Authors: J. Kent Messum
Husk
HUSK
PENGUIN BOOKS
J. Kent Messum is an author and musician who always bets on the underdog. His debut novel
Bait
won the Arthur Ellis Award for Best First Novel in 2014. He currently lives in Toronto with his wife, dog and a trio of cats.
For my parents
who raised me right
At a popular pub in London’s Shoreditch, a striking woman in her mid-twenties leans against a varnished oak bar with a male companion. The clink of glassware and cool sounds of the Miles Davis Quintet fill the air. They drink overpriced martinis and talk business. It is her last night in the city and she yearns to be gone. Her body aches, particularly her ass. Her pelvis feels bruised,
underwear is uncomfortable. The inside of her nose burns and itches from illegal substances, but she cannot say what kind. The nasal drip coats her ragged sore throat. The pub is crowded enough for a fifteen-year-old boy from a council estate to sneak inside and avoid the attention of the staff. He looks broken, red-rimmed eyes, shoulders slumped, hair erratic. When he sees the beautiful woman
at the bar he approaches and confronts her.
He tells her he loves her, needs her, that he can’t live without her. The woman is caught off guard, her companion even more so. The boy asks why she chose him, why she would spend two entire days with him, naked in a hotel room, taking his virginity, defiling his body, feeding him blue pills and feasting on their effect, only to leave suddenly without
saying a word. The woman does not recall doing this. She announces to the entire pub that she has never seen the teen before, does not know who he is.
The boy falls to his knees and bursts into tears. He covers his face with his hands, ashamed. Only then does she notice blood soaked into the cuffs of his shirtsleeves, the suicide attempt that could not be completed until he saw her one last time.
Outside a Paris café, in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, an attractive older woman dressed in high fashion approaches a handsome young man trying to sip his fresh Americano on the patio. She speaks sternly to him. The look he gives her in return is blank. He doesn’t speak the language. When he doesn’t respond she becomes irate, grabbing a handful of her breast with one hand and gesturing angrily
with the other. Spittle flies from her lips. The young man leans back in his chair, trying to explain that he doesn’t know who she is or what she wants, trying to explain that he’s just killing time until his flight back home. The woman leans in and spits in his coffee, then slaps him hard across the face. The man just sits there, mouth agape, stunned. This isn’t the reaction the woman wants, so
she grabs the cup and dashes the scalding contents in his face.
The man’s screams are a strange mix of pain, dismay and rage. In an instant he is up from his seat, knocking over the table, throwing all of his weight on his attacker. The woman is so shocked she barely fights back as he tackles her to the ground. Still screaming, he punches her in the mouth repeatedly until most of her teeth lie
at the back of her throat in a well of blood. Then he takes her head and smashes it against the paving stones until it no longer feels solid in his hands. Straddling the body, the young man glances at the café windows and with one
good eye sees the reflection of second-degree burns covering his face. He is ruined.
In an upscale Manhattan strip club a man in his mid-thirties occupies a private
booth near the back of the establishment. His rugged good looks complement his height as he towers over the Asian dancers amassed around his table. Classic nineties R&B hammers out of the speakers suspended from the ceiling. A mirror-ball casts thousands of bright splinters over the naked breasts and tanned bodies that vie for his attention. He peels hundred-dollar bills from a wad and gives them
out absent-mindedly, for he is no longer interested in any of the girls. His attention is focused on himself, the thoughts in his head, and the other personality that has been trying to emerge for the last few hours.
The man sits down heavily on the sofa and stares at a glass of red wine on the table before him. He slowly runs his finger around the rim, creating a hum that is instantly drowned
by the club’s music. His head feels as though it might explode, or implode, he can’t decide. Left eyelid won’t stop fluttering. A twitch develops in both cheeks. He gets up to go, but abruptly sits back down, confused, trying to think of something to say to the dancers who are starting to regard him with concern. All he can do is look at them, eyes panicked, dilated pupils in irises of soothing
blue surrounded by bloodshot jelly-white whipping back and forth in the strobe lights. His mouth has dried to desert. Teeth feel as if they are grinding into dust.
One of the more nervous girls leaves as an all-out war begins to rage inside his head. The thudding of his heart
brings forth sweat and tears. A bouncer enters the booth to ask if everything is to his liking. He can’t help but lash
out and drive his fists into the man’s face, dropping the heavy enforcer to the ground before chopping one of the strippers in the neck and crushing her windpipe. The others stare in shock as the man begins smashing his face against the table, knocking over drinks, trying to shake something loose inside. The more he breaks and bruises his grey matter, the more bloated the personalities become, drunk
on blood, swelling inside his skull until he is screaming. Something cobalt-blue is clenched in his grip, his rigid thumb crushing a glowing red button. He drops to the floor, slamming his forehead against tiles. The dancers squeal as fluid, running dark and thick, exits from his ears, looking like oil underneath the club’s black-lights.
Who do you think you are?
The way I hear it in my head, it’s not so much a question as an accusation.
‘… Researchers at the University of Boston announced today that they have successfully mapped the human brain. Using advanced computer technology, a virtual
copy of the human mind is now a reality. Researchers say the ramifications are massive, and will be releasing further statements in the coming weeks. In light of their success, some of the world’s most prominent companies have already offered to fund future research with millions of dollars in –’
I stop the recording, my reminder of the day things completely changed. It’s good for me to remember
my roots, my prior situations, especially with the way things have been going lately. You don’t hear much about that day any more. What little you may come across is refuted as techno-myth, unsupported evidence, some premature ejaculation of the scientific community. I remember the story sank as quickly as it surfaced, relegated mostly to a handful of independent websites and a quick mention at
the end of a few nightly newscasts that left viewers with: ‘We’ll keep you posted …’ or ‘More to surely come on this …’
Except no follow-up reports were ever made. Social
networks buzzed about it for half a day. Mainstream media never touched it again. Sure, a bunch of masturbating wrecks stationed at their self-built PCs howled about it for a couple weeks, fingers typing furiously, demanding
updates, but radio silence pervaded until they were beaten back by their own boredom. In the wake of this great discovery the information blackout followed fast. Researchers renounced their findings, suddenly said the results were inconclusive. The initial reports were dissolved through distraction, sinking under the weight of the media’s 24/7 updates of more unimportant matters. Worldwide ADD made
it easy. Eventually the whole thing dried up, no trace left, as if the breakthrough had never occurred. There was a containment plan, there always had been, and it worked like a charm.
Similarly to when researchers announced the cure for cancer, claimed the AIDS vaccine, or had that undisputable clinical proof that exposure to cell phone signals and Wi-Fi fucked up your brain and body over time.
Every statement immediately followed by tumbleweeds as independent studies were being bought out or gagged by the conglomerates. No further comments were made. Information became unavailable to the public. If they didn’t want you to have a cure, there was no way in hell they’d let you have immortality. Why did we ever think different? Death is now optional for a prestigious few, same old natural
selection for the other 99.9 per cent.
When I awoke this morning I was drenched in sweat. The residue of vivid dreams and a sense of panic slipped away with my return to reality. Snippets are all I recall now.
I dreamed of a man named Miller, a colleague and close friend who was accompanying me through a crisis of some kind. When I try to remember more, a smouldering sensation creeps over my
scalp.
I’m in so much goddamn pain right now.
And you’ve earned it.
With everything available from pharmaceutical companies without a prescription these days, pain of any kind is rare. But I resolve to take nothing for it, at least for a while. For me, this pain is a healthy reminder that I’m not in a coma, something I’ve come to appreciate more and more. Standing in my bathroom, I run my fingers
over the bruises on my arms.
You’re a sleepwalker of the worst kind.
‘Not in the mood.’
Stupid whore.
‘Ah, blow me.’
Talking to myself again, a bad habit I’ve picked up in recent weeks. At times my brain generates these internal conversations I’m not in control of. Luckily, no one ever notices. Anyone within earshot figures I’m taking a call through the communications bud in my ear. I’m trying
not to use the earpieces any more though. They cause brain tumours apparently, similar to the cancers that plagued the ageing cell phone and smart-phone generations a while back. I turn my attention to the scratches on my bicep, undoubtedly from fingernails.
Signs of a struggle.
‘Knock it off.’
Signs of life, such as it is.
This rambling split in my psyche sounds smarter than me. I don’t like
it. Too cryptic, too poetic, too old school – no one talks like that. One crude scratch on the back of my hand looks like it might be from something other than fingernails.
Sign of the times.
The bruises on my body are one thing, the scratches another. But what’s most painful is this cramp in my stomach. It seems to reach up through my torso and constrict my heart. Every time I breathe it squeezes
my aorta, a baby hand of blood crushing an adult finger. I half commit to vomiting, glancing at the toilet just in case.
Can’t you read the signs?
‘The less I know the better.’
Learning secrets will sicken you in this business. What you don’t know can’t hurt you. My reflection in the bathroom mirror tells me all I need to know. I’m a regular money-maker, a beat-up beauty. So close to perfection,
yet I feel so incorrect at this moment. Seven hours have elapsed since my last session ended. When I came to I was weak with exhaustion. A couple power naps since has sufficed. The initial pain I’d felt after being revived has not subsided much, however. Both my hands hurt. My left wrist feels close to sprained. There are more scratches, across my left pectoral and a slight one under my right
eye. Most of the bruises are small, but I have a long dark one on my thigh that I particularly don’t like. Looks like I might have been hit with a baseball bat or something.
I was on loan to a Mr Harrison in Chicago. Bit of a
daredevil, as his representative calls him. Likes to take me on adrenalin rush adventures and use me for extreme sporting apparently. By the look of things I’d say he got
his money’s worth. The goods are bashed up pretty good, but all of these injuries don’t bother me half as much as the faded bite marks on the inside of my forearm. They’re not from Harrison. They’re from a client I had before, already one of my least favourites even though he’s become a relatively new regular for me. He’s also one of my best-paying.
I hear the front door of the apartment open,
cueing me to put my shirt back on.
‘You home, Rhodes?’
My roommate, Craig, walks into the den and stops. Whatever he’s carrying falls from his hands and clatters on the ground. I walk out of the bathroom to see him wide-eyed and slack-jawed. He doesn’t even look at me.
‘Oh my God, you got the new HG?’
I nod. He stares unblinking at the brand new HoloGraphic tabletop unit centred on our coffee
table. I can’t tell if Craig is displeased or just in shock. I’m sure he suspects this new toy was picked up on the black market, something that could end our lives as we know it. People like us can’t have nice things like this.
‘Are you fucking nuts? This could land us in the DRIFT.’
Theft of patented technology comes with a mandatory two-year sentence, usually served in conjunction with DRIFT,
the Debt Repayment Initiative to Foreign Territories. If caught and convicted, we’d be shipped to Beijing
and stuck on a chain gang building a new suburbia for the slants, helping America crawl out of the red, make good on its interest payments. The working conditions in China are subhuman. Craig knows this and he’s not happy.
‘It’s completely kosher,’ I say. ‘You can stop shitting your pants.’
No way can I afford the latest in HG technology, but my clients can, and some of them are getting more and more generous with their gifts of late. Craig still isn’t convinced.
‘Dude, you can’t afford –’
I hold up a hand. ‘Someone bought it for me.’
‘Oh.’
Craig is no fool, no matter how much I try to keep him in the dark about my business. Years ago we bartended together, but I moved on to
more lucrative things and he stuck to slinging drinks. The work I do isn’t for everyone. Very few can handle it actually, but it’s a job that comes with many benefits. For the moment, Craig lets his worry slide, his eyes skating over the sexy piece of new tech before us.
‘Christ, what are the dimensions of that sucker?’
I activate the HG with a single command. It blooms in the middle of our
living room like a giant prehistoric flower. Craig takes a step back, mesmerized by the three-dimensional beauty.
‘Sixty-inch radius,’ I say. ‘High def, twelve terabyte network.’
‘Twelve?’
‘The whole dozen,’ I say. ‘It’s got an internal back-up
generator too. No lag ever, not even with the rolling blackouts.’
Craig grins, pleased with this new addition to our place. He hasn’t asked how much
it cost, and I have a feeling he isn’t going to. He walks around the circumference of the HG, running his fingers through the edges of the projection.
‘Sixty-inch radius, eh?’
‘The sound on this sucker is incredible too.’
‘Really?’ Craig asks, stroking his chin. ‘I wanna hear it. Play me something on this beast.’
‘Sure.’
I take out my Liaison 7, the newest one on the market, and point it
at the port sensor, round and glassy like a doll’s eye. A bright blue pupil dilates in the centre. Data transmits and syncs everything on my Liaison to the system in seconds. My favourite playlist starts up. I’m a sucker for the oldies, back when a premium was put on talent, when singers actually had to sing in tune to have a career. Craig nods his head to the beat as Phil Collins belts out ‘Easy
Lover’.
‘Nice. What song is this?’
I frown. ‘ “Easy Lover”.’
‘By who?’
‘C’mon, man, really?’
Craig shrugs. ‘Shit, I don’t know.’
‘It’s Phil fucking Collins.’
‘Phil fucking who?’
I roll my eyes. ‘Phil Collins? You know … the great white hope of the nineteen eighties?’
Craig shrugs again and says nothing, not wanting to get into the argument about music he knows I’m dying to have. He brings
out his older model Liaison 3, and fiddles with the device nervously.
‘Mind if I …?’ Craig asks.
I know he wants a minute or two alone with the HG. Craig’s a film buff, got an archive of movies that would make the Academy jealous, all of them ripped off from the internet. His extensive collection of pre-millennium porn films, back when fake tits looked proper fake and landing strips were in
style, is even more impressive. I know he wants to back them up on my system and start watching them in 3D.
‘Go nuts,’ I reply. ‘I’ve got to get ready anyway. Just encode your stuff before you re-link. I don’t need anyone tracing your pirated shit back to me.’
Craig nods. ‘What you getting ready for?’
‘Las Vegas. I’ll be gone for a couple days on business.’
‘Vegas?’ Craig’s distaste can’t
be disguised. ‘You’re Husking again, aren’t you?’
I shake my head, saying nothing, avoiding eye contact. I pretend something on my Liaison screen is suddenly important and needs my full attention. The tension in the living room rises until Craig grows enough balls to start busting mine.
‘Goddamn it, Rhodes. Why the hell –’
‘Don’t ask if you don’t want to know, Craig. It’s really none of your
business.’
‘It’s illegal, man.’
‘How can it be illegal if virtually nobody knows it exists?’
‘You’re gonna get yourself killed, you know that?’
‘Really?’ I say, pointing at the HG. ‘Because from what I can see, I’ve gone and gotten us the very best money can buy.’
‘Is it worth it?’
I’m not sure how to answer. Craig turns and actually looks me in the face for the first time since he’s been
back in our apartment. He points to his own cheek, where the scratch on mine would be.
‘What happened there?’
I look at the HG and sigh. ‘I guess I paid for that in other ways.’
‘You gotta be more careful, man. You know top-tier clients don’t want anything rough around the edges.’
He’s right. Any scar, blemish, unsightly aspect to your appearance can work against you in this business. Top
tier pays for perfection, plain and simple. But perfection gets harder to provide with increased demand. Sometimes clients have to roll with the punches, or go without. And none of them like going without.
‘Look, I don’t want to have to put an ad out for another roommate or anything,’ Craig says. ‘Pretty happy with the one I have.’
I give him a grin. ‘I’ll be careful.’
Returning to the bathroom,
I strip and inspect myself in the mirror until I’m satisfied with my damage assessment. There are several things I always do before going to see a client. The first is to take a thorough mist. I step into the glass partition with a complete lack of enthusiasm. It’s during these lukewarm mists before a session that I wish
most for a hot shower or bath. I remember them vaguely from when I was a
kid, before the global drought. Global is ironic: most of the globe had suffered water shortages long before they reached the West. Only when America was hit did it become a crisis worthy of campaign platforms and societal change. There are so many new deserts down south now. Utility costs are through the roof. More and more lower- and middle-class residences are being equipped with money-saving fixtures.
Fully flowing faucets are rare, bathtubs even more so. The motion-activated nozzles installed in the sinks of modern units pour a trickle of water for only seconds at a time.
