About a minute multiplied by forty subjects. One less. I sign a revolution of the long hand of the clock.
‘An hour? Fine. Set your alarm for tonight,’ Mr Carreira orders me.
He walks briskly towards the door, determined to leave the meeting before the most menial of his slave force. At the door, he swings to face us. ‘If by some terrible luck that search party finds us, and if you speak about anything you have seen or heard on this rig . . .’ he glares at each of us, ‘you will go straight to one of our asylums in the US. You will be admitted as a delusional schizophrenic. You will stay there indefinitely.’
He sweeps out with a swish of his quality beige cotton. His polished shoes ping down the metal stairs.
I refuse to let my mouth hang like an imbecile’s.
‘Christ. This is evil,’ Tamba breathes.
Meirong unfurls her orange sunset. ‘Doctor Mujuru wants to see you straight after the meeting.’
Tamba slumps like she just chop-kicked his neck.
Janeé fights her way to her feet, holds out her hand to Tamba. He takes it, pulls himself up.
‘Go ahead, Malachi,’ he says. ‘I’ve got to go and have my head bashed in.’
Ah. His father. The doctor. I heard the truth on my two-way radio.
I’m afraid I can’t share Janeé’s sympathy for the man who is meant to be a poor Zimbabwean, not the son of a top transplant doctor in the Raizier wing. If I’m wrong about Tamba, I will eat my dirty sneakers.
* * *
My sneakers take me down the metal stairs. I am careful to stay upright, keep moving in case the air in me coalesces into useless sobs.
* * *
I shove on the door, force my eyes to the enormous gap the giant has left in the two rows of metal teeth. The emptiness of the space, the silence of the subjects, rack my heart another notch. I push back the pressure in my sobbing pipes, wheeze like my grandfather on his ferry last night.
I must keep the good air moving, for if it gets stuck behind a rung of bone or cartilage I will fall to the floor and cry for my yellow father who had the courage to read us ‘Whoso List to Hunt’ to the end without stopping.
I lock my glove to Samuel’s cage for the second time today.
‘He was a good man, the judge. Deep down he was good.’
I grab Tamba’s Samsung from my pocket, type a reply. ‘He killed two people.’ My American assistant speaks with a deep, sanguine sound.
Samuel licks his lips, checks the surveillance glass. He watches my phone like it is a bomb in a bustling public place. I slip it back into my pocket.
Samuel nods. ‘His mind snapped.’ His trigger finger jerks inside the glove. ‘Boom. Boom. And you can’t take bullets back.’
He is right. It is the dumb utterance, the wild mind’s decision. The impulse that killed them.
‘It’s good to hear you talking,’ Samuel says tentatively.
I keep my face sombre, but a strange joy tears through my chest. It feels like the giant has crossed my heart wires.
Samuel’s eyes are on fire, but he asks casually, ‘Where’s Tamba?’
I slide out my keypad, type with one thumb. ‘Getting into big trouble for letting the judge die.’
‘And you?’
‘I am mute. They presume I am stupid.’
Samuel chuckles. Vicki’s delight warms me from the side. I clip and clean, matter-of-fact, but waves of pride keep heaving against my back teeth. I start on Samuel’s toes.
‘I see it’s a Samsung. Are you using Glossia?’ I nod eagerly.
‘Do you know there’s an African accent in that transposer app? It’s very crude. Generic. But it might be better than . . .’ He breaks off tactfully.
I check Tamba’s glass, slide the stolen phone out. I scroll past Tone. Find Accents. There it is. Right at the top of the bloody alphabet.
I didn’t need to rely on William, the choir-singing baseball player. I select African. Type on the keys, ‘Thank you, Samuel.’
The voice is almost mine. A little laugh tears free from my secret tsunami. I avert my eyes from Samuel’s tiny smile. I lock his cage, move on to Eulalie.
* * *
The old witch nods like a priest, declaring me married to my Samsung. ‘You have found a way to speak.’
But I am not ready for the commitment! I cut her fingernails, fight the urge to run like hell from what I have just done.
But you can’t take bullets back.
Eulalie sighs. ‘You were scared to live.’
I glance at her, shocked by her perspicacity.
She says, ‘And I was too frightened to love.’
I hide my surprise. This is the first time Eulalie has spoken of her earthly life. It’s like Jesus suddenly saying he has Weet-Bix for breakfast.
‘There was a man who came to see me about his wife. She was burnt by a shack fire.’
I lift out a towel, wipe her fingers clean.
‘After a year, he said he loved me.’ Eulalie’s despair pierces her voice, carries it to the ceiling. ‘But I was married to the spirits!’
I scan Tamba’s glass. Still no sign of him. I type one word. It costs me nothing. ‘Sorry.’
Eulalie’s eyes caress me like a proud grandmother, not like my one with the bleached hands from Kattra. ‘You are a good man, Malachi.’
When I lift my white towel, her hands underneath are black velvet.
I hardly need to trim the old crone’s feet. Her heart stoppage yesterday seemed to have slowed her nail growth. I wash them gently, release Eulalie to her Valentino memories.
* * *
Tamba’s antiseptic shower has made Vicki’s black hair soft and separated, as they say in shampoo ads. Luscious to the touch. This hair is more befitting a sensuous heroine than a black-hearted mermaid who spends her days blowing sarcastic bubbles from the deep. The web of skin between my fingers tickles. I want to touch her hair.
Vicki smiles shyly at me. ‘You look nice in white.’
Is she trying to get me
