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  She sang on.

  Then she decided she wouldn’t stand on her leg anymore. It was one of those moments. She stopped singing.

  ‘Stand on one leg.’

  ‘No, I won’t.’

  ‘Sing!’

  ‘No,’ said Delilah, decisively. ‘No.’

  ‘No food for the Remand 111 prisoner.’

  Delilah said, ‘I don’t care anymore. I’ve had enough. You won’t beat me. Even if you kill me. Go on, kill me.’

  ‘Asking to be killed is hardly original, prisoner. Still, I’ll get on to Officer Jeffrey about it. Why don’t you exercise your other option? Go on, you know it makes sense.’

  And here it came.

  After this: up there on the moving floors that went on to split into ten lanes beneath the fake blue skies that sometimes went pink and she’d never seen and never now would, Delilah had been law-abiding. What laws had she in her life broken? She’d read, once, controlled literature and been punished with a cabbage to the head – a cabbaging, they called it. She’d stolen a pair of slippers, ruined now, from the office administrator with the rolled-up lilac colour chart. She’d killed a man, an officer. But with the push of a flat-palmed hand to his chest and nothing more, was it really a crime? She was a good hairdresser – and had only once given a customer a cut they’d described as criminal, and that had been on a bandaged man blinded by an escalator crash and awaiting an eye transplant, so didn’t count. Oh, and she’d taken to the fast lane that fateful morning, done so without her Life to prove she had the necessary license. A violation. She was a victim of crime. She wasn’t a criminal.

  So here it came.

  The two officers said together, ‘Take your pill.’

  She’d quite forgotten about that pill. Her other option. Her orange option. Was it still there? Those hands in Hand and Voice Chamber 111 had surely nabbed it. They’d been all over her, right through her plumbers’ overall’s pockets. With a light thumb she frisked the outside of the pocket, feeling, without alerting onlookers, as any practiced junkie expertly might, for the discoid lump. She felt it with a jolt of her thumb, and a jolt to her system: the orange drug was there. Fear wiggled in her. Drugs were scary. Until you got to know them, or so she’d heard from those who had (some of the hairdressers were recreational users). Then you and drugs became friends, drugs turned you on, before drugs turned on you – something friends did, too, sometimes, not that she and the plumber had been friends necessarily, but he’d turned on her. Still it hurt. Drugs could hurt, too. But could the drug be any more scary than Remand 111? Would it make her collapse in her cage and fall asleep, thus assuring her punishment. Would it damage her? Would it kill her?

  Would it release her?

  All the power and possibility of that lump in her pocket. This was what drugs were, she thought now, as much as the payload they in turn delivered.

  ‘Well?’ This was one of the officers.

  ‘You gonna do it?’ This was probably the other.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘You’ll like it.’

  ‘No, sell it!’ cried a junkie. ‘I’ll buy it. I’ll give you a good price.’

  ‘I’ll pay more,’ shouted another junkie.

  ‘Me! I’m your man. You won’t look back if you strike a deal with me. I’m ready to do business.’

  ‘No. Mine. I want it.’

  ‘I need it. He doesn’t. Don’t sell it to him.’

  ‘Ignore her. Men need drugs more than women do. She’s a right bitch, that one. She shouts “Me! I’m your man” but she’s a woman. Who in their right mind would sell drugs to a woman who says she’s your man? You wouldn’t, would you? She doesn’t even know what sex she is. She wants to straighten herself up and work out such fundamentals. She’s a disgrace to all womanhood. I expect you’re embarrassed of her yourself, being a woman. You want to pull out her hair, scratch her eyes, push her so she falls and breaks her heels – look how tall they are, like she is on stilts – or twists an ankle. You’re good at pushing people. Like you did that furry officer.’

  ‘Don’t sell it to him,’ said the woman, who had sagging arm skin and dewlaps, and wasn’t young anymore or very attractive and probably never had been, thought Delilah, not recognising her yet. ‘Give it to me. We should stick together. Honk it over to me, sister. I’ll look after you. I’ll show you the ropes round here. I’ll be your friend. You can trust me, I used to be a teacher. I might even have taught you. Did your teacher ever hit you on the head with a cabbage? It was me! I did that to all the girls. Always have a cabbage handy, that’s my motto. Here, I’ve got one right now. Give me the pill for a cabbage. Pill for a cabbage. You must be hungry. You look it. Here.’ The ex-teacher junkie kicked the cabbage around the floor of the junkie cage, but because she was a junkie she kicked it too hard and its leaves broke off and soon it was flapping around looking very sorry for itself, until she gave it one last huge kick that sent it though the bars, explosively, its ragged heart rolling to nearly within Delilah’s reach.

  The male junkie said, ‘You don’t want to sell it to her, she’s mad. What a nutter. What she did to that cabbage she does to everything. She’s wasteful. She’s the kind of person you give a gift to and they say thank you but don’t mean it, then you discover they’ve never even used your gift, or have given it to someone else, or are telling people quite openly that it’s the worst gift they’ve ever had. You spend weeks choosing them something special, then they break your heart. She’s like that. She’ll never really be your friend, she’s just saying it. But I would. I’d be your friend. Ask my friend here with the long blonde moustache. He’s been my friend for many years. Even Officer JJ Jeffrey remarked, when he arrested us for assaulting a girl who’s fingernail we pulled off and for a light-hearted prank replaced with a prawn shell some students had given us, that we were terribly good friends because we often looked into each other’s eyes and patted each other on our arms. Always will be, friends, me and him. I’ll be your friend as well, if you give me the pill. Pill for a pal. That’s me, your pal. You and me, we’ll get on like a house on fire. I’ll even ditch my friend with long blond moustache for you, if you want, if you give me the pill. Yes, I’d do that, that’s how strong our friendship will be, already is.’ He turned to the moustached friend: ‘Okay, loser, you’re dumped. Go hang with a new crowd. You bore me. You were fun when we first met. But now you just stick around hardly saying anything interesting. Besides, your habits annoy me. You bring me down. I’m down enough as it is, being a junkie, and the last thing I want is to see another long face. If you’re depressed, that’s your problem. I don’t need it. When I met you I was at low ebb myself and knew our friendship wouldn’t last, I was just using you to get my spirits up. But I’ve done that now and am forging ahead with my new best mate.’ He turned to address Delilah. ‘See? That’s how committed to you I am. I really like you. A friend for life, that’s what you get when you get me. Tell me, buddy, what’s your name?’

  ‘Delilah,’ interrupted the ex-teacher junkie. ‘And she’s giving me the pill because I taught her so well and made her what she is today. Without me she’d never have done so good. She has a fantastic life ahead of her and it’s all thanks to yours truly. I sure did put that girl on the right path. Alleluia. Over here, Delilah, toss us over the pill. To me. Give it me, there’s a good girl. I’ll make you a grade-A student.’

  If I take the drug, thought Delilah, with the orange pill now between her finger and thumb, it might be the best experience of my life. I wonder if I’ll really buzz. I wonder what buzzing is. I wonder why it’s called buzzing. Will it be noisy, this buzzing? It might be quite fun, I suppose, to get off my tits, whatever that might mean. On the other hand, I’m not in a good head space right now (she surveyed Remand 111 carefully, and agreed with herself) and I wouldn’t want to put myself on a right downer, at least I think that’s what the other hairdressers called it. So no, I’m going to say no. I won’t get pilled up to my eyeballs, but instead exchange the p
ill not for that junkie’s friendship – he pulled out my fingernail and replaced with a prawn shell! – but for my ex-teacher’s cabbage, which I will asked to have boiled. What’ve I got to lose? I mean, it can’t get any worse round here, can it?

  She delivered the pill into one of the officer’s hands. Whichever officer it was he had been standing there for a while now with a hand outstretched. He said, ‘What am I supposed to do with this? You think because I’m indistinguishable from him that I’m an easy touch? You prisoners, you treat us all the same. No wonder I don’t like you.’

  ‘Why was your hand outstretched, then?’

  ‘I thought you might like to hold it.’

  ‘But you don’t like me.’

  ‘What difference does that make. People who don’t like each other hold hands all the time. I thought it might be nice. We could present a united front to people and pretend we’re together. People who hate each other do do that. But if you’re not interested, because you feel so powerful now, then tough luck.’ He paused, his eyes welling up. ‘Oh just give me the stupid pill and I’ll do whatever you want with it. You’ll want that cabbage boiled, no doubt. You ungrateful girl. You don’t care about me. You never did. I don’t know why I tried so hard.’

  ‘Please,’ said Delilah, demurely as she could.

  The teacher took the pill upon receiving it, and the other junkie went about mending the friendship he’d just dissolved and went back to hating Delilah. She waited for her lunch. Or was it supper or breakfast? Her stomach was way ahead of the meal, and kicking up all sorts of new pains now the possibility of food was on the table. It got ready to eat. Delilah presently smelt the not usually pleasant wafts of cooking cabbage. Then, boiled grey, out it came, a knife and fork beside it, but bent and laid the wrong sides, the fork the prop fork.

  ‘Urgh,’ said many of the prisoners as they were let out of their cells and invited by bowing officers who’d dressed up as waiters to sit down at a long prison table at which a great and luxurious meal had been set. ‘You’re not going to eat that, are you? Cabbage is foul.’

  She was. And she couldn’t wait.

  Then Officer JJ Jeffrey came flying into the room, not literally, but, and quite accidentally, knocked the boiled-grey cabbage off its platter (it rolled back towards its original owner in the junkie pen, who was already too high to get to the feast) and made for Delilah.

  Officer JJ Jeffrey bore in his arms a black, black garment.

  ‘Execution,’ shrieked a prisoner, laughing and going at a huge pink prawn with many eggs in its pouch, which looked like prawn eggs, but were redder than prawn eggs usually were, for some reason.

  JJ Jeffrey said to Delilah, ‘Put this on! Where is the plumber? Put this on, prisoner! Where is the plumber with the prisoner’s wheels? There he is. Stop eating prawns, man, and sucking those eggs greedily into your greedy plumber’s mouth, come over here and do the wheels. The wheels, where are the wheels?’

  As instructed, the plumber came over, his mouth full of prawns, not looking too well, nearly as grey as Delilah’s boiled cabbage.

  Officer JJ Jeffrey was angry. ‘What kind of a plumber are you. You’re in no fit state to do the wheels. Where did you get those prawns from? How dare you eat prawns in an officer’s presence. How dare you eat prawns at all. There are eggs coming out of your nose. Why are they so red? Urgh! Here, give me the welder. I’ll do it myself. If I must. Give me the welder! What are you waiting for. Are you deaf? What is wrong with your ears? Are they full of wax? If a plumber can’t even keep his own ears clear how can he be expected to unblock pipes? No wonder you’ve been put on remand, I wouldn’t hire you. Give the welder here, now I say. Now!’

  ‘I had a knock to the head,’ said the plumber.

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘I don’t know who I am.’

  ‘Silence.’

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘Be quiet!’

  ‘Would the Missing Persons Officer know who I am?’

  ‘Hush!’

  ‘I remember only a huge gush of water, then, then …’

  ‘Stupid man!’

  JJ Jeffrey snatched the welding equipment and the wheels roughly from the plumber and propped the cage up on the cabbage which he had retrieved from the high junkie, who, if the feasting prisoners were any comparison, looked quite good on the effects of the orange pill. The cabbage squashed immediately. The officer demanded, ‘Who boiled this cabbage. In the absence of a hydraulic jack, how can I prop up a cage on what should be a good hard cabbage in order to carry out important welding work if some irresponsible person, some idiot, has taken the cabbage away and boiled it so that it flattens like an old brain. I work with nincompoops, incompetent nincompoops. Plumber, hold the cage. Not like that. Like that.’ The officer sparked up the welder and set about welding on the four wheels. ‘I love welding. Look at that burn! See how it melts.’ Delilah could see her grey cabbage stuck to the underside of the see-through base and she reached under and scooped it away and it tasted fantastic, seasoned too, just rather grey. ‘Get your black dress on! Spit out that cabbage, it is disgusting. Look how I wield the torch. Such skill I have. I love welding. I should have been a welder. Turn around, turn around, give me a twirl. Yes, marvellous.’ He shut off the welder with a snap. With Delilah dressed, he peeled a hardboiled egg, held it half in his mouth half out, opened his eyes so wide that they too looked like protruding eggs, gripped the still-smoking cage, and pushed. Inside, Delilah shook with fear, knowing what came now. But, on a mouthful of warm grey cabbage and weakly, she had to ask anyway (because to know the worst was to know the truth), ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Funeral. Where else would you be going, dressed like that. Funeral!’

  They’re going to kill me, thought Delilah. I asked for my death and now I’m getting it.

  ‘I love a good funeral.’ The officer gave the cage another rough shove and wobbled it away, with its fed, scared, black-robed occupant, tugging at her mouth again, tugging away.

  All she wondered now was how she would die. Because she knew death wasn’t far away.

  9 – A Funeral

  ‘The service will be long. Very long. You might get bored. The System has bored people to death in the past, you know. I know, I was there. I cannot be bothered to talk to you about this now. Why aren’t you noting down what I say?’

  Delilah gave Officer Jeffrey a blank look, and stared past him at the lift.

  ‘What’s going on here? Get out of our way!’ shouted Officer Jeffrey at an officer in a pith helmet and inside-out uniform escorting a prisoner into the lift, who shouted, ‘Get out of our way! Get out of our way!’ back at Delilah and Officer Jeffrey.

  Wheeling Delilah past the commotion, Officer JJ Jeffrey complained, ‘It’s people like him that boil cabbages. Why am I surrounded by such idiocy? Wherever I turn, a fool.’ He stopped briefly to straighten his pith helmet in a mirror and comb the damp hair that grew past it. He slipped dark glasses on over his transplanted eyes and resumed the journey. ‘Stop wobbling,’ he shouted at Delilah. ‘Stop wobbling your cage like that, you stupid woman.’ Some more water leaked from his pith helmet.

  ‘We are gathered here today,’ said the Minister of Authority Theology beginning the service in the Theatre of Religion 10, which was quite light lilac in colour, ‘to celebrate the life of a cherished and beloved person, a, a sweetheart.’

  Never expected to hear myself called that, thought Delilah, her big eyes taking in Theatre of Religion 10 – the silver-track-suited minister, the many-coloured light-boxes, the fat box up there by a bunch of old candles, presumably empty and waiting for her body. Everyone began sitting down. Delilah stood in her cage in the aisle. There were old candles on her roof, too, which kept falling over and dripping wax into runnels that led it into a mould of a key that looked very much like the key the junkie swallowed. Delilah was, it had to be said, quite the centre of attention. But what did one expect at one’s own funeral. To be ignored? She d
ismissed the congregation’s glances, their interrogative stares, with a guilty dismissiveness: she was going to killed, fine, but couldn’t it be done more understatedly. How unfair, too, that following her grey cabbage she felt the best she’d felt for days and was now about to meet her maker.

  The minister groaned lamentably, really laying on the religious aspect of all this, thought Delilah, and said, with a longing sigh, ‘Gentle by name, Gentle by nature. A lovely and loving man. A gentle man and a gentleman.’ Which was met with murmured appreciation – and Delilah’s dropped jaw. The minister in the silver tracksuit leaned far over the pulpit and mopped his brow, which nearly toppled him, and said, ‘Jonathon was, in the truest sense of the word, a darling, a, I’ve said it before, a sweetheart. He will be missed. We cherished him.’

  Delilah ventured that perhaps another officer named Gentle had just died, or been killed, someone she hadn’t met, someone she hadn’t murdered. Anyway, everybody clapped and there was a standing ovation. Then, the ovation over in seconds, everybody sat down again. The minister coughed rather pathetically and, sniffling into a handkerchief he’d put to his nose in a way that had no effect other than to draw people’s attention to his sniffling, said, ‘I remember first meeting Jonathon. I was fresh out of the Academy, having specialised in Scientific Theology, and, while the Centre of Disinformation tempted me with its promise of a sound and fulfilling career, of passing on the ‘word’, I met Jonathon dancing one morning under the pink inauguration skies of our previous Authority Head, Authority Head 05, may he rest in peace, and opted instead for the Authority. I have not looked back since. Indeed, in the Authority, I have had a freakishly’ – here for some reason he made a high-pitched noise – ‘successful theological career on the few floors above and the many floors below, helped in no small part by the Authority’s implementation within the System of such a healthy, if prolonged at times, death penalty policy as to keep me very busy with prisoners’ last rites’ – he eyed Delilah, pertinently – ‘which, I might add, really are quite lucrative. Still, a man must earn his living. Let not the dying go to waste, as any good religious man will tell you.’