As I lock Charmayne’s cage, a grating sound jars the frightened peace among us. All of us look up. The panel in the wall next to Tamba’s kiosk grinds open once more. A cage sways and judders along the roof. Another one cranks behind it, followed by another, until five cages form a broken train, hammering our ears with metallic echoes. As they shunt closer, my eyes catalogue a swathe of red, raised edges, hundreds of black stitches. One of the patients is wheezing. Is it Shikorina?
The cages hang suspended while Tamba calibrates his switches. He sweeps two hands down his desk, plays his climax. The cages descend in unison. Moments before they crash to the floor, Tamba slows them. We hold our breaths as they land gently on their metal cradles.
Nice flying, I would say if the pilot was my friend.
Shikorina is breathing like the doctors have punctured something. I stare into her cage. The colour pink is weeping from her solar plexus. Oh, no.
I clap my hand over my mouth. Something comes up. There is a pea up my nose, I can feel it, even though I haven’t eaten any since Friday. I press my switch, flutter my fingers to show fluid dripping.
Tamba guesses my affliction. ‘Pull yourself together, Malachi. You’ve got to get used to blood. We rinse them twice a day when they’re post-operative. Watch.’
A white spray thrusts from the nozzles above the last five cages. Shikorina shrieks.
I cover my ears. I don’t care if Tamba thinks I’m useless. The rapist hunches his hands into bony fists, but not a sound comes out of his mouth. The spray must be ice cold, straight from the sea, but Angus endures it as if he is glad of the extra punishment. Shikorina shreds the air with high-pitched screams.
‘Easy, Shikorina, easy,’ the social worker soothes. His tender tone brings her shrieks down to a whimper.
Tamba looks shamefaced after his show of strength. ‘That one always reacts badly to anaesthetics.’
The anaesthetic? Really? Not the sixty-seven stitches cutting a jagged line from her collarbone to her hip?
Andride shakes his head. ‘No. They broke her ribs again. She doesn’t scream for nothing.’
Of course Tamba doesn’t hear this minor detail. He orders over his radio, ‘Connect their feed pipes, Malachi. And check their cuts. Sometimes they open up in transit.’
But there is no way in hell or heaven I can go closer. I turn away from Shikorina’s wound, which has delivered lovely new lungs for Olivia’s little Timmy.
‘Malachi, do you need to debrief?’
What does he want me to do, climb up his spiral and chat about my fear of blood?
But I must pull myself together, as Tamba says. I must rehearse for tonight. I turn back, take a few tentative steps towards Lolie. Her face is as transparent as the waning moon last night. Her jaw ripples with the same striations as the metal wires of her prison. This young girl is in pain. I press my button, touch my lips, mime a sip of something.
‘Painkillers?’
Clever Tamba.
‘Dammit,’ he mutters. He leaves his microphone on. ‘Olivia, did number nineteen . . . No, number twenty’s looking good . . . Olivia . . . Listen! Did number nineteen get painkillers? You sure? . . . Look, it’s just freaky to watch. Can you ask for extra? . . . Thanks.’
The radio play ends. I feel a rush of gratitude for Tamba who is nothing like his father who cuts and sews people like he is upholstering lounge suites. I force myself to inspect the other two prisoners. Those careless black stitches are grotesque, but they seem to have survived the cable-car trip.
Oh no. What of the sharks tonight? They will surely smell the blood on these prisoners, who really should be in ICU. As Charmayne says, it’s a hopeless, mad mission. I have no nautical skills, no idea how I will hustle all these people into an escape vessel, lower it sixty metres and start the engines.
Something unravels in me. All I know is, in terms of logistics, God is our only hope.
I do what Tamba says, clip the feed pipes to the mesh. Then I clip and clean the rest of the prisoners, with that strange calm that comes before death. I remember it.
* * *
By the time I reach Madame Sophie, she looks like she has already been through a terror at sea. Her hair is clumped and clinging, her nails oddly tatty.
‘I’m scared, Malachi. What if we die tonight?’
That’s strange. Yesterday, Madame Sophie was fantasising about death. I check Tamba’s window. He has finally relaxed his guard after hours of stalking me. He slouches in his roller chair, doodling with what looks like a digital pen.
I pull my phone from my pocket, type beneath the leather, ‘There’s a good chance of it.’
‘Don’t talk like that, Malachi,’ Vicki says in a low voice behind me. Damn it, she sounds sexy.
‘What if I see my mother?’ Madame Sophie frets. ‘What if she’s angry with me?’
‘Ask Eulalie,’ I type. I add, very sincerely, ‘Or die and find out.’
‘Malachi. You’re not helping.’
‘Leave him, Sophie,’ Josiah growls.
‘I’m scared, Josiah.’
‘Well, stay behind, you silly thing.’
The bickering pair sound gentler than they have all week.
‘Stop,’ I type. ‘We don’t have time for this.’
Strangely, I feel no revulsion for Josiah’s hands today. I tighten the glove, use two thumbs on the clipper to split the knots in his nails. This is, after all, my very last job as a manicurist.
Josiah ventures, ‘I know about boat engines. I used to fix them on Lake Chad before my father made me officer in the Anti-Balaka.’
Engines! I want to laugh down the rig and the sky above it. No wonder the grease.
A swarthy blush creeps beneath his scarred skin. ‘I’m just saying, engines, I know them.’
I incline my head. Thank you, Josiah.
‘What about worms?’
The evil Vicki can’t help herself.
Josiah narrows his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’
Samuel intercedes. ‘Vicki, leave it. We need to stick together, like Malachi said.’
I
