The Mall Page 13

  Across from me, at Gilda’s worktop, her chair lists tiredly to one side. The cushion has a permanent arse imprint the size of an elephant’s on it. Gilda isn’t svelte by any means, but the chair looks really badly injured. I hang my jeans over it, pressing them into the chair’s exhausted sponge to blot the remaining water out.

  There’s a pile of coffee-table books on Bradley’s desk. I sit down, the fabric rough against the bare skin of my butt. On top of the pile is a copy of the Taschen Torture Book. The cover shows a trussed woman with an iron snare cutting into her head; a man in a mask poking something into her thigh. I page through the book thinking about Rhoda. What the hell happened down there? Was it just a drug trip or something? Now, fresh-arsed and back at home, the fear and the filth of the last couple of days are disappearing like a bad dream. Paging past pictures of women being staked and people getting suspended over crocodile pits wrapped in meat, Chinese soldiers with bamboo plants growing under their fingernails, Arabs being waterboarded, I try to remember what I saw down there but I can’t visualise it as clearly as these pictures. I can almost believe it was just a bad dream, my overactive imagination. Almost. But I look again at the lurid bruises on my thighs, feel the lingering nausea in my gut, smell the faint remnants of that shitty water on my skin.

  I set the book aside. It’s still dead quiet in the back office. I worry for a moment that the suit-geek will come in and see me, but somehow I don’t really care. Josie, Bradley, Katrien, that’d be blind, but they aren’t here. I fart deep into the meat of Bradley’s chair and carry on reading.

  The next design book is called Fashion Today. On the cover is a parody of a Calvin Klein underwear ad. Three women and two men. Two of the women are skeletal girls with hairy legs and saggy tits and pointy nipples, the other is enormous and sort of green; both men have massive, erect bulges in their pants, bloodshot eyes, flabby stomachs and hairy chests. One of the men is coronary purple like the admiral guard, the other pale white under the hairy tufts. The purple man is grabbing the woman in front of him by the crotch. It must be some sort of advertising or fine-art joke. I think of the stump-skeleton in the jeweller’s shop.

  By now my jeans have dried a bit and as I squeeze them some more I notice a flash of yellow movement in my peripheral vision. There again. It’s Josie! God, I’ll be relieved to see a familiar face. I whirl around before remembering I’m wearing nothing other than an Only Books T-shirt and my socks. I duck down behind the desk and struggle to pull my damp jeans on. But when I get up and scan the office, there’s nobody here. Josie probably just ducked in to drop off her bag and went back out to the counter.

  I lace up my boots and head out to the shop floor. There’s still only the android guy at the front counter.

  ‘Good morning, sir. How can I help you?’ he spouts cultishly as I get within range.

  ‘Hi, sorry, have you seen Josie? I need to ask her something.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir?’

  ‘Josie? Have. You. Seen. Josie?’

  He turns to the screen in front of him. ‘Let me look it up,’ he says.

  ‘Never mind. Any idea when the lockdown will be over?’

  ‘Lockdown?’

  ‘When the fucking mall will be open?’ I know I should keep my temper in check, but come on. Is this guy a fucking retard?

  ‘Open? The mall is always open, sir.’

  ‘Then where… Oh, never mind.’ I bite my tongue and leave the shop.

  ‘You! Brown! Stop there!’

  My fuck! Admiral Security has caught up with me. For a moment I think he can’t be serious. I haven’t done anything. But then he pulls a pistol out of a holster. My stunned mind takes a second to register the fucking gun is styled like an old pirate’s flintlock pistol. I don’t hang around to see if it works.

  chapter 15

  RHODA

  It’s the smell that brings me to my senses.

  It’s a familiar, comforting aroma that for some reason reminds me of childhood. For a second I struggle to place it – then it hits.

  It’s popcorn!

  My stomach growls. I may be traumatised and definitely on the verge of cracking, but I’m also famished, and my empty stomach isn’t going to let me forget it. My shins are throbbing from where I bashed them against the cars as I fled from the parking lot. Otherwise, far as I can tell, I’m pretty much intact.

  Apart from your mind, that is.

  Great. So I’m still schizo. Just what I need right now.

  Look on the bright side, two minds are better than one.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  Temper, temper.

  A windowless corridor painted a shiny industrial green stretches in front of me; the tiled floor littered with popcorn kernels, scrunched-up tissue paper and discarded soft-drink containers. It leads to a pair of double doors clad in some sort of padded velvety material, round windows at the top of each one. Apart from the parking lot door behind me, it’s the only way out of here.

  Your choice.

  ‘Not much of a choice.’

  Seriously, right?

  But there’s no way I want to find out what kind of fucked-up freak those syringe shoes belong to.

  I sprint towards the padded doors, feet crunching over stale popcorn. I slam my shoulder into the middle of the doors and slip through.

  It’s instantly clear where I am. I should have figured it out as soon as I smelled the popcorn. Because what goes with popcorn?

  The movies, of course!

  I’m in a large carpeted lobby area, one side dominated by a big semi-circular ticket-and-refreshment counter. The place is deserted; the only sound the rapid-fire pop-pop-pop coming from the huge glass popcorn machine on the counter. My stomach growls again as I’m hit with the aroma of melted butter, flavoured salt and burnt sugar.

  First things first. Find the exit and get the fuck out of Dodge.

  ‘Easier said than done.’

  To my left, a red Hollywood-style rope is strung between two large marble pillars. Behind them, a red carpet stretches towards double doors leading into the various cinemas. Enormous movie posters line the walls around the doors, but none of the films look familiar. One shows a lazily rendered cartoon tug boat, a maniacal grin splashed across its bow, and the title, Boats That Talk!, in bubble writing above it. The next one along shows Nicolas Cage and John Cusak posing in front of a massive explosion. They don’t look like their usual action-hero selves. Nicolas Cage looks to have aged a good decade, a few wisps of hair combed over his otherwise bald pate, a paunch hanging over the top of his too-tight trousers. John Cusak’s face is a mass of wrinkles and sun spots, and he’s also sporting a beer belly. Both are grinning humourlessly, and their teeth look chipped and nicotine-stained. There’s no title, but the strapline reads: ‘This time… the world really does end.’

  There are no obvious exits or even an entrance that I can see. The only doors seem to be the ones I came through and the pair leading to the theatres. So how the fuck do people get here? Not just through the parking lot, surely?

  Your guess is as good as mine.

  I head towards the refreshment counter, skirting a cardboard cut-out display in the centre of the room. A giant-sized Disneyesque prince and princess stand back to back, arms folded and scowling over their shoulders at each other, the title, Cinderella 2: The Divorce, written in colourful script above their heads.

  Oh God. This place is fucked.

  Like you don’t even know, right?

  The counter is deserted, and I’m tempted to climb across and grab a handful of the chocolate and sweets displayed behind it. Why not? Who’s going to stop me? And maybe there’s a phone – a landline – behind the counter.

  And who you gonna call? Ghostbusters?

  ‘Shut up!’ I say out loud before I can stop myself.

  A woman suddenly springs up from behind the counter, and I jump back, unable to stop the scream. ‘Fuck!’

  She grins at me brightly, but there’s something forced and ri
ctus-like about her smile. ‘Hi!’ she says. ‘May I offer you a carton of GM puffs?’

  Heart still thudding, I shake my head.

  ‘How about a cup of Ice-o-Toxin or a SugarGas or you can get one of our combos, Ice-o-Toxin-and-GM-Puffs-plus-MSG-Dropsand—’

  ‘No! I mean… no thanks.’

  Confusion flits across her face. ‘No GM puffs?’

  ‘No thanks. Look, I—’

  ‘No? Okay, then!’ she says chirpily.

  She vanishes behind the counter again, so swiftly that it takes me a couple of seconds to realise she’s actually gone. I lean over and stare down at her back. She’s curled into a foetal ball, her head between her knees.

  ‘Hey!’ I call.

  She jumps up again, fixed grin back on her face. It’s surreal – almost comical – like a ridiculous slapstick skit.

  Maybe you should ask her if this is a cheese shop.

  Not funny. Not even remotely.

  What’s wrong, Rhoda? Lost your sense of tumour?

  Could I be imagining all this from inside an insane asylum somewhere? The real Rhoda locked in a padded cell? Listening to her mind unravel? Holding conversations with herself (maybe occasionally referring to herself in the third person) and babbling away like one of the nutters in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?

  You’d be so lucky. Girl, Interrupted is more your style.

  ‘GM puffs now?’ The woman is still grinning at me brightly but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. They’re focused on me, but there’s something odd about them; they’re as flat and lifeless as a doll’s. Is she stoned? Pissed, maybe? She’s giving me the heebies whatever the reason. The veins stand out in her arms and neck like thick worms and her skin is so white it’s almost blue.

  Morgue skin.

  But there’s no one else here and Christ knows I need help. I do my best to slap on a friendly smile. ‘Hi!’

  ‘Hi to you! Can I get you some GM puffs and an ultra-GI drink?’

  ‘No. Look—’

  ‘If you’re not that peckish can I suggest one of our thinning options like maybe mini GM puffs and teeny SugarGas with—’

  ‘No, you’re not getting it—’

  She clicks her fingers. ‘How about some nachos?’

  ‘No!’ Christ. ‘Look, have you got a phone I can use?’

  She smiles at me brightly again, eyes still sinisterly vacant. ‘A phone?’

  ‘Yes. I need to call the police. There’s been—’

  ‘I can Oversize your order if you like!’

  This is insane. I take a deep breath. ‘Can you please just tell me where the exit is?’

  She starts scratching at her head, and the paper cap she’s wearing slips drunkenly over one eye. Her hair is shaved over her ear and a thick, barely healed scar snakes up from the back of her neck and around the top of her ear. Car accident?

  Believe that if you want to.

  ‘Sorry ma’am, could you repeat the request?’ she says.

  ‘The exit. How do I get the fu… how do I get out of here?’

  ‘Out?’

  It takes all my strength to resist punching her in the face.

  Calm down. Try again.

  ‘What time does this place open?’

  ‘It is open, ma’am.’

  ‘How do customers get here from the mall?’

  ‘Can you repeat your request, ma’am?’

  I slam my palm on the counter, and she jumps slightly. ‘For fuck’s sake! Where’s the fucking exit?’

  ‘Exit?’

  ‘What are you, a fucking echo?’

  The girl taps the name badge attached to her shirt. There’s a bloody fingerprint on it. ‘I’m Tracy.’

  But the name badge reads: ‘Doug’.

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘Okay!’

  She grins blankly and disappears behind the counter again.

  Fuck.

  Now what?

  Back to the parking lot.

  ‘No way,’ I mutter under my breath.

  You’d easily make it to the other side.

  There’s no way I’m doing that. Then something strikes me. Maybe there’s an exit in one of the cinemas? Of course! A fire exit. There must be, surely?

  Don’t be so sure.

  Ignoring the voice of doom, I head back towards the pillars. But as I approach, the double doors leading into the theatres start to edge open. I slip in behind the Cinderella display. There’s a small cut-out space between the figures, and I have a perfect view.

  Someone’s emerging. It’s a guy, way too skinny, dressed in filthy rags and with matted, ropy blonde dreadlocks that fall halfway down his back. He looks nervously around him, and creeps towards the large rubbish bin just outside the doors. He rummages in it, pulls out a cardboard container and a giantsized slush cup, and shoves them into the plastic bag he’s carrying. He’s mumbling to himself and keeps darting his head around like an animal continually checking for predators. Unlike the robotic retard behind the refreshment counter he looks… alive. And judging from his wide eyes and trembling hands he’s scared. The expression on his face mirrors exactly how I’m feeling. Bizarrely, this is reassuring.

  I step out from behind the display.

  ‘Hi!’ I say, not knowing what else to start with. ‘Can you help me?’

  He looks up and our eyes lock. His mouth falls open, and I’m treated to the sight of mossy teeth. Tucking the plastic bag’s handles into his belt, he slips back through the doors. They close behind him with a crump.

  Should I follow?

  No!

  Ignoring the voice, I stalk towards the rope. Something clamps around my wrist, and swallowing the scream, I jump, whirl round and try and pull myself free. There’s an old woman on her hands and knees next to me, gnarled fingers digging into my wrist.

  ‘What the fuck? Let go!’

  She looks up at me and grins, showing off a set of wooden teeth. ‘Ticket please, dear!’

  Fuck me. ‘What?’

  ‘Ticket please, dear!’

  I try and pull out of her grip, but she’s strong. Using my free hand, I grab her index finger and yank it back sharply, and she finally loosens her grasp. I must have hurt her quite badly, but she doesn’t show any signs of pain. And holy shit… there’s a metal cuff attached to her ankle, a chain leading from it to one of the pillars. How come I didn’t see her before?

  Probably curled up like the popcorn girl. Waiting for a customer.

  The woman absentmindedly shakes her injured hand.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

  ‘Me? I’m fine dear. Just perfect.’ Her eyes are as vacant as the popcorn girl’s. Maybe more so. Like the eyes on those mannequins that Dan and I had to climb over in the tunnels. ‘Can I please see your ticket?’

  ‘I don’t have a ticket.’

  ‘You can’t go past the red ropes without a ticket, dear,’ she says. ‘Unless you are a Shopper, of course. Are you?’

  What the fuck is she talking about? ‘Please! I have to—’

  ‘The ticket seller will happily sell you a ticket, dear.’

  ‘I don’t have any money.’

  ‘Ticket, please!’

  ‘I don’t have a fucking ticket!’

  Something flickers in her eyes – some sign of life – then, almost immediately, it dwindles again.

  ‘What’s going on here? Why are you chained up?’

  ‘Chained, dear?’

  Now I’m sure her expression just shifted. ‘Help me!’ I say to her. ‘Please! I have to get out of here.’

  ‘Ticket, please!’

  Rhoda, let’s just go. Let’s go back to the car park. Take our chances. Get back to the phone shop. This situation is fucked.

  I try pleading with the woman again. ‘I really need some help.’

  ‘May I see your ticket?’

  That’s it. I’ve had enough. The anger is starting to build and I welcome it. I’ve been scared for so long now that any other emotion is a relief. I ste
p forward, and she scuttles in front of me, moving alarmingly quickly on her hands and knees.

  Rhoda! Don’t do anything stupid!

  I stare straight at her. ‘Okay. Now listen to me very closely, you fucked-up bitch. Are you going to let me pass, or am I going to have to fight my way through you?’

  There’s a part of me, a nasty cold part, that would relish this. I dig my hands in my pocket, fingers curling over the knife’s handle.

  Beating up old ladies, very nice.

  The woman looks at me blankly, and then suddenly her mouth twists into a vicious snarl. I back away – I can’t help it – but she doesn’t approach.

  That’s it. Come on. Back to the parking lot. She’s mad. Don’t take any chances.

  My phone beeps. Keeping the old woman in my sights, I quickly scan the message.

 

  What is this shit? I step forward again.

  ‘Are you going to let me pass? Last chance.’

  The animal grimace is now gone from her face. She glances at the phone and nods. ‘Of course. Go ahead, dear. Enjoy your movie.’

  Holding my breath, I walk past her and climb over the red rope.

  No! Go back!

  ‘You won’t like what you find,’ the old woman says from behind me, her voice as flat and dead as her eyes.

  ‘That’ll make a fucking change, then.’ I spit the words out.

  If you do this, you’re on your own.

  ‘Good.’

  I head towards the black doors, and, without looking back, push my way through and into a darkened corridor, lined with double doors.

  I wait for the voice in my head to protest.

  It doesn’t. It’s gone.

  I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.

  I head down the corridor, pushing against each door as I go. Each one is flanked by more of those warped movie posters. I pass an insanely grinning Sandra Bullock in Schmaltz, a smug Morgan Freeman in Token Black President and an ashen-faced Robert Pattinson in Borderline Stalker, but all of the doors seem to be locked. I can make out the faint traces of various movie soundtracks floating out from behind them: a scream here, an explosion there, a burst of canned laughter from behind another. There’s only one left to try at the end of the corridor. Last chance. I push it tentatively, and it gives.