Husk (8 page)

‘I got it from here,’ says the bouncer and begins hauling the woman away.

She doesn’t go easily. The bouncer has to lift her off her feet to make any progress. She kicks wildly, one of her stilettos stabbing into his shin, making him yell and drop her. As soon as she touches the floor she’s out of his grip and running at me again. I catch
her by the wrists as she hurls her body at mine.

‘Lady,’ I protest, holding her firmly, our faces close enough to kiss. ‘I honestly have no idea who you are.’

Her eyes search mine frantically. I can see it, the sudden amazement and curiosity in her prying pupils. It’s clear that she has looked into my eyes before, stared into the windows of this soul while I wasn’t home. Her expression softens,
somehow realizing from the look on my face that I really don’t know who she is.

‘You don’t know what you’ve done,’ she whispers.

Then she is gone, pulled off of me by Phineas and Ryoko who throw her to another bouncer as he emerges from the surrounding crowd. There is no more fight left in the woman as she is escorted to the front door and
tossed out of the joint. Craig signals us over to the
bar and nods toward the rear of the Rochester.

‘You guys are more than welcome to leave out back,’ Craig says. ‘Might be a good idea to avoid that one out on the street.’

Everyone is in agreement. We make our way through the kitchen of the Rochester and exit into the cool air of the back alley, all of us strangely turned on by the mix of drinking, flirting and unexpected violence. Our breath
is heavy as we walk and talk, though no one speaks of the woman who attacked me. We all know situations like that arise sometimes, come with the territory. Ryoko and Nikki exchange expectant, aroused looks between themselves and us. Both girls’ nipples are hard against their shirts. I have to adjust the crotch of my jeans. Phineas is all smiles. Out on the street, Ryoko is quick to hail a cab for
us.

‘Whatever happened back there,’ Nikki says, eyeing Ryoko and fanning her face with a hand, ‘that was freaking
hot
.’

Phineas pulls me aside for a second before we get into the cab. ‘Hey, you took an HIV vaccine, right?’

The four of us are flopped on the sofas in my living room, naked bodies beaded with sweat, air smelling of sex and perfume, limbs only recently untangled after nearly an hour tied together. Down-tempo lounge music plays through the apartment. Nikki’s breath
still comes rapidly, a lingering effect of her recent orgasms. Ryoko stretches like a cat and licks her lips, still tasting the sweetness of skin on skin, pleased that she had everyone right where she wanted. My tongue aches in the best possible way, my groin even more so. Phineas rests his head on a pillow, staring up at the ceiling with a grin. The level of pleasure experienced was mind-blowing,
but it doesn’t hide the fact that it was also escapism, our way to try and outrun personal demons for a mile or two.

I make my way to the kitchen, find some cognac and pour everyone a nightcap. I don’t want to think, don’t want to let any of my worries weasel their way back into my head. Ryoko runs her fingers up and down our receptionist’s milky thighs. Nikki sighs and playfully kisses Phineas’s
rope-like muscles. She grabs my ass as I serve her drink, squeezing me in appreciation. Ryoko slides a hand up to cup Nikki’s breast, her thumb stroking her nipple. They both groan affirmatively, eyes widening, twinkling with deviancy. Everyone’s still in the mood,
although we’re almost too tired to do much about it. Nikki rests her head on Phineas’s chest, her tongue flicking its way down to
his abs.

‘What time will your roommate be back?’ Phineas asks, twirling Nikki’s blonde hair in his fingers.

‘Not until dawn,’ I say. ‘But we should call it a night soon. I have to get
some
sleep.’

Nikki wants to say something, but her mouth is suddenly full. Phineas moans. Ryoko sips from her tumbler and watches, a sly smile on her face. She gives me that look, inviting me so she can perform
as well. I go to her without hesitation. Soon, the girls are spreading the taste of cognac all over us. Then Phineas and I are both on our knees, dripping liquor on them, licking them thank you and goodnight as the ambient music plays on.

Outside my apartment the activity on the street is still boisterous. Men and women catcall to each other. Cab drivers pip or lean on their horns. Thumping music
from car stereos ebbs and flows up and down the blocks. Once in a while there is an angered shout or pained shriek, preceded or followed by brittle things breaking. A car alarm goes off, then another. Two gunshots ring out. Minutes later the wail of a siren sounds. New York has always been the city that never sleeps, but it’s becoming the city that never stops to take a breath. Oxygen deprivation
leads to brain damage. You can hear the increasing insanity outside my window almost every night. Exhausted, unable to indulge in each other any more, we lie about and listen, fully aware that our world is worsening. Deep down, I think it terrifies us all. Knowing Craig’s Glock is in the
apartment provides me with some small measure of comfort.

The thought of my impending gig with Winslade creeps
into my mind and I urge everyone to drink up. The girls curl up with their cognac on the sofa, sleepy-eyed and speaking low. Phineas rises and walks over to one of the windows, stretching, yawning. He looks out onto Tompkins Square Park and smirks at the shocked people on the street who glance up and notice his naked black body framed by the pane of glass. It isn’t long before he turns his attention
to something that makes him squint into the dark. An unimpressed grunt follows.

‘See something you don’t like?’ I ask.

Phineas downs the contents of his tumbler. ‘Drones.’

‘They’re here almost every night now.’

‘I swear the only true privacy I have any more is when I’m Husking, when I’m under and dreaming.’

‘Shit, our clients enjoy more freedoms than we’ll ever know.’

Phineas grunts again,
more disapproving than the first time. He slips away from the window and sits back down beside Ryoko and Nikki, who are already drifting off to sleep. I watch them with envy as their eyelids droop and their heads loll. It’s me who needs sleep most, yet I’m wide awake. I fetch the cognac and pour myself and Phineas a second helping. We don’t say anything for a while, lost in our own thoughts. When
Phineas finally speaks, it snaps me out of a trance I wasn’t aware I was in.

‘You all right, mate?’

I shake my head. ‘I’ve been better.’

‘What’s on your mind?’

‘Just thinking about the woman back at the Rochester.’

‘Yeah, I was too. It happens every now and then, running into our recent pasts like that. Some woman came up to me at a restaurant in Brooklyn a couple months back, crying her
eyes out, asking me how I could be so heartless.’

‘Can’t help wondering what I was involved in,’ I say. ‘What role I played in whatever happened to her …’

‘Could have been anything, mate. You know how kinky or cruel clients can be.’

I swallow hard. ‘She screamed for the police, man. She cried for my arrest.’

‘Hell, maybe you flashed her in the park,’ Phineas chuckles. ‘Maybe you took naked
pictures of her and posted them online. Maybe you screwed her out of her life savings. Who knows? You can’t burden yourself with it.’

‘Why can’t I?’

Phineas looks me square in the eye. ‘Because it wasn’t
you
.’

We Husks pass this excuse around like a joint.
It’s not you, it’s them.
That’s our motto, our mantra, our rationale to make sure we’re never on the hook for anything. It’s what I told
Ryoko yesterday. The same thing I’ll tell another Husk tomorrow or the day after. For the first time I begin to wonder how I can get out of this business. I fantasize about Ryoko and me making an exit, escaping from the likes of Baxter and Winslade and Ichida and Navarette.

‘You’re in love with her, aren’t you?’ Phineas says softly.

‘Huh?’

Phineas is looking between me and the woman I realize
I’ve been staring at for the last minute. A woman I trust so much that I’ve just shared her with two other people, a woman who deep down I know only I belong to. I can’t hide anything from Phineas, and I don’t try.

‘Yes.’

Phineas looks at me for an almost uncomfortable length of time. In the persisting silence I feel exposed.
Love
is one hell of a dirty word in our line of work. Most people’s
opinions don’t mean shit to me, but his does. Phineas’s lips finally split into a wide, knowing grin.

‘I think she might be in love with you too, mate.’

He leans over and knuckles my bicep, making me grin in return. Nikki stirs from slumber and looks at us with squinty eyes.

‘What time is it?’ she asks, rubbing her face.

‘About time I took you home and put you to bed, my dear,’ Phineas says,
pulling his pants on.

‘I’ll call you a cab,’ I say.

They dress in the near dark while I order a ride. Ryoko opens her eyes long enough to say goodnight before falling asleep among the pillows. Nikki and Phineas both bend down and plant kisses on her cheek. I walk them to the front door and hug them both. Outside, we hear the wail of another police siren.

‘Stay safe you two,’ I say, finishing
my cognac, feeling a swirl of tiredness.

Phineas puts on his coat. ‘Tell me, who are you Husking for today?’

‘Between us,’ I mumble, ‘it’s Winslade.’

Phineas stops, shooting me a distasteful glance, his coat hanging awkwardly on his shoulders. Nikki gives me a watered-down version of the same expression, her hands frozen midway on the zipper of her jacket. They share a nervous look between
them.

‘I’ve heard some stuff about that guy through the grapevine, Rhodes,’ Phineas says. ‘I think you and I should have a chat in London later this week.’

I nod, too tired to talk any more. They leave without another word. As I lock the front door I hear my Liaison ping and check the screen. It’s an automated message back from the bank that says the suspensions on my accounts have been lifted.
I breathe a sigh of relief as I gently pick up my sleepy Ryoko from the couch and carry her to bed.

‘Wilhelm Winslade,’ I mutter.

The deep breath I take does little to calm my nerves. On the varnished oak door before me is a solid gold placard engraved with the number thirty-six. My client owns the whole floor. I’m standing at the entrance to a penthouse
on Central Park West with a heavily armed guard either side of me who have been my escorts from the moment I set foot in the building. Both are decked out in the latest body armour. They’re not packing personal-defence weapons like the Vector. No, these guys have fully outfitted assault carbines with drum magazines to lay down extensive suppressing fire if needed, enough to repel a small citizens’
uprising. Winslade must be worrying over what is growing outside his window. Half his investments are helping to hollow out the middle class. The other half is tied up in weapons manufacturing and defence contracting. The people who hate him most fit the profile of the average disgruntled civilian, and his death was never announced to the public.

One of the guards raps on the door. We wait a
minute. Time to reflect, think my own thoughts before I get taken for a spin. When I awoke this morning Ryoko was already gone. My heart sank. The plan was to make her breakfast in bed, get her to stay another hour or two so we
could talk, mindless chatter, heart to heart if possible. More time alone with her seemed imperative. In her presence there had been fewer flashbacks, fewer unnerving thoughts.
I still have that weight on me, pressure from an unknown source, but Ryoko eased it somehow. The girl has a habit of sneaking out the back door after an overnight, a habit I’m trying to break. A note was left on the kitchen counter. Said she will miss me while I’m gone and that we need to talk when I get back. It was signed
Love Ryoko
, something she’s never done before in our history of leaving
notes. The thought makes me smile, even as the penthouse door opens to reveal a wiry man in a shirt and tie who tries his damnedest to smile back.

‘Mr Rhodes,’ he says with a French accent, the smile re-forming into a sneer of sorts. ‘Good to have you back.’

‘It’s a pleasure to be back.’

We’re both lying, and we both know it. Renard is the man’s name, the only one I know him by. He serves as
Winslade’s butler, assistant and personal bodyguard all rolled into one. As he receives information through his earpiece, my eyes are drawn to his shoulder holster. There it hangs, the gun, the prototype weapon that destroys living tissue in such a way as to haunt my dreams. I know ‘M-6 Rapier’ is stencilled on the gun barrel, and its presence alone is enough to invoke fear in those who recognize
it. Even the security guards give it a nervous glance. To a guy like Renard it is merely an accessory, a tool, something to aid him in his tasks. I’m no science geek, couldn’t tell you specifics, but I know that gun shoots a whole new kind of bullet technology, advanced cartridges filled with
corrosive chemicals and projectiles, firepower that carves a smooth and sizeable chunk out of an unfortunate
target.

‘Come in,’ Renard grumbles, dismissing the guards with a nod. ‘Time is money and Mr Winslade wishes to waste neither.’

I sincerely hope the Rapier, with its state-of-the-art munitions, is slowly giving Renard inoperable cancer, feeding some tumour next to his heart, if he even has one. I enter the penthouse, Renard ushering me ahead. You do not walk behind this man. He keeps rear guard
at all times, never takes his eyes off you for more than a second.

‘I trust you have been keeping well?’

The inquiry is about my personal health, the quality of me as a product, not my wellbeing. I look around the luxurious living space. It’s twice as big as Navarette’s place in Las Vegas, adorned with three times the wealth. Old Money lives here, and lots of it.

‘Well enough,’ I reply.

My
response does not impress Renard. He picks up a tablet from a desk and types into it. I stroll the massive living room, inspecting the military antiques on the walls, Renard always close behind. I feel his eyes on me constantly. It makes me feel cheap and criminal, like some kind of shoplifter. I’m a Husk, the ultimate whore, not just a gigolo. For my services I expect to be treated with a certain
amount of respect, maybe even a little class. It’s a lie I tell myself a lot. Old Money has no regard for anything except its own interests, no matter what is said or
done. Renard appraises me, sees something he doesn’t like, approaches with a hand held out.

‘A moment,
s’il vous plaît
,’ he says, reaching toward my throat.

‘Certainly.’

He removes my necktie, shaking his head at my pathetic attempt
at an Eldredge knot, making
tut tut
noises as he undoes it. I watch as he drapes it over his own neck and effortlessly ties the knot correctly before handing it back with a look of contempt.

‘There,’ he says. ‘Better.’

As I don the tie my eyes are drawn to a framed photo of Winslade shaking hands with the former President of the United States, closing the deal that made him his last billions
by supplying the Defense Department with the EMU, or Escalation Military Unit, an eight-foot-tall odd-looking bipedal drone that specializes in walking, running and killing on rough terrain. Initially meant for warzones grown too treacherous for conventional soldiers, EMUs now roll off assembly lines en masse to be sent out ahead of platoons in order to cripple and demoralize the enemy before an
offensive. I pick the picture up, looking past the two powerful men at the remote-piloted machine in the background.

‘Please put that down,’ Renard says.

I do it casually, but carefully. ‘How have you and Mr Winslade been keep—’

Renard puts one finger to his lips to silence me, holds another against his earpiece before typing something else into the tablet. Feeling unwelcome, I walk through
sliding glass doors and step out onto the penthouse balcony
to look out over Central Park. The Occupy Movement below is unmistakable. The Great Lawn has become an enormous scab among greenery, the field a mingling mass of disaffected and disenfranchised. Incessant protest marches flow in the park’s concrete veins. Organized chants rumble in the air. OCP was a smart move. Back in the day, Occupy
Wall Street annoyed employees of the financial district more than anything. But this new location is too close to home for the one per cent. Every wealthy weasel and rich bitch living around Central Park look out of their window every day to see a swelling resistance, reminding them just how much they are pissing off the majority of the country. There are fewer surveillance cameras in the park too,
putting facial-recognition software at a disadvantage. Aerial drones don’t like to operate much in daylight either. It’s a perfect place for social disobedience, handy for criminal elements like Integris too. Renard clears his throat loudly and I re-enter the penthouse without hesitation.

‘He will see you now.’

Renard points down the hallway. Unaccompanied, I make my way to Winslade’s room.
I feel relieved not having Renard, or his weapon, at my back. Relief is short-lived, however. At the end of the hall is a reinforced stainless-steel door that slides open for me. The room is poorly lit as I enter, window curtains closed as always. In one corner lies a silver-skinned server system housing customized virtual worlds. On the other side of the room, before a large fireplace, a darkened
figure sits in an overstuffed throne of a chair, deathly still, enough to be my client’s corpse. I gulp, feeling a knot plumb my neck.

‘Hello, Mr Winslade,’ I manage.

In the quiet of the room I hear the subtle whirring of machinery as the robot turns its head to regard me. The polished eyes glint as the silicone-composite face remoulds into something that vaguely resembles being pleased. Painted
lips pull back to reveal teeth made of rare ivory. Regardless of how many times I see it, the smile freaks me out. As with most robot technology, no matter how lifelike it may look, it still doesn’t look real.

‘Good day, Mr Rhodes,’ Winslade replies in a replica voice that sounds inhuman to me. ‘Please have a seat.’

I sit in the vacant chair beside his and try my best not to look at him. He
leans closer, his movements slow and deliberate. The soft clicking and humming of his prototype body, one he is very unsatisfied with, bothers me. From the corner of my eye I see his head tilt as he examines me through those silvery lenses he calls eyes. The cold fingers of his manufactured hand rise and stroke my cheek awkwardly, trying to feel what they cannot.

‘I have missed you, my boy.’

My boy
bothers me even more, makes me feel like I’m an item owned. I want to pull away from his touch, but that would be bad for business. Reluctantly, I lean into his hand, feeling the metal skeleton underneath the soft materials impersonating muscles and sinews. The hand cups my chin and turns it toward him. His eyes don’t blink. They never do. I try not to appear uneasy. The machine staring
absently into my face is supposed to resemble Mr Winslade when he was in his thirties. To me it just
looks like a wax sculpture come to life. The fake smile falls away. Features become blank, expression erased.

‘I don’t like that scratch on your cheek,’ Winslade says.

‘Sorry,’ I reply, swallowing hard. ‘I was hoping to have more time to heal properly before my return.’

The blank look maintains.
‘No matter. I require you now.’

Winslade peels back a layer of pseudo-skin from his temple to reveal an input jack. His head bobs up and down, ushering me to proceed. I take out my Liaison and start the Husk sequence. Winslade holds out a hand. I plug one cable into my Ouija and place the other in his smooth upturned palm. Robot eyes stare at it, the rest of him completely still. For a moment
I think he has shut down.

‘Pity,’ Winslade remarks suddenly. ‘Only one day this time.’

I nod as if I agree, even though I don’t. Winslade plugs the cable into his head as I retrieve my pillbox and select a red one for a twenty-four-hour session.

‘See you tomorrow, Mr Winslade,’ I say, and swallow the pill.

Soon a sleep tunnel opens and I’m sliding backwards into the emergence of night, watching
as the world before me grows smaller. My thoughts become sluggish, slipping into stasis. A figure passes in the gloom, travelling in the direction I have come from, moving toward earthly existence. It does not acknowledge me. My last controlled thought wonders where Winslade will go with my body.

I settle down in the recesses of my mind, cocooned by
the dark for what seems like ages, unmoving,
unthinking. When the dreams finally come they are vivid, like memories playing on a movie screen. Most of them are of Miller. I recall the first time I met him, in a private booth at a restaurant in Greenwich Village where he touched on the aspects of my new profession, explaining Husk life and protocol. I see him and Tweek taking potshots in the Solace offices, ribbing each other relentlessly until
they both break into fits of laughter. I watch Miller chatting with Nikki at the reception desk, complimenting her clothes, her hair, making her blush with well-timed charm. His death seems so distant, impossible even. There is a most unnatural sense of immortality about the man. I call out to him and he turns my way. The image on the screen becomes pixilated, images and sounds breaking down.
His face becomes haggard, sullen. His skin turns pallid, mouth widening to shout something that never comes. As the screen burns up I swear he’s an animated corpse.

It is then that I notice Miller sitting in the dark with me. Abstract shadows cover most of his face, cast from things unseen by light that does not exist. A sliver of sun reveals the stubble on his cheek he always grew to give him
that rugged look which made him so desirable to others.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.

I have a responsibility to be here.

His voice, it makes a connection, reveals a truth that has been eluding me. The voice in my head that’s been talking back recently sounds eerily similar to Miller’s. I
don’t know why I haven’t noticed it before. We sit in silence, me unsure what to say, him unwilling
to give me a clue. I slowly realize this is not completely Miller, only a piece of the man. I reach toward him, but my hand never seems to get any closer.

‘Is there something you want to tell me?’

The head nods, but he says nothing. Muffled sounds come, speech straining against a gag. Shadows retreat, revealing the mess that was formerly Miller’s face. The skull is bashed, opaque fluid leaking
from his hairline. Eyes are closed, criss-crossed with scars. Lips are sewn shut. Ears have become melted lumps of skin. There is a ragged hole behind one of them where Tweek removed the Ouija. Despite the damage, I can see past it, see the beauty lying beneath it all. Miller is still handsome to me, still someone worth coveting.

‘Jesus, what happened to your face?’

He can’t talk. The stitches
are pulled tight. I feel something in my hand and look down to find my fingers curled around a pair of silver scissors. I reach for Miller and this time manage to grab him by the shirtsleeve. I pull him close, hug him with one arm.