Face (6 page)

             
“You’ve gotta keep your eyes open...I nearly...Jesus!”

It’s her teeth when she talks, forward- set incisors, like a vampire. I realise I am seeing
my second ever Maverick, in the flesh. (Third if you count my own face.) She is making big gestures of ownership of the road, and he goes all deferential-charming, leaning an elbow on the bonnet.  I can’t hear his voice, but I see his face beginning to work; her lips slide back over those incredible pointed teeth. His square, super-masculine face lowers causing his fine hair to slide forward like curtains and the show is over. He moves towards us, the spectators. She is left with a car emergency-braked in the road in front of a rapidly dispersing crowd. Her face fills with something, because suddenly his words don’t work any longer- not without the down-turned face, the sorry eyes to back them up.

             
“Remember to watch where you’re going!” she snaps at his retreating back.

He has reached the pavement and swipes at his hair and
I stagger back from the sunbursts in his eyes.

             
“How about
you
stay the hell out of the driver’s seat?” His pointer finger stabs at the air.

A
n unrepaired scar follows the line of muscle down his left forearm. The NurtureFaced observer beside me swivels her double buggy out of his path. She turns to me once he’s gone.

“You see her teeth
?” she hisses.

I nod, taking care to hold my own face in neutral.
Although the guy was evidently some kind of psycho- those baby eyes are designed to avoid a prison sentence- she was the monster. The Maverick. I wonder what her friends say. Does she have a boyfriend, a husband? Where is she headed, with those predatory teeth? A face of unanswered questions.

The double doors to the
Health Centre open before my approach, seemingly evidence of my diseased status. Smell the flowers, an outdoorsy aroma, and a distraction from the collection of illnesses of the day, as carried off by the locals. The reception desk is red, the heart of the building. Corridors of red, white and blue lead off in three directions, a strange kind of patriotism for the unwell. Health posters break up the colours of the walls: the largest urges me to monitor my metabolism, review my medication quarterly. An image of flesh starting to rise over a waistband: Act Now.

The receptionist
is a 3D face on a screen set into the front desk, she is working from home today. It’s a round and functional sort of face.
Well?
Say her eyes. There are targets to be met.

“
Analyzer please.” It comes out croaky.

The
sudden warmth of the Health Centre triggers my nose to start streaming and my eyes water at the fake floral aroma, it’s like I’m being juiced from inside. The giant wodge of tissues in my jeans pocket refuses to budge.

             
“Cold is it?” The receptionist says. (Couldn’t they have employed someone with a NutureFace, maybe a bit softer around the mouth?)

She is nodding
, apparently having made the diagnosis to her own satisfaction. I find myself nodding along.

             
“Waiting room on the red corridor please. There’s a ten minute wait.”

As I walk away s
omething clicks into place about her face: that was the puffiness of pregnancy. She’d have planned it all out, you can tell by the whole aura of efficiency. No baby hunger there, just a normal woman.

             
At the end of the red corridor is a waiting room marked ‘Analyzers,’ and a dose of wild flowers jets from the door frame as I pass under, catching in my throat. A woman with heavy-lidded pink eyes turns to her heavy-lidded companion to continue their conversation, but it comes out as a series of hacking coughs. I avoid their polite smiles. I haven’t worked out how to respond to those yet.

             
“Those nanobots sure are heavy on the scent today,” the companion confirms, and sniffs her cardigan. “I’ve got that special take-away Health Centre perfume.”

             
“Must be an epidemic coming...” her friend croaks. They both cough.

J
aunty classical music plays in the background, none of us look up to prancing around in here. It’s pumped out to mask the sound of people spitting politely in the booths. The trick is to spit in time to the crescendos. The sound of a spitter out of sight rises with shameless efficiency over the sound of the music: tuh...tuh! Puh!

             
“Scrunch your tongue at the top of your mouth. Now imagine biting into an orange.”

Something that Dad said once, a
long time ago.

             
My tongue is parched. I’ve sat next to a guy, you can tell he’s ancient because he’s got one of those familiar faces plucked out of history. Faces that crop up in documentaries, discussing their childhood experiences: an ElvisFace, that’s it. He’s staring at the wall opposite, fixated on a sketch that’s been there as long as I can remember, of a sunset over the sea, not too convincing. Elvis’ hand forms a fist on the hand rest, the skin is taught and dull with dryness, starting to flake on his face. His head begins to slowly turn so I study the sunset, inhale the wild flowers, still potent through a blocked nose.

             
“I think I’m in the wrong room.” Elvis says at last, with the hint of a sneer.

             
“Rejuvenations are on the white corridor, go back out to reception and take a right.” My polite smile flat-lines but Elvis doesn’t seem to notice.

He rises
from the seat beside me and I hold my breath as he gets a parting spray. Two heavy-lidded pairs of eyes, seductive and possibly infectious, follow Elvis out.

             
My phone bleeps a message. Grateful for the distraction, I rock onto my left hip and ease it out of my pocket. Now, I’m not one to judge, normally, but what sort of a twisted ghoul does the new boy take me for? I mean, exactly what sort of freak is he?

True,

I th
ought about your repeated request in the library and have decided to send you a picture of me.

Can we be friends now?

Cliff.

Cliff has attached an action shot of Dollar in his most famous role as detective Rex Rayne, running away from the bad guys. It’s a crop of his head and shoulders from the film poster from Rex Rayne: The Choice. He glances back in the act of escape, and the beam of a helicopter searchlight illuminates his determined face. But wait- there’s two more images: the second is one of those vintage cartoons, the mouthy rabbit that’s always eating carrots: Bugs Bunny! The final image is an old style photo, 2D, just the front of a boy’s face rendered flat. He’s sent me a Natural.

I shut the message, glance around the waiting room and draw myself back to reality. Study the sunset. Decide that he’s lying. That Natural was older, a young man of eighteen or nineteen at least. But Naturals always look older then they are, they can’t help it, they have their lives etched onto their only faces. The boy looked angry. No. With Cliff, it’s the voice. Grown-ups talk like they are entitled. Boys talk like the tide, bluster and retreat. Cliff is sixteen; I know that Natural isn’t him.

Another message arrives
and I nearly drop the phone because it’s from Cliff, again. I flinch as it opens, is this encouraging him? Exhale when I discover it’s not pictures.

I’m in town, saw you walking into Health Centre. Want to meet? (Clue: I’m not currently being picked out by a helicopter searchlight.)

I am surprisingly calm. My instinct is to fast text no, but the other half of me is kinder. Be charitable to the new boy because he won’t be making any friends soon? Evidence of humour is not enough new boy; nothing makes up for a Natural out of the blue. I stare at the words, waiting for my dilemma to resolve itself.

I’m outside and I’m afraid I don’t look like Dollar. I’m nicer than I look.

              “True O’Reilly? Your turn.”

T
he waiting room is down to the last two, me and a teenager who wasn’t here before.  He looks like many other boys, but sounds irritated. I realise I’ve heard my name before and there it is, flashing on the screen: please proceed to booth four. The classical music accelerates, a desperate sawing on strings. Get a move on.

             
I pass through the open doorway, start rolling my tongue on the top of my mouth, as I approach the Analyzer. The Analyzer is tucked behind a clear screen, protected from flying samples. A disposable pink tray to aim for. The music peaks again so I spit. Pause to check over my shoulder: is Cliff really waiting outside? Would he come in? I spit again.

I confirm
my identity and post the pink tray into the Analyzer. My Common Cold is identified in an instant and ‘Medicines are Dispensing: request an appointment with your Doctor if symptoms remain after 24 hours.’ I find myself wishing the queue was longer today, I’ve got the time for an epidemic. The throat spray rolls into my open palm, I crack open the lid, aim the nozzle somewhere beyond my teeth and release, one, two, three squirts and a mist of flavourless nanobots coat my tender throat. First problem resolved. I am now in need of advice.

I
duck into the corridor and head straight for the toilets. Push on the sign of the lady. Call my best friend.

             
“Seven, listen, I need your advice. I’m being followed.”

It sounds like something Rex Rayne would say. S
even’s eyes circle, frantic flecks of green.

             
“What? Where are you?”

             
“It’s really creeping me out.”

Seven’s
eyes search mine, she’s hooked.

             
“Explain yourself.”

             
“I’m in the Health Centre, right. Remember Cliff?”

Seven looks b
lank, shakes her head.

             
“The new boy, disappeared under the molecular model?”

             
“Yeah! He was using Dollar’s avatar. How did he-”

             
“Listen. He just sent me these weird pictures out of the blue.”

             
“What
sort
of pictures?”

             
“Not
that
sort of pictures -they’re only faces! He says they’re pictures of him, but there are three: Dollar as Rex Rayne; Bugs Bunny... and a Natural.”

I wait
for her to process to the end of the list.

             
“Oh my God. He’s a Natural.”

             
“No, wait, the Natural’s face- it was an older guy. It wasn’t him.”

             
“Well he sure isn’t Dollar. Why would anyone do that? Make out they’re a Natural if they aren’t?”

             
“Joke?”

             
“Oh, you mean it was one of
those
Naturals, the really gross ones that everybody sends around?”

             
“It wasn’t a funny picture. It was just a Natural, in 2D, staring straight at the camera in a kind of a bad mood.”

             
“It’s aggressive?! This is scary True...”

             
“I know it isn’t him.”

             
“Did he say what he wants?”

             
“He might tell me in a minute- he’s waiting outside.”

             
“You’ve got a stalker!”

             
“I met him in the Library yesterday, he asked for help downloading an assignment but he wouldn’t turn his webcam on.”

             
“I’m going to message him right now, tell him to leave you alone.”

             
“No don’t!”

             
“Fine. Go outside and look at him. Get a photo, send it straight to me. Then run.”

             
“Oh right, just shove my phone in his face and run off screaming?  Subtle.”

             
“And following someone is subtle?”

             
“I think he just recognised me on the High Street.”

             
“You look a mess by the way.”

             
“I hardly slept! I can’t breathe properly, I only just did the throat spray. I’m not up to confronting anyone.”

             
“Sneak outside and get a photo.”

             
“I can’t, it’s massive double doors isn’t it? When I get near them they’ll fly open and it will be just me and him face to face.”