The Fandom(83)

‘They kill us?’

‘They can do whatever they want, so long as they pay.’

The door opens. The girl with the burns disappears.

‘Can’t you tell someone?’ I ask, but even as the words leave my mouth I realize how naive I sound. I can almost hear Ash’s voice. You really are from another planet, aren’t you?

‘And risk getting killed? Anyway, nobody could do anything. We’re just Imps.’ Her eyes lower, shame disturbing the lines of her face. ‘And some of them are good tippers. I can’t exactly work in the Pastures any more.’ She holds up her hands – but there are no hands, only skin, unevenly stretched over the nubs of her wrists. ‘And they pay extra for a freak.’

The image of Nate kneeling in the market bursts into my mind, followed by the floating, legless Dupe. I want to reassure her, to tell her help is on the way. But the fewer people who know, the better. I feel the vial pushed against my wrist and inhale. ‘I’m sorry.’

I notice that the girl with no tongue has disappeared.

The girl with red hair stares at the door. ‘I’m next.’

‘It’ll be OK.’ I reach for her hand, finding only the puckered skin of her stumps.

She shrugs. ‘Yeah. So long as I don’t get that blond git again . . . Howard summit.’

An almighty shudder spreads up my body. Howard Stoneback. Of course he’s here. I feel so stupid for not thinking through my earlier lie. The fear and anxiety must have clouded my brain. The guard who let me in will expect Howard to bid for me, maybe even address me directly. My only hope is that the rebels arrive before my lie is revealed. And I still have no idea how I’m going to drug the Gems.

The door swings open and she pulls away from me, her red hair replaced by the blank, white door. I stand alone in the crimson room, surprised that it should be loneliness rather than fear which threatens to immobilize my trembling, bowing legs. Tentatively, I rest my ear against the door in search of voices. They call out numbers in distant tones. 5000, 7000, 8000. I don’t notice the young Imp boy enter the waiting area, but I hear him clear his throat. I spin around like I’ve been caught out.

‘Sorry . . .’ I begin.

He smiles and moves towards the door. And that’s when I notice he’s clutching a bottle of champagne. He’s a serving boy, not a prostitute. My first response is relief because he just looks so young. But my second reaction is to come up with a plan as the vial pushes into my skin – cold and insistent.

I block his path. ‘Hang on, you’ve got a smudge –’ I point to his cheek – ‘right here.’ I manoeuvre the vial so I can unscrew the lid.

He scrunches up his button nose and mumbles something indistinguishable under his breath.

‘Here.’ I take the bottle from him.

‘Thanks.’ He spits on his tunic and frantically rubs it against his face. He doesn’t see me tipping the contents of the vial into the smoking neck of the bottle.

‘Is that better?’ His cheek looks red and sore.

‘Much.’

The door opens. I fix my mouth into a shy smile and order my legs to carry me forwards, my skin dappled with sweat. I enter a large sitting room – several smaller rooms knocked into one. The walls look typically Imp – cracked and sagging and waiting to collapse – but the furniture looks Gem, a series of armchairs and smart leather sofas lining the walls. Several customers remain, sipping champagne and smoking cigars, and several guards stand at the doors. They all hold a drink.

My eyes settle on Howard Stoneback. I recognize him from the Gallows Ball. Same floppy, blond curls, but he wears a pinstripe suit and a perverted leer. I try to swallow, but my earlier lie blocks my throat like a lump of half-chewed gristle. At least the guard from the front door isn’t here to catch me out.

A male Gem leans forward. ‘Come on, ape. Let’s see if you’re covered in hair under those clothes.’

I stumble into the middle of the room to the sound of laughter. Their eyes move up and down my overalls, skimming my features, the shape of my breasts. My stomach turns. But above the drums, I hear the fizz of fresh champagne hitting glass.

A female Gem throws a cigar at me. It bounces off my collarbone, a shower of sparks landing at my feet. She turns to a guard. ‘If I wanted a bog-standard slave, I would have stayed at home.’

The Imp boy fills the final glass and silently leaves the room. I just need to buy a little more time. I reach towards my chest and clutch my zip with sweaty, trembling fingers. Even though I’m fully clothed, I’ve never felt so naked. I feel like I’m back in the decontamination block, a moth pinned behind glass.

‘Come on, show us the goods,’ a guard shouts.

‘Stick a bullet in her,’ another woman shouts, her beautiful mouth drawn into this ugly snarl.

A guard aims his rifle at me and the room seems to shift a foot to the right. ‘Wait,’ Howard says. ‘I know this ape. She’s from the Harper estate. This is marvellous – I love playing with Jeremy’s toys.’ He sucks the champagne over his teeth, waving his hand for me to continue.

Slowly, purposefully, I lower the zip, inching my shoulders out of the material. My skin looks almost blue against the pink of the walls, and I become painfully aware of every bruise and graze collected since my arrival in this world, my vest speckled with filth and sweat stains so that I resemble a piebald pony. My cheeks feel hot with the expectation of tears.