The Mall Page 16

  ‘Hang on. You mean this woman – this Napumla – is here? In the mall?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How can she be here if she got out?’

  ‘She came back,’ Ben says.

  ‘What the fu— why did she do that?’

  ‘They always do,’ Palesa says. ‘Always.’

  ‘And you’re saying that she’s working here?’

  Ben nods. ‘Working or Shopping. It’s hard to know.’

  ‘Where? Which shop?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Ben says. He’s lying.

  ‘And what about you? How did you end up like this? Did you fail the interview or something?’

  Palesa stiffens. ‘Like we said. We made the choice. Just like you will have to choose.’

  Christ almighty. That’s it. Time to split.

  ‘Is there another way into the mall from here?’

  Ben shakes his head. ‘No.’

  Shit. I really don’t want to go back out through the cinema.

  ‘Will you come with me?’ I say to Ben. ‘To find my friend?’

  ‘But why would you want to leave?’ Palesa says softly. ‘You can stay with us.’

  I can’t stop the snort of disgust, and with it I get another noseful of shit smell. ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’

  I look straight at Ben. ‘Will you help me?’

  He drops his eyes, but doesn’t respond.

  ‘Rhoda?’ Palesa says. ‘Can I show you something?’

  She stands up alarmingly quickly and this time the chair does topple over as I try to move away from her, dumping me on the floor. I jar my elbow on the severed leg of a mannequin, but I jump to my feet as fast as possible.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ Ben asks, but he doesn’t sound too concerned.

  ‘No. Look, I think I should—’

  ‘Wait,’ Palesa says. ‘I want to show you something. Something… beautiful.’

  She leans closer to me, and underneath the grime on the skin around her mouth I can make out several large circular sores that look barely healed. And there’s something in her eyes – something shining and dangerous – that I really don’t like. I pull out the knife, keeping it close to my thigh where she can’t see it.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. Probably best to humour her. There are two of them, one of me.

  She moves over towards the large packing crate and beckons me forward. Ben stays seated on the mattress, but if it looks like he’s about to move then I’ll have to make a run for it. Fight my way out if I have to.

  ‘Come,’ Palesa says. ‘Come and see.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s my art,’ she says.

  ‘Our hobby,’ Ben says proudly.

  I edge nearer to the box. Despite myself, I’m curious. Smiling at me, she slowly pulls the sheet off it. Whatever’s inside it stinks even worse than the toilet bucket – I’m hit with a blast of that feral, animal odour – and I have to cover my mouth with my hand again to stop myself from gagging. I look down into the box. I can’t tell what it is at first. It’s just a writhing mass of fur, about the size of a small dog. It’s making a mewling sound, and gradually I start to make out more features of the thing – several beady eyes, and a knot of hairless, clumped-together tails.

  Oh God.

  ‘I start when they’re babies,’ Palesa says. ‘With their tails. That way they become one. One organism. In His family. Do you see?’

  Oh fucking hell. I suddenly realise what I’m looking at. Bile floods into my mouth before I can stop it and I bend over and throw up the undigested popcorn.

  The thing in the cage is a knitted-together mass of rat bodies.

  I wipe my mouth, gag again and start backing away from her, clicking the button on the flick-knife and holding it in front of me.

  ‘You’re sick,’ I say. ‘Fucking sick.’

  ‘Where are you going, Rhoda?’ Ben says.

  ‘Stay away from me!’

  I start backing towards the opening that leads to the crawlspace. Ben stays seated on the mattress, but Palesa takes a step towards me.

  ‘Stay away! I’m warning you!’

  ‘We’re not going to hurt you, Rhoda,’ Palesa says in that disturbingly soft voice.

  I retch again, but there’s nothing left to come up.

  ‘We want to help you. Make it easier for you,’ Ben says.

  ‘Make what easier?’

  ‘Your decision to take up our path, of course,’ Palesa says.

  I’m nearly at the opening, but I’m going to have to turn my back on them to pull myself into the crawlspace.

  ‘Stay the fuck away from me!’ I say, my voice wobbling.

  ‘You’ll be back,’ Palesa says. ‘We’ll see you soon.’

  ‘In your fucking dreams, bitch!’ I say. I make a running jump for the opening in the wall, chucking the knife ahead of me, and kicking back with my legs as I pull my way up and into the crawlspace, just in case Palesa tries to grab at them.

  ‘Good luck, Rhoda!’ Ben calls. ‘Come and see us again soon!’

  ‘We love you!’ Palesa’s voice echoes behind me.

  I scramble for the knife and shove it back into my pocket. Without Ben’s torch, the crawlspace is pitch black and I grope my way along blindly, knocking my knees and elbows on the rough side of the concrete walls, fuelled by panic. How far did it extend? I can’t remember, but I concentrate on putting as much distance between me and those sick fucks as I can.

  When I estimate that I must be nearing the end of the crawlspace I slow down, holding my hand out in front of me, not wanting to bash my head on the wall. Finally my fingers touch the rungs of the makeshift rope ladder that leads up towards the panel in the cinema’s floor. I carefully pull myself up into a standing position and try to catch my breath.

  Now for the fun part.

  My imagination runs overtime as I steel myself for the worst: a circle of freaks with sharp gnashing teeth waiting to grab me; the Elephant Man thing leaning down to pull me up by my face. But let’s be honest. How can whatever’s waiting for me be more horrific than what I’ve just seen?

  Before I lose my nerve, I scramble up the rope ladder and heave open the trapdoor. I pull myself up and out, wincing as I’m hit with a blast of light. The cinema is fully lit, the screen blank and dead. I look around frantically, but the seats are all empty. In the bright light the place looks shoddy and neglected: the chairs are threadbare and the carpet is scuffed, filthy and covered in dark brown stains. Taking a second to breathe clean(ish) air, I heave myself up, stalk up the aisle and push through into the corridor.

  I’m sprinting as I reach the lobby, and I don’t even pause to see if the old woman is at her post by the pillar. I leap over the red rope and hare towards the padded doors. It’s eerily quiet in here now, and even the popcorn machine is silent. The place has the aura of an abandoned movie set and the desperation to get out of here as fast as possible is turning into barely controlled panic again. The padded doors swing open easily and my feet crunch over the discarded popcorn as I head towards the door that leads into the parking lot. I reach for the handle. My phone beeps. I ignore it.

  It beeps again.

  Fuck it. If I don’t go now I could lose my nerve. But still. I rip the phone out of my pocket and thumb through to the messages. My hands are shaking like crazy and I almost drop the phone.

  Both are from ‘Your Service Provider’.

 

  I click onto the next.

 

  ‘Fuck you,’ I say under my breath. Then I turn the handle and, without looking back, walk through into the parking lot.

  chapter 18

  DANIEL

  At first, Sweat Shop looks like any other Edgars department store but as I drift down the aisles looking for some clothes – some ‘apparel’ – for the interview, I no
tice what looks like a funfair mirror on a column. It somehow contorts my body double and gives me giant hyperbaric eyes. I stare at the mirror, trying to figure out how the hunchback illusion works, when my reflection gasps at me wetly, ‘Can I help you?’

  Fuck. Not a reflection. A fucking customer. Move on, Dan. ‘Sorry,’ I mumble as I scuttle off. Remember what you’re here for. You need to progress to the next level. Don’t get caught up in the distracting detail.

  A signboard dangling above me indicates directions to Fattened, Amputees, Abnormal and, painted in gold script, Shoppers. Judging by what Colt said about her own body shape, I guess I should start at Abnormal. I should have asked her what I would be expected to wear at the interview. But if I go back now she’ll probably just give me the ‘How can I help you, sir?’ routine again. I always wear jeans and a T-shirt to work but that android at the bookshop was wearing a suit.

  And I know now it’s not my bookshop. It’s not my mall.

  I’m not at home. This place – whatever it is – is so much like Highgate Mall, but then again so different. The people are the weirdest part. Most of them are really freakish, but they walk around buying clothes, having coffee, trying on shoes and hats as if they’re normal. I’m struggling to get my head around it, but I can’t think about that now.

  At last I find the Abnormal clothes in the dingiest corner of the shop, just near the emergency escape door and the workers’ tea room. They’re shoved on the shelves and in display crates in no particular order and I have to scuffle through the piles before I eventually find something in my size. A suit will look too desperate, I guess, but jeans too casual, so I opt for a pair of blue chinos and a blue-striped shirt with a grey tie. That has to be neat enough. The idea of wearing these fucking Bradley-clothes makes me sick. My skin crawls at the thought of starchy trousers and choking button shirts. But I’ll never get through the interview test if I don’t play properly. I head to the changing room. I usually never try clothes on – my jeans are 32/32 and my shirts are L – but I make an exception here.

  As I walk in to the over-bright booth, a fan of rebounding reflections spreads before me. A rush of nausea hits me without warning and I have to crouch down and hide my face in my hands. My body remembers the massive mirrored hall Rhoda and I were in. Most of all I remember our own stink and filth in that room; we were shit-smeared and piss-drenched, covered with the effluence of that elephant creature and the sewage we swam through. Every detail of the reek comes back to me now, making me feel as disgusting as I did then. I can’t look at myself; I turn to face the changing-room door. As I strip off my trousers and shirt, the bruises and smears all over my body seem to hover over my skin under the buzzing neon light.

  When I put on the new clothes, the panic attack is gone as quickly as it came. Now I can look at myself again. The clothes are fine. Ish. The trousers are a little loose, too much space in the hips, too thin at the ankle. The shirt is baggy and has a large flap sewn into the back, which I have to crumple down to get the shirt to fit half-decently. They’re fine; I don’t want to spend any more time in here than necessary. I have to keep cool. I can’t allow myself to be blindsided by emotional reactions again. I need to stay in the zone if I’m going to make it out of here. Just hurry up and pay and get to the interview. I strip the new clothes off and put on my jeans and T-shirt.

  As I bend over to tie my laces I glimpse a flicker of movement in the mirror. A flash of blonde hair, of pink skin. I spin around instinctively, despite knowing in my mind that I won’t see anything. The shape moves across the mirror like a pendulum swinging, but if I look at it directly it isn’t there. Catching it just right, in my peripheral vision, it looks like a lifesize doll of Josie. The same blonde haircut. Swing. Nothing. Swing. Those long legs. Swing. Gone. Swing. A red mess in the middle. Swing. Nothing. The neon flashes off. Darkness. Flash. Swing. The red streaming under and over her skirt, down her legs. Darkness. A heavy thump. Lights on. Nothing but my face. Wide eyes, pupils contracting.

  Josie.

  It’s just a game. It’s just a game. They’re just fucking with me. They just want to distract me. But my mind is shuddering with horror. I have to keep it in.

  Repressing the urge to vomit, I take the clothes to the counter. The skinny girl behind it regards me with a complex look of disgust and pity – a look I’m quickly becoming used to. I dig the gel token out of my pocket and place it on the counter. She picks it up with a claw made of a long thumb and forefinger. The other three fingers on her right hand have been neatly amputated below the second knuckle, their stumps painted decoratively with lacquer stars and moons. The little stumps wiggle as she picks up the token.

  She swipes the gel in front of her terminal and gives me a sad look. ‘I apologise, sir,’ she says. ‘This is a Customer Care Officer’s token. You need to select CCO apparel from the CCO office.’ She points across the shop to a door marked Customer Care Officers.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘It’s only a pleasure, sir,’ she says with a missionary smile, smoothing her stringy brown hair with her claw. ‘It’s always a pleasure to assist… visitors… to make the right choice.’

  The door to the back office is made of heavy steel painted a matt white. I push at it and it swings open onto a long stretch of unadorned concrete lined with blue and red pipes and electrical conduits. Galvanised doors are set into the wall every dozen paces or so. I walk down the corridor, trying each door, but they are all locked. Further down the corridor, the neon strip lighting seems to get higher and duller until at the end of the corridor there is just a nauseating yellow wash. That must be it.

  I make it down to the last door. I try the handle. It seems stuck.

  I knock.

  This corridor reminds me of fear, of running from that snotrasping, screaming-elephant thing. I remember its breathing, its dripping saliva.

  I knock again.

  ‘Yes? Come in.’

  I wrench the handle again and it gives.

  The woman behind the desk in the Customer Care Officers’ office looks at me indifferently. The room is lined with rails of clothes, and the shop’s muzak pipes from the ceiling. ‘I’m Going Through Changes’? I try to slow my breathing as the woman watches, her wooden foot tap-tap-tapping impatiently at the modesty board of the desk. I hold up my gel token and she points me across the room to a couple of bins marked Returns beside an old-fashioned changing screen.

  ‘You’ll find plenty of Abnormals there,’ she calls after me.

  The only clothes I can dig out that look anywhere near my size are a satiny suit jacket in silver and black candy stripes and a pair of matching trousers with a complex Velcro fly. A ruffled canary-yellow shirt completes the outfit. I try it on behind the screen, worrying that the woman at the desk can see me, or worse, smell me from there. I can see her, but she’s reading a magazine, her wooden foot going tap tap tap. There’s only a small shaving mirror hanging on a hook behind the screen and I take it down and scan myself.

  I look like a fucking clown. Or someone from a New Romantic boy band. I try losing the yellow shirt and just keeping the T-shirt on under the jacket, but that looks even worse. All I would need is a pork pie hat and I’m some naff fucker straight from VH1 Classic. I put the shirt back on. Oh well.

  I keep the ensemble on and present the woman with my token. She swipes it at the machine.

  ‘Interviewing today?’ she asks. I nod. ‘Good luck.’ She looks pointedly at my dirty boots.

  ‘Thanks.’

  I swear I can feel something slick in the crotch of the trousers, but I try to shove the thought out of my head. I didn’t have the stomach to try on any underpants from the returns bin, and I regret throwing mine away at Lonly Books. I try not to think of who returned these clothes; and the more I try not to, the larger the parade of suppurating freaks passing through my mind grows. Maybe a leper, someone with seeping sores. I feel an itch in my crotch, spreading over my thighs. I swear there’s a sticky patch.

>   ‘Are you all right, sir?’ asks the desk-woman.

  I’m just imagining it. I’m just imagining it.

  ‘Uh, yes. Thanks.’

  Don’t scratch your penis, Daniel, it’s a filthy habit.

  I have to get out of here. I have to get to the interview.

  I’m just imagining it.

  chapter 19

  RHODA

  I made it.

  I lean against the parking lot’s door and wait for the stitch in my side to fade. My panicked sprint through the car park has used up my last reserves of energy (and probably sanity), and my chest aches from drawing in jagged, hungry breaths. I try to concentrate on the plinkety-plonk of the mall’s muzak to ground myself. The limousine was still in its impossible parking bay, and although it had rocked on its suspension springs as I passed it, there was no sign of that creepy syringe guy.

  Maybe I did just imagine him.

  Yeah right. Just like I imagined Elephant Head in the movie theatre and Horrible Rat Woman and the twisted text messages and the rest of the fucked-up shit that’s been happening.

  So now what?

  First priority: find Dan, and then try and track down that woman Ben the Freak said had escaped this nightmare.

  Should be a piece of cake.

  NOT.

  Brilliant. The schizo voice is back. Just what I need right now.

  From down the corridor there’s a burst of laughter, followed by the clip-clop of approaching footsteps. A couple is heading along the aisle towards me. It looks like they’ve just exited a shop that – judging from the bright pink signage painted on the windows (Get Nailed!) and the giant plastic hand display – sells nothing but fingernails. The guy must be over two metres tall; his head looks too square for his body, as if it’s actually a breezeblock balancing on top of his head, and the woman clinging to his arm is staggering on towering translucent stripper heels. Her sequined dress barely covers her bum and the shoes are so high that her calf muscles stand out like lumpy knots of wood. Both of them are spray-tanned a vibrant orange, and even from here, a good ten metres away, I can make out the extraordinary amount of make-up on the woman’s face: lipstick smeared over the edges of her mouth like a clown’s smile; drag-queen eyelashes stuck onto her lids. Both are clutching giant plastic bags bulging with goods.