Pongo #64

Andaw

I chicken out of brazening my way past security in broad daylight, and beep myself in after hours. The hospital is dark, and it smells like any other Hospital. Disinfectant squared. You'd think, given the price of the place, that they'd be pumping Pixx Gratitude through the ducts as a continual streaming reminder of money. The wards are dark, though the hall lights stay blazing in case of fire. A glance at the wall map reveals twelve possibilities for Maren's lair. I feel like a groupie sneaking backstage to blow the singer.

Ward 1A. The door swings open, then my hand slips and it claps back against the frame. A patient snuffles in their sleep, nothing more. I realise I have no idea what to look for. I'm not hunting the creature on the side of buses, the haunter of every second hoarding, the immeasurable It that protrudes from every alleyway, testimonial and glossy. I have no idea what Maren Gilligan looks like.

I peer as close to silently as I can manage, at the names on the charts hanging from each bed frame. Nope, nup, nope. Maybe she's using a fake name. This is ridiculous. What am I doing? I just checked the charts of a bunch of kids. If anyone came in now and caught me sneaking about the childrens' ward in total darkness, I wouldn't blame
them for their conclusions.

OK then, well where am I meant to be looking? I keep flinching at muffled snores, tiny objects, rolling breezelessly off tabletops onto the floor. Come on, I need some kind of guidance. A shrill laugh clangs out and I leap a mile. Only after I've collected my lungs from the floor do I follow the voice down the corridoor.

"How hilarious. They put you in with the old folks!
It must be three wards along, four at most. A wave of snores from sleeping inmates pushes me along. I recognise the voice ' she's there, wherever the voice is, Gilligan is with it.

"The old dears and you! You, who just won World's Most Desirable Arse for the fourth year running! The press would have field day over that. Well not to worry.
1B, 1C, 1D. I round the doorframe to find loyal PA Florin Jukkson forcing a pillow down onto Gilligan's face.

Pila

She has knocked the chart from the bed end in the process, and the odd feeble twitch can be seen beneath the bedclothes. I've been listening to her talk for nearly five minutes now, pretending to be asleep or near death.

For the period she's been speaking, I've been thinking I should do something. Only problem is that the more I listen, the less I want to cross her, or even remind her I'm in here. Right now my bones feel and probably are about the strength of chalk, and I pack as much punch as a limp stem.

But another player enters, just as she fits the pillow onto the weak old lady in the bed next to mine.

She whirls round, pulling a silenced gun from her pocket and aiming it at the intruder.

"Oh, it's you! Well you look like the day I first met you. But then that's to be expected.
The man who has entered must be in his late twenties, early thirties, give or take. At first I guess he is an ally of the woman and I stay silent, not wanting to anger either of them. But her reaction to his appearance is far from friendly.

"Great, just great. We knew you'd come to find her eventually. You all do ' you get curious about your patrons, don't you? Want your little slice, that bit of glitter to rub off on you. You HAD to pick now, didn't you? Well, no matter. You're not going to be telling anyone too much.

Andaw

The gun stares at me. I realise Jukkson still thinks I'm a mute. Perfect.

"Don't you dare look at me like that, she spits. "Your precious Maren was on the slope to obscurity anyway. No amount of crossing sweepers and wads of cash can buy back a fanbase. She seems popular right now, oh yes, but I've seen the future.
The kids want edgy, not classic. Style ' another unbuyable thing.

I stay still and cock my head in a way I imagine a mute might.

"Imagine, the highest paid actor in the industry, this marble goddess, being reduced over time to formulaic sickcoms, adverts, a range of knitwear in affordable pleb catalogues. Unbearable. Something had to be done. But the plan, it was perfect. I walk up to her, dressed just like one of those simpering little drones she hypnotises, and stab her right in the middle of it all. Everything at once in one glorious kapow. The legend dies onstage, professional and tragic until the last, in front of bajillions of witnesses, all of whom are barking enough to have done it. Everybody's in raptures over the romance of it all. Better to burn out, eh?

Blank stare from me. This is gold dust.

"Don't think you're the only one who's given Maren Gilligan the best years of your life. I've been practically married to this money spinner for the last twenty years, and though I earn a good amount, I deserve so much more. Just think if I were made executor of her estate. The Gilligan memorial merchandise, the diaries, the letters. I could turn her hide inside out, and her death, which only seems premature because the bitch has been pickled by Marley for the last half-century or more, well that'll only up the price. You know how autographs rocket posthumously? Well imagine a whole life on sale? I have earned this. It's just a shame the knife didn't strike her heart. Poetic and functional. Still, she's in no position to argue if I finish the job now.

In front of me, she replaces the pillow, but pauses before applying pressure once more.

"Oh don't worry, you'll get your money ' we'll pay you for another five years. That is, providing you don't do anything rash right now.

I hardly realise I am shaking my head.

"Andaw, she's a monster. You know that, even if you're drawn to her anyway. What kind of person takes away someone's youth to top up their own? It takes a certain type of borderline psychopath, you must admit. And all these little munchkins, these half-wits she brainwashes ' wouldn't it be a mercy to free them?

Cadderine, swaddled up in some loony bin right now. Insa, clock-watching, hoping for news, hoping her sister will agree to ditch the growth on her belly. God, it would be good to ditch Gilligan. And I could keep all this ' most of my real body. And we'd all be free. Ha, though. For every Maren Gilligan there's a Chasey Pollen, a Bray Fairfax, a Penny Velle, Brenya Calless, Wret and Wrin Kamine, blah blah blah. Cadderine won't be the last, and Gilligan won't be the last.

"There now, and she presses down into the goose feathers, feeling for the outline of a face, one hand pointing the weapon at me. "We're doing a service here. The fittish jerks from below the covers hint the life being sucked away. And it's still life, however low, and I realise that now.

"No, I am, I say, and in the gasp, that split second of oh-my-God, knock the gun from her paw.

"But you're ' you can't - She stares at my mouth, as if a toadish demon will crawl out at any moment. "You're -

"Fucking miracle, innit, I grin, and sock her out for the count.

Miffy

Flashback to Marty and me smoking in bed that first night. I ask him about the morals of it, whether he preys on unhappy girls, jerking tears by manipulation just to get off. He tells me there are worse places to spend unhappy times than in someone's arms. There are worse cures for the blues than a good orgasm by someone you know. He says if this makes me uneasy I can leave anytime, the door is open. I say I know, and I don't much want to, and lean into his chest, my little arms stretching just to his belly button, no further.