The New Girl (Downside) (28 page)

‘Greetings, Madam Shopper. We met in the lobby six shifts ago.’ Jane is clearly nervous, something Ryan has never seen in her before. She babbles on. ‘You were kind enough to
intercourse with me, and my friend here – he’s also a brown – would like to prepare a victual with special ingredients, and I was—’

‘Yeah, yeah, what do you want?’ the woman barks.

‘I’m sorry, ma’am. I was mistaken.’ Jane turns to go, but Ryan notices a confused look pass over the woman’s face. She rubs the back of her skull and shakes her
head, as if shaking off sleep.

‘No, I’m sorry. I do remember. Please come in.’

The woman ushers Ryan and Jane into her flat and neither of them can suppress their gasps. The open-plan living space is like a luxury hotel’s lobby, designer furnishings littered across
the marble floor. The ceilings are high and intricately moulded and the walls are painted in tasteful shades of cream. The woman leads Ryan and Jane through to the kitchen, her sharp heels clicking
against the floor. The kitchen is an expanse of black marble tops and brushed-steel appliances, all gleaming as if they’ve never been used. The worktops are decorated with crystal vases of
fresh flowers and ceramic bowls brimming with perfect, exotic fruit that just a while ago Ryan would have taken for granted: fat mangoes, unblemished bananas, taut-skinned kiwi fruits, and lemons,
yellow like a photo in a catalogue.

‘What do you need? I just had the Tower’s Choice Homemakers’ Pride Selection delivered so there’s plenty to go around. They were on a double-price special, so you
wouldn’t believe the amount of tokens I knocked off with just this. I got them to throw in the Premium Imported Accoutrements package and asked them to deliver during Dead Shift so they
charged extra. A primo deal if you ask me, and when they...’ She trails off. ‘Sorry, I’m babbling. What do you need?’

Ryan wants to tell her to box up the whole lot and get it delivered to the lower levels and order one for every flat there, but something stops him. ‘Uh, just some olive oil, a few
tomatoes, onions...’

The woman’s riffling through the grocery cupboards as he talks and she loads the ingredients in a box. ‘Red? White? Shallots? Spring onions?’

‘Uh, red, thanks. You wouldn’t have fresh parsley, would you?’

The woman walks to one of the three massive fridges and opens a drawer dedicated to fresh herbs. ‘I would indeed,’ she says, dropping a punnet of the herb into the box.

‘Thank you, that’s very kind,’ Ryan says as he hefts the box under his arm.

‘A pleasure to, to, uh...’ she says, and a look of confusion passes her face again.

‘Thank you, Madam Shopper,’ Jane says, heading to the front door.

The woman follows them silently, as if she’s lost, and watches them from the doorway as they walk to the lifts.

As the lift closes behind them and ushers them back to their level, Ryan asks, ‘How do people live like this? How can the Shoppers have so much while the normal people have to fight
for...’ But Jane looks at him with such opacity, as if he’s talking French to her, that he drops it. He doesn’t want to be told ‘that’s the way it works’
again.

Jane picks at her bean stew while watching a Ministry announcement on TV. ‘It’s toothsome,’ she says, half-heartedly.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ryan says. ‘I know you would have preferred to just eat them raw. I shouldn’t have interfered.’

‘No, no, Mr Ryan. It’s toothsome.’ She pushes her bowl away. ‘I have phantasms about returning upside again on another project. There is abundance there. Perhaps Node
Liaison Penter Ulliel will call on my services again. The Encounters project was a success and there is talk of more.’

‘I wish I could go back too. I miss my daughter.’

‘You are indebted,’ she says. He remembers those words from some time in the blotted recent past. They make him afraid; they make him feel very far from home.

‘I’m going to bed,’ he says.

Jane stares at the TV screen with a blank face.

In the small bathroom, Ryan takes off his clothes and gets into the shower. He rubs the soap over his body with a blank sense of contentment. He remembers being troubled recently, but the fact
that it’s hard to recall, that it seems so far away, serves to amplify his calm.

The soap travels over his biceps, his chest, his stomach. As it goes, Ryan feels it sketching him out, mapping his body, reminding him of who he is and how he’s changed. There is no
tension in his thighs as he laves; his calf muscles are firm and pain-free. He works up a lather in his hands and cleans his buttocks and moves around to his crotch, feeling the absence there, the
empty sack where his balls once hung.

He remembers it, like a film playing out, but he can’t bring himself to feel anything. They cut his testicles out like a minor procedure. He was sitting in an office cubicle, like a client
at a bank, and someone drilled a hole into the back of his head; he can’t remember the person’s face, just a shock of orange curls like a novelty wig. Then the person hooked his legs
into metal stirrups on the sides of the cubicle and sliced into his scrotum. He wasn’t wearing any pants.

He cleans under his limp penis, the back of his skull pulsing pleasant feelings through his body and calming his mind.

Tara’s vision is blurry, as if she’s looking through a veil of thin gauze, but far as she can tell, she appears to be in a spacious white-walled room. A private
hospital ward? No, it can’t be – she’s sitting slumped on a soft surface, some kind of couch upholstered in slippery, slightly greasy fabric, rather than lying on a gurney. She
keeps absolutely still, listens for anything that could give her a clue as to her whereabouts. Hears nothing but a faint mechanical hum that seems to be emanating from beneath the floor. Fighting
to keep the panic at bay, she tries to turn her head again. It feels too heavy for her neck; she can barely hold it up. And there’s something wrong with the air in here – it’s
heavier, as if she’s miles underground; there’s a slight burn in her lungs as she struggles to draw in enough oxygen.

Just where in goddamned hell
is
she?

She needs to think back – stretches her mind to remember the last thing she did. Recalls some sort of altercation with Stephen and Olivia, followed by a desperate desire to go somewhere
–
where
, though? – vaguely remembers driving. A car accident? The memory is out of her grasp. Can’t quite catch it. She attempts to stand, gasps as her thigh muscles
cramp, pain shooting down her legs, spiralling into her joints. She sinks back down.

Wherever she is, there’s something wrong with her; she’s groggy, feels detached, as if she’s coming round from an anaesthetic. Is she hurt?
Has
she been in an
accident? She runs her hands over her body, recognises the familiar cloth of her jeans and sweatshirt. Despite the shooting pains in her legs, she can’t feel any obvious wounds, and the strap
of her bag is still looped over her chest.

Her phone! Yes. She scrabbles in her bag, roots past her keys, a bunch of tissues, an old tube of lip-ice – finally feels the comforting shape of her BlackBerry. She pulls it out, presses
the ‘1’ key – the speed-dial to Stephen’s number – hears the beep-beep-beep of the battery dying. Keeps trying anyway. Turns the phone off and on again. Nothing
– it’s dead.

Fuck.
Not even enough life in it to send a text.

Blinking frantically helps. Her vision is still hazy, but gradually she begins to make out individual shapes and textures. It looks like she’s in some sort of high-end apartment. The room
is featureless, but the materials used to build it are expensive, top of the range. Marble counter tops, white stone floor, white walls, no paintings or decorations. Like a blank high-end showroom.
And apart from the couch, there’s no furniture in here except for a low glass coffee table, on which she spots the only flash of colour in the room. She leans forward, blinks again and her
sight finally clears. Sees some kind of book or brochure – the source of the colour – and next to it... Is that...? It is! Baby Tommy’s head! She reaches for him, willing her body
to obey her. Jesus, everything aches. Her muscles, even her skin. She’s sure she hasn’t been beaten – she doesn’t feel bruised or broken, more as if she’s contracted a
virulent strain of swine flu. She touches her forehead. Does she have a temperature? Her palms are clammy with nervous sweat; she can’t tell if she’s too hot or not.

She manages to grasp Baby Tommy’s head. It calms her. She drops it on her lap and picks up the brochure. It’s heavier than she was expecting, and she barely has the strength to hold
it up in front of her eyes. There’s a photograph of a generic mall aisle on the cover, gold, embossed script printed across the top of it. She loses focus again, squeezes her eyes shut, and
when she opens them she’s able to make out the title: ‘You’re Here Now, Upside Citizen, so Why PANIC? J’

What the hell? She flips the page, sees a double-spread of Comic Sans writing. It looks like a list – some kind of index, maybe? It takes all her concentration to stop the words distorting
in front of her:

‘Mrs Tara Marais? May we converse with you?’

A figure steps into her line of sight – tall, skeletally thin. Bright red hair. Tara draws in another deep breath. Did she black out again? She has no memory of seeing the woman entering
the room.

Don’t panic!

Wait – she’s seen this woman before... The girl, the new girl... Jane. This is Jane’s mother. And then it hits her. The house. The statue house. She remembers a man – a
man in the kitchen. A man in a hat – had some sort of deformed hand. Does this mean she’s still in that house? One of the rooms in that awful house? She breathes in deeply again, sniffs
the air. Detects some sort of chemical odour, cleaning fluid maybe? That place smelled musty. No. She’s somewhere else.

‘I know you,’ Tara manages.

‘Yes. We’ve conversed before. I am Penter Ulliel, Deputy Node Liaison for the Ministry of Upside Relations.’ Another figure appears behind the woman – a man –
stocky, a large square-shaped head. ‘And this is Bakewell Klot, a Management Security Agent on secondment to the Ministry.’

Groggy she may be, but Tara’s hit with an urge to giggle. What the hell is this? The man’s attired as if he’s about to go to a fancy-dress party in some kind of old-fashioned
admiral’s outfit, and he looks as if he’s one step away from a major cardiac event; his skin is purple, wormy pink veins pulse in his forehead. The hysteria vanishes when she notices
the pistol shoved in his belt. ‘Charmed to meet you,’ he says in a high, girlish voice.

‘May I?’ Jane’s mother drags the brochure out of Tara’s hands. ‘Did you read it? One of our recent upside assimilants has drafted this guide for new intakes’
edification. Was it helpful?’

Tara opens her mouth to speak – to say what, she’s not sure – when she’s swamped with a surge of dizziness. She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, waits for
the bright spots to die away. Opens her eyes again, sees Jane’s mother – what did she say her name was? Petra? No, Penter – staring at her concernedly. ‘What have you done
to me? Am I drugged?’

‘We’ve learnt that acclimatisation can be confusing. Your penetration shunt will help make this...’ – Penter waves a hand around the room –
‘
experience
more palatable.’

‘My what?’

Jane’s mother frowns. ‘Your shunt
has
been fitted, hasn’t it?’ She touches the back of her head, just below her ear.

Tara mirrors her gesture, runs her fingers over her own neck, touches some kind of scabbed hole below her own right ear. She presses it gingerly; the wound feels spongy, not like any kind of
abrasion she’s had before. Presses it again, expecting to feel a bright surge of pain, but it’s oddly numb. Removes her fingers, notices, with clinical detachment, that they’re
bloody. Is this why her head feels like it’s stuffed full of cement? Did that guy in the kitchen pistol whip her or something?

‘We understand that you are still acclimatising,’ Penter says. She points at Baby Tommy’s head. ‘But I would appreciate it if you can tell me what this is.’

Tara swallows. Her saliva tastes as if she’s been drinking blood. She really wants to tell this woman to go to hell, but when she opens her mouth, she finds herself answering the question.
‘Um... Baby Tommy. It’s a baby. A Reborn. A... doll.’