The Ward (19 page)

This doesn’t sound good. What the fuck is the patrol?

Lisa and I share a glance. ‘No,’ I say. ‘There was a mix-up. We were meant to be discharged—’

‘Discharged?’ she says. ‘Pardon me?’

‘We were meant to leave,’ Lisa tries, ‘but we got lost.’

‘Leave? You’re a Donor, aren’t you?’ She looks at Lisa. Is it my imagination or is her expression more respectful? ‘And you are a Client, I guess?’

Lisa glances at me again. We’re both thinking the same thing: say anything that’ll get us out of here. ‘We’ve had our procedures.’ Lisa touches her mask. ‘We
need to go home now.’

The girl looks confused, rubs her hand through the left side of her hairstyle. ‘There’s no protocol. Tell you what, I’ll call patrol, they’ll check your files and replace
you where you belong. There’s nowhere for you to go here unless you’re scheduled for voluntary termination – which you’re obviously not, being bro— visitors. If you
were being terminated or recycled the… normal… way’ – her eyes skitter over me with a look of repressed distaste, and I remember that sign on the wall:
‘Abnormal’ – ‘you wouldn’t come through here. You’d be taken through Pre-recycling.’

The orange man and woman emerge from the changing room wearing sepia pyjamas and carrying their possessions in their arms. They cross to a bin on the far side of the desk and dump their clothes
in it. Burt takes Leletia’s hand as she sprinkles a handful of gold jewellery into the bin like ashes over the sea. They look down and Leletia puts her arm around Burt’s waist. They
press their heads and sides against each other like two penitent lovers at a shrine.

Then they straighten. Burt glances over his shoulder and I can’t make out his expression. ‘Can’t take it with you,’ he says.

‘Happy termination,’ the receptionist says, ‘and thank you for recycling with us.’

She stands up and waves them towards the door to her right. They walk through without a word. As they go in, I catch a glimpse of harsh, bright light, and a high mechanical whine blots out the
muzak. A waft of the sick odour I’ve pushed into the background hits me straight in the face.

It can’t be what I think it is. It must be something else. Maybe all that termination, recycling, divesting nonsense is cult-speak. That’s it. It’s just a cult. That makes much
more sense. Has to be why this place is designed like a chapel. All hospitals have chapels, right?

It’s just a cult.

Lisa turns to look at me, wide-eyed. ‘Farrell, we can’t… We have to go!’

My legs are starting to seize up again and the receptionist appears to be making a phone call on a piece of jelly with lights in it.

‘Hang on, hang on,’ I say. ‘It’s a good idea to call the, uh… patrol, but do you mind if we freshen up first?’ I indicate the changing-room door.

The girl narrows her eyes at me. ‘No. I think that will be catalogue. Please refresh yourselves.’

We push through the door and it clicks shut behind us. Everything’s green.

‘What the fuck’s with the lighting in here?’ I mutter.

‘What do you mean?’ asks Lisa.

‘You didn’t notice? It’s green, Lisa.’

‘It’s just your eyes. After the red light out there.’

Sure enough, the green cast gradually dissolves away. My legs cramp up again and I stumble back on a sagging couch. In front of us are three mirrored doors, angled just so that I can see four
Lisas standing in front of me. She fills my jeans pretty nicely. I can see the curve of her thighs and arse in the mirrors; more flesh than I’m used to, but she’s got a nice shape.
Katya would look stupid in my jeans.

Lisa starts awkwardly when she realises that there are mirrors behind her and that I’m looking at her. She scurries to sit by my side, a hot blush blotching the skin on her neck and ears.
The mask remains calm.

‘What do we do, Farrell?’

‘Maybe it’s best if they just call security and—’

‘No! I’m not go—’

‘Listen to me! They’ll just get us out of here safely and we’ll give them the slip on another level. The last thing we want to do is go in there.’ I point in the general
direction of the other door.

As if to illustrate my point, the thin plywood walls reverberate with the whine of some electrical machine.

I stretch my legs and arch my back, closing my eyes to the pain as another spasm rips through my knotted body.

It’s just a cult, it’s just a cult
. They’re talking in cult language. There’s no fucking way I’m following those orange freaks to some fucking Jonestown
suicide cult.

‘Listen,’ says Lisa, cutting into my thoughts again. I’ve been zoning in and out ever since she got me out of that bed. Ever since I pulled out that drip. Fragments of that
report come back to me:
sulfasomethingsomething hormone to encourage optimum haemosomething and tissue bulking
. They’ve been fattening me like a factory pig. That has to be why my
body’s rebelling.

Christ. I don’t want to think about what they do here. My desperate delusions are starting to wear thin. We need to get the fuck out of here.

‘What do you think it is?’ she’s saying again, at the edge of my pain and my panic.

‘Huh? What what is?’

‘That sound. Listen. It’s like a…’

It’s a whoosh of water. Then a smell wafts from somewhere again. This time not that sickly sweet smell, but a more common odour. It’s the smell of shit.

‘… a toilet,’ we say together, and we’re up and into the first cubicle, checking the walls. Nothing.

The smell is strong enough and the flush loud enough that there has to be some vent or opening here; it’s not just coming through the walls.

Then we find it. In the second cubicle. Right at the back. A grated panel. Ignoring the cries of my glutes, I slam down to the carpet and peer through it. I see a tiled floor, a steel bowl fixed
into the middle of the floor, and a huge, bare, hairy arse sitting on it.

We’re lying so close together on the changing room’s carpet I swear I can feel the thud of Farrell’s heart. The man in the toilet stall mumbles to himself and
grunts, another wave of that gross smell wafts through the grid, and I clamp my hand over my nose to block it out. There’s a bulky leather bag next to the man’s white plastic boots,
something metallic poking out of the top of it. I shift my position a few inches to try to make out what it is.

Oh
crap
.

It’s a pair of what look to be serrated, razor-sharp shears.

Snip, snip
.

The man mumbles again and whistles under his breath. I keep as still as I can. I can’t see his face, or even the shape of his body from this angle, thank God. I don’t want to see
him, just in case he’s that…

That what?

That… freak I saw when I was coming round from the anaesthetic.

That wasn’t real
.

But he looks real enough. Even worse, he smells real enough.

The guy stands up abruptly, pulls up his trousers and, using his foot, presses a black rubber button on the floor. The toilet roars and whooshes. I catch a glimpse of long, red-lacquered
fingernails as he bends to pick up his bag, and then he leaves the stall, letting the door bang shut behind him. We listen to the thump of receding footsteps. He’s gone, and I can breathe
again.

‘What now?’ I whisper to Farrell.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ he says. He places his palms on the metal air vent and pushes. It doesn’t budge. There are no screws attaching it to the wall; it must be cemented
in.

‘Shit,’ he says. He grimaces as another pain spasm shoots through his legs. ‘Fuck, that hurts.’

‘Hang on,’ I say.

I shift my body all the way around until my bare feet are pressing against the grate. Tensing my thigh muscles, I kick forward as hard as I can. I can feel it budge slightly, and then, suddenly,
it falls forward and lands with a crump onto the toilet floor.

‘You go first,’ Farrell says.

‘What if that… that man’s outside the door?’

‘We’ve got no choice,’ Farrell hisses. ‘You want to go back and find out what “Pre-recycling” is all about?’

Snip, snip
. A thatch of tangled hair, the feel of a cold blade on my skin.

Paranoia, that’s all it is
.

I shake the image away. Farrell’s right. This is our only way out.

‘You think you’ll fit through it?’ I say to him. He’s slender, but his shoulders are broad, and I’m not convinced he’ll be able to squash through the
space.

‘I’m going to give it my best shot. Now, go!’

I shift my body around again and wiggle through on my belly, ignoring the scrape of concrete from the aperture’s edge on my stomach. I scramble to my feet and press my back against the
door so that Farrell has enough room to manoeuvre.

For a second I’m convinced he’s going to get stuck, but then he twists his shoulders and edges through. He drags himself forward and I help him get to his feet.

Together we press our ears to the door, listening for any sign of movement. There’s just the steady drip of water, the gurgle of the cistern refilling, and a low mechanical throb in the
background.

Farrell nods at me, and I move back so he can pull open the door. We step out into a large public bathroom. There’s a row of stalls, most of which have their doors closed, several sinks
– but, oddly, no taps. The place hums with that fake flowery stench. It’s spotlessly clean, clad wall to ceiling in large pale-green tiles.

‘Jesus,’ Farrell says under his breath, nudging me.

No ways. In the far corner there’s some sort of novelty urinal in the shape of a huge clown’s head. Its mouth gapes open in a horrible leer and there’s a sign above it,
reading: ‘Harvesting is no laughing matter! Now wash your hands.’

‘Do you think there’s anyone else in here?’ I whisper.

‘I bloody well hope not.’ He pads straight over to the main door, pulls it open and peers out. I catch the murmur of voices. He slams it shut immediately and leans his back against
it.

‘Shit!’

My heart thumps in my chest. ‘What?’

‘We can’t go out there.’

‘Why not?’

‘There’s someone out there.’

‘Who? That guy who was in here?’

Snip, snip
.

‘Don’t know.’

‘So what are we going to do?’

‘First, check the stalls. Make absolutely sure we’re alone in here.’ He nods to me. ‘Can you do that?’

‘Me?’

‘Yeah. I don’t want to leave the door.’

My heart has now squashed itself into my throat, but I nod and get moving.

I nudge open the first. Empty. The next cubicle doesn’t contain a cistern – there’s nothing in it at all – just smooth, blank, tiled walls. Then I look down. God.
There’s a tiny, eye-shaped hole in the floor. I step back instinctively.

The other stalls are all vacant, but a lurch in my gut makes me hesitate at the last door. In Sharon’s horror movies this would be where the axe man or the bogeyman would be waiting.
Gingerly, I push it open. It’s empty, but the interior is different from the others – there’s a tightly knotted black-and-grey pattern covering the green tiles. Then it hits me
that it’s not a pattern at all – it’s graffiti, every inch of tile covered with layer upon layer of spidery writing. A skinny felt-tip pen hangs on a string behind the door,
inviting people to add their mark. The messages run into each other, and most of the handwriting is bad, but I manage to decipher a few behind the door: ‘My handle’s Globe, recycle my
probe’; ‘For a karking good time, call LastCall fc234.78’; ‘Next stop, mascot! Wheee!’; ‘Are you Pure enough? Read
Gravitology
to find out’.

The messages are even scrawled around the base of the toilet: ‘Adios and thanks for all the fish’ reads one. ‘Don’t miss the sale at Fork Off – I will!’ says
another. ‘Karking browns’ is scrawled in angry letters.

Browns. That’s what that receptionist girl called us.

I also make out a fist-shaped blob with the words ‘D loves R 4eva’ inside it, and a long message that ends with the line: ‘My only regret is that I never saw the
upside.’

‘Lisa!’ Farrell calls. ‘What are you doing?’

I step out. I decide not to tell him about the graffiti. Those walls are full of people’s goodbyes. Even the smutty-sounding ones. I don’t think I could stand it if Farrell said
something nasty about them. Somehow those messages are… sacred. I want to protect them. ‘They’re all empty,’ I say.

His face relaxes. I carefully close the last cubicle and join him at the bathroom door.

‘Christ, Lisa. What is this place? It’s not some sort of back-alley organ scam. How come no one knows about this?’

I shrug.

‘Maybe it’s funded by rich people who are sick. Euthanasia or… or illegal organ transplants. If you had a lot of money you could set up something like this. Hey? You
think?’

‘I don’t know, Farrell.’

‘But that girl – the way she was talking. She’s not from here. And she’s not Eastern European either. I
know
about these things, Lisa.’

He’s saying something else, but I tune him out. There were hundreds, maybe thousands, of messages on the walls of that stall. Did all those people
want
to die? Choose to die? Like
the weird orange couple back in that waiting room?

Farrell nudges me. ‘Are you listening?’

‘Yes. Sorry.’

‘Who the fuck
are
these people? How can they get away with this?’ He rubs at his face as if he’s trying to scour off the skin. ‘Christ, this can’t be
happening. Not to me. I know people.’ He thumps his fists on his thighs. ‘
Fuck
.’

I touch his shoulder. ‘It will be okay.’ I don’t know what else to say. I know it’s inadequate and stupid but I’m too shell-shocked to think up a more intelligent
response.

‘Yeah right,’ Farrell snorts. ‘We’re about as far from okay as we can bloody well get. Why do you think they picked us?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why us? Why pick us specifically? Not… I dunno, some anonymous refugee who won’t be missed. There has to be a reason.’

‘I… I don’t know.’