I am serialising my dystopian/retro-futuristic sci-fi story here. Here is the thirteenth chapter, titled “The Rat Catcher”.
All chapters can be found here.
I will be adding a new chapter every Friday (when I don’t forget, sorry!).
Chapter 12 – The Rat Catcher
A synthetic female voice started speaking calmly over the tannoy system piped into her apartment.
“This is a Milpol public order notice. Residents are advised to clear the streets and shelter in place. A curfew is in effect. Failure to comply may result in arrest and detention.”
She lit a cigarette and looked down on the street below. She saw people running, ducking into doorways and hurrying to get inside of somewhere.
This is a coincidence, nothing else, she thought.
She saw copters buzzing over the ghetto. She saw a tank rumbling down the street, its cannon rotating, with heavily armed Milpol troopers walking alongside.
She hadn’t seen Him since her visit to Rascals, which was four days before. It wasn’t unheard of for him to vanish from her life for a week or more, but this time, the calm, synthetic voice of the woman speaking through the tannoy filled her with a sense of dread.
Perhaps he has got his pet, and he is busy being amused by it, she thought.
She puffed her cigarette, walked to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of brandy, and gulped it back. She walked back to the window and puffed on her cigarette, watching the scene from the twentieth floor of the polycrete tower.
She thought of Him and his cat. She could see the wire from where she was, and wondered what His world was like beyond it.
She wondered how He spent his time on the other side of the wire. She wondered about the pet he would get when he got his promotion, and where it would live, and how it would be cared for.
She tried to imagine how he lived his life when he was not with her.
Did he, on the other side of the wire, live as she lived on this side?
Did he have a wife? She wondered. Did he wake up in a bad mood, hungover, and demand his wife wash him and then force himself on her, she wondered.
Did he take his wife to clubs, drink brandy cocktails, and she sat and smiled, putting on a performance for him? She wondered.
She stubbed out her cigarette and went to bed, climbed under the blanket, closed her eyes, and fell asleep.
* * *
“This is a Milpol public order notice. Residents are advised that martial law has been declared. A curfew is in effect. Any residents seen on the streets are subject to lethal force.”
A synthetic female voice said calmly over the tannoy system piped into her apartment.
She lay under the blankets, as the latent sense of dread she had felt since using the device to copy the documents developed into a wave of fear.
She sat up, hearing sirens blaring.
She hurried to the window, moving the net curtains to the side, and looked out at the world below her.
The streets were deserted, except for a pair of old timers moving along the street, ducking from one doorway to another, trying to get somewhere.
She lit a cigarette and watched the copters buzzing and hovering over the towers and the ghetto below.
Suddenly, one of the copters swooped down, shooting long, blue streaks from the cannon on the side, strafing the old timers in the shadows. The old timers tried to run, but were gunned down, ripped apart by the cannon fire, and lay motionless on the muddy cobbles as the copter hovered overhead.
She gasped, a hand to her mouth, eyes wide. The bodies of the old timers were a tattered, bloody mess. The copter hovered for a moment longer and then moved on.
It was then that she knew. This wasn’t one of the regular drills that Milpol conducted. This was something new. She backed away from the window, her hand still at her mouth.
She moved to the vanity, opened the top draw, and rummaged through the underwear until she found what she was looking for. She lifted the small blaster the man had given her.
She held the weapon in her hand, turning it over, studying it.
“In case…you need it,” she heard the man say.
A tear leaked from her eye.
She walked to the kitchen, stubbed her cigarette out, lit another, and gulped back some brandy from the bottle.
She stood, motionless, staring at the wall, lost in thought.
“He is with his wife, and the pet, and he is busy being amused, and there is nothing to worry about,” she lied to herself.
She moved back to the window and watched the copters buzzing and swooping as sirens blared, and the synthetic woman’s voice through the tannoy calmly advised her not to go outside or she would be killed.
* * *
Another three days had passed. She was sitting in the kitchen, eating tinned, sliced pears in syrup, when there was a knock at the door.
It is not him. He has a key, she thought, a wave of panic washing over her.
She stood, brushing off her dress, and slipped her feet into her sequined slippers. There was another knock at the door. She moved to the living room, trying to appear as calm and collected as possible.
As she walked, she heard the man at Terminus saying as he smoked her cigarettes, and smiled at her, “If you do this, it will be our little secret, and no one will ever know.”
She opened the door and found a slight man, dressed all in black, with a patch over one eye, standing outside. She stared at the man, and the man stared back with his one eye. After what seemed like an eternity, she finally said.
“Yes?”
The man stepped into the apartment, closing the door behind him. He looked around, appraising the space, taking the measure of where he was. He ignored her, walking past her, taking off his leather gloves.
“Excuse me,” She said, trying to sound firm and confident. “But you cannot just come in here…this apartment is paid for by…”
“A captain in Milpol,” Riker said, walking deeper into the room, still paying her no attention. He suddenly spun, regarding her coolly with his one eye. “The captain is very busy at work, and he asked me to pop by and to make sure you have everything you need.”
A wave of relief washed over her.
“I was worried…” she said.
He continued to stare at her, his one eye unblinking, his face cold and harsh.
“What do you have to worry about?” He said, taking a step closer.
“I…” she said, suddenly feeling unnerved and concerned.
“Have you done anything to make you worry?” He said, stepping closer still.
“I…” she said, flustered, struggling to get the rest of what she wanted to say out, taking a small step backwards. “I…was worried…about the Captain.”
A thin, frosted smile appeared on his face. He stepped closer still, placing a rough hand on her face.
“You are too…attractive…to be worrying yourself about anything,” he said, the thin, frosted smile becoming a grotesque smile.
He removed his hand and spun. He walked toward the kitchen, peering in. He turned back to her.
“Coffee,” he said.
She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know who this man was or what he wanted. She was pleased that the captain was okay, but why had this strange, unsettling man suddenly appeared?
A cold shiver had crept up her back when he had touched her, and there was something dangerous and unnerving about the way his eye looked at her.
“Yes…” she said, suddenly remembering herself.
She walked to the kitchen. As she squeezed past him, he seemed to sniff her. She went to the stove, filled the kettle, lit the gas, and stood, waiting for the water to boil.
She heard him, behind her, sitting himself. She could feel his eye on her. She could feel herself trembling. And then she remembered the performance and turned.
“Do you like it sweet?” She said, and flashed a brilliant, seductive smile at the man.
He lit a cigarette and puffed, his eye never leaving her, seemingly unaffected by her attempt to disarm him.
“Coffee, I like it sweet,” he said, puffing his cigarette. “Other things, I prefer to be less sweet.”
She heaped some freeze-dried coffee into a cup, added sweetener, and stirred. She placed the cup down in front of him.
He puffed his cigarette, then picked up the cup, and took a sip.
“How is the captain?” She said, trying to make some conversation.
“Well…” he said, putting the cup down. “The Captain’s workload has crushed him, and he is taking a bit of time off to put himself back together.”
And he smiled, unpleasantly, and puffed his cigarette.
“Oh,” she said, not quite sure what any of what the man had said meant.
They sat in silence, the man smoking and staring at her.
“Did the captain get his pet?” She said, trying again to make some conversation, and break the pregnant, uncomfortable silence.
The man stared at her blankly, not a trace of emotion on his pale-skinned face.
“What?” He said.
“The captain said he was working on a big assignment, and he was going to get a pet…a cat,” she said.
There was another long, excruciatingly silent pause until the man chuckled, exposing his yellowed teeth. He chuckled, picked up the coffee and sipped. He continued laughing to himself as he stubbed out his cigarette and lit another.
“Ah, yes, the cat and the big assignment,” he said.
She nodded, suddenly feeling even more uncomfortable.
The man continued to chuckle.
“I am sorry…” he said, calming himself. “But I thought you were his pet?”
She didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing, fumbling for her cigarettes and lighting one. The man’s eye never left her.
“How do you spend your time with the captain?” He said.
“We…” she said, struggling to translate her relationship with the captain into something that didn’t expose more of herself than she wished to expose. “We go to clubs…together…and…”
“And what?” He said, seemingly enjoying watching her squirm.
“And I cook for him, and ask him about his day at work…and…”
“And fucking?” He said.
She puffed her cigarette and raised her chin, holding her face still.
“Fucking and sucking and sucking and fucking, is that how you spend your time with the captain?”
She felt her hand tremble as it moved to her mouth, and she puffed her cigarette. She nodded weakly.
The man’s tongue worked in a slow circle around his lips as he stared at her.
“I can see why the captain would keep you as his pet,” he said. “Are you very good at fucking and sucking? I met his wife, and she doesn’t seem as though she would be very good at this. Is this why you are his pet?”
She blushed and looked away from his penetrating eye.
He shrugged, gulped back the last of his coffee, stubbed his cigarette out, and stood.
“Do you mind if I have a look around?”
She nodded awkwardly, trying to seem unbothered. He turned and walked to the bedroom. She stood, wave after wave of dread and fear washing over her.
Who is this man? She thought. What does he want?
She moved to the doorframe and looked into the bedroom. The man was walking around, hands behind his back and observing everything— the dirty clothes on the floor, the ashtray filled with stubbed out cigarettes, the empty bottles of brandy, the unmade bed.
She moved into the bedroom, watching him make a silent circuit of the room, the only sound the sharp clicking of his jackboots on the polycrete floor. He opened the door to the bathroom, peered inside, then moved on. He stopped at the wardrobe, opening it and looking at the row of white shirts hanging alongside her black cocktail dresses. He closed the door.
He walked to the window, pulling aside the net curtain, and peering out at the ghetto before him. He turned and smiled unpleasantly at her, exposing his yellow teeth.
“Did the captain bring his attaché case with him when he came to…see you?” He said.
She nodded. Suddenly, realising that this man knew. He knew that someone had copied the files in the captain’s case.
He walked to the vanity, picking up bottles of perfume and sniffing them. His hand moved to the draw, the draw the blaster was in, buried underneath her lingerie. He pulled it open and stared.
She felt herself trembling, and her stomach lurching, and she went to say something, something to distract him, but she couldn’t get any words out of her mouth; she was so scared.
His hand went into the draw, and lifted out the sheer, string lingerie the captain had given her. He held it between finger and thumb, studying it, as though he were holding a grimy rag.
She suddenly thought she should confess, and tell him everything, and that she didn’t know what to do, and that she hadn’t wanted to do it, and…
“I think,” he said, still holding the lingerie. “That someone copied the files in the captain’s attaché case.”
She went to speak again. To tell him everything, but the words would not come out.
“I am having to files in the captain’s attaché case tested, to see if they have been copied. I will have the results of these tests back in a couple of days, and then…”
She tried to speak again, but the words refused to form in her mouth.
“Do you know anything about this?”
“N…no…” she said, sounding entirely unconvincing.
He turned, still holding the lingerie. He moved toward her. She mustered every ounce of inner strength she had, trying to appear unfazed by the man in her bedroom, holding her lingerie, and discussing the little secret that no one was supposed to know about.
He stood before her, his face uncomfortably close to hers. He removed his cap.
“Touch me,” he said.
She felt her body shake, felt her legs quivering, like they were about to give way, and she would collapse to the floor.
“TOUCH ME!” he suddenly snapped.
She flinched, her hand jerked up unbidden, finding the side of his head. She ran her trembling fingers over his stubbly, pale skin. He felt cold and greasy.
As she caressed him, he lifted the lingerie to his nose, scrunching it and sniffing it. His one eye twitched as it locked with hers.
“I will be back in a couple of days. You will cook me dinner, and ask me how my day was,” he said, his face close to hers. “And then…you will find out how sweet, or not, I like other things.”
She was pinned against the wall, with nowhere to go, absolutely terrified. She nodded.
He stared at her, unblinking, and then tucked her underwear in his coat pocket. “I am keeping this…as evidence, if you like.”
He smiled and then turned. He put on his cap and moved to the door.
“Don’t go anywhere. I will see you in a couple of days.”
And he was gone, and she collapsed on the floor, hyperventilating and sobbing.