I am serialising my dystopian/retro-futuristic sci-fi story here. Here is the third chapter, titled “The Performer”
Chapter 1 is here.
Chapter 2 is here.
I will be adding a new chapter every Friday.
Chapter 03 – The Performer
She awoke and stared at the peeling paint on the ceiling. She rolled over and saw him lying next to her. He looked dead, with his mouth gaping open, his skin pallid and old. He made a slow, wheezing, snoring noise.
She gently climbed out of the bed, slipping on her silk robe, and crept out of the bedroom. It was 6:54.
She went to the kitchen and lit a cigarette.
She sat and analysed her performance from the night before. He had arrived, and she acted pleased, trying to seem genuinely excited to see him. She wanted him to feel that they were lovers and that she loved him. She kissed him, taking his case and unbuttoning his jacket, loosening his tie, touching him. She thought that he enjoyed this.
She had mixed him a drink and sat beside him, lighting his cigar. She knew these were the things he liked. He enjoyed being touched and listened to, as if he were at the centre of her world. He liked her to be attentive. She ran a hand over his thigh and chest, hearing about his boring day.
She had cooked for him, and he had told her to undress. She did as she was told, as she knew that he liked her to be submissive and slutty.
She was angry with herself. She had overcooked the steak, and the powdered potatoes were runny. He had lectured her, like a child, about her cooking skills, saying how he expected a much better effort.
It was 7:10.
She hoped he had to leave early. Sometimes he had to leave early, and there wouldn’t be time for them to do it again, but if she woke him up now, there might be time.
She puffed on her cigarette, thinking about what to do. She stubbed her cigarette out. She decided she would start making coffee at 7:15.
She stared at the sink full of dirty dishes, plates, and glasses, and thought of having to wash, dry, and put them away. But that was too much for her to think about right now.
Her life was so very lonely, she reflected as she stared at the sink. She lived in this apartment, ate cheese and chocolate, drank brandy and smoked off-world cigarettes, but she didn’t know anyone.
She had lived in the apartment alone for a year, never going anywhere but a cafe to sit alone, or a shop to buy meat and potatoes. Sometimes he would take her out to a burlesque show or nude cabaret in the ghetto’s red light district, where she would have to watch women like her dance and perform for men like him. But she never spoke to anyone.
She used to know people when she was a working girl at the bordello, but now, she was all alone. Being a working girl wasn’t any better, she reflected, but at least she had company with the other working girls and had someone to talk to about this or that. But now, she didn’t have anyone.
It was 7:15. She stood, filling the kettle with water, and then placing it on the hob. She placed a cigarette in her mouth, lit a match, lit her cigarette, then lit the hob.
She moved from the kitchen to the bedroom door, peering in, and seeing him still asleep, mouth open. She went back to the kitchen.
She took a cup and added some freeze-dried coffee granules, two sachets of sweetener, and stared at the kettle, waiting for it to boil.
At 7:20, she poured the hot water into the coffee granules and stirred. She decided she would have one more cigarette, and then she would wake him up.
She walked into the bedroom carrying the cup of coffee. He was just waking up. She placed the coffee on the bedside table as his hand groped the inside of her thigh. She forced a smiled, puffing her cigarette.
“What is the time?” he said, taking the coffee and sipping.
“7:23,” she said.
“If you had woken me up earlier…we could have done it again.”
“I just woke up. What time must you leave?”
“8. A patrol copter is picking me up from the roof.”
She opened her robe, exposing her naked body, smiling cheekily and giggling.
“I don’t have time,” he said, irritated, releasing her thigh. “If this building had lifts, it would be a different matter, but I have to climb those damn stairs!”
“I will get you breakfast,” she said, tying her robe, kissing him, and then leaving him.
She walked back to the kitchen, suddenly thrilled. The ordeal was coming to an end. She took the bacon from the icebox and placed it in a pan, cooking it until crisp. She cracked two eggs into the fat. She boiled more water and made more coffee.
She thought, as she scraped margarine across the toasted bread, that she was pleased with herself for exposing her body to him. It showed that she was willing, sincere and wanted more, but it was he who decided there was no time, and she was innocent.
She placed the plate with a knife and fork and the coffee on the table, having done all of this while smoking a celebratory cigarette.
He called, and she hurried to the bedroom where he stood. She knelt, knowing what she must do, and heaved and pulled his leather boots onto his fat, swollen legs.
He left the bedroom and went to the kitchen, stopping by the table and looking at the meal before him.
“Wonderful,” he said. “Get my case.”
She hurried to the living room, found his case and took it to him.
He retrieved a well-thumbed brochure from his attaché case and began eating as he read. She sat opposite him, smoking a cigarette.
She stared at him as he ate noisily. Some runny yolk spilt from his lips that his tongue scooped away back into his greedy mouth. He slurped his coffee, reading, paying her no attention, as if she were not there.
“What are you reading?” she said, knowing that she should be silent, but suddenly not caring.
He continued to eat, chewed, slurped some coffee, and then spoke, his eyes remaining fixed on the brochure he was reading.
“I have told you before, do not speak when I am reading,” he said plainly, and continued to eat.
She puffed on her cigarette.
After the meal, he stood and went to the living room. She followed and helped him button his jacket, straightened his tie, brushed his collar, and handed him his attaché case.
It is nearly over, she told herself.
She pressed her body against him, kissing him.
“I almost forgot,” he suddenly said, and opened his case, taking out a flat box that he handed to her. “Wear it next time.”
You must do your job, she willed herself. He must enjoy being with you, wanting to come back for more. He must think you love him. If he becomes bored, you will be out on the street…or worse!
She forced a seductive smile, unfastening her robe and exposing a breast.
“I thought you preferred me natural,” she purred, pressing against him and kissing him again.
He seemed flustered for a moment, smirking, and then left. She shut the door, locking it, and the performance was done.
In the kitchen, she poured some brandy into a dirty glass, gulped it back, and went back to bed, pulling the blanket over her head.
It was later. She had slept all day, buried under the blanket, trying to forget him and her situation. She had checked the door, and there was no red string tied to the latch, so she decided to go out.
She couldn’t stand the thought of another night alone in the apartment, and wanted to be around people, and to hear laughter, so she had got dressed, taken a tuk-tuk was now at Terminus, a speakeasy, where an eclectic crowd of ghetto underworld figures, glamorous women, and off-duty Milpol troopers congregated to drink and debauch.
She sat at a table alone, ordering a brandy cocktail and smoking a cigarette. Terminus was crowded, smoky, and noisy. A woman dressed in a sequinned leotard was belting out songs, accompanied by a band.
Her eyes scanned the jolly faces of the other patrons, smoking and talking and laughing. Her eyes rest on a man, sitting alone, at a table a short distance from where she sat. He seemed to be watching her, and then looked away.
A man suddenly sat at her table. He was handsome and had a wild, unpredictable look to him, as if he were trouble.
“May I?” he said.
“What?” she said, surprised by his sudden appearance.
He took one of her cigarettes and lit it with her matches. He puffed.
“May I…have a cigarette?” he said, smiling.
She suddenly felt uncomfortable. She picked up her drink, gulped it back, and went to stand.
The man suddenly grabbed her arm, twisting it. She gasped at the pain.
“I am sorry…” the man whispered in her ear. “But if you leave, we will have to kill you.”
She felt something pressed against her stomach. She looked down, seeing a small blaster pressed against her, and a wave of dread and fear washed over her.
“I am going to release you, and you are going to sit there, and you are going to listen to what I have to say. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“I am going to release you now, and you are going to behave yourself and be a good girl.”
He released her, smiling, the blaster hidden back in his jacket. A waitress arrived at the table.
“Same again, darling?” he said casually.
She nodded, her face tight. Her eyes stared at the table, unsure what was going on, but knowing she was in terrible trouble.
“Two brandy cocktails,” the man said, smiling cheerily.
The waitress left, and they sat in silence while the people around them laughed and talked, and the band played, and the singer belted out a song.
When the waitress placed the drinks on the table, he took her purse and her coupon book, then ripped out a coupon and handed it to the waitress.
“Keep the change,” he said, his eyes watching her the whole time.
He took his drink.
“Cheers, darling…” he said, holding his drink in a cheer.
She took her drink and sipped from it, saying nothing. He moved his chair toward her, putting an arm around her, pulling her close, his mouth next to her ear.
“I am sorry…” he said, and sipped his drink. “I am putting you in an impossible position, but it is designed to ensure you will make the right decision. But I am sorry.”
He stubbed out his cigarette, took another from her, and lit it.
“You have a friend, from Milpol, who comes to see you,” he said into her ear, and she felt the first cracks and fissures appear in her brittle world. “He brings an attaché case with him when he comes to see you…We are going to give you a device, and the next time he comes to see you, when you have worn him out and he is sleeping soundly, you are going to use this device to copy the documents in the man from Milpol’s attaché case…”
Her hand trembled as she picked up her drink and took a gulp. Her hands seemed clumsy and fumbled as she tried to take a cigarette from the packet.
He took the packet, placing a hand on hers to steady her. He took a cigarette, placed it in her mouth, and lit it for her. She puffed, feeling sick, confused, and scared.
“If you go to your friend from Milpol and tell him that someone has asked you to copy the contents of his case, your friend will become concerned and worried about being embarrassed. He will have you killed, and your body will be dumped far from here, out on the prairies.”
“No, please…” she whispered, a tear running from her eye..
“Shhhhh,” he said. “If you do this, it will be our little secret, and no one will ever know.”
He moved away from her, smiling.
“I did say I was sorry, darling,” he said, looking at her pale, stricken face.
He finished his drink, gulping it back.
“Go home. Someone will meet you there. The next time your friend comes, copy the documents, and we will collect the device. If you try to run, we will kill you.”
He stood, taking her packet of cigarettes and ripping a few pages from her coupon book.
“Viva la resistance,” he said, and turned and left.
She was left in a state of shock, terrified, and feeling more alone and exposed than ever, surrounded by music, singing, and laughter.