The Ward (38 page)

‘Time to go, Mr Farrell. I’ll be your terminating agent today.’ It’s Nomsa’s voice. She rips the tape from my arm and pulls out the IV needle with efficient
precision. ‘You certainly have given us your fair share of… excitement… this last period. But I’m delighted that things have settled into their rightful
arrangement.’ Two orderlies follow her in and hoist me onto the gurney. Nomsa carries on talking. ‘You and Miss Forrest made excellent Donors, Mr Farrell. Despite the challenges. We
didn’t choose you for nothing, and I’m pleased that you’ve validated our selection processes.’

I’m so limp I can barely stiffen my muscles, never mind fight. My mind feels the same; completely flaccid. I can think clearly, but I can’t muster up fear or panic as they strap my
legs and torso to the rails of the gurney and cover me with a sheet. My mind’s as passive as my body.

As I’m pushed along, I see the tube lighting passing like a repetitive pattern in the ceiling above me, and I see Nomsa’s face bobbing in and out of my sight. I notice a gold chain
dangling from her wrist, jangling as she pushes. ‘LOVER’.

‘You like it? Me too. Benefit of being the primary transfer agent on a case. Sometimes we get Donors’ invaluables. Rosen didn’t want it. Didn’t suit his image, he
said.’

I’m wheeled into an elevator and it jerks as it starts moving. I can’t really tell, but it seems like we’re going down.

My mouth is dry, tastes like blood. I make myself speak to her; it’s a gargantuan effort. ‘Why am I here, Nomsa? I paid off my debt.’

‘Not according to your file, Mr Farrell. You were in breach. You were repossessed.’

‘But… Lisa… came in my place.’

‘Ms Cassavetes is a Client, Mr Farrell,’ she explains slowly as if to an idiot. ‘Clients cannot be reassigned as Donors in a Donor Swap contract. Those are the
terms.’

‘But I had insurance from that guy, Mutual. I was covered.’

The lift opens and Nomsa handles the gurney down another corridor. This one is lit with smaller, brighter lights and has a pungent chemical odour. Red emergency lights are positioned between
every white light. ‘Your cover lapsed after your second default. You didn’t read the fine print, did you? That’s how we get ourselves into these situations.’

‘What time is it?’ At first I don’t know why I ask.

‘I can’t see how that makes any difference.’

‘Please, just humour me.’

Call it a last wish. I want to know what time I died.

She shows me a pocket watch. There are four hands on it, all of the same length. No numbers are inscribed on the dial.

‘Oh, apologies. That’s 6.37 p.m. upside.’

People are watching TV and cooking dinner right now. At home. I’m wheeled through a pair of doors and into an operating theatre. Katya would have been watching FTV or the Reality channel
with a big glass of red.

I’m parked under a set of glaring operating lights and Nomsa removes the sheet and sticks ECG electrodes to my chest. ‘You’re very privileged today, Mr Farrell. Look
who’s going to be your butcher!’

A man with a full black beard and a bald head, a piggish nose and dark, angry eyes comes into my field of vision and straps a mask over his expressionless mouth.

‘Why is it still conscious, Nurse?’ he grunts.

‘It’s been a tricky case, Doctor. We had to let him go free range. We were unable to complete the hormone course. We had to balance the contingency collection with the tissue’s
long-term viability. The full dose of the sedative would be—’

‘Should we do this hot, then? I haven’t got time to kark around.’

‘I suppose so. There’s no difference. Eyes are viable—’

The butcher swings an appliance like a claw-ended vacuum tube from the ceiling rig.

There’s a light tap at the door.

‘What?’ the butcher barks.

I turn my head towards the door and see the tall orderly peeking nervously through it. ‘So sorry, Butcher, Nurse. But the Donor has a visitor. A Client.’

‘Oh, kark. Make it quick,’ says the pig-faced man.

The nurse glides over to me, takes my wrist in her dry hand and stagewhispers, ‘You must be polite, please. Client Cassavetes is being assigned to the mall as soon as she’s
recovered.’

The mall?

‘She’s going to be a Shopper, Mr Farrell! Can you imagine! You are a very fortunate Donor. Please come in, Client,’ she calls.

Something in my numbed brain is screaming out: Lisa! Oh, thank God. Lisa!

The door opens gradually and I see her shape come through it. I recognise her blonde hair and her form, but my eyes can’t make out the details.

She stands in the doorway, saying nothing. I’m desperately trying to find my voice, squeeze out a drop of saliva to lubricate my throat. The nurse finally excuses herself and Lisa moves
towards me. She stops again, halfway across the floor. Her face is a pink blur and I wonder if they’ve done something to it. I need her to come closer so that I can focus.

‘Lisa,’ I manage to croak out. ‘You’re… you’re fine.’

She nods, the pink blur bobbing up and down. Seriously, my eyes are fucked again. I can’t seem to make out…

‘Come closer,’ I say.

She takes another couple of steps. And then I see it. There’s nothing on her face to make out. It’s like I’m looking at a giant pink egg with blonde hair on the top. The
surface is smooth and glossy, like plastic. Utterly even, utterly featureless, just a neat oval hole for a mouth, little punch marks for her nose, clear lenses over the eyes. I crane my neck up as
far as I can and stare closer into the mask.

I can’t help it. I reach my hand out and touch her face. It’s not a mask; it’s skin. It’s like a baby’s skin. It’s warm and it’s living and it is
beautifully smooth. A flood of bile fills my mouth and I have to swallow it down or else choke.

‘What… have they done to you?’ I croak, my throat burning.

She shakes her head and points to her chest, and speaks out of the little hole, softly, differently, but it’s quiet enough in the theatre to hear her. ‘It’s what I
wanted.’ She puts her hand on mine. Her nails are still buffed and clean like Katya’s, not the chewed nubs she had when I first met her. ‘Thank you,’ she says.

‘For what? I didn’t help you… I didn’t save you.’ I try to bite back another wave of nausea.

‘I could never have done it without you, Farrell.’

‘Done what?’

‘Got this far. Nomsa says that with my looks I could become a mascot.’

‘A mascot?’ Where have I heard that before? ‘Sorry. That’s what they call models down here, Farrell. Me! A model!’

She pauses. ‘Just like Katya.’ Dear Christ, it sounds like she’s smiling. ‘Who would have thought I could ever—’

‘Lisa. Listen to me. Go and talk to the…. the… Administration board or whoever the fuck they are. You have to tell them to let me go.’

The blank face hovers over me for a minute. ‘Why?’

Christ, Lisa. ‘Because I… because I—’

She shakes her head and strokes my fingers. ‘You belong here, Josh. Just like me.’ She walks towards the door. Halfway she stops, without turning back. ‘You make a primo
Donor.’

The butcher’s eyes fill my field of vision as he swings the claw-vacuum back over me. Something starts whining below me. My eyes water and my sight blurs as the tube reaches my face. It
goes dark.

‘Shall we commence?’