trade Unionists two days before, demanding the suite in Elias’ name; the others were currently housing representatives of Sweden, New Freedom, and an odd gathering of what appeared to be toe fetishists. 

She was inside that room right there, Roy knew, and she was probably doing to that Dum’Kid (as Roy tagged him) what he wanted done to himself. Her decision to take Dum’Kid over him breached what Roy, whose understanding of power was limited to only the most basic of perceptions, knew to be fair. He hadn’t even had a chance to tell Ferria what he’d seen the Dum’Kid do with his hands on radburns. He wanted to tell Ferria and she had told him that he smelled like shit. 

Roy Glyn burned. He knew he could beat the Dum’Kid to death if he had a mind to, that was certain, although since he’d practically carried him, wheezing like crazy, into the elevator ten minutes before, it wouldn’t be fair.  He turned and pressed his ear against the door and imagined that he heard glasses clinking, Bammo!Burgers frying, and then, to stoke the fires of his anger, the wet sounds of two bodies pressed together.

After two hours, he got up off the floor and went looking for something to eat.  It was not something that he really wanted to do, considering that he had never been let loose inside the E.C. in his entire life and he was scared shitless.  Maybe they shot Wildkids, he didn’t know.  Maybe they just cut their heads off on Countdown to Horror and that was all. When he and Dum’Kid had made the dash from the basement up two flights to the elevator, he had seen several mall-shoppers stop and stare, but they hadn’t yelled or pulled out weapons, so maybe they reallly didn’t shoot ‘Kids in the malls.  He didn’t actually even know any ‘Kids in the malls, come to that.  Except that little girl, and the Grief Team had gotten her.  But he was starving and Ferria had given him money and she had chosen Dum’Kid over him and they had fucked and now he hated her and he was so, so hungry. Eventually, he forced himself to choke down his fears and venture forth into the unknown.

Her sense of disappointment was immense. Ferria was having great difficulty in summoning the wherewithal to treat this pathetic, undernourished, wheezing, coughing boy as a representative of God, whatever God was. For nights-on-end she had seen him striding out of dark dreamclouds towards her, his eyes bright and unyielding, terror stopping her heart each time she emerged from the nightmare, gasping for breath, certain in the knowledge that this solemn boy was to be feared. Was he sent from the land that older Mall-citizens would remember as Heaven?

Her thoughts were in complete disarray, taken aback by the realization that this gaunt, pale child stretched pathetically on the bed in front of her just might be dying. The idea of a boy-who-made-miracles dying didn’t make any sense to her logically but, if it was possible, then it absolutely, positively must not be allowed to happen. Not if Ferria was to use the boy’s miraculous power to heal radburns to awe the Citizens-of-the-Malls and catapult herself into the Mayor’s shoes.

“If you can heal radburns, why can’t you stop coughing?” she had demanded. But he hadn’t said anything in response and she soon found that his wheezing was beginning to get on her nerves. 

She had planned a sexual conquest first, followed by a manoeuvre designed to elicit a demonstration of his healing powers.  Then she would entertain him until the moment arrived when she would take him beyond life and back again, binding him to her as she had Roy Glyn. That was the plan. But when she had lifted his dirty red T-shirt and seen the wide dark bruises which coloured his
upper body, Ferria experienced an emotion which she could not name but which made her heart swell uncomfortably.  She tried a cursory squeeze of his genitals through his trackpants, but it just wasn’t possible to continue.  In her mind she was seeing vivid, startling images of children crying in a vast, dark, ruined land under a harsh red sun and Ferria found herself turning away, leaving the boy to cough in deep spasms while she began to pace alongside him, only uncertainty in her grasp.

She had completely forgotten about Roy Glyn.

The E.C. was crowded, the after-supper-mallshoppers out in force.  On the morrow, the good Citizens of TorontoNation would celebrate their annual Revelation Night, and Parents-of-all-Stages, but most especially the Fives, were out-and-about with high expectations; examining wares, purchasing gifts, and bartering for extra cans of Bammo! to supplement the feast which would follow the celebrations, and stretch into the early hours of the morning.  Many of the mallshoppers, particularly those who had survived the End only to be re-born in the Malls, had reminiscences of Christmases-past, Hanukkahs-gone-by, Thanksgivings-before…but these were holidays no longer celebrated, no longer meaningful, no longer necessary.

In the midst of these tightly-knotted groups of mall-shoppers, Roy Glyn’s size was an asset.  Roy-B.-Nimble when he had a mind to be, he moved by attaching himself to families, doing his best to smile and belong without belonging.  He had left his leather bomber jacket outside Ferria’s door and had tried, his image reflected in the storefront glass of Chicago Pete’s Clothes, to comb his wild locks into something less startling with his fingers.  His shirt, now a vibrant shit brindl which he didn’t like, and his pants which were black, were at least new if not very clean.  He was presentable, enough to deflect at least the initial looks of the curious who, had they cared to muster the energy for a second look, might have had an inkling as to his real status…if he had still been there to see.  He wasn’t.  Roy kept moving, working his way down the escalators in the E.C., open-mouthed at what he saw before him, until he reached what appeared to him to be the main floor.

For the next five minutes, Roy secreted himself behind a family of mannequins inexplicably dressed in winter fashions, goggle-eyed at the festive lights and banners which had been erected for the celebrations.  He was near the Yonge/Dundas exit, not more than thirty yards from a Grief Team security post.  The sight of so many Yellowbands holding weapons set his heart racing again. Turning, Roy grafted himself onto the next surge of animated mallshoppers passing the nest of mannequins again, following them through the mall.

Despite over thirty years of ruin Outside, the Mall itself was a gleaming, shining, wondrous cacophony of sights and sounds. Neon blazed as tinkling mall-music played, happy shouts of mall-children piped atop the buzz-buzz of mall-shopper-conversation.  Roy’s eyes were dazzled, his limbs felt like thick runny cheese, his mind reeling from the splendour of it all.  He stood helplessly, nearly overcome, when suddenly everything came together for him in a word, one to which he had never been able to attach a real understanding. 

He, Roy Glyn, SkyDome Kid, was Inside! 

His next surprise was the audible sound of his immense delight, a sound born of emotions which he never knew existed.  He felt light-headed and fearless as effervescent sparkling drops fell from his eyes. His chest thick with emotion, he stumbled forward, letting the crowds carry him until the ecstasy faded and slowly but surely the wary, suspicious Roy Glyn bubbled back up to the surface again.  But he knew that he was going to save these new emotions if he could, save the incredible sights here in front of him, as defence against the nights when bad dreams locked him in a grip of fear.

He was running on empty so when the smell of fried dough and instant coffee suddenly assaulted his senses, Roy was defenceless.  Leaving another briefly-adopted-family, sliding through the press of mall-lookers, he stopped to watch the Centre fountain spurt freely into the air only to be trapped for a dazzling moment in the wash of coloured lights, before it fell like rattling silver into the marble basin.  As delightful as it was, it was not enough to change his intent which was the immediate discovery of the source of the wonderful smells.  Roy stepped away from the fountain’s edge and turned into the path of a milkydark man.  A Mull!  And one, Roy saw to his surprise, whose pee-thing had been torn from between his legs and stuck in the middle of his face.  It was flopping slowly from one side to the other as the eyes above it, burnt brown and rheumy, examined the Child.

“You’re not a Child-of-the-Malls!” growled the Rhonda-Mull. 

Roy’s initial reaction was to run, but there was nowhere he could go, not with the vise-like grip that this Fan-Mull had enclosed around Roy’s right bicep.  The Mull’s grasp was tight but not painful and he pulled Roy in beside him, leading him out of the crush toward a bank of public Stream monitors. His grip remained firm as he ushered Roy pulled him beyond to some space beside a mallwalk signboard.  

“Hungry?  Want food?” growled the Mull.

Roy’s eyes gave him away.

“No fear you-me.  Friend-Mull.  Like WildKid.”

Roy responded to the dialect by keeping his eyes squarely on the Mull’s chest, not wanting to look at his deformity. He made himself relax, keenly aware of the pressure being exerted by the Mull on his arm and searching for the instant of weakness when a short, sharp jerk might set him free. When it came, he bungled it and the Fan-Mull’s attitude changed abruptly.

“You fuckin’ WildKid!  Why you fuckin’-in-the-Malls?  I open my mouth, you dead by the Grief Team!  You fuckin’ cope that, WildKid?  I your only friend right now!  Your only friend!” The Fan-Mull paused and took a quick recon of the mallshoppers. When he was satisfied that he hadn’t drawn anyone’s attention, he pulled Roy in a little closer and clamped a hand on his buttocks, squeezing each separately.

“You skinny but you do with my special sauce. You come and I show you Rhonda. Every child like Rhonda.”

Roy panicked.  There wasn’t a ‘Kid in SkyDome who didn’t know who Rhonda was. He began to struggle against the Fan-Mull’s grip for all he was worth, swinging his left hand up across the chest of his adversary and reaching, grasping, seizing the Fan-Mull’s mutation and pulling for his life.

For the Fan-Mull, the sound to accompany the pain in his face was not actually made audible—in the form of a high-pitched, yodelling scream—for some six or seven seconds when his explosive-exhalation-of-pain brought the mallcrowds to a standstill. Those in the rear immediately began to applaud, not able to see but knowing one of Rhonda’s trademark explosions when they heard it. They were quickly hushed as four Yellowbands, weapons-in-hand, seized the Fan-Mull and hustled him away. No one bothered to pick up the abomination where Roy had dropped it.

Excited chatter from mall-lookers resumed immediately at a higher pitch for the event had titillated their dislike of such abominations-in-the-malls and they all felt the need to express themselves.

Meanwhile, Roy Glyn, long gone, was again jiggling coins in his palm, salivating like a canine as he watched the man-behind-the-counter lift a large golden confection onto a small plate with a pair of tongs.  Roy, Mull forgotten, was wide-eyed and delighted with the whole process and when he had the donut in hand it was in mouth inside him in seconds.  He couldn’t believe it when the man put four more plates with four more donuts on the counter in front of him, then a glass of brown liquid which Roy sipped and liked.  Then the man took one of Roy’s coins, gave him two new ones, and said ‘Thank you.’ 

It was fukn’very-fair! thought Roy happily, as he stuffed a third donut into his mouth, chewing loudly, enjoying his food.  The man-behind-the-counter looked up and smiled at Roy, pleased that the Child enjoyed his cooking.  When the boy’s Parents came by, he might be able to sell another dozen.

When Father sat down beside him, Roy Glyn didn’t see him at first so intent was he on stuffing donuts into his maw, but a sidelong glance suddenly became a stare…and, as clumps of donut fell from his lips to his lap, Roy Glyn experienced his third shock of the evening. 

“Roy Glyn.  SkyDome ‘Kid.  Welcome to my Mall.”

“Fa-ther?” mouthed Roy, awestruck.  The forty-storey face that he had loved and feared practically all his life was now normal-sized, inches from him, and exuding kindness, warmth, understanding, and love.  

Gabriel Kraft nodded. 

“Yes, Roy,” he said in rich warm tones, “I am your Father.”

“Have you ever heard of Jesus Christ?  I have.  And I know who Mohammed is.  And Buddha.  And Koresh.  And…I don’t think I remember any of them being able to heal themselves.  Maybe Jesus. Koresh no, I guess, but the Library only has two-thirds of a Newsweek article on him and that’s it besides his diary so I guess it’s no…but you seem more closely connected to Christ because he suffered before he died and you don’t look too great.  If you were dying, would you tell me?  And will you be reborn or is this it for you?”