Authors: S.L. Grey
He sighs. ‘Look, Lisa. There’s something I didn’t tell you. I found my file, doctor’s notes, that kind of thing. Nomsa said I was just hallucinating, but now… You
were right about those photos.’
‘God, Farrell. Did the file say what the photos meant? What they’re for?’
He pauses. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He looks at me, narrowing his eyes slightly. I don’t like the way he’s looking at my face. As if he suddenly doesn’t trust me
or something. ‘But what I want to know is – are we in here for the same thing?’
‘What do you mean?’
He touches my face. ‘Take that thing off.’
I flinch away. ‘No!’
‘Don’t you want to know what’s under there?’
I shake my head. I don’t want to know. Not after what I’ve seen so far.
‘Come on,’ he says, his voice turning soft, cajoling. ‘If we’re going to have any chance to talk our way out of this, we need to know what we’re dealing with. We
need as much info as we can get. That receptionist called you a “client”. Don’t you want to know what that means? What’s under that mask could give us some
answers.’
I back away from him and cover my cheeks with my palms. ‘But what if it hasn’t healed yet? What if it gets infected or something?’
He shrugs. ‘Okay. Up to you. It’s your face.’ He’s disappointed in me.
Farrell might be right
, the Dr Meka voice whispers.
If you’ve just had another nose-job, why cover up your whole face? You have to find out sometime
.
There’s a knock on the door and both Farrell and I jump.
‘Shit!’ Farrell hisses. The handle twists and the door shifts slightly. Our weight is the only thing stopping it from opening. There’s another polite knock.
‘Hello?’ a woman’s voice calls. ‘Is there anyone in there?’
I try not to breathe or move. There’s a muffled mumble of voices, another shove at the door and then – eventually – the clack of footsteps walking away. The handle
doesn’t move again.
‘We can’t stay in here forever,’ Farrell says, breaking the silence. ‘We’ll have to face them sometime. It could really help if we knew what they wanted from
us…’
He leaves the sentence hanging. I look up at him but he avoids my gaze as if he’s pissed off with me.
Come on, Lisa. What have you got to lose?
Everything.
Just do it.
I make my decision.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll take it off.’
He smiles at me, wraps an arm around my shoulder and squeezes. ‘Good girl.’
‘But I want to do it properly.’
I walk over to the mirror above the sinks. It’s similar to the one in the crappy bathroom in my old ward – Gertie’s ward. It’s made of polished steel and distorts my
reflection slightly; my face looks narrower than I know it is. The surface is blurry, but it will do. I stare into it for several seconds, preparing myself.
In psychiatric wards, the mirrors aren’t made of glass, in case patients smash them and use the shards on themselves. The blurred reflection is deliberate. The last thing you want to see
just before you die is what you loathe most of all: yourself.
You’d know all about that, Lisa.
I take a deep breath and hook my nails under the edge beneath my chin.
I feel the sticky tug of the delicate material as it peels away. I lean close to the mirror and examine the section of bare skin before I go any further. Thank
God
. It looks…
normal. Smooth. No redness or rawness. But something’s different… The small crescent-shaped scar on my chin isn’t there any more. Slowly, carefully, I pull more of it away,
revealing my cheeks – also smooth and unblemished. This gives me the courage to rip the mask off in one quick yank, like a wax strip. I gasp at the shock of cold sensation on my now naked
skin.
Look at it.
Not yet. I close my eyes and trace my fingers all over my face. The numbness is gone and, although my skin is sticky, I can’t feel any wounds or incisions. I trace my fingertips delicately
over the beautifully soft skin. It’s like being touched for the first time.
I breathe steadily through my nose. Cool, pure. It doesn’t hurt at all.
‘Well?’ Farrell says.
‘Wait.’
Come on, you can do this. You have to see it sometime.
I drag a deep breath into my lungs, open my eyes and look straight into the mirror.
Oh my God.
‘Lisa?’
Jesus
.
I’m dimly aware that Farrell’s saying something else.
Who is that? This is not me. I recognise my eyes, but everything else…
No amount of surgery could do that
.
I touch my cheekbones. They are prominent, sculpted. I run my fingertips over my new, voluptuous lips, and stroke the tiny upturned shape of my new nose.
I’m…
Say it.
I’m
beautiful
.
It’s perfect. It really is!
‘Lisa!’
‘Wait!’ I snap. I don’t want to stop looking at myself. I never want to stop.
‘
Lisa!
For fuck’s sake! Let me see.’
Put him out of his misery.
Slowly, I turn around, my stomach dancing with anticipation.
Farrell stares at me, his jaw slack in shock.
I burst out laughing, I can’t help it. ‘I know! Isn’t it amazing?’
Farrell doesn’t respond. He clears his throat as if he’s about to speak. Nothing comes out of his mouth except for a hiss of air. That isn’t shock on his face.
That’s…
Horror
.
Disgust
.
And fear.
Oh God. What if I’m fooling myself? What if they’ve made me into a monster and I’m so deluded that I…
‘I know it’s different, Farrell… but it’s not that bad, is it?’
I move towards him.
‘Don’t touch me!’ He backs away.
‘Farrell! What is it?’
‘Katya,’ he says, choking on the word. ‘Katya.’
The first time I shot Katya was the second time we met. It was the morning after the Fashion Week wrap party and I was lying on someone’s floor, battling a monster
hangover. I’d noticed her the night before of course, shared a couple of glances, assumed she’d left with a posse of coke-fuelled agency girls. But when I woke up, there she was,
picking her way over the other party casualties in her stiletto boots and her short skirt, the crochet flounce tilted just right over her shoulder; perfectly polished, ready for the catwalk, ready
for me.
I hoisted myself up, leaned on my elbow, retrieved my camera from under the couch and pointed it at her. She looked down at me and smiled with that Jane Birkin freshness, not a hint of coy, none
of that ‘Oh, I’m not ready’ bullshit that so many models or wannabe actors pass off. I was hooked. Katya was always ready, and she knew exactly what her strengths were.
At that time she was getting by on catalogue shoots, the odd advert. She knew she didn’t have the current look – she wasn’t gamine, tattooed, half-starved – and she
didn’t care. She knew she’d make it eventually, because she had what the other girls lacked: pure confidence. And not just the confidence that comes from drugs or alcohol or cash. Even
before she fell in with Noli and those other coke-snuffling bitches, she had it. She knew she was beautiful, knew she was capable of projecting every man’s fantasies, and all the while making
him feel – even though he was looking at her in a magazine – that she was smiling only at him.
Katya was a photographer’s dream, and she let me in, let me get close to the real thing, the real smile, the real touch, the real mornings after… She was my dream.
The blunt push of a baton in my back snaps me back into the present. My knuckles are aching from punching that bathroom wall. My muscles are cramping all over and my entire body is a knot of
fire.
‘Farrell, come on, you’ve got to…’
She
puts her hand on my shoulder.
‘Don’t you fucking
touch
me, you freak!’ I bellow at her.
She cowers like a dog expecting to be kicked, and hangs back, shuffling along behind me. The security man – the patrol – herds us along the corridor back to the lifts. I can’t
turn to look at her. My mind is seared with that hideous image, and I’ll never be able to delete it.
If she’s wearing Katya’s face, what the fuck have they done to Katya?
It was the right decision to go back to the waiting room and let that girl call the patrol. At that moment it was either that, or I’d have fucking killed Lisa. She took off that mask,
and… I can’t say it. I can’t make the words happen in my head. Those lips I’d kissed a thousand times, the flawless cheeks I’d run my fingers over, that trademark
nose. Thank fuck Lisa still had her own eyes. I would have… I don’t know what I would have done, just to make it go away.
Katya’s here. Now at least I know. Katya’s here.
She must be here. Maybe it’s a sick joke, a threat. Maybe these people are enemies of Glenn’s, using me and Katya to get to him. Maybe they made a cast or something and put it on
Lisa’s face. Some sort of grotesque underworld message. Maybe Katya’s all right.
I need to hang on to this because the alternative… Katya without a face, blood and bone where her perfect lips, her flawless skin, that textbook nose used to be.
If she’s here, I need to find her. Bring her home.
But I can’t take her home… damaged. Glenn will kill me. He’ll take one look at the ravaged girl he spent so much time and money on raising to be perfect… He’s
going to look at her, and he’s going to blame me, and he’s going to kill me. He’ll make me suffer and he’ll make me disappear. He’ll have nothing more to lose. Holy
Christ.
My body is wracked by a multiple spasm and I crumple to the ground. The patrolman hoists me up and the rank odour of his sweat and cheap cologne envelops me.
‘Farrell! Are you all right?’ says Lisa next to me. She doesn’t try to touch me.
‘Get away from me,’ I manage to groan as I start shuffling again.
‘You have to let me help you.’
I say nothing. I know it’s not really her fault. Whatever’s happening to us is in someone else’s control. But the way she looked at me after she’d seen her new face. The
way she smiled with Katya’s lips.
The spasm passes and I start to shiver. She’s right. We can’t stay here forever.
‘If you want to help me, put on the mask.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me. Put it back on.’
‘But, Farrell, it’s—’
‘I said
put it on!
I can’t look at you.’
‘Okay. Okay.’ She shuffles with something.
‘Is it on?’
‘Yes,’ she sniffles.
I turn to look. She’s pressed the mask back into place, but it’s stretched and drooping now. It looks like her skin is melting off, but it’s better than what’s beneath
it. I can’t help flinching at the sight of it.
‘Listen, Farrell. I’m sorry about your girlfriend, but do you think I wanted this?’ she says. ‘You think I asked for this?’
I just shake my head, but I’m surprised at her confidence. This isn’t the timid woman who was cowering like a dog just minutes ago.
‘Get moving, browns,’ the patrolman grunts. ‘Enough karking intercourse.
Get back to your wards before I get you unassigned.’ The guard’s dressed like a sailor in a bad First World War movie, but he’s huge, and I’m in no condition to fight
him. Besides, he’s got waxy, sallow skin that’s scattered with inflamed pustules; I seriously don’t want to touch him. He’ll get us back up to the other wards and hopefully,
this time, we’ll be closer to the exit. That’s as far as my plan extends at this stage.
He shoves us into the lift and presses the topmost button on the row of five. That’s good: it’s the furthest floor away from the basement we’ve been in. The lift moves swiftly
and silently and pings open.
Another tide of cramp swirls through me and I brace against the lift door. Lisa tries to help me, and the pain’s so intense I have no choice but to let her. She puts an arm around my waist
and steadies me as I stumble out. We’re in the lobby of another ward. This one’s far less plush than the others we’ve seen. Pocked green lino on the floor, cheap, damp-spotted
ceiling boards and a scuffed counter that looks like it could be another nurses’ station. There’s a vague smell of rot and soup. For a second I assume we’re back in New Hope, but
on the wall ahead of us there’s a sign with that stupid clown on it again. This time it’s floating in the sky holding a bunch of balloons. ‘Welcome to Recovery Ward,’ he
says, in a jagged, day-glo orange speech bubble.
Don’t go to Recovery
. That’s what that grey cleaning man in the Green Section – Isaac – said to me in his one lucid moment.
Don’t go to Recovery
.
Christ. How could it be any worse than where we’ve just been? I don’t want to find out. ‘Sorry,’ I say to the guard. ‘I’m supposed to be in the Preparation
Ward.’
‘Kark,’ he mutters. ‘The officer at Voluntary Termination said… Just wait here. I’ll ask a drone for your files.’
He walks off, ducks under the counter and disappears into an alcove behind it.
Lisa’s whispering something. ‘Do you think maybe we should—’
But I stop listening. There’s a whiteboard stuck onto the wall behind the nurses’ station listing Recovery Ward room numbers and patient names.
The third one down reads: ‘K. A. Forrest / Unassigned Donor / Post-Proc. Recovery / Room 7’.
The guard emerges from the alcove. He touches his cap and nods deferentially at Lisa. ‘I didn’t realise you were a Client, Client. I apologise. Let me call an orderly to help you
find your way back.’
He stares at me. ‘And you, you are—’
But I’m running.
‘Farrell!’ Lisa calls behind me.
I follow the signs to Room 7, barge through the open door. Grubby plastic curtains are drawn around the only bed in the room. It’s small, sparsely furnished, a door in the corner leading
to a tiny bathroom. It’s quiet but for the mismatched hush of ventilators and air con and the seethe of oxygen. There’s the thump of feet behind me.
‘Farrell.’ It’s Lisa. But that patrolman can’t be far behind.