Upstairs, Tamba is considering his doodles, twiddling his pen like a drum majorette. I throw down my last towel, soiled by Josiah’s feet. I lift my chin, hope my profile looks heroic from Vicki’s point of view as I walk towards the trolley for the last time in my life.
Josiah starts again behind me. ‘What do you mean?’
Vicki is incredulous. ‘You’re really asking?’
‘Shut up, you two,’ Samuel says. ‘Please.’
Shut up. I love you, is what I would love to say. I want to slide my volume to maximum, shout out before I die, ‘I LOVE YOU VICKI!’
Instead I touch the button on my intercom.
‘Yes?’
I lay my cheek on my hands, mime a sweet, sexless afternoon sleep.
Tamba sighs. ‘I’m tired too. Someone woke me up at sparrow’s fart.’
I stare at him innocently.
‘Go so long. I’ve got to monitor the surgeries and send their stats through at five thirty.’
I nod at Tamba, lay my clipper on the trolley. Lay my leather brace for raptor taming next to it. I open the door, carry my bucket of towels over the threshold. I swing the door slowly closed, leave it open a crack. Feel in my pocket for my single sachet of salt, bend it in the middle. I fit it gently in the tiny hatch inside the door frame.
Please don’t break.
I shut the metal door gently. This time the click is a faint hiss, the miniature version of hitting a pillow. The light goes red for security observed, restraints in place.
Please let the light be telling a lie.
There is a scattering of white salt on the floor. The bolt has punctured it. I sink to my hands and knees, blow the grains under the door.
Don’t be an idiot. Who on earth would notice a tiny spill of white powder?
Tamba the ex-addict might, actually. He might want to fall to the floor and sniff it up his nostrils.
I stand quickly, glance up at Tamba’s shut door. He said five thirty. I climb the spiral stairs quietly. Near the top I drop to my knees, hunt for the cover of the shutdown switch.
No sign of it. I feel in the shadow beneath the second step. My fingers hit a slightly protruding plate. Yes.
I press my forehead against the step, peer into the shadow beneath it. The plate is the same yellow as the rest of the rig, almost invisible. I dig my fingers under the bottom edge. There is a shuffle and a scrape on the other side of the door. I shoot to my feet, but one heel slips off the stair. I flail my arms to stop myself from toppling.
Tamba’s door swings open. ‘Malachi, what . . .?’
I clutch the railing, my eyes too wide. I pat my cheek hard, mime a rough revival from sleep. I toss invisible food into my mouth, chew double-speed like a cartoon squirrel.
‘I must wake you for supper?’ Tamba wants to laugh, but he has a greater need. He presses on his penis like a small boy on a long bus journey. ‘Okay, Malachi.’
He pushes past and trots down the stairs ahead of me.
I dare not stay to inspect the switch, in case Tamba glances back and sees me through the haze induced by too much urine.
* * *
I lie on my bed in filthy white, thirsty. The sound of Tamba urinating only makes it worse.
Tamba comes out buttoning his trousers. ‘Got to get back. Meirong’s so paranoid, I can’t even piss.’ He surveys me on the bed. ‘Lucky fish.’
I smile at him. Lucky fish is something a kid might say when his friend gets a bigger slice of chocolate cake. Tamba hurries off to record blood pressure, pulse rate, temp for the five surgeries who will be lucky to get within sniffing distance of the sharks tonight. I feel inside my pillowcase, touch the plastic sacs of antibiotics. Then I take my chocolate cake, drop into a desperate sleep made sweet by the terror of what comes after it.
* * *
Someone sinks a fist into my ribs, jiggles it. I jerk awake, grab the wrist with steel fingers. It wrestles free.
‘Geez, Malachi!’
I stare at his nostrils, try to remember who he is.
‘Remind me not to surprise you in the middle of the night!’ Tamba says.
I smile a sleepy apology.
‘Supper, dude. Five minutes.’ Tamba is gone, his dreadlocks leaving last.
The fist in my ribs calls me to combat. I spring to my feet, throw off my crushed angel outfit. I am about to save thirty-nine lives, or be the cause of their violent ending. Either way, I must prepare myself for murder and mayhem.
I adjust the shower to temperate, rub my hands over my skin. I knead my shoulder bones, my pectoral muscles, stroke my long forearms. The water falls warmly, a consistent lover. I stroke my thighs firmly, beg them to have the strength to bound up three hundred metal stairs. My feet, I rub them, pinch on my toes. Stay with me, please. Press me upright.
I rub the edges of my ears, the sweet, sensitive cartilage.
Will I soon be dead?
I massage my scalp with my fingertips. It’s okay, it’s okay. If they blow me up, there is something in me that has no need of neurons shaped like tadpoles with preposterously long tails. There is my living spirit.
I bang the heels of both hands against my heart. Keep beating, please, until I tell you to stop.
I open my eyes in the falling water, rinse them. Next, I stroke my pitted penis. Forgive me for hating you when you are so beauteous. My penis rises up in my hands. I smile at its one eye gazing up at me. I pull the skin down gently. Groan softly. Soon, if I live. I will give you pleasure.
But tonight I need it begging to be touched. I need it urging me to save Vicki. I would so love to enter her fig lips
