Husk (11 page)

‘Hey, Jackson, stick to making B-movies. Oh, and don’t drink and drive.’

Point taken, I think. Chase’s shoulders tense, his jaw flexes. For a moment I think he might come back and take
a swing at me, but he leaves the room without another word, the second geisha following close behind. The first geisha watches me with slight irritation as I sip my tea and have
a chuckle to myself.

‘Please do not start fights in this household, sir.’

I shrug apologetically. ‘How long do you think Mr Ichida will be?’

She ignores the question. ‘Tatsumi Ichida is currently taking tea as well and wishes to meet you before the session, Mr Rhodes. Please allow me to take you to her.’

‘Tatsumi? Having tea? But I thought … uh … I thought she was …’

‘Mrs Ichida procured
her own rental yesterday and has already been uploaded. She is waiting for you in her chambers.’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Lead the way.’

She guides me out of the living room and through a great hall that is in the middle of being set up for some kind of masquerade. Among typical party preparations of booze and food, there are things I can’t help but notice: bowls of condoms, bejewelled masks hanging on
the wall, bondage gear and sexy costumes laid out on tables. Several cameras on tripods are set up around the huge room.

‘Wild night ahead?’ I remark.

The perturbed look the geisha shoots me does not fill me with confidence. We soon find ourselves in Tatsumi’s wing of the mansion, evidenced by the collection of Japanese cartoon and doll paraphernalia that litter the rooms we pass through. Tatsumi
was a fan of Hentai in particular, almost to the point of obsession. Sculptures and
renderings of girls getting fucked every which way by all kinds of men, monsters, and machines seem to be everywhere I look. I’d met Ichida’s wife in the flesh a few times, a diminutive woman in her late fifties. A very strange and bitter lady as I remember, more than a bit eccentric too. Her make-up would always
be overdone, professionally, in an attempt to make her resemble female characters from the Japanese anime she adored so much. As the geisha leads me into Tatsumi’s private chambers I’m not sure what to expect, but what I find makes me sick to my stomach.

Tatsumi’s room is painted various shades of pink and blue. A trio of tiny, fluffy dogs come running at me, yipping and yapping around my ankles.
Framed pictures of cartoon characters cover the walls. A woman with silky black hair sits in the middle of the room with her back to me, painting Kanji on a canvas. She slowly turns around as I announce myself. One look and I have to halt the cry of shock that wants to come, flex every muscle in my body to stop myself from recoiling at the sight of her.

‘Is everything all right, Mr Rhodes?’

The girl I’m in love with, my sweet Ryoko, is Tatsumi’s Husk. She’s dolled up in some manga style that looks hideous when interpreted in the real world. Her complexion is horribly pale, mouth seeming small with a thin application of red lipstick. Oversized cartoon eyes are painted on her eyelids, looking doleful and alien. Feeling repulsed by Ryoko is one of the most unnatural experiences I’ve ever
had. She sips her tea and looks me up and down.

‘Everything is fine, Mrs Ichida,’ I manage. ‘It’s just that I only learned of your recent assisted suicide a short time ago.’

Tatsumi’s smile is demure. ‘Oh, that.’

‘Congratulations on a successful transfer. I had no idea you were even ill.’

‘Ill?’ she chuckles. ‘No, I was perfectly healthy for my age.’

‘Oh?’

‘My death was pre-emptive. Unlike
my husband, I don’t particularly enjoy existing in this world any more. Real life bores me. It always has. I much prefer worlds of my own creation.’

‘Fair enough. But why the Husk then, if I may ask?’

Tatsumi gives me a bored look. ‘As you might have noticed, we are having an event later on this evening. I am to co-host the night incognito with my husband, who will be uploaded to you. Also,
I thought it might be good to get out and about a little. I’m told that it is good for Post-Mortem wellbeing.’

She rises from her chair and approaches me, hips swaying sensually. I try not to flinch when she runs her fingers through my hair, looks me in the eye with Ryoko’s pupils. There is a glassy instability in her irises, addict-like. Seen it before on other Husks while on the job, a look
that suggests the client is having trouble differentiating virtual reality from actual reality. The dark-skinned geisha enters the room carrying the laptop that Mr Ichida downloaded onto. She presents the computer to Tatsumi, who places it on her dresser and beckons me over. From my pillbox I
take a red pill for twenty-four hours, start the Husk program, and hand over my Liaison. Tatsumi plugs
one cable into the laptop, then slings her arms around my neck, pulling me close, pointing the proboscis of the second cable at my eyes as she looks into them again.

‘Y’know, out of all of my husband’s rentals, it was the Rhodes model I always liked best.’

She kisses me, tongue forcing itself into my mouth like an eel, the feeling of my love’s lips foreign and frightening against mine. I inhale
the faint smell of Ryoko, buried under a pungent jasmine perfume. Tatsumi gropes me and I go with it, faking pleasure like a porn star. The pill makes me drowsy. She kisses harder. Her fingers feel for the lump behind my ear. Reluctantly, I let her plug in the proboscis and feel myself start to slip away.

It’s raining in London on my day off. Go figure. Twenty-four hours to myself couldn’t have come sooner. The gig with Ichida just about sidelined me. For the first time I question how much longer I can do my job. Exhaustion in my line of work isn’t new, but
this is different, fatigue that burrows down to my bone marrow. It feels as if I’m treading close to a total burn-out in mind, body and soul. I couldn’t have done a gig today if someone held a gun to my head. Too many of these sessions back-to-back could kill me if I’m not careful, adding yet another headstone to the Rhodes family plot.

Most of my family is dead. My older sister succumbed to
breast cancer in her late twenties when I was a sophomore in college. My dad went by way of an aneurism soon after graduation, my mother of a broken heart not long after that. My younger sister and I are all that’s left, and we don’t talk much. I’ve only spoken to her a handful of times since we buried our parents. Last thing she said to me was that she wanted to be cremated if I was the one between
us that ever had to make a decision for the other. All I know for sure is that she’s a whore now, an authentic one, with an official Madam, has a respectable client list and charges a lot per hour for her precious time.

I sit in a pub licking my wounds and nursing my sore
head with a cold pint. Even the bartender said I looked knackered. A couple pretty English girls have chatted me up, but my
conversational skills, strained by exhaustion, leave much to be desired. They must think I’m high or maybe a bit mental. Flew into Heathrow last night, took a black cab into the city and checked straight into a hotel, where I slept for thirteen hours straight. When I did finally wake it was from some dream that had me covered in sweat. No recollection once I wiped the sleep from my eyes. I’ve been
roaming the city since then, trying to remember. It’s a welcome distraction actually.

There is a message on my Liaison that has been bothering me, sent yesterday by Ryoko, giving me an update on Clive’s detainment in Paris. There was an attachment that I opened on my flight. I had to stifle a cry of shock at what appeared on screen. Ryoko forwarded me three photos of Clive’s second-degree burns
that she’d somehow managed to acquire from the Parisian police. His face looked horrible, red raw and blistery, skin weeping fluids. He’s lost the use of his right eye. I can’t stop staring at the pictures. Have to fight back tears. Seeing such beauty reduced to wreckage breaks my heart. Clive didn’t deserve this.

The vomiting is bothering me too, these semi-regular rejections from the pit of
my stomach. I was sick once on the flight over, chucked again before I went to sleep. Wanted to throw up this morning while taking a mist, but managed to hold it back. No nausea or gut pain. No food poisoning or flu. If anything it feels like the worst kind of nervousness, a case of the butterflies turned into locusts.
At the hotel I managed to hold down my continental breakfast for twenty minutes
before it ended up splattered in the sink. Only in the last half-hour have I started to get my appetite back. Looking at the pub menu, I notice that none of the meat dishes denote their source. This means all the meat is lab-grown. I’ve eaten the stuff countless times before, but now the thought of it makes me uncomfortable.

Chelsea versus Arsenal plays on every oversized flat-screen in the pub.
Seems like an important match judging by the clientele’s reaction to the game. I try to watch, but I can’t get into it. I’m too distracted by anything and everything and nothing at the same time. All I want to do is get drunk, but for some reason I can’t even get a buzz on. I hammer back my pint and order another. Chelsea scores a goal and the place goes nuts. Two minutes later Arsenal pulls one
back and shuts everyone up. A minute later I’m not even watching any more. My Liaison provides me with the NYC news instead.

A local politician caught with his hand up his secretary’s skirt is the top story of the day. The violent spree of cab robberies I’d heard about earlier has escalated too, with two more drivers found shot to death in their vehicles, riddled with armour-piercing rounds that
went straight through their bullet-proof partitions. Two more Manhattan women are reported missing. The first one is Annabel Colette, a blonde 22-year-old rich kid from the Upper East Side. The picture they show of her, relaxing on a yacht with a glass of champagne and a snobbish smile, screams
spoiled brat
to me. Judging by what I see
around her neck and on her fingers, the girl has expensive
taste in jewellery. Footage of her father, some Wall Street fat-cat in a suit with his arm around a sad, but stoic, blonde trophy-wife, tearfully pleads for her safe return. Something tells me the girl would put up a hell of a fight. Whoever is holding her has their hands full, I’m sure.

The second one’s name is Clarice Patton, age twenty-three, an aspiring actress and model. The photo is of
a sultry blue-eyed brunette with a mischievous grin. It seems to me like she has more than a touch of the
bad girl
in her. I figure she might have snuck off to LA all starry-eyed to party it up and get discovered. I imagine her taking one for the dream team while friends and family worry back home. I can picture her with panties round her ankles on a casting couch, a strong hand clutching her
throat in an aggressive act of erotic asphyxiation as she whimpers and wheezes for the chance at a role. I picture this so clearly, like I’m experiencing it from both first-person and third-person perspectives, as if I’m somehow standing in a corner watching myself go gonzo on this poor girl.

Although no ransom demands have been made, cops aren’t coy about trying to tie both women’s disappearances
into Occupy Central Park. At a press conference a police captain states that he suspects Integris may be involved in these recent Manhattan snatchings. He seems damn sure of himself, the contempt in his voice unmistakable when referencing to the group. The faction’s long list of alleged crimes includes kidnapping, and the NYPD claim they are on top of the situation. The smug smile I feel taking
over my face can’t be helped. Our United States … just like
Mexico, just like Brazil, just like Columbia or fucking Venezuela now. I called it days ago, knew the lower classes were getting desperate enough to hijack the family members of our society’s elite. North America, South America? Ghettos or favelas? Shit, there’s no difference now. We’re just like every corrupt, poor, overpopulated country
we ever looked down on. Our missing Manhattan girls are just the newest promissory notes in one of the world’s oldest and most popular crimes.

After the anchor reports an eleven-car pile-up on the Brooklyn Bridge, he releases the identity of a body found in the meat-packing district: Dennis Delane, the missing dude from a couple days ago. Police are ruling his death a homicide. Beaten beyond
recognition is what the anchor says. When Delane’s photograph takes over the screen, I hitch in my breath.

Seen that guy before
, I think.
I know him.

You wouldn’t forget him easily, with his frizzy red hair, green eyes and thin face. Looks like a bit of a creep to me. No matter how hard I try, I can’t place him. He seems like a threat to me somehow, a person of interest who could make my life
difficult. Seconds later Delane’s image is gone. Live footage follows, showing a decrepit alleyway, police-taped and crawling with cops, blue tarp covering the corpse that peeks out from behind a row of garbage cans. I’m no detective, but I’d say his body was dumped.

Thrown away like trash.

As I stare at my pint, the thought eats at me. Another goal is scored and the pub erupts into applause.
A woman’s shriek rises above the shouts of men. It is one of
excitement, but its pitch and duration trigger something chilling in my head. I’ve heard this shriek before, I think. I turn to the bar, looking for the screamer. She’s standing by the draught taps, both arms stretched over her head, squealing with delight as she looks at the screen.

The vision comes in a flash, a woman’s bare arms
stretched up over her head. I remember turning to look into a large lens, watching something as it watches me. A red light glows on top of it. For the first time I can retain the information and I’m instantly panicked by it.

Seconds later I’m dialling Tweek in New York. I don’t expect him to answer, but thankfully he picks up after the second ring. His voice sounds unimpressed.

‘I assume you’re
calling me about another problem, Rhodes?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘You Husks tend not to call me for any other reason.’

‘Sorry, Tweek,’ I say. ‘But my head is getting worse.’

‘How bad?’

‘Fuck, bad enough for me to be calling you about it.’

‘Are you getting enough rest like I told you?’

‘Goddamn it,’ I hiss. ‘A good night’s sleep or two is not going to fix this. This is something else. Something
in my head is … malfunctioning.’

There is a pause on the other end. I hear sounds of Tweek rummaging around, drawers opening and closing, things clattering on a desk. I don’t know if it was what I said, or how I said it, but I can hear concern in Tweek’s voice when he finally replies.

‘Okay, okay. As soon as you get back, come straight in.
I’ll take a closer look, try some different things.
See if we can’t get to the bottom of it.’

‘What should I do in the meantime?’

‘Relax. Meditate.’

‘I’m in a frigging bar, man.’

‘Then get drunk. Numb your head, slow your brain activity.’

‘Trust me, I’m trying.’

‘Try harder.’

He hangs up and I down the rest of my pint. Need another, but the bar is packed. As I get up I suddenly feel the drunkenness that seemed to have been eluding me. One
misstep and I’ve hip-checked some guy’s chair, bumping him forward into the pint he’s drinking. I hear him choke on the lager; watch it spill in his lap. Three other guys at his table bitch and moan, giving me shit. Their accents are harsh to my ears.

‘You stupid fucking prat.’

‘Jesus, I’m so, so sorry.’

The guy rises from his chair, wiping his chin. ‘You will be.’

‘Looks like you’ve pissed
yourself, Roy,’ laughs one of his mates.

Roy isn’t laughing. He gives me a shove. The volume of the pub’s patrons gets halved. Heads begin turning in our direction. I raise my hands, indicating that I want no trouble of any sort.

‘It was an accident, man,’ I say. ‘I’d be happy to pay for another pint.’

He shoves me again. ‘Another pint isn’t gonna fucking dry me off, now is it?’

The second
shove is on my bruised ribs and it hurts, a lot. I open my mouth to apologize again, try to smooth things over. An apology isn’t what comes out, much to my surprise.

‘Ah, get fucked.’

‘Eh?’ Roy’s eyes widen. ‘What?’

That wasn’t me
, I think, my eyes widening as well.
That wasn’t me at all.

Maybe it’s the drink working my lips. Roy’s hands are already balling into fists. Another apology is in
order. I go to speak again and realize my mouth isn’t mine. I catch my reflection in a mirror on the wall. My lips are pulled back in a cruel smile.

‘You deaf as well as thick?’ I say. ‘I said get
fucked
.’

The pub goes quiet. Roy takes one look at his mates and then takes a big swing at me. I duck it easily and get inside his guard, sinking a vicious knee into his crotch, doubling him over with
a squawk. Palming the back of his head, I smash his face into the table twice, busting nose and teeth on the varnished wood. One of his hooligan friends jumps out of his seat and grabs me by the throat. I return the move, kicking his ankles out from underneath him with a sweep and slamming his head down hard next to Roy’s. His neck bends at an ugly angle with the hit, but I don’t hear it break.
The lack of a snap disappoints me.

The two others get up and come at me. The first one swings wide and I sidestep his attack, nudging him in the ribs hard enough to send his bulk crashing into another table. The second one gets two body shots in before I break a pint glass in his face and dropkick him into the
mirror. Just before the glass shatters, I see my reflection. I look like I’m poised
to fight a dozen men. My breath is coming in heaves. The smile on my face tells me I’m enjoying it all far too much.

‘Oh my God,’ a nearby woman gasps.

Moans and cursing come from the men on the floor. I look around the pub. Everyone’s eyes are glued to me, wide and horrified. I straighten my clothes, open my wallet, drop more money than I owe on the bar. There is blood on my hands, transferring
to the banknotes I lay down. For a single moment I’m reminded of something all too similar, but I forget it in a second.

‘Sorry,’ I say to the bartender.

He says nothing, just looks back and forth between me and the four I’ve beaten up. The patrons part for me as I walk hastily through the pub and out into the drizzle. On the street I break into a run, splashing through puddles, putting some
distance between me and the bloody scene I’ve just created.

That wasn’t me
, I think again.
I wouldn’t have done that.