Broken Monsters - Lauren Beukes

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ask me,’ Boyd shrugs. ‘You put Stricker on that.’

      ‘I believe they make casts,’ Dr Mackay says. ‘Now, here’s your fatal wound.’ He points out the blood-crusted hole halfway up the boy’s neck. ‘Blunt trauma severed the vertebrae. Could have been a hammer and chisel, but there was a massive application of force, and the bruising around the area suggests it was mechanical, probably pneumatic. I’d guess it was some kind of nail gun, which is something I’m telling you, not putting in the report because it’s speculation. If you could bring me the nail, that would be wonderful. But as you can see by this tissue damage, he dug it out. Possibly with pliers.’

      ‘How hard is it to get a nail gun?’ Gabi asks.

      ‘Hardware store sells them over the counter,’ Boyd says. ‘I’ll run a check.’

      ‘Now, this is the really neat part,’ Mackay says. ‘You see the seam where he was joined to the deer? I had to cut through it, but you can see in the cross-section, here, how the tissue has fused.’

      ‘What does that mean?’

      ‘Like the kind of gluing a plastic surgeon might do, but not quite. It’s extraordinary really; a chemical reaction has caused the proteins to break down and mesh with each other. Think of it as a flesh weld. I’ve mailed some colleagues about it.’

      ‘Welding. Nail guns. We got fuckin’ Handy Manny on the loose,’ Boyd says.

      ‘I like how he tried to hide it by brushing up the fur. It’s a nice touch. Oh, I do have something else interesting for you. You’ll like this.’

      ‘Oh boy,’ Gabi says.

      Mackay raises the boy’s skinny limb to reveal the soft private folds of the armpit, with its first tufting of pubescent hair. It feels somehow more invasive than seeing him laid open and Gabi’s first instinct is to look away.

      ‘Look,’ Mackay says, so she has to. Bambi has an old scar on his tricep. A pucker of scar tissue just above his armpit, like a tiny daisy. ‘Here’s where the slug went straight through. He was lucky. Inch to the right and it would have re-entered the body, gone into the chest cavity.’

      Not so lucky this time, Gabi thinks.

       Studs and Holes

      ‘Stop messing around, he’s no good.’ Cas leans over Layla, her chest brushing against the back of her head, and takes over control of the mouse.

      Her best friend is wearing a plastic cat mask, because that’s what the toy shop had in stock. They needed some kind of disguise, and they were cheaper than the Guy Fawkes masks, which are all manufactured in a sweatshop in China anyway. The mask makes Cas look like she’s a crazy-hot superhero: the Kitty Avenger, whereas Layla just looks like a dumb-ass. As per usual.

      ‘Hey. Maybe I wanted to talk to him,’ Layla says as Cas clicks away from the cute boy with scruffy hair and glasses. Little on the plus side, but hey, not like Lay’s any kind of super-catch either. Ask Dorian. Just thinking his name tugs at her insides.

      ‘That’s not what we’re here for,’ Cas says. ‘And, please. Those glasses were so faux.’ She clicks next, next, next, through the live camera feeds. A girl playing guitar, mumbling a song off-key through the fall of hair over her face. A little kid sprawled in rumpled Batman sheets playing video games, who doesn’t even look up. Probably forgot he left the program running. A guy with acne speckled like constellations across his face, who grins into the camera when he sees them and raises one hand, but Cas has already clicked away.

      ‘It’s gross how they don’t even tidy up,’ Layla complains. Even though it’s reassuring to know that everyone’s a slob. Everyone’s messy life hanging right out there in the open, like their own private reality TV show. You can’t look away. The roulette of human connection.

      ‘Did you tidy up, Miss Priss?’ Cas snaps.

      ‘I’m naturally cleanliness-inclined. And get your boobs off my head. Can’t you put those things away?’ She shoulders her, half-heartedly.

      ‘Can’t help it. They got a mind of their own.’ Click. Click. Click. Next. Next. Next.

      ‘They should have a national flag and a constitution,’ Layla grumbles. ‘I really have to do my homework.’

      ‘What homework?’

      ‘History assignment. Belgian colonialism in the Congo.’

      ‘You picked that,’ Cas accuses. ‘No way Mr. Jeffries assigned that.’

      ‘I want to know about my history.’

      ‘I’m more worried about my present. And you’re only half African-American. Congo, my ass.’

      ‘Da-mn,’ Cas pauses. A man with architectural cheekbones is putting on makeup, thick glitter eye-shadow and fake lashes that curl up almost to his eyebrows.

      ‘Hey sweeties,’ he says, a little wistful. ‘I like the get-up. Want to keep me company while I get ready?’

      ‘Sorry, Ru Paul. We’re on the prowl,’ Cas says. Next.

      ‘She seemed cool.’

      ‘Yeah, okay. We’ll see if we can come back later. God knows you need makeover tips.’

      And then Cas hits what she’s been looking for. Not so hard to find. Layla’s surprised it’s taken them this long. He’s been clicking through too, lying in bed with his shirt off. His face is wide open. Naked. Like the pale sausage hanging out of his jeans, only semi-erect. But he perks right up when he sees them.

      ‘Well hello there, soldier,’ Cas says in her best Lana del Rey purr.

      ‘Hi,’ he manages. They’ve watched quite a bit of porn. Layla has seen a lot of penises. But they’re still endlessly fascinating in their variety. Like messy rooms.

      ‘What’s with the masks?’ he says.

      ‘All the better to show you our tits,’ Cas says in that sultry put-on voice, and Layla has to stop herself from laughing out loud. ‘What’s your name, baby?’

      ‘Why?’ His hand is jerking up and down. His teeth are bared in a smile-grimace.

      ‘So I can scream it later when I’m thinking about you.’

      ‘Gavin,’ he says. ‘Now.’

      ‘Do it now?’ Cas cocks her head at Layla, exaggerating the gesture so the meaning still comes through, even with the mask, as if she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing. ‘You mean right now?’

      ‘Your tits,’ he gasps, his hand a blur. His cheap camera doesn’t have enough resolution to cope. ‘Show me …’

      ‘You first.’ Cas leans right into the camera, shrugging her shoulders together to amplify her cleavage.

      ‘What?’

      ‘Show me your tits.’

      He slows down, uncertain. ‘You want me to …’

      ‘Show me your tits, baby.’ She leans in with a sexy little growl. ‘Show me that man nip. That makes me really hot. I bet you got tight little ones, like studs, am I right?’

      ‘What?’ he repeats. His hand slows.

      ‘Studs. Little shiny metal things on shoes and jackets?’ Layla adds helpfully. ‘Kind-of military fashion thing?’

      Cas bumps her with her shoulder, telling her to cut it out, stick to the script. But Layla’s bored of the script. The petty humiliations Cas insists on.

      ‘Uh. What?’ Some of the blood flow seems to be rerouting back to his brain along with the realization that they’re

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