White and Other Tales of Ruin

Tom had found her door. He ran up the last flight of steps and stood before it, surprised at how nervous he felt, how terrified that she’d only mock him when he opened the door. She’d be sitting there with her legs open and her hand held out, ready to scan his card and take her ten measly percent.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No. No. She’s better than that. She meant it. No.”

Someone pushed him from behind. He spun around to look into the wizened face of an old man, tall and angular where he had been chopped in an attempt to avert aging. “Yes,” the old man said. “Yes. Don’t torture yourself son, do it. She’s sweeeetttttttt!” His voice rose into a bird-like cackle. Tom leaned back against the door as the old man stumbled away along the corridor, laughing to himself and shrilling “Sweeetttt, sweeettttt!”

The door opened behind him and Tom stumbled into the room.

“Tom! You came!” And there was so much relief and joy in Honey’s voice that Tom knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the love was not his and his alone.

Here was hope. Here was trust. Here was the rest of his life.

Honey had caught him in her arms and he twisted around to kiss her.

“No time for that!” Honey said, kicking the door shut. “I thought you’d be here half an hour ago. Hot Chocolate Bob will be back anytime, he knew I wasn’t going out, he’ll be here to have me. We have to go. We have to go now!”

“Come on then!” Tom said. Honey had a rucksack over her shoulder, and today she wore no make-up. He didn’t know how he could ever have forgotten her face. He saw her for what she really was and loved her more. Years of abuse with her face pressed into pillows and against walls had given her skin a pale sheen, but he had enough money to sort that out. He’d give her new skin. He’d give her anything.

“You’re going to have to do something for me, Tom,” Honey said. “It’s the only way we’ll get out.” She swung the backpack his way and quickly stripped.

Tom went cold.

“You want me to — ”

“If anyone sees me out of this room with you — anyone — they’ll tell Bob. He’ll be on us in seconds, and … I’ve seen him kill before, Tom. He wouldn’t hesitate today.”

“But it’s so dangerous.”

“I know. Tom … let me down. Turn me off, let me down and get me out of here.”

Tom knew that this was a drastic step. Reinvigorating Honey would take hours, and he’d heard that half of the plastic artificials this was done to never came back. They weren’t designed for this. It was like killing a human in the hope that they could be resuscitated.

She put her fingers into a fold beneath her left breast. Tom saw the muscles on her wrist tense. “I’ll do it myself if you don’t. But I want you to do it.”

Honey removed her hand. Tom reached out and slipped his fingers inside the fleshy slit, felt her Christ valve — so named for its artificial powers of death and resurrection — and twisted it sharply to the right.

Honey gasped and slumped into Tom’s arms. “I won’t watch,” he said. He closed his eyes and felt her wrinkling lips pass across his mouth, heard a hissing exhalation of love as her weight lessened. Folds of flesh hung over his arms, a warm rush ran down his legs as she voided herself, steam rose around him and stung his nostrils as he breathed in sharply …

And it was over so quickly.

He tried not to see Honey’s flattened, lifeless face as he rolled her up and stuffed her and her clothes into the rucksack.

At every step, every landing, every corner in the staircase, he expected the pimp to be waiting for him. He would have no defence, no way to fight off such a person. Run or die, that was all. No bluffing, no pleading, no fighting … just running.

The stairwell didn’t seem so dark on the way down, nor so pungent. Maybe it was because the sun had edged around and found a break in the smog, bathing the stairs in heat and light through a rooflight. Or perhaps it was simply because here he was, escaping this pit for the last time with the woman he loved over his shoulder.

The Baker had told him a few thing he should look out for, but he had never explained exactly what love was, what it would do, how it could change the way Tom thought. He guessed that the old bastard could never have explained anyway, genius though he was, and so he had simply neglected to try.

Tom wished the old man could see him now.

At the bottom of the stairwell he headed along the narrow corridor towards the rear of the building. The door was still ajar — he could just see the slice of light in the gloom — and he had made it. He was there, he was out, and a flush of relief relaxed his muscles as he opened the door and stood facing Hot Chocolate Bob.

The pimp glared at him in comical surprise. He must have seen the guilt in Tom’s face, the backpack over his shoulder and the fear in his eyes. “What the fuck?” said the pimp, slipping a silver gun from his belt at the same time and lifting it up towards Tom’s face.