Stuart MacBride - Halfhead

‘Oh, for God’s sake! Put the bloody things on the truck.’

‘Keep them aff, pit them oan, dae the hokey-cokie…’ The fat man executed a courtly bow to his friend with the awful teeth. ‘Douglas, would you be a dear an’ help oor passengers aboard th’ good ship Lollypop?’

‘My pleasure, Captain!’ He turned and made a megaphone out of his dirty hands and irregular mouth. ‘All aboard the Mudlark!’ To Will’s surprise the halfheads started shuffling forwards. ‘Come on ladies an’ gentlemin, lets be avin’ yeeeew!’

They brought their mops and their buckets, their buggies and their brooms with them. Dougie relieved them of their burdens, then Captain Fat and Sarcastic helped them up the back step and into the Roadhugger. Will stood at the tailgate, looking into their faces as they were pulled onboard. Searching for some sign of life. There was no way to tell if any of them were the halfhead in the lift; they all looked alike to him. Every single one of them seemed to be brain-dead.

‘Ye happy now?’ asked the Captain, when they were all on board and strapped into their bays.

‘How many did you bring with you?’

‘The same number they gave us at the depot. Whit is it wi’ you?’

‘How many?’

He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the ones lined up along the side of the truck. ‘That many.’

‘You must keep some sort of records-’

‘Look, Mister, we ain’t their keepers. We just picks them up and drops them off. OK? Gie’s a break!’

Will dropped off the tailgate and stared at the line of new halfheads, all clutching their cleaning materials and waiting for instructions. This was madness: they were halfheads. Between them they wouldn’t have enough brains left to break wind, never mind assault a Bluecoat officer and evade a Network security team. It wasn’t just unlikely, it was impossible. He was just making a fool of himself.

‘We all done here, James? Entertaining as this is, Dougie an’ me gottae go dae some actual work, but.’

Will gritted his teeth, forcing out the words, ‘Thank you for your cooperation.’ Then he turned on his heel and stomped back into the hospital, doing his best to ignore the derisive laughter that erupted behind his back.

She watches him leave: face all crumpled, shoulders all slouchy. Poor thing. What he needs is a woman’s touch. She gets a warm feeling inside at that. A woman’s touch, with a very sharp blade.

It was easy to change lines, to become one of the incoming domestic slaves, rather than the outgoing.

When the line snakes away from the Roadhugger and in through the hospital doors she goes with it. They all line up like good little soldiers, then a bored-looking orderly assigns them their tasks.

She tries to look completely bereft of intelligence as the bored man tells her to go and mop the floors in the mortuary. As she slouches off towards the lifts she sees the orderly get to the end of the line and examine his clipboard.

‘We got one too many…’ He frowns, then shrugs. ‘Ah well, waste not want not.’

Dr Westfield catches sight of the big glass and bronze clock hanging over the reception desk. It’s not even five o’clock yet. She still has six hours to go.

Six hours and a head full of bees and broken glass.

Peitai…

She will find herself a nice private room and have a shower. A long, hot shower to cleanse away all the dirt and filth and menial labour of the last six years.

Then she’ll be nice and clean for Dr Stephen Bexley. He’ll give her back her face and her life, and she’ll take his. Then she’ll pay that nice man from the Network a home visit.

He almost had her tonight-almost ended everything before it had really begun.

One good turn deserves another.

Will sat on the edge of the treatment bench and tried not to wince as Doc Morrison poked and prodded his bruised ribs.

‘You know,’ she said, standing back, watching him sitting there in his pants and socks, ‘you’re becoming a bit of a fixture round here. How about you stay out of trouble for a month or two? Let absence make the heart grow fonder.’

‘I’d like to,’ Will smiled, ‘but you’re just too much woman for me to resist.’

‘Very funny. Get your clothes on.’ She slapped a couple more blockers into his hand and invited him, politely, to get the hell out of her office.

Jo was waiting for him outside, a patch of bright pink sitting on her forehead where the graze used to be.

‘That looks nice,’ he said as they walked towards the lifts.

‘So much for natural flesh tones.’ There was still a touch of frost in her voice. She punched the button for the rooftop landing pad and they stood side by side, waiting for the lift to show. ‘How’s your ribs?’

Will shrugged. ‘Doc says they’re healing. What about you?’

‘Slight concussion and a patchwork head.’

He smiled and wrapped an arm round her waist. ‘All in all a lovely day then?’

‘Yeah. Great. Remind me to go out with you next time I’m feeling suicidal.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’ He let go of her and tried not to sound hurt.

They stood in silence.

Will bit his lip and took a deep breath. He wanted to apolo gize, tell her she was important to him, that he didn’t mean to push her away…But looking at her standing there, her face all clenched tight, he couldn’t find the words.

He looked away.

He’d screwed it up again.

Doctor Stephen Bexley stands in the middle of the operating theatre. He’s on his own-good boy. She watches him though the observation window as he twitches and fidgets. Her new head sits on the operating slab beside him, beautiful and radiant in its bath of nutrients.

She should be happy, but all she feels is sick and twisted. The episodes are getting worse: flashes of pain, bright lights, and the old man. The past won’t leave her alone.

She pulls out her datapad and picks her way quietly down the stairs and into the operating theatre. Stephen doesn’t hear her enter, he’s too busy biting his fingernails. He shrieks when the cold, artificial voice says: ‘ ARE YOU PREPARED? ‘

‘I…I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.’ He looks around the room as if seeing the large banks of machinery for the first time. ‘I’ve disabled the cameras and set up an artificial anaesthetist and…’ He runs out of words and just stands there, slack and silent. The dark circles under his eyes have grown and his salt and pepper hair is uncombed.

He doesn’t look fit to operate on a cat.

Her hands dance over the datapad’s keyboard as she gives him some words of encouragement. ‘ STEPHEN, YOU ARE THE FINEST CLONEPLANT SURGEON IN THE COUNTRY. YOU WILL DO A WONDERFUL JOB AND MAKE ME BEAUTIFUL AGAIN. NO ONE ELSE CAN DO THIS AS WELL AS YOU. ‘

He doesn’t look as if he believes her.

‘ REMEMBER THE JENKINS’S CHILD? YOU MADE HIS LIFE WHOLE AGAIN. YOU ARE A GENIUS. ‘

Something like pride sparks in Stephen’s eyes and he nods, then straightens up. Stands a little taller. He must be desperate if this kind of banal flattery makes him feel better about his miserable little life. Or the short portion that’s left of it.

‘Yes, well,’ his voice has become a lot firmer, almost masterful, ‘if you could hop up on the operating table we’ll get you plugged in.’ His hands shake as he prepares the IV drips. Then he takes a deep breath and slides the needles into her skin like the expert he is. She barely even feels it.

Numbness creeps out from the centre of her chest. She can smell her own fear. The last time she lay back on an operating slab they took everything away from her. Everything. She fights to keep the panic in check, but it’s acid, eating at her belly. She can see Stephen busying himself with the prepar ations, but it’s the other surgeon she hears: the one that stole her life.