Friction (15 page)

The bread knife makes short work of the box, it shreds the lid quickly, the sound of cardboard tearing like a motorbike revving up. Let's go. She pulls away some polystyrene and registers the smell of technology. Wires and plastic. Oh, technology. She removes the remainder of the lid with her hands. The parcel contains loads of wires, mostly yellow and red. They're attached to half a dozen white pads. They look a bit like knee pads, I guess. There are lots of black straps, too, like seat belts. On top of all this equipment is a letter.

Steve,

Everything is going well. This is the only bit of kit I've managed to get so far. It's a prototype, pretty basic, they're hoping for much more. You wouldn't believe it.

Anyway, my friend, look after it until I return, maybe let Carly have a play! I'll know a lot more when I get back. It would help if I spoke Japanese!

Regards,

Frank

Besides the electronic equipment and the letter, Carly digs out a thick booklet, presumably an instruction manual,
written entirely in Japanese. The details of Steve's financial interests and his investment projects are completely unknown to Carly. They stopped discussing them because it usually meant epically dull speeches from Steve on market fluctuations and innovations in Internet trading. Still ignorant as to the nature and purpose of all this equipment, Carly takes the manual over to the sofa and turns on the television. She lights another cigarette. This is a busy day.

On page three, a crude rendition of a human being is sporting the electronic device. It looks a little like a suicide bomber, a suicide bomber lying down, its loins decorated with Semtex. Two thick seat-belt-like straps go round the human's back, over its shoulders and then meet and connect just above the midriff. A third goes between the legs, like a gusset, eventually joining up with the other two at the stomach. Two of the white pads are stationed in between the third strap and the line drawing's loins. Two others appear to be attached to each nipple. The whereabouts of the other pads is a mystery.

There is, of course, no need to pretend that we don't know what's happening here. Although Carly's brain is yet to calculate the correct sums, to put two and two together, we know that sitting in the corner of the room is one of the most advanced devices for sexual gratification that humans and their societies have ever invented. We know other things, too. Yes, we do. We know that the proximity of this machine to Carly is almost like fate. It's faintly romantic. We know that if she knew the precise purpose and workings of this machine, the two of them would, in all likelihood, fall in love with one another. The machine would poison her against Steve and the Autopen Relentless Bliss. It would sweep her off her feet, buy her chocolates
and take her walking in the cold and under-gardened parks of Manchester.

We know a little more, too, if you think about it. A few bits and pieces. We know that the Japanese plug can't possibly agree with the English sockets that appear at useful intervals around the walls of Steve's flat. This is a disappointment. It's particularly disappointing if, like me, you were kind of hoping she might have sex with the machine right now. Like, perhaps, she sees the diagram in the manual and suddenly her brain is full of pennies dropping, pennies from heaven. It's four, of course, she thinks, two plus two equals four, not five: a sex toy – I get it. Then maybe she'd leap from the sofa and swoop in the direction of the box and the Japanese sex machine. I understand you, she would say, cradling it in her arms and beginning to work out the straps and where precisely she's going to attach the pads. How could I ever have misunderstood you? You want to pleasure me, don't you? Oh, how wonderful. Quick, quick, you must be attached to me.

But no, she's not going to do that now. It's partly because of the plug problem, I admit that's a big issue. But also because, believe it or not, the idea that Steve is somehow involved in the mechanical sex industry is ludicrous to Carly. She can't convince her mind that the drawing in the manual is what she thinks it is – a sex machine. But, as I say, the machine won't plug into the English sockets, so don't get excited. But don't be naive, I'm sure the penny will drop in time. She'll get it in the end.

So now she's just relaxing into the rock-ribbed and carefully mediocre structure of her day. The TV is discussing the problems of various individuals, families and friends. You know the sort of thing. Dads who beat wives and slap
children. Boys who fuck the friends of their girlfriends. Friends who fuck the boyfriends of their friends. Teenagers who do drugs and avoid school. Mums who drink too much and forget they're meant to be mums as well as alcoholics. The sounds of silly debate and of society seemingly falling down to the ground. We could stay and watch it with her, I suppose, but it might be a little slow and tedious.

In any case, better things happened last night. Better things happened than Rebecca and Justin laughing and joking on a sofa, or Steve and Carly eating take-away food and having blank paper sex before sleep. Yes, last night Colin was working at the hospital, his new job, where he has made friends with a naughty nurse.

AT NIGHT, THE
hospital's quieter wards take on the atmosphere of a morgue. As if patients don't sleep, but steal six hours of death. We can hear the sound of whispering men.

‘Ssshhhh.'

‘All right.'

‘Seriously, Colin, you've got to be quiet.'

Colin and his new friend, Deaks, edge into the dark of the maternity ward. The room is large and contains twelve beds, which in turn contain twelve pregnant women. It is lit by just a few emergency lights; green boxes above the doorways with the word EXIT displayed on them.

Colin met Deaks a week ago. They got talking about women. They got on, found it easy to talk. Both single men, relatively bored, both strangely bowled over by the sight of heavily pregnant women. Deaks is thirty years old. He has matted brown hair like twisted thread and has been corrupting the maternity ward for five years.

This room is surely colder than it should be. The air is fresh and lacks the chemical scent of death that exists in
most wards of the hospital. Colin's been working as a cleaner here for three months: Deaks is his only friend. Colin looks to Deaks for guidance, as this is his first expedition into the ward at night. Deaks is breathing heavily, his vital organs sloshing about in randy panic. If you were to shave Deaks's head and remove a small square of skull, then you could peer through and view a brain of the richest crimson.

‘Which beds have agreed?' whispers Colin, his bowels loose because of the nerves, a light fart creeping silently from his arse.

‘That one there, and the third one along from the far wall.' Deaks points a finger towards the end of the ward. In the bed in front of him, a sleeping woman snorts and adjusts her position. He and Colin hold their breath, then exhale as the woman begins to purr once more. The women are fast asleep.

There is a peaceful humming sound coming from certain pieces of medical equipment, just enough to drown out the soft whispering of the two men and the sound of their careful footsteps. If we'd met Deaks earlier, we'd know a little more about him. We could have shaved his head, cut his skull and perved on his brain. Yeh, it would've been ace. But we didn't meet him earlier. It's my fault, forgive me.

These secretive missions in the dead of night are not new for Deaks. They have been happening on a regular basis for years. They're usually undertaken alone, but, occasionally, he'll invite a like-minded person along, like he's done tonight with Colin. Deaks has become adept at befriending the frightened women of the Antenatal Ward. Women whose pregnancies have become problematic and difficult to predict. Women for whom the prospect of completing
their pregnancies in the outside world would be too risky. They must be monitored, looked after and kept safe.

‘The one at the end's young. Better for you, Colin.'

‘Fine.'

Over the past five years, Deaks has successfully decoded the emotional compositions of these fearful women. He can earn their trust with a few carefully turned phrases. He can put them at ease and share the burden of their uncertainty and excitement. When he's confident they trust him, he begins to articulate his plans. He offers to visit them late at night, to comfort them. He describes it as an effective form of therapy, a helpful way of getting them through these knife-edge days. He says it's not strictly allowed, but, if they wish, he will visit them and perform a secret and sensuous massage. Only occasionally do they agree. Certain women take to the idea, find it quite exciting and surprisingly therapeutic. Deaks believes the women need him. He is a carer. A Florence Nightingale. A sensible and giving man – a fully qualified nurse. Right now, he's silently drawing a thin white curtain around one of the beds. Out of the corner of his eye, he monitors Colin, as he makes his way down the ward to do the same.

For Colin, this night could not have come sooner. Deaks approached him last week, having noticed the look in his eye and his religious devotion to the sweeping and mopping of the Antenatal Ward. His decision to cut down his hours at the university office and apply for cleaning work at the hospital was starting to make sense. For the past three months he has diligently swept the floors, made it clean for the ladies. He has marvelled at their large stomachs and tricky, spitty breathing. When Deaks proposed he join him on a night-time voyage to meet and soothe the women, his
brain warmed in its bloody sauce. He felt like weeping. Salty tears seeping from within his dried white mind. He felt like he was thawing slightly, coming back to life.

One, two, three. Colin counts the beds from the far wall. He admires how the bedclothes have been dragged over the curved shapes of the patients. So this one's mine, he thinks, staring at a sleeping girl through the thin light of the room. A few strands of blond hair dangle out from within the covers. But no face as yet. He wonders how her face will seem. He walks silently along the side of her bed, noticing a pale, porcelain hand leaking out from under the covers. He unties the curtain and slowly guides it along the rail and around the bed. They're alone.

This is the first time Colin has been alone with a woman in over a year. His hands and knees are shaking nervously. She's still asleep. How will I wake her? he thinks. Should I rock her gently until she's awake? Say hello? Will she be expecting Deaks? This is absolutely incredible.

He moves closer and peels back the top of the duvet. The girl turns gently in her sleep. Her head's pointing directly upwards. Flower petal eyelids. Colin is frozen, his heart feeling like a fire alarm. The girl is nice looking, incredibly young, maybe seventeen. Jesus. He touches her hair. The poor girl. Her eyes: they're opening. Fuck. Her eyes are opening. Petals wilting. They're staring right at his. Am I an awful man that should be killed?

‘Hello,' says the girl, yawning, her whole body flexing and coming to terms with itself. The small child is in her womb, chilling perhaps, or sleeping. She's so young. Shouldn't she have had an abortion? Was she raped? No, she's smiling slightly, it can't have been rape. She's at peace with her situation, more likely it was just an accident. An
experiment with a silly boy at a house party. It went wrong, but then she wanted it. I wanna keep it, she thought, I'm not too young. Maybe her parents backed the idea, said they would help her out financially. Shit, shit, shit. Colin is still rooted to the spot like some guy visiting a terminally ill friend and not knowing quite what to say. You're going to die. What to say? You're going to die. How's the food?

‘Deaks said he couldn't make it tonight,' she whispers. Thank fuck, she knows, thinks Colin, wondering if he'll be able to get away with saying nothing at all. He just wants to feel her, touch her skin with his hands. Is that so bad? Ha, he wants to eat her in delicate little bits. Dilute himself and be happy and wet and touched.

‘Well?' says the girl, rising slightly and supporting herself on her elbows. She's wearing no make-up, but her features are young enough to be naturally defined. They're yet to be threatened by gangs of wrinkles and burst blood vessels. Fifteen, she could be fifteen. For a second, Colin sees the moment when her child was conceived. A black-eyed boy on top of her, pus beating round the pimples of his cheeks. Ah, he flinches and the memory falls, down his windpipe, sliding through his veins and landing with a splat among the contents of his stomach. Relax. Relax.

‘Colin.'

‘Sorry?'

‘My name is Colin. I'm a cleaner.'

‘Oh right, not a nurse? My name is Melissa.'

Colin steps forward as if flames all over his body are beginning to catch, fire up and lick at his chin. His skin's melting and he's loving it, loving the heat and the feeling of finally burning down. Fuck. He feeds both his hands under the cover where it's incredibly humid. Like a rain
forest, his fingers walking the terrain, the ruffles in the bedsheet, the cleanness, Jesus, the heat. A few inches in and he hits torso, wrapped in cotton. A thigh. A hip. He touches it, the thin, second-skin fabric heated by her body. Knicker elastic; keep calm.

‘Deaks just massages, strokes me gently.'

‘I know, it's fine.'

Under the covers, Colin begins to drag Melissa's nightie up her body, passing it from hand to hand until he reaches the seam and drags it up over her belly and discards it. His right knee is up on the bed for support. His arms have elevated the bed covers well above her body. His hands hover above what he knows to be her naked and bloated stomach. Like a conjurer, a healer. His fingers fall slowly, quivering, like a helicopter landing, waiting to touch down. When will it come? Her skin, her hot skin. What does the foetus make of this? wonders Colin. The child, what's the child thinking? Nothing, it can't know, surely, it's asleep. It's way past its bed time.