‘My father lives in London,’ Samuel splutters. ‘Otherwise he . . .’ He trails off, wavery.
The mermaid shrugs, ‘I couldn’t care less.’ She growls, ‘I don’t want my human rights.’
‘It’s mass murder, Vicki.’
A dry laugh cracks from Vicki.
‘Mass murder of the mass murderers? Her evil sense of humour shuts her eyes, splits her fruity mouth open to show sharp, white pips. ‘Samuel, that’s funny.’
I release Vicki’s toes, watch them clench with glee on her excretion plate. Hilarious, I agree. I should be laughing with the husband killer, rolling on the floor in happy apoplexy. But her mirth only makes me furious.
Mass murder of the mass murderers. This is what Samuel is accusing me of.
I slap Vicki’s cage, make it ring. She recovers her breath, gives me her fingers. She smiles treacherously, as close to pretty as a living cadaver can be.
Watch out, Malachi. Get your skin back on, quickly.
* * *
I groom a string of prisoners, make it all the way to the Sudanese yellow man.
‘Save us, Jesus,’ he says in English. ‘Thank you, Al Massih.’ His tears roll off his skin, glitter on the mesh before vanishing.
What did he do that he is so sure of his salvation? Steal a red apple for his hungry son? The man’s hysteria must be contagious, because three cages away, the tooth-pulling Indian starts chattering and pointing towards the sky. I lock the yellow man’s cage, move to his friend, the pitch-black Ethiopian.
He gives me his hands woven with muscle. ‘You’re not Jesus, I know, but you’re the only one we can pray to.’
I cut his fingernails, wipe his hands with a towel so white it draws his sins from deep inside him.
‘I’ll tell you the truth. I have nothing to lose. The soldiers from Eritrea stole our food aid from the desert, where the aeroplanes dropped it. They sold it in the city. They let our children eat sand.’ He clenches his muscular fingers. ‘We had to stop those soldiers with our bare hands.’
Oh no. Please.
I don’t know how to feel, who to be. Jesus. Malachi. Pontius shitting Pilot.
Sorry for swearing, Hamri.
My nerves are repairing too quickly. I stare down the aisle. How the heck will I get through this long line of murderers?
And how do I forget a child’s mouth filled with sand?
I must think of these people as slaughter animals. They are chickens, all of them. If Raizier is to murder them, this is their destiny. I work through two prisoners, cling desperately to my analogy. The fussing Indian in cage number thirteen is miming fire now, explosions. I throw open his metal hatch. He thrusts his feet through, but he waves wildly at the ceiling. A deranged chicken, that’s what he is. He holds a wet finger to his nose, sniffs. He waves it towards me, entreats me to smell it. I capture his hands, hurry through the cutting as the Indian shouts a mad monologue to the roof.
What did he do? Drop bombs somewhere, and now expects revenge?
I wish I was deaf as well as dumb. Earplugs would be lovely. I want to hit my button and beg Tamba for some. The madman yowls with frustration as I set his hands free. I latch his cage, check my timepiece. I spent four hundred and eighty-three seconds on him. I have begun to rise again. In a few days, this will be as easy as plastic-wrapping chicken.
* * *
I groom another prisoner without even blinking. Drop my bucket at the giant Gadu Yignae’s feet. Judge James, Vicki calls him.
‘Samuel’s right,’ he says in his rumbling baritone. He shakes his massive head. ‘Raizier can’t send us home in this condition.’ A crease spreads like slow lightning across his brow. ‘My guess is they’ll say we died in jail of something like cholera or TB. They’ll say it’s too infectious to return our bodies.’ He nods thoughtfully. ‘They might keep our teeth.’ He smiles for the first time, his teeth shining like a sculptor carved each one out of marble. ‘Our first tool, our last proof. Built in.’ The judge is beginning to sound like an impassioned dentist. But a deep anger rises to his reasonable eyes. ‘I don’t want to die like this.’
I wait for yesterday’s tirade to come but he watches me with an expression of pity.
‘It will ruin you, Malachi.’
The giant pulls his hands free. ‘If you want to go to Conscious Clause, do you know what the crux of your argument should be?’ He waves at the rows of chicken mesh. ‘You had no idea you would be aiding and abetting the death of forty people.’
I rub his thick heels with shaking fingers.
‘Bring me something, Malachi. I’ll write it for you.’
I bang his wire hatch, lock it.
Aiding and abetting the death . . .
Antiseptic sloshes onto my white sneakers as if I am squirting urine.
I stumble away from the giant, flee to the fat Australian.
Confusion racks me like a fever as I groom his loose skin. A rushing sound inside my eardrums surges like the sea as I fumble through the skinny rapist, check his wires and his pipes.
But as I work through the next prisoner, I hear someone singing, ‘Cula, Cula, Kuya kudi kunyi.’
Next door, the girl with kohl eyes is chanting a child’s song under her breath. A mournful sound, somehow calming. The prettiest trace of guitar strings plays on each side of her spine as she hunches over her knees, wipes her face compulsively.
Andride, the social worker, asks softly behind me, ‘She’s singing in Luba. She’s from the DRC.’
I tear my attention from the girl’s architecture.
‘They tortured Lolie to make her pull the trigger.’
I stare at the young woman brushing the sack off her face. Or was it a sheet of plastic?
‘She was an excellent shot. The M23’s best sniper.’
Together we watch the girl fighting for breath, over and over.
‘She was ten.’
I bite on my breath.
He nods towards the giant. ‘Judge James said
