She tried to see herself as a vodsel might.
Even at a glance, she found it difficult to believe how much she had let herself go. It seemed like only a few days ago that she’d last done what was necessary to push herself across the dividing line into bestiality; it must have been much longer ago than that. What a bizarre sight she must have been to the vodsels who’d seen her recently. It was a good thing, really, that the last couple were safely out of circulation, because she had to admit she didn’t pass muster now; her fur was growing back everywhere except in the places that were so severely scarred or artificial that nothing could grow there. She looked almost human.
Her hairline was barely discernible anymore; downy fuzz covered her forehead and connected up with the thicker fur on her brows. Her lower eyelashes had almost ceased to be defined as such, merging with the stubble on her cheeks, brown stubble that was softening as it grew. Her shoulders and upper arms were lined with a tentative fleece of auburn.
If Amlis Vess had stayed a little longer, he would have seen something of why men from the Elite had always promised her that they would keep her where she belonged, that they would put in a good word for her when the time came, that they would make sure she was never sent where a girl as beautiful as her should never be forced to go. It would be a crime against nature, one of them had told her once, as he stroked her flank, straying inwards towards the soft genital slit.
Isserley wielded the razor blade with great care. She’d dabbed shampoo onto her cheeks, but because the fur went right up to the rims of her eyelids, she must be careful not to push the soapy froth onto her eyeballs. Her eyes were sore enough from having to wear glasses so much of the time. And, of course, from weeping over Amlis, and life in general.
With delicate, tender scrapes, she shaved the fur off her face, leaving a few wisps for eyelashes. She tried to stop frowning, to make her forehead smooth as she dragged the razor across it. With every scrape she rinsed the blade in the bathwater; soon her fur was floating all around her, borne on a flotilla of shampoo scum.
When she was finished, Isserley picked up the mirror again and examined herself. A droplet of watery blood was trickling down her forehead; she wiped it away before it could run down into her eye. It would heal in a minute.
Instead of a straight hairline, windscreen-style, she’d given herself a slight V-shape, as a sort of experiment. She’d seen it on vodsels sometimes and thought it looked quite attractive.
The rest was straightforward. Unsheathing a fresh blade, she shaved her arms and legs, her shoulders, her feet. With a grunt of effort she swivelled her arms behind her back and shaved there, one hand angling the mirror, the other wielding the blade. Her abdomen needed only a few touch-ups; the scarred flesh from her amputated teats was dimpled and tough, like the torso of a lean, well-muscled vodsel who kept away from alcohol and fatty feed. The tangle of knotted flesh between her legs she didn’t touch or examine; it was a lost cause.
The water had gone cold around her, and looked like a pond stagnant with brown algae. She stood up and gave herself a quick blast of hot water from the shower nozzle to flush off the loose fur. Then she stepped out of the tub onto the cold tiles, next to her shabby little pile of discarded clothes. Grasping them in her toes, she tossed them into the bath and pushed them under the water, which was instantly filthy.
Amlis Vess was gone, and there was nothing to do but go to work.
The midday news came on the television while she was doing her exercises. For the first time in years, it had some relevance to her.
‘A search is under way for missing Perthshire man, William Cameron, ‘said a concerned female voice, as the grubby screen in Isserley’s bedroom displayed a picture of the red-maned, knitted-jumper vodsel she’d picked up days before,’ who was last seen attempting to hitch-hike home from Inverness on Sunday.’ A different photograph replaced the first, this one showing the vodsel relaxing in front of a caravan, hugging between his legs a sleepy-eyed female with thick glasses. Two chubby toddlers, out of focus, were frozen in the extreme foreground, wide-eyed with surprise at the camera flash. ‘Police say there is as yet no evidence of any connection between Mr Cameron’s disappearance and the murder of Anthony Mallinder on Sunday.’ The red-mane and his family were extinguished and a grainy image of the monstrous baldhead in yellow overalls was superimposed, instantly making Isserley’s flesh creep. ‘They acknowledge, however, a possible connection with the disappearance of German medical student Dieter Genscher, last seen at Aviemore.’ The disturbing sight of the baldhead was mercifully replaced by a snapshot of a harmless-looking vodsel Isserley couldn’t recall seeing before. Then, after what seemed like only a fraction of a second, there was some high-quality film footage of the A9, the camera mounted low on the ground, to show the passing cars from the perspective of a hitch-hiker.
Isserley continued her exercises as the news progressed to other things: huge herds of starving vodsels in a foreign country, the misbehaviour of a singer who wasn’t John Martyn, sporting events, weather. Driving conditions were likely to be quite good, if the forecast was accurate.
Exercise and the sun beaming in through the window had dried her hair. She appraised herself in her little mirror, frowning. Her fresh black top – the freshest-looking of the ones in her wardrobe – was a little frayed. Still smart, but a little frayed.
You shouldn’t have taken that red-haired vodsel, she said to herself, suddenly. William Cameron.
Pushing the thought away, she tried to return her attention to the matter at hand. Where was she supposed to get more clothes? Donny’s Garage didn’t sell clothes. For years, she’d resisted the temptation to wear items of clothing she’d come by in the course of her work, fearing that they would be recognized as belonging to individual vodsels, but maybe…
You shouldn’t have taken him, she told herself again. You’re slipping. It’s over.
Her trousers were fine, the green velvet glossy and clean. A bit patchy on the seat, perhaps, but no-one ever saw that, all being welL Her shoes were polished and seemingly indestructible. The cleavage of her bosom glowed in the sunlight like something from the cover of a vodsel magazine. The tiny cut on her hairline had healed already; she picked the crust off, and it didn’t resume bleeding. She ran her fingers through her hair, all ten fingernails securely in place. She breathed deeply, sucking the cool clean air through her nostrils, keeping her spine straight. Outside her window, the earth’s atmosphere was bright and blue, obscuring the eternities of space beyond.
Life goes on, she insisted to herself.
On her way out of the house, she found the note from Esswis, which she’d forgotten all about. By the looks of it, it had been lying under her door for days. She held its damp and faded text up to the light. Esswis’s tortuous scrawl didn’t make things any easier, but one thing was immediately clear: this wasn’t a personal letter. He was merely passing on a message from Vess Incorporated, which, because Esswis was Isserley’s superior, had been conveyed to him first.
As far as Isserley could decipher, Vess Incorporated was wondering if there was any possibility she could bring in a few more vodsels than usual. Twenty per cent more per annum would be fine. If there was any difficulty, the Corporation could send someone to help her out. In fact, it was seriously considering sending someone anyway.