The Mall (19 page)

‘I didn’t want to pry, but how did you get these cuts?’

‘Oh, I broke a mirror.’ How long ago was that? It feels like a dream. I think of Rhoda. I have no idea when now is. ‘Do you mind if I ask about your neck?’

‘What about… Oh,’ Colt smiles. ‘You browns are so funny. You’re like you were born in Dispatch.’ She walks on, then realises I’m waiting for an answer.
‘This is my hole, of course. We have penetration every second Moneyday, so it doesn’t really ever have time to heal. But at Last Call, the Management Reps supply us with sterile wipes
after penetration, so it doesn’t hurt so much. Of course, a lot of CCOs were lost in Wards before Last Call felt moved to change policy.’

‘I’ve got to go now,’ she says as I follow her into the shop. ‘Come back after Glut Shift and I’ll help you prepare for your interview.’ Her colleague is
gooddaying me from behind the counter but I ignore him. Colt’s already behind the counter with the dorky guy, uncoiling her chain, about to click the manacle around her ankle.
‘Oh,’ she says, and detaches a piece of gel from her phone. ‘Here are some tokens for apparel. You want to look catalogue for your interview.’

‘Oh, thanks.’ I take the gel, having no idea what to do with it. ‘Where can I use it?’

Colt laughs. ‘You’re acting brown again. You do it really well. I can’t tell if you’re just karking with me or not.’ Then she says slowly, as if to an idiot child,
‘They’re apparel tokens. They’re. For. Apparel.’ That smile again, then she bends over and clicks in.

‘Thank you for calling, sir. Please come again soon,’ she says to me.

She’s fucking with me, surely.

chapter 17

RHODA

Oh fucking hell.

This was a really,
really
stupid idea.

I’m following Hobo Dreadlock Guy through some sort of stinking crawlspace and there’s not even enough headroom in here to stand upright. We’re forced to creep along on our
hands and knees and the torch he’s using to light our way is doing bugger-all to penetrate the darkness. My back is slick with sweat and rivulets of perspiration are trickling down from my
scalp and stinging my eyes. And Christ, the smell! The air in the narrow concrete space is thick with the stench of sweat, diesel oil and shit, and although I’m doing my best to breathe
through my mouth, it still keeps making me gag. I’d have turned back ages ago if it wasn’t for the thought of that thing with the bulbous head waiting for me back in the cinema.
I’m a hair’s breadth away from a full-on claustrophobic meltdown, and let’s face it, absolutely no one knows I’m down here. This guy could easily be some deranged rapist
lunatic and it’s quite possible that I could disappear down here and no one would ever find out.

He stops suddenly and I almost bash into his back. He’s scrabbling at the wall in front of him, but I can’t see exactly what he’s doing.

‘Where are we?’ I ask again, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

He hasn’t spoken since we set off. He reverses a couple of paces and I have to scramble backwards to avoid getting a mouthful of boot. He’s removing a metal grate covering a square
hole in front of him, and he stashes it to one side. Anaemic light floats towards me from the opening, and a phenomenally powerful stench hits me like a fist. Fuck me; it’s horrendous.
It’s a mixture of shit, the ammonia reek of urine and something else: a feral animal smell that makes my stomach plummet.

Without looking back to see if I’m going to follow him, he pulls his body head-first through the opening, his feet finally disappearing into the space beyond.

I really, really don’t want to go down there.

But if he was going to attack me, he would have done so already, wouldn’t he? Fuck it. I’ve come this far, I may as well go the whole hog.

Doing my best to swallow the burning ball of bile in my throat, I twist my body around in the tight space. There’s no way I’m going head-first and risk adding a
concussion to the list of how unbelievably fucked up my life is right now. Wriggling on my belly, I squeeze myself through feet first. There’s only a drop of one and a half metres or so, and
when I land I have to blink several times for my eyes to adjust to the light. Bloody hell. The smell is now almost overpowering. I pull the edge of my T-shirt up over my mouth and nose, but it
doesn’t really help. I’m in an area that looks to be ten metres square or so; it’s hard to tell exactly, as it’s strewn with junk. There are several smoky oil lamps dotted
around the space, and the ceiling is low, extending just half a metre above my head. In the background I can make out a mechanical hum coming from somewhere beyond the room’s walls, but
there’s also a disturbing mewling sound that I’m almost certain is coming from in here. Rats?

Thank fuck for the knife. I slip my hand in my pocket and grip the handle, keeping my finger poised over the switchblade button.

The guy waves me forward. I almost stumble over a covered bucket that sloshes when I bash into it, but thankfully doesn’t tip over (I’m pretty sure this accounts for the stink of
shit), and in the dim light I make out a broken glittery high-heel shoe, a mannequin’s headless torso, a square packing crate draped with a flowery sheet, and in the corner of the room, a
mouldy mattress covered with a lumpen pile of rags.

Oh Christ. As far as I can tell there’s no other exit apart from the way we came in, and Dreadlock Hobo Guy is between me and my only way out. I tense my body just in case he decides to
try anything. But it doesn’t look as if violence is on his mind. He pulls a three-legged wooden chair out from under a pile of coat hangers, wipes the dust off the seat with his hand and
motions for me to sit down. Worst-case scenario, I can always use it as a weapon if anything happens to the knife.

Dreadlock Guy scuttles past me and crouches down on the mattress. I start to relax a little now that he’s not between me and the entrance. For a second we just stare at each other.
It’s impossible to tell how old he is. His face is unlined, but when he yawns I can see that several of his mossy teeth are missing, causing his cheeks to cave in and no doubt adding a
good twenty years to his age.

Now what?

I clear my throat. ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘My name’s
oh shit
!’

The bundle of rags next to him is moving – and I almost topple off my chair as I jump back in shock. The bundle sits up and stretches. There’s someone else in here. The stench of
dried shit rolls off its body and grubby hands push hanks of matted hair away from its face. I lean closer to get a better look. It appears to be a woman. Hard to tell as her face is filthy, but
the bone structure was probably once delicate. She stares at me glassily, then, covering her mouth in a peculiarly ladylike gesture, she yawns.

Dreadlock Hobo Guy hands the plastic bag to the woman and she snatches it and greedily roots through it. She grabs a handful of popcorn and stuffs it into her mouth, then takes a slurp of bright
green melted slush to wash it down. It dribbles over her chin.

Both of them are acting as if they’ve forgotten I’m here. I bloody hope they’re capable of holding a conversation.

‘Hi,’ I try again. ‘I’m Rhoda.’

The man looks up at me, tucks his dreads behind his ears, and clears his throat. ‘I’m Ben,’ he says. ‘And this is Palesa.’ Whoa! I wasn’t expecting that. His
voice is posh, English South African. The kind of voice you’d expect to hear from a rich businessman or professor, not from a hobo who clearly hasn’t had a bath in a hundred years or
whatever. Still, I’m relieved he sounds relatively… normal. Or what goes for normal in this place at any rate.

‘Nice to meet you,’ I say. Surreal thing to say in the circumstances, but I’ve got so many questions I don’t know where to start. ‘You’re not like the other
people I’ve seen here.’ Images of the Elephant Man thing and the grossly fat woman pop into my head and I shudder.

‘No,’ he says matter-of-factly.

‘Where are you from?’ I ask.

He waves his hand vaguely in the air.

‘Seriously, where are you from? Here? Joburg?’

He glances at the woman as if to ask her opinion on whether or not to answer. She shrugs. ‘Bryanston,’ he says.

Wherever the fuck that is. ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Can you tell me… what is this place?’

The woman – Palesa – barks out a short, sharp laugh. ‘Sisi, that is not a question you want to ask.’ Her voice is deep and rich – a singer’s voice.

‘Maybe so. But either I’m locked up in a madhouse somewhere and I’m imagining all of this, or I’m dead, and this is hell – no offence – or I’ve somehow
ended up in another dimension like in the
X-Files
or some shit.’

Palesa drops her head and continues to munch through the bag of popcorn. ‘You must believe what you want.’

‘But what do you believe?’

She shrugs. My stomach groans, and Palesa looks up at me. ‘You hungry?’ she says.

‘Yes.’

‘Make a bowl with your hands.’

I lean forward and cup my palms together and she pours a handful of popcorn into them. It smells delicious. I shove as much as I can into my mouth. It’s stale, but salty, and I munch
through it so fast I almost choke.

‘How did you get here?’ I ask when I’ve swallowed my last mouthful. ‘Through the back corridors?’

‘The back corridors?’ Palesa repeats.

‘You know… from the…’ what to call it? ‘The other mall?’

Ben laughs humourlessly. ‘I like that! The other mall. Yes. I suppose you could say that.’

‘How long have you been here?’ I ask.

He shrugs. ‘We don’t like to count. Palesa’s been here longer than I have.’

The woman nods. He smiles at her and takes her hand. Her fingers loop through his. Then, the front of her raggedy shirt starts rippling, and a tiny hairy face peeks out of the collar. It’s
a baby rat. She picks it up and cradles it, bringing its face to her mouth and kissing its nose. Ugh. I try to keep my expression neutral. She coos at it and Ben looks on fondly like a proud
parent. I’m pretty sure I’m not in danger here, but fuck, they’re giving me the creeps.

The woman suddenly jabs her head forward and peers straight at the left-hand side of my face. She furrows her brow as if she’s confused about something. ‘What is that on your
face?’

‘It’s a scar.’

‘Oh. You know,’ she says, wrapping the rat’s tail tightly around her finger. It squeaks in distress. ‘You might fit in here quite nicely.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘She doesn’t mean anything,’ Ben says, too quickly.

‘Are you saying that I’m as freaky as those people out there?’

Palesa shrugs. But she’s one to talk. I may be dirty, scarred and barely holding onto my sanity, but at least I don’t live in a toilet. ‘And what are they?’ I say to Ben.
‘The people out there? You know, the woman working at the popcorn stand… she was…’

‘Empty?’ Palesa finishes for me.

‘Exactly. Well? Who or what are they?’

‘We don’t know,’ Ben says, but there’s something about the way his eyes slide away from mine when he says this that makes me not believe him. I decide not to push it.
Just yet.

‘Are there others like you?’ I ask.

‘Other browns?’ he says.

‘What’s with this fucking “browns” shit?’

Palesa tuts. ‘Please, Rhoda, we do not like bad language here.’

Bizarre in the circumstances, but what can I say to that? Fuck you? I’m tempted, but I need them far more than they need me. ‘Sorry. Are there others?’ I swallow my disgust.
‘Other… browns?’

‘There were.’

‘And?’

‘We don’t like to talk about them.’

‘Why not? Are they dead?’

‘You can say that.’

Just great. ‘So. How do I get out of here? How can I get back?’

Palesa shakes her head. ‘You can’t.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You have three choices. You can live like us. Underground. Or you can conform, and apply for a position…’

‘Huh? A position as what?’

They both look at me as if I’ve said something monumentally stupid.

‘You mean work in this place?’

‘Where else?’ Palesa says.

‘What’s outside it?’

‘There’s nothing outside.’

‘There must be
something
outside.’

‘How can there be?’ Ben smiles, showing off his appalling gums again. ‘There are no exits.’

This conversation isn’t exactly going the way I was hoping. ‘You said there were three choices. What’s the other one?’

Palesa shrugs. ‘You can become a Shopper. If you are chosen.’

I sit back, thinking about the phone messages. ‘And what does a Shopper do?’

Ben chuckles. ‘Shops.’

‘Yes!’ Palesa says. ‘Till you drop!’

Oh fucking hell. I’ve had enough of this pseudo-cryptic bullshit. ‘Who’s running this place?’ I snap.

Palesa looks straight at me. ‘Why, God of course.’

‘Right.’ She’s clearly insane. I turn to Ben. ‘Listen. You have to help me. There’s someone else with me.’ They look at each other, but I can’t read
their expressions. ‘A… friend. We came here together. I need to warn him. He doesn’t know he’s in danger.’

‘If he conforms he won’t be in danger,’ Palesa says, smiling for the first time. Her teeth don’t look too bad. It’s possible that under the grime she’s maybe
mid-twenties – not much older than I am.

My phone beeps and vibrates in my pocket, but Ben and Palesa don’t seem to be bothered by it. I haul it out of my pocket and click onto the message. It’s from ‘Your Service
Provider’. Yeah, right. I scan the message:

Fuck. I wave the phone in Ben and Palesa’s direction. ‘I keep getting these crazy messages. Like I’m in some sort of a game. Is that what it is?’

Palesa shrugs. ‘Or a job interview.’

Is that a crazy attempt at humour? ‘Who’s doing this?’ I say to Ben, who I suspect is the saner of the two. ‘Who’s fu— messing with us? Do you
know?’

‘The Management, of course,’ he says.

Christ. Maybe he’s as crazy as she is, after all. ‘And can I go and see them? This Management?’

Palesa shakes her head.