Husk (19 page)

‘I beg to differ,’ she says. ‘At least I don’t let
dead
people fuck with me.’

‘Don’t do this. I’m only trying to be here
for you.’

My sister glares at me, sending a chill across the table. I wasn’t there for her when I should have been. I didn’t know how to be. She was eleven, I was twelve. Barely old enough to understand what was happening when he snuck into our room one night while my parents were hosting a party downstairs. He was a friend of our father’s, someone with money who had lent my folks a significant
amount when they needed it most and never asked for repayment. In his eyes, the donation entitled him to something. He chose two kids as compensation. He abused us only the one time, mumbling threats of harm if we told, turning us into our own conspirators as the muffled sounds of music and mingling came from downstairs. My sister got it worse. She was the favourite. After I’d warmed him up with
my hands, he made her finish him off with her mouth. As per his instructions I watched, terrified, huddled on my bed in the gloom of our shared room, listening to his grunts and groans staggered between my sister’s quiet sobs. When he was done he left us in the dark and returned to the party as if nothing happened.

My sister and I never told anyone, never spoke of it. We didn’t know if our parents
knew or even suspected. All we did was drift further and further apart, ashamed to look at each other, too scared to say anything. We slept in the same room for years after, every night both of us lying in our beds staring at the ceiling until sleep took over and the nightmares came. Sometimes I would snap awake in the small hours of the morning to the sound of my sister crying. I wanted to
go to her, hold her tight and tell her I would never let it happen again. But I wasn’t there for her. I was barely there for myself. By detaching from my own flesh and convincing myself that my body was of no real importance, I dealt with the abuse. At the same time I formed a perfect mindset for the world’s oldest profession.

‘Please,’ I say. ‘Just give me a chance …’

My sister leans back,
crosses her arms over her chest. ‘You better go. Your dinner’s getting cold.’

‘No it isn’t. I haven’t ordered anything yet –’

A heavy hand lands on my shoulder, making me jump. I look up to find a displeased look on the face of my sister’s date.

‘What do you think you’re doing, pal?’ he asks.

‘I’m just finishing up, won’t be a minute.’ I turn back to my sister. ‘Call me soon? Please?’

‘Hey,
who the hell are you?’ he barks.

I shrug out of his grip. ‘Don’t worry, man. I’m nobody.’

‘Well, nobody better get out of my damn seat and leave my woman alone.’

‘Your woman?’ I sneer, incensed by his comment. ‘What do you mean
your woman
?’

The man leans in, grabs me by the scruff of the neck, holding me firm as he brings his lips to my ear and whispers. ‘I paid a lot of money for her tonight,
asshole, so that means she’s mine.’

My Ouija clicks and for a moment the man holding me morphs into the one who abused us. It is now his hand on my neck, immobilizing me, making me do his bidding. Despite all my visions in recent days, this is the first time I’ve hallucinated someone from my own recognizable past. I feel another crack form in my psyche, another stumbling step toward insanity.
Terror and anxiety flood me. I picture Cameron Tate strapped to his bed in the nuthouse. The image threatens, angers, teases me all at once, telling me my time is coming. Heat from the rage that flares inside reaches the surface of my skin almost instantly. I see the look of surprise on the man’s face as he feels the temperature change beneath his grip.

‘You don’t
own
us!’ I scream.

I deliver
a vicious elbow to the man’s head, resulting in an audible crack that sounds stereophonic to my ears. He staggers back, holding his face, blood seeping through his fingers, nose or orbital bone broken. I slide out of the booth and launch myself at him, sending the two of us crashing to the floor. He gets three punches in before I overpower him, each one connecting with my head. Before I know it
I’m straddling him, my fists raining down, delivering blows to the soft body inside the expensive suit and enjoying every second of it. By the time two waiters pull me off the man is begging for mercy, face bloody and battered and swollen. I try to walk away, but
stumble into a table and collapse. My sister races to her client’s side just as Ryoko comes to mine.

‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ my sister
snarls, looking at Ryoko. ‘I don’t need anyone defending my honour.’

Ryoko picks me up off the floor, starts pulling me toward the exit. ‘I don’t think that was what he was doing, honey.’

Ryoko and I lie on my bed, fully clothed, our chests rising and falling with slow, unified breaths. My left eye is bruised and my lip is split from the restaurant fight. She strokes my head, holds me close,
telling me over and over not to worry, telling me the past can’t hurt me any more, saying all the things I should have said to my sister years ago. I’m haunted by the idea that I might have been able to change our paths, alter our futures, but I know better. Our histories define us until our dying days, written already by the purveyors of fate, snickering at our belief that we make our own destiny.

Whores aren’t born, they’re made. This much I know. There are no skeletons in our closets, just shattered bones and dried marrow, crushed skulls that never speak. You can’t be in this business without them. Fear is something you run toward or run away from. Husks and hookers embrace it. We thrust our dicks back into torment, spread our legs and allow invasion until it no longer threatens or frightens
us any more. We make it our bitch, relieving it of any power it once had. Ryoko has secrets, Phineas and Clive have secrets, Miller had secrets, some piece of the past, maybe only minutes in duration, but powerful
enough to change the course of their lives. Only Ryoko and my sister know of the night that cancelled any bright future for me, leaving a darker road in its place, the night that dictated
my path regardless of where I thought I was going.

It is here, lying in bed with our heads on the pillows, that I finally tell Ryoko that I’ve completely fallen in love with her. Her eyes glisten. She swallows hard. Her lips kiss mine, but don’t smile, don’t reciprocate the words I’ve spoken. I run my fingers through her hair and she responds by telling me the real reason she has stopped Husking.

Ryoko is pregnant.

When I land in Las Vegas I’ve got a few hours to kill before my session with Navarette. Make-up and sunglasses cover most of my black eye, but my split lip is obvious. Outside McCarran the same limo driver awaits. He reaches for my bag, but I hold on to
it. He shrugs and opens the back door, glancing at my injuries. I slip onto the leather seats and pull out my Liaison, rechecking the message Clive sent me:
Kirk King: bartender @ Las Iguanas Bar & Grill. Las Vegas, Nevada
.

I search the name of the bar and discover it’s just north of the old Stratosphere Hotel and Casino at the end of the Strip, a block away from the Clark County Marriage Bureau,
where all brides and grooms get licensed to wed. Good business is all about location, location, location. I figure Las Iguanas nailed it, making some coin serving up liquid courage to all the poor penguin suits prepping themselves for a fast, cheap ceremony. The driver’s voice comes through the car intercom.

‘Where to, sir?’

‘Take me to the Strat,’ I say.

I hear the driver snort with laughter
through the partition before his voice comes through the speaker again. ‘Did you just say the Stratosphere?’

‘Yes, is that a problem?’

‘No problem, sir … it’s just that no one goes to the Strat any more. It’s about to go the way of the Sahara.’

‘Yeah, well, I wanna hit some low-stakes blackjack for an hour.’

‘Low stakes?’ I hear the driver laugh again. ‘That’s definitely the place to go.’

We drive the length of the Strip slowly, stuck in rush hour traffic. I lower the tinted window so I can view the casinos and tourists in all their bright, gaudy, ill-advised glory. The Nevada heat is more oppressive than ever, sun cooking everything in sight. I drink a beer from the minibar to keep my mind numb. On top of the bar lies my per diem in an envelope, but I leave it where it is. There
is a small pull-down mirror in the ceiling of the car, and I check my split lip and black eye, wondering if my marred looks will anger Navarette or Winslade.

Fuck them. I was already entertaining the idea of skipping on Navarette’s booking. Now I commit to bailing. Winslade’s opinion means less and less to me every hour, and what do I care? He’s going to practically own me soon anyway, able to
slip in and out of his paid slave whenever he wishes. I don’t want to give it another thought, but half my mind is fixated on my future with him. The other half is stuck on Ryoko’s pregnancy.

Conceiving wasn’t in the cards, as far as she knew. There had been damage done to her in the past, when Ryoko was a teen, episodes of sexual violence that she never talks about. Years after it happened she
began experiencing abdominal pains. Doctors examined her, drew conclusions and prescribed pills. The verdict was she’d
never bear children, which is why she never used birth control on or off the job. This pregnancy is happening against all odds. She wants to keep the baby, though she has no idea who the father is. All the Husking she’s done in the last little while provides her with an array
of possible donors, men she can’t recount meeting and having sex with. She’s getting a DNA test in the coming days to determine if I’m the dad. She’s confident it will come back positive. I’m not so sure.

And I’m not sure how I feel about it either. Not quite numb, more a suspension of shock. When she broke the news in my apartment I said nothing. We just lay there. She waited patiently, but
I couldn’t reply. The situation was an impossible one. My head wouldn’t process it. My mouth wouldn’t work. Blue coloured the ensuing silence, trace amounts of tension and dismay added to every second that slipped by. Minutes felt like hours, felt like each and every one of those times Ryoko failed to make a return on my professions of love. When she finally rose from the bed and stood tall and proud
before me, I knew she’d go it alone if need be, but I could see how bad I’d hurt her with my silence. By the time she left my place, I still hadn’t said a word. I don’t know what I’ll say to her next time we meet.

Never gave kids more than a passing thought really, gave even less consideration after I got involved with Ryoko. Whether we should bring children into this world is a question every
generation asks itself, but I think the concern is undeniable now. The future holds little value for those we send into it. They’re going to inherit a
shithole, a system of unending struggle and strife, a place of greater greed, violence and scarcity in all things. How on earth do I keep a kid safe in a world going to hell? How would I protect them from the likes of some of my clients and their
companies? From being kidnapped and killed by organizations like Integris? From the kind of predator who abused my sister and me? My mother and father were good people, good parents, and look how their offspring turned out. The odds are so stacked against new arrivals now that it’s barely worth considering. The world’s a meat grinder, waiting for the hopes and dreams of the young to mature just
enough for the slaughter. Ryoko’s kid doesn’t stand a fucking chance. I don’t know if I want this child to be mine. I don’t think I want the responsibility. I don’t think I can give it a good life.

The limo pulls up to the Stratosphere. As I get out I grab the per diem and pocket it. The driver tells me he will wait in the car, reminding me that I’ve only got a couple hours until my appointment
at the Emerald City. Inside the Stratosphere Casino I find an empty seat at a blackjack table and play a dozen hands, losing almost all of them, wondering if the limo driver is casing the joint and keeping an eye on me. Eventually I catch sight of him sitting at a slot machine on the other side of the pit, glancing occasionally my way. When his attention is distracted by a voluptuous waitress I
give him the slip, snaking through the casino crowds and exiting out the rear of the hotel, where I head straight for the Las Iguanas Bar & Grill.

The air is warm and still outside, skin of the sky beginning to bruise with early-evening light as I pass rows of
cracked concrete buildings, half of them with windows boarded up. Las Vegas goes from shiny to shitty real fast. A block away from the
Strip in any direction is a shock for most tourists. It takes all of ten minutes before I’m standing outside the saloon-style doors of the dive where Kirk King supposedly works. Las Iguanas is splashed across its exterior, red paint faded to pink. Old southern rock belts out of cheap speakers inside. Through the windows I see the glow of neon beer and liquor signs, casting weak silhouettes of a few
shaggy customers within. One of those shadows comes lumbering toward the door, opening it with rubbery arms, stink of booze wafting out with him. He almost falls onto the sidewalk as he passes. I slip inside before the door swings shut.

There are two shifty men and a weary-looking woman in the bar. No one speaks. They all look up and give me a once over before refocusing on the drinks in their
hands. I seat myself at the far end, away from them, next to the ancient jukebox. The bartender’s back is turned as he counts money in the till. He wears cargo shorts and a black T-shirt. I already know it’s Kirk King by his physique. He’s slim and fit, still possessing the well-toned body of a Husk.

‘Hey, bartender,’ I say. ‘Could use a drink down here.’

King turns and looks at me, sizing me
up. One eye is pale blue, the other milky white. A thick scar cleaves his eyebrow and cheekbone above and below the sightless orb. He makes his way down the bar to where I sit and doesn’t smile once.

‘Name your poison,’ he says, checking out my threads. ‘And know we only take cash here.’

‘All right, give me a Maker’s Mark, double and neat.’

He snatches the bottle of bourbon off the mirror-backed
shelves behind the bar, peering at my black eye and split lip in the reflection as he undoes the cap.

‘You all right?’ King asks. ‘Looks like someone did a number on you.’

‘You should’ve seen the other guy,’ I say and grin. ‘Looks like you’re no stranger to a scrap yourself.’

King’s nostrils flare. ‘I’ve had my share.’

He pours my order cautiously, his one good eye flicking between the tumbler
and my hands on the bar. It seems wise to keep them where he can see them. I think about wading in cautiously, but I’m low on patience and running out of time.

‘Slow night?’ I ask, looking around at the few customers.

‘Yeah,’ he replies. ‘But I like slow nights.’

‘Mind if I ask you a question or two?’

He hands me my drink. ‘About what?’

‘About your former career with Eternity Executive.’

He must have already figured, because the sawn-off shotgun is out from under the bar and pointed over the top of the counter at me, real subtle like. The other customers don’t even notice.

‘I got nothing to say, pretty boy,’ he whispers. ‘Think you should knock that bourbon back real quick like, and be on your way.’

‘I just got here,’ I say, my arrogance and annoyance oblivious to the gun. ‘Came
all the way from New York.’

‘And if you leave now, you’ll get out of here in one piece.’

‘We need to talk, King.’

The fact that I know his name does not improve the situation. King bares his teeth and cocks the hammer back on the scattergun.

‘Dude, I don’t know who the hell you are, and I don’t want to, plain and simple.’

‘I can’t leave until we discuss a few things.’

‘Why the hell would
I want to talk with you about any of my business, current or former?’

‘Because it’s about Winslade.’

I’ve caught him off guard. King straightens, cocks his head and looks at me for what seems like a long time. He scratches at his arms, his neck, fidgets with his clothes, every action agitated. His expression seems angered, but his good eye looks woeful. I can’t tell if he wants to hug me or
hit me. Finally he stows the gun back under the bar.

‘Lemme guess, brother,’ he says, snatching my bourbon up and swallowing it down. ‘He’s your client now?’

‘Yeah.’

King wipes his mouth. ‘You have my condolences.’

‘What I want from you is some insight.’

‘Insight?’ King snorts. ‘Best thing to do is get the fuck out, hightail it while you can. That’s my advice.’

‘You know it’s not that easy.’

King glances around at the dilapidated bar and its shoddy customers. He touches his fingers to the scar over his white eye. I can only imagine how good his life was before he quit Husking.

‘Yeah,’ King sighs. ‘I do know.’

‘But you still managed to get out …’

‘Let’s not go there.’

‘… because of something to do with Winslade …’

‘I said I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘… and not just you, but
others too.’

King pours a glass of bourbon for me and another for himself. ‘I wouldn’t say the others got out exactly.’

‘How well did you know Cameron Tate and Brad Garrison?’

My question hits another nerve. King gives me a look that says I’m very close to crossing the line and getting thrown out of his bar. I give him an apologetic look in return, sorry for asking him to exhume what he’s been
trying hard to bury. King stares into his glass, swishing the spirit around.

‘I assume the bad dreams have started?’

I nod. ‘The worst.’

‘Are you getting the flashbacks too? Those vicious visions that leave you feeling sick to your stomach with guilt and repulsion, like some kind of fucking post-traumatic stress disorder from a war you were never shipped out to?’

I nod again.

‘And you can
barely remember anything about them afterwards. Am I right?’

I swallow hard, my fingers fidgeting with my glass and coaster. Beads of sweat form on my forehead. King notices all of this and flashes me a smile that looks more like a wince.

‘It only gets worse, brother,’ King says and fires back his bourbon in one gulp. ‘It’ll either drive you mad or make you dead.’

He pulls out a pack of smokes
and puts a cigarette between his lips, offering me one at the same time. I accept and he lights both with a trembling hand. With his other hand he takes down the
No Smoking
sign pinned to the wall behind him.

‘Garrison was one of the first at Eternity Executive to Husk for Winslade, and quickly became the guy’s favourite. After several months of smooth sessions Brad started to report some issues,
but nothing that the bosses would sideline him for. They don’t care about their employees. All they care about is how much profit they can make off a Husk before he or she becomes an unviable product, before we get too old or too beat up to be sellable. By the time Winslade wanted exclusivity to Brad, his condition was rapidly deteriorating. Eternity ran all sorts of tests, but couldn’t come
up with anything solid. I mean, shit, there are so many potential factors. We’re talking about a disciplined form of brain damage here … artificially created, digitally regulated, drug-controlled splits in our fucking psyche, for Christ’s sake. We’re the tip of the spear on a new frontier. Who knows what the short-term and long-term effects will be?’

‘I think I’m starting to get an idea,’ I say
with distaste, though it has just as much to do with the stale tobacco I’m inhaling.