The guard opens a door into a small waiting area – no windows, crimson walls, another cerise bulb which flickers out of time with the drums. Four Imps wait in line in front of a plain, white door. I join the back of the queue. They turn and study me for a moment. Three girls and one boy. But something strikes me as unusual about each of them. An angry scar extends from either side of the boy’s lips; a Chelsea smile, I think Dad called it once. A large burn covers the back of one of the girls, her dark hair tied up and her smock cut to show the shiny, tight skin. The other girl has one eye which is gummed up like a slit on tree trunk – she reminds me of Baba and I can’t help but stare. She notices me and opens her mouth in a giant yawn, revealing a tangle of scars where her tongue should be. I look away.
It’s as though the Gems have grown tired of the blandness of perfection, and this awful place is some sort of warped tonic. Or perhaps it’s even more basic than that, perhaps humanity needs imperfection – craves it – because without flaws, humanity ceases to be. But still, the sick bastards could just embrace a monobrow.
I glance at the girl directly in front of me. She’s the only one here – except for me – who lacks any kind of scar. She looks younger, maybe only fifteen, and wears a beige smock, handstitched from sacking, darted to fit her body. Her red hair falls over one shoulder, a sheet of fire beneath the raspberry light. She reminds me of Katie, and I feel sick just thinking about what the Gems will do to her.
She catches my eye and smiles. ‘First time?’ she whispers.
I nod. ‘What’s happening?’
The door opens. A surge of music. The boy with the Chelsea smile disappears into the room. The door slams shut and the line shuffles forwards.
‘So we’re waiting to go into the display room. That’s where the Gems bid for us. The highest bidder gets to take you upstairs.’ She glances at my overalls. ‘Try and look, you know, desirable . . . you want them to want you. No bids is very, very bad.’
‘What happens?’
Her amber eyes grow wide. ‘A bullet . . . if you’re lucky.’
‘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.
‘This is embarrassing,’ Ugly Snarl says.