Husk (20 page)

‘Brad was too.’ King takes a long drag. ‘Then he had some accident while on hire and ended up in a coma, resulting in his termination. Winslade tried out a few other Husks before settling on Tate, who he took a real liking to. That didn’t turn out well either. By the time Winslade
started renting me, my bosses
at EE had noticed a pattern, but no one bothered informing me because –’

‘Because you’re compartmentalized and forbidden to discuss business, even among your own colleagues, same as me and my company.’

‘Which outfit did you say you were with?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘You’re well-trained,’ King snickers and shrugs. ‘They’re all the same anyway.’

‘So why Windslade? What is it about him that affects us
so much?’

‘Never got that far into figuring it out. Every now and then I’d hear rumours of similar post-session problems happening with Husks at other companies, particularly the shabbier ones, but it was all just bits of black-market gossip from sources you could never fully trust. When things started getting weird with Winslade, I tried asking around, but couldn’t get anything out of anyone.
The only exception was Tate. He was the one who thought he had things all figured out.’

‘How so?’

King’s laugh is bitter. ‘You can’t trust a word that guy says. Cameron’s a lunatic now, a certified one.’

‘I know. I visited him in Bellevue before I came to see you.’

This was something King wasn’t expecting, and the revelation rocks him back. His manner becomes evasive, guilt and regret eating
at him. It’s clear to me that he hasn’t been to see his old co-worker in a long time.

‘How’s he holding up in there?’ King asks.

‘Not good.’

‘Yeah, I figured. It was me who helped get him admitted to Bellevue, y’know.’

‘I know. Saw your name attached to his file.’

‘Did you manage to get anything out of him?’

‘Only that he didn’t believe his body belonged to him, and that he thought he was
Winslade himself.’

King sighs and seems to crumple against the bar before me, head hanging, shoulders going slack, as if he’s fighting off a spell of fainting. At first he just moans. When he finally does speak it’s into the countertop.

‘Before he broke, Cameron kept telling me over and over:
Husks are houses, clients are ghosts, and what transpires between us and them is a haunting
.’

‘A haunting?’

‘You know what a haunting is in actuality?’

‘What?’

‘Unfinished business.’

King twitches involuntarily, mumbles something. He’s far from the cool, collected individual who first poured me my drink. It’s becoming more evident that he has a few screws loose, despite his acting skills. His blue eye and white eye shift back and forth as his fingers drum on the bar counter. He’s remembering things
he doesn’t want to, growing more agitated, as if he’s getting ready for something to go down.

I draw my finger across my eye. ‘Did Winslade do that to you?’

‘Winslade? Nah, I did this to myself.’

‘Why on earth would you …?’

‘Because clients want pretty young things, perfect people … you know that. If you don’t look the part, you don’t take the stage. And I didn’t want to be in the show no
more.’

King retrieves a couple beer bottles from the fridge under the bar and puts one in front of me. He pops the cap on his with his teeth, nicking his lip in the process, not caring in the slightest. I watch blood seep to the surface under the upturned bottleneck as he takes a long swig.

‘So you blinded yourself?’

‘Worked like a charm.’ King gives me a wink with his good eye. ‘In the land
of the blind, the one-eyed man is King.’

‘There’s got to be a better way.’

‘Nope.’ King shakes his head. ‘The problem is you can’t quit on clients, it’s they who have to quit on you. People with that much power and influence have full access to all your data, your accounts; every last dirty little secret about you. They can control your life with keystrokes and commands if they want. See, a
guy like Winslade … once he takes a shine to you, it’s over. You’re his property as far as he’s concerned, you’re his boy. By contract he owns you. He’ll rent you over and over again until you’re all used up … or worse.’

‘Worse?’

‘Winslade has a bad habit of trying to push Husks past the acceptable limits. That’s how Garrison ended up in a fucking coma. Winslade rode him more than eighty hours
in their final session, broke the guy’s brain.’

I shiver. ‘One of my co-workers at Solace got killed
that way. A client kept him for over three days, pushed him until he had a psychotic break and went suicidal. I can’t prove it, but I think the client was Winslade.’

‘So you’re at Solace Strategies, eh?’

‘Did I let that slip?’

‘Nice work if you can get it, man …’

‘I think we both know better.’

Silence falls between us. I think about Ryoko and the baby, the money that I’ll no longer be able to provide them if I quit Husking. King finishes his cigarette, polishes off his beer, watching me intently the whole time. I down the rest of my bottle and ready to leave. King leans over the bar, lowers his voice, winks again with his good eye.

‘Brother, if you want, I can give you something that
will really help you out with this Winslade situation of yours.’

‘You can?’

‘Yeah, I keep it in the backroom. C’mon, let’s go get it.’

King tips his head and beckons me to follow. He leads me to the back of the bar and down a hallway to a small office where he ushers me inside ahead of him. I’m barely through the doorway when he tackles me to the floor. He’s on my back, fighting to keep me
restrained. The surprise in the backroom is a switchblade apparently. It springs open in his hand, and I watch as he brings it close to my face. King outweighs me and uses the extra pounds to great effect, locking me down. I manage to slip an arm and throw an elbow back into his chin, but it doesn’t faze him. He grabs my hair and picks my head off the floor,
turning it just enough so I can see
him. The determination in his one good eye is obvious.

‘Hold still, you fucker,’ he growls. ‘And I’ll make this quick.’

The knife comes within an inch of my eye, blade skimming lashes. I reach up, my hand gripping a handful of King’s hair on his blindside, then wrench downward, pulling his face into the floorboards with a crunch, knocking out one of his teeth. It’s enough for him to lose his
hold on both me and the knife and I capitalize on it, shoving him off and getting to my feet. He tries to rise, but I deliver a front kick to his face, sending him crashing into a pile of boxes. He groans and spits something. More teeth clatter on the floor. Breathless, I back away, heading for the door. King puts his fingers in his mouth, locates which teeth are gone, and smiles, satisfied, pleased
that he’s been made even more unattractive. He sees me moving toward the door and holds up a stopping hand as blood dribbles over his lips and down his chin.

‘Wait a second, brother,’ he pants. ‘Let me explain.’

I see his hand creeping towards the switchblade on the floor nearby. I turn and run, bolting down the hallway and out to the bar. King howls after me.

‘You don’t understand,’ I hear
him shout. ‘I was just going to cut you up a little, shave down your appeal. I’d be doing you a favour!’

I book a room at a cheap motel next to a drive-thru wedding chapel and pay with cash. My attempt to avoid being bothered by anyone or anything doesn’t pan out. I watch ten minutes of NYC news on the flat-screen. A story about another missing girl in Manhattan
that upsets me. As the police accuse Integris again in connection with her disappearance. To my surprise, the news goes on to report that one of the previous missing girls, Annabel Colette, has contacted her family claiming to be alive and well, but has refused to cooperate with them or police in regards to her current whereabouts. Cops are confident that Integris has her held somewhere in the
city, and make some reference to the girl possibly having Stockholm syndrome at this point.

The last story I see reveals Chase Jackson has been arrested outside a Brooklyn nightclub for attacking a former girlfriend and her fiancé. Details on the incident are sketchy. I can’t help but wonder if it was Chase at the time, or if it was a client who committed the assault. He had it coming either
way. Amateurs are always getting themselves into trouble. I shut off the TV and lie back on the bed. In no time my Liaison pings; a text message from Clive. My gut tightens when I sit up and read it.

Eternity Executive just found out I was siphoning confidential company information and fired me.

I call him back immediately. He picks up on the first ring.

‘Clive, I’m so sorry –’

‘You
asshole
, Rhodes,’ he says, voice breaking. ‘Do you know how badly I needed that job? Do you have any fucking idea?
Do you?
’

‘I’ll make it up to you. I’ll make it right.’

‘How? Tell me how you’re gonna make this right.’

‘I’ll … I’ll figure something out.’

‘Don’t … just do me a favour and fuck off. I don’t want you to make my life any worse than it already is.’

‘Clive, give me a chance to fix this.
I won’t let a friend like you down.’

Clive’s laugh is bitter. ‘Oh, shove it, pal. With friends like you, who the hell needs enemies?’

He hangs up. I try to call him back, but he doesn’t answer. I feel like shit, want to cut myself off from outside interference. For the first time since purchasing it, I turn my Liaison off, take the battery out, and leave it on the nightstand. I count out all
the money I have and leave the room, angry over the trouble I’ve caused, determined to win Clive a small fortune to help him out and say I’m sorry.

Walking past the motel pool, I glance up at the early night sky and stop. The sun has fallen below the horizon, orange and red light struggling to stay afloat in the west as dark encroaches from the east. The first emergent stars overhead are mesmerizing
out here in the desert.
Their light reaching me – some of it travelling from sources already long dead, origins snuffed out by the definitive black of the Universe. I’m awash with uncertainty. What was the point of them? The cremation of whole galaxies, resulting in a thick sky of ash, it’s all I need to realize the sheer insignificance of who and what I am. I’ve never felt so small or alone.
Looking up begins to get me unbearably down.

Then I hear a high-pitched shout that breaks me out of my mood. It comes again, followed by a low laugh. I look over to where the motel tennis courts lay and see a man and a young boy pretending to swordfight with their rackets. A memory suddenly strikes me, one that is not personally mine. There is warm sun and flowery smells. A tennis racket is in
my right hand. I’m on a court, fending off my giggling grandsons as they pretend to be heroic knights. I am full of joy, blessed by these two boys whom I am very fond of and miss dearly. This brief recollection is a glimpse of Mr Shaw’s session, part of the itinerary he told me about. As quickly as it comes, the sweet memory begins to slip away. I try to hold on, grasping at it in my mind’s eye,
but another blooms in its place. I am reading a book to my beloved, but bedridden wife, a partner I don’t ever want to part with. She smiles weakly at me as I take her wrinkled hand in mine. There is still starlight in her old eyes, twinkling at me the same as the first day we met. She is not long for this world. The great love of Shaw’s life reminds me so much of Ryoko it’s akin to déjà vu. Then
she is gone, and I realize I’ve sunk to my knees on the concrete.

I stare at my hands. Things line up inside my head, turn as one, click into place. A moment of clarity is unlocked. I turn my gaze to the night sky, all that darkness up there, any measure of it harbouring new twinkles yet to come. I could be looking toward the birth of a star and never know it, something that might grow to be
one of the brightest lights in the Universe. The possibilities seem endless. Mine or not, maybe I can give this baby a decent start. Maybe I can give it a good life. The least I can do is try my luck.

With a few grand in hand I begin working my way south on the Strip, stopping in at various casinos, hitting up roulette and blackjack tables, on a mission to try and make things right. At the Wynn
I get onto a winning streak in a craps game that bolsters my confidence and eases my worries. The oxygen pumped into the casino air invigorates me. All caution is thrown to the wind. I begin to think there’s no need of Solace Strategies, or Winslade, or the services I provide for high prices. King’s advice to get out seems plausible. I actually believe I could make my nest egg through gambling.
It’s foolish, I know, but I start to bet big.

My luck throughout the course of the night proves otherwise. My betting becomes uncharacteristically reckless. My strategies are all off. I don’t feel in control of what I’m doing. A rollercoaster of risky wagers plagues me in the Monte Carlo. I manage to win enough back to almost break even at the Bellagio, but the Mirage damn near cleans me out
afterwards. By 2 a.m. I find myself at a low-stakes table at the Hard Rock, dangerously low on
cash, playing with my last couple hundred. At the roulette table I bet half on black, only to end up seeing red. I pocket my last c-note and avoid the ATMs. Baxter may have frozen my accounts for fucking off on Navarette, and I don’t want to be traced anyway. Go big or go home; that was the plan. I’m
definitely going home.

Frustrated and ashamed, I play nickel slots just so I can snag free drinks from cute waitresses while I flirt to forget my foolishness. More than ever, I don’t feel like myself. Ryoko doesn’t even cross my mind. Neither does the baby. It’s like I’m operating in a daze, my brain made of clay and moulded by another’s fingers, my eyes made of glass and fogging up. A redhead
babe with a Texas accent starts talking to me real friendly like, her manner mischievous and confident. I’m taken in by the firm tits and ass barely contained in her skimpy uniform. She’s good to me, makes sure I never have an empty glass in hand. In no time I’m tipsy, speaking suggestively to her. She tells me her shift ends within the hour and asks if I happen to be staying at the Hard Rock. I
confess that I’m booked into a shithole near the Stratosphere. She doesn’t care, says it’s been a long-ass night and she’d sure like to have someone get her off after she gets off, if I’m down with the idea. I hit an eighty-dollar jackpot on my slot machine and tell her I am.

A half-hour later we’re in my motel room, pulling off clothes, groping and tonguing the bare skin that is revealed. All
the lights are on and I find myself staring at the girl’s tight, tanned body as she pulls off her jeans and thong in one motion. She pins me against the wall and grinds
against my hardness. I try to kiss her, but she won’t have any of it. Giggling, she puts a hand on my chest and pushes off. I watch her crawl onto the bed where she strikes a pose, back arched, ass in the air.

‘You like what you
see, stud?’

I should, but I don’t. Seen in the soft light of cheap lamps, her red hair is suddenly upsetting. The shade seems identical to that of a man who haunts my waking dreams. I think about Dennis Delane, think about the distressing newscast I watched earlier when I checked in. The girl on the bed isn’t impressed by my lack of response. She pulls a condom and a packet of lube out of her
purse and places it at the foot of the bed with one eyebrow raised.

‘So … you gonna come over here and fuck me, or what?’

The girl gets back on all fours, reaches under and caresses, moaning, readying herself. She rests her head on a pillow and wiggles her ass, waiting patiently for me to penetrate. Something comes over me. My clay brain gets sculpted by foreign thought processes as arousal
trumps my fear. I grab the condom and roll it on, smother it in lube. I come to her, slowly sinking the tip of my rigidity into the tightness of her asshole. She lets out a gasp, looks back at me with surprised eyes that show a hint of worry.

‘Oh, so that’s how you wanna ride tonight, cowboy?’

I nod. She accepts, licking her lips as she turns and presses her open, moaning mouth into the pillow,
reaching back under to stroke the both of us. We start slow, but soon enough we’re screwing with a strong steady rhythm. She comes once, twice, her cries muffled, body tense. She
grabs my hand and makes me spank her, buttocks rippling with each hit as I slip in and out. Another minute passes and I find my fingers creeping over her throat.

‘Uhhh … fuck, fuck,’ she pants. ‘Yeah, yeah, right there,
just like that.’

I palm her windpipe and apply pressure, fucking her harder as my fingertips sink into her jugular. I feel her vocal cords vibrate as she whimpers in my grip.

‘Uh, uhhh, harder,
harder
.’

I double my efforts, listening to her climax again, feeling her writhing against me. I’m so unbelievably hard, but I feel like a voyeur, like I’m watching some kind of POV porn. I tell my hand
to ease up, but my grip ignores my command and tightens. The girl starts struggling for air, breath coming in wheezes. Her face begins to turn the same colour as her hair. I stare at my fingers curled around her neck. A spectator now, trapped in my own body as it becomes a shell inhabited by a predator. The vehicle is on autopilot, the action is muscle memory. I’m just strapped in for the ride.

‘Stop,’ I mutter.

‘Tighter,’ the girl gasps, eyes rolling up into her head. ‘Harder.’

My body obeys her words over my thoughts. I try willing myself flaccid, but my erection is engorged to the limit. The thrusting won’t slow. The grip won’t relax. My Ouija clicks and for a second I see the truth in all its awful iniquity. The revelation is gone before I can commit it to memory.

‘Stop,’ I say
aloud.

‘Don’t. Stop. More.’

‘Please stop.’

‘No,’ she manages. ‘More. Coming. Again.’

I feel her coming hot and wet on my cock and I almost burst into tears. ‘For Christ’s sake stop!’

Wait,’ she gasps, throat bucking as I crush it. ‘Stop. Stop. St—’

And then she goes limp, body flopping like a rag-doll getting pumped by my sweaty, flexing body. My cry of shock returns control of my body back
to me and I’m flipping her over, shaking her, searching her wrist for a pulse. Before I can try and resuscitate her, she comes to, sucking in all the air her lungs can manage.

‘Oh, wow,’ she says hoarsely. ‘I think I reached nirvana.’

I almost collapse with relief. ‘Thank God.’

‘Did you come?’

I don’t answer. She catches her breath, pulls off my condom, and immediately attempts to go down
on me. I demand she stop. She looks up in confusion, then sees my face and quickly becomes concerned.

‘What’s wrong, sweetie?’

‘What?’ I say. ‘Are you fucking kidding me? I almost
killed
you.’

‘Just blacked out a little is all,’ she says. ‘It ain’t no thing. You knew what you were doing.’

I hold my hands up, look at them. ‘How do you figure that?’

She shrugs. ‘You did last time.’

I stare
at her. The girl’s eyes are all recognition. She knows me, we’ve done this before. She reaches out to touch me with long, painted fingernails and I lean away.

‘You need to leave,’ I say. ‘Now.’

‘What?’ she laughs. ‘Baby, we’re just getting started.’

‘No, we’re not. Please go.’

‘Aw c’mon, sweetie, you done gone and broke me in now –’

‘I said get the fuck out!’

She recoils from my outburst
and scrambles to collect her clothes from the floor. Half of them are on by the time she gets to the door, where she turns and shoots me an unnerved look.

‘Y’know, you’re starting to fucking scare me.’

I drop my face in my hands, holding back tears, pushing palms against the eyes that have seen such horrible things when I haven’t been home.

‘I’m starting to scare myself,’ I whisper.

When I
disembark the jet at JFK, I put the battery back in my Liaison and turn it on. Within minutes a call comes in from Baxter. I ignore the ringing for as long as I can, knowing she’ll ream my ass, knowing her questions will remind me of the night I’m trying hard to put out of my mind. When she calls three times in as many minutes I finally give in and pick up.

‘Yeah, boss?’

Her first words are
explosive and indiscernible, sounds like she’s ready to kill someone. I have to hold the Liaison a few inches away from my ear.