In the tiny mirror above the basin, I see Meirong hurry in. ‘How bad?’
Olivia narrows her eyes, draws the fluid up.
‘Must I call Doctor Mujuru?’ Meirong asks.
Olivia shakes her head, doesn’t bother with conversation. She raises the syringe to the light, presses out a pustule of air. It pre-ejaculates onto her flowery sleeve. A hippie with a hypodermic. God help me.
Olivia undoes my belt buckle.
Meirong steps back, darts her eyes to the wall of the laboratory. She thrusts out a hand. ‘Malachi. I need that key.’
Olivia struggles to undo my zip. ‘Not now. Please.’
I pull my zip down with stinging fingers, drop my trousers to my feet. Shove my boxer shorts past my knees.
In the mirror, Meirong stares at my bare bum like it is a wild animal on the loose in the city. Olivia stabs the needle into my flesh. It bites like a knife tip. I think I hear the surface cells of my skin pop. Meirong watches her squeeze the fluid slowly in.
Olivia rubs the site of the injury. ‘There,’ she breathes.
I deliberately leave my white trousers at my feet. Meirong keeps staring at my black arse, not with revulsion, not with lust. But something close to it.
She is ashamed of my beauty.
‘Get the key, Olivia. Keep it for me.’ Meirong disappears from the mirror.
Olivia stares at my good buttocks, thanks to my years of running on the spot. ‘Can you feel it working?’
I feel it. A relaxed sensation is coming over me, spreading from my hypothalamus all the way to my knees. My stomach feels fluttery. It feels just like love.
Olivia’s yellow tinge returns to her cheeks. She announces happily, ‘Metorizine.’ She smiles like she and I share the same bloodstream. ‘A very powerful antihistamine.’
I bend towards my dropped trousers, give Olivia a deliberate, clear view of my swinging testicles.
She stares at my penis, backlit by the laboratory light. ‘God in heaven!’
It is not my stallion anatomy that is taking her breath away. It is the lightning strikes on the loose tissue of my genitals. I turn as I pull up my boxer shorts, give her a full-frontal view.
Olivia swivels towards the wall, grants me my dignity. ‘Who did that to you?’
I watch her in the mirror, slide two plastic sacs off the counter. Shove them into my shorts.
Olivia keeps her back to me, chokes with pity. ‘I’m so sorry, Malachi.’
I snatch the other three sacs, stuff them in. Pull up my white trousers, do up my zip.
‘Was it torture?’
Of course I remain mute. I thread my belt buckle, tighten it.
‘Oh, Malachi.’ Olivia peeps to check that I am decent. She makes a feverish promise: ‘When I get home I’m never ever going to let my little boy out of my sight.’ She shakes her head, forever haunted by the sight of my private parts. ‘It’s terrible, what people do.’
Olivia forgets to ask me for my key.
* * *
I hurry away with my stolen goods, pass the empty canteen. The table is clean and tidy, the sachets of salt pointing up to the roof. A few drops of red juice still stick to the floor where Meirong was sitting. It’s just a matter of time and she will come for me. I’ve got to think of something more practical than drinking poison.
I’ll have to switch keys. But how do I give up my key card to the prisoners?
I stop in my tracks.
Salt.
I backtrack along the corridor, slip into the canteen. I grab a sachet of salt, drop it in my pocket.
A slim extract of the sea, a slim chance of succeeding, but I have no choice but to clutch at straws. Or should I say, sachets of sodium.
I swing into the bedroom, peel the antibiotics from my skin. I pack them inside my pillowcase, flip the pillow, plump it.
Sorry, Cecilia. Sorry, Hamri. I know how hard you tried to teach me honesty.
The antihistamine blesses me with their forgiveness, carries me to the dead-end door. I raise the key card, open the door a tiny bit. I prod my fingers into the metal pocket that receives the latch, explore the depth of it. It is exactly as I thought.
I shut the door behind me.
* * *
Tamba is waiting at his window for me. His eye sockets seem deeper, giving him a zombie look.
‘Are you sorted, Malachi? Did Olivia give you something?’
I nod serenely, collect my cutting tools from the trolley. Despite all the organs that he ate, the poor man is clearly suffering from severe anxiety. Welcome to the truth, dear Tamba. No coffee, no codeine. Just damn consequences.
He watches me walk towards the prisoners. I dare not smile at Vicki sitting so shamelessly, her knife notches adorning her cow’s-milk skin. It was she who gave me the strength to show my scars to those women. I stroke her violet eyes with mine, thank her silently as I go past her gorgeous knees. Perhaps Vicki and I could get naked one day and laugh about it, compare our scars. It might be a simple effect of the Metorizine, but as I walk down the aisle I feel Vicki’s swollen lips press against the top two of my thoracic vertebrae.
* * *
I don’t know what happened to Charmayne over lunch but she seems to have lost her big-match temperament.
‘It’s risky, Malachi. It’s stupid.’ She gives me her hands moodily.
Tamba’s eyes are still on me. I strap her fingers in, work slowly, as if Olivia performed a lunchtime lobotomy on me.
‘We’re all going to die tonight.’
My heart jerks from its restraints. Charmayne is right.
Her hibiscus lips pull down sulkily. ‘I don’t believe that shit about souls and cocktails on the rooftop.’
I remember now; she did her terrible deed on the roof of a high rise.
Sorry, Charmayne.
It must be hell when heaven makes you think of two flying men in suits. But all I can do to show my sympathy
