She opened her eyes. ‘Thank you! Ooh, it was the sun.’ She shook her finger at the sun. ‘Stop shutting my eyes!’
* * *
I press my face into my pillow, let my open eyes scratch against the pillowcase. I don’t want to feel my mother’s arms. The white pillow burns my eyeballs like the white, white sun on the corn fields of Krokosoe.
I jerk into a sitting position. I study the piping diagrams on Tamba’s printed sheets, force the patterns into my short-term memory. I throw myself onto my back, dig my heels into my mattress. Tomorrow I must be stronger.
I flail towards sleep. Lying on this tiny bed, I can’t deny the rocking of the sea. It sickens me, soothes me as I dive away from memories of love, tormented by my dread of the new day.
FRIDAY
Short sharp trumpet blasts shock me awake, a brass band gone mad. Tamba sleeps through it, his dreadlocks splayed on his white pillow. The burping sounds get louder. Tamba sits up and slaps at his wrist, silences the cacophony. He smiles at me.
‘Frogs. Funny, right?’ He falls back on the pillow. ‘Agh,’ he sighs, like he’s just remembered I’m not going to be a huge amount of fun. He swings his feet to the floor. ‘Let’s go and get some breakfast. Meirong will be waiting. She’s fucking never late.’
Tamba pees like a mule. He comes out of the bathroom with a wet face. Toothpaste fumes gather in the small room. I am seized by sudden panic. There is something I did not consider. How on earth will I get enough privacy to electrocute my genitals?
Tamba glances at his timepiece. ‘Move it, Malachi. Seriously.’
There is a clack of plastic coat hangers as he throws on an orange t-shirt and jeans. Who cleans them, I wonder? It’s been two days but it feels like two weeks since I washed myself. I slide open the concertina door, squeeze into the bathroom cubicle. I slip a new white shirt over my head, pull on a pair of black trousers. I look like some kind of steward.
‘Must I wait for you?’
I slide the door open an inch, wave Tamba away. The first communication the poor man receives is me telling him to leave.
In the bedroom, I hook my radio to my belt. Sling Meirong’s lanyard around my neck, add a touch of red.
* * *
Meirong sits in an office dress the colour of sour cream, irritated by my close shave with the clock. I take the place next to Tamba, lean back while Janeé slaps down my plate. My eggs are so greasy I can see my face in them. Romano the security guard takes the right-hand bench, his eyes strung with fine red capillaries. His fingernails are dirty, but I’m not the one to judge. I am like a dirty nail, all of me unclean.
Olivia asks, ‘How did you sleep, Malachi?’
Tamba shows her mildly incredulous eyes. He answers for me, ‘He died for twelve hours, right Malachi? You were history.’
I coax my oily egg onto my toast.
Meirong says, ‘Malachi, Tamba says you two are set up with signs. Is everything agreed?’
I glance at Tamba, who’s grinning obsequiously. I get away with a ghost nod, too imperceptible to qualify as a lie. I capture my egg, press it into a sandwich. In Bhajo we liked to eat with our hands, taste the food first with our fingertips.
‘Is Mr Rawlins coming today?’ Olivia asks.
‘Eleven a.m.,’ Meirong says. ‘You’ll know by lunchtime.’
Olivia sighs.
Tamba reassures her, ‘Timmy’s fine, Olivia. He’s giving his granny a hard time.’
She shakes her head. ‘He went into intensive care yesterday.’
‘Ah, no.’
‘Meirong only told me after supper last night.’
‘I let you do your work first and eat a good meal,’ Meirong snaps defensively.
Olivia sits with her hands in her lap, her tomato too red on her empty plate.
‘Look, it’s difficult, Olivia,’ Meirong says. She waves the suffering away. ‘All we can do is keep working.’ She sweeps aside her black tea. ‘Are the towels ready?’
Olivia nods her head.
‘Malachi. Go with her, please.’
My tea is strong and sweet. I gulp some of it.
Tamba says quickly, ‘Come to the surveillance room, Malachi. We’ll run through what we practised.’ His lie is as glib as the egg white still quivering on his plate.
Meirong nods. ‘Call me if you need me. I’ve got to do security while Romano sleeps, then I’ve got lunchtime meetings.’ Meirong checks her watch, a busy executive in the city. She slips off the end of the bench, leaving a drift of dismissive air.
I follow Olivia down the corridor, hover in the doorway of a room filled with large plastic tanks and rows of silver instruments. A pale pink fluid drips from glass tubes propped in rings that might hold toothbrushes. A pink infusion in a bulbous bottle says, Sedative. Saturday.
Olivia watches me studying her laboratory. ‘It’s got more equipment than Greyfield’s radiation monitoring lab,’ she says sadly. ‘They didn’t bother too much with safety. Do you know nuclear poisoning?’
I nod my assent.
‘I left Timmy with an old lady so I could breast-feed him on my lunch break.’ She picks up a metal bucket. ‘She lived one road from the Greyfield gate.’
The chemical fumes from the bucket sting my eyes.
You were a good mother, Olivia. Really.
Olivia chokes, ‘Timmy’s lungs got blisters on them. Blisters.’
I don’t know what to do with her guilt. A shrug would seem insensitive. I take the metal bucket, stand like a hotel steward in white shirt and black trousers. I wait until Olivia turns her grief-stricken back on me. I walk away from her pain, bearing towels for the hands and feet of the special guests.
* * *
I’m halfway up the spiral stairs when Tamba launches down them. I stagger back, hang on to the railing.
‘Okay, quick. Temperature is like this . . .’ He flicks mock sweat off his brow with his forefinger. ‘Show
