The Terminal Brothel (1/2) By Christopher Skolik

(1/2), (2/2),

Gales crashed onto the housing estate. Grey sky like fractured mountains. In the passenger seat Dennison read through the paper, as Snaith drives. As some story or headline caught Snaith's attention he would ask Dennison to read it in full. The council estate was a maze of similarity -a dizzying optical illusion where homes, roads, and people all looked the same- they blur together creating the effect of moving in space, but not in time. "OK." Dennison felt this would please Snaith, "Automation in surgical procedures...well?"

"Yes..." Snaith rolled the word on his tongue, clearly his interest had been stimulated, "Consider the possibilities...what sort of cosmetic surgery would satisfy a machine's notion of beauty?" "No idea. You want me to read it?" "Later. We are almost there..." "How can you tell? It all looks the same..."

The car turned a corner into a cul-de-sac, in the dull grey light and searing wind young louts in tracksuits and baseball caps -scarves pulled around faces to reveal tiny eyes as hard and cold as obsidian - caught in the raw pink of their features. Hands in pockets they shuffle around, eyes darting rodent like, appraising everything around them. The scruffy art deco building was totally at odds with its surroundings; the peeling white paint, decaying grandeur. Clearly it pre-dated the estate that had grown up around it.

As they enter Dennison had the sensation that it was a doctor's surgery, some official, and community based function, railings to assist handicapped visitor, vases of flowers everywhere, soothing anodyne art and the nurses sat around in relaxed uniforms, drinking coffee.

As they walked to the reception desk, an attractive young woman in a grey dressing gown, with a drip at her side smiled as Dennison approached her. She suddenly let her gown fall open revealing an angry red scar where her right breast should be. "What is this place Snaith?" "A brothel." The Terminal Brothel was a combination of hospice and whorehouse. Snaith and Dennison were led into a chilly office where an officious young woman sat behind a desk.

She looked at the both of them with factual brown eyes. Her brown hair tied back in severe fashion. Her face struck Dennison like the identikit of a criminal suspect, in that all the features were there, but the attempt to put them together failed, so any overall impression remained elusive. She looked down at a file. "Male? Female?" She picked a pen up from the desk. "Male. Right?" Snaith turned to look at Dennison, who was still in a state bordering on shock. In no real position to respond, so Snaith responded for him. "Yes, male, for both of us." "Good." She pushed a ring binder across the desk to Snaith, whom she must have assumed was the brains of this outfit. It was filled with laminates. Head shots, full body poses of men, aged between 16 and 40. They showed scars and wounds as well as more normal poses. Listed opposite was a page of personal details, name, age, diagnosis... "They are all dying?" Dennison spoke, his mouth dry so that it felt as if the words were sticking. "Yes, of course they are." The woman spoke as though Dennison was an imbecile for even asking.

Continued... Next Page (2/2)

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