Friction (33 page)

I need to tell you more about my research on Evernet. To those who watch my text this will seem superfluous, no doubt. But to me it matters; the research counts. You see, my most recent story isn't the same as the other grotesques I've submitted previously. Though no doubt Susan and Gordon see it as consistent with my earlier writing. I maintain that it is a history; a real life, of sorts.

Around six months ago (forgive me, I'm hopeless at estimating passing time) I began researching my personal background on the Evernet system. What I was looking for was some evidence of me having been born. I had learned very late about the concept of reproduction and human evolution – it came as quite a shock. Throughout
my life I've been continually bewildered by my own existence. I've always felt originless, as if my body had burst suddenly out of nothing. The notion of civilisation was kept from me. For many years I assumed existence to be little more than a selection of toings and froings, carried out in brightly lit rooms.

Slowly, through an untrustworthy mixture of rumour and fact, the full extent of mankind's project became known to me. In theory, none of us ‘real lifers' were expected to know the principles of reproduction, for our own safety. But these things have a way of becoming known, even in a place like this. In fact, this is an important point: the present Authority really is a bumbling misery of posturing. Little more. It's wonderfully inefficient. Many people see the Authority as extremely repressive – but I must confess, I've never found it so. I remember meeting a drunken warden on a late night trip to the lavatory. I must have been pretty young. He described, in slurred English, a distressing sexual disease he'd contracted from his mistress; the poor man was beside himself. It was through such encounters that I began to understand more about gender and reproduction. I now know that on the outside world infidelity is an imprisonable offence. Alcoholism, too. I've learnt a little about power and repression as well, thanks to my research. I know they're both practical jokes; both always the same.

There was no record of my birth on Evernet. I was able to learn that I didn't possess any form of citizenship. I wasn't melancholy, I had no idea what it was. But I had an increasingly heated belief in my own innocence. I realise now that this is a very old-fashioned conviction. But it was strong, nonetheless. My slow life had culminated in a quaint desire to know where I'd come from. The guilt that
I'd lived with so comfortably for so long had suddenly become alien.

Eventually (a silly word to describe hours spent trawling Evernet) I located my prison file. It wasn't especially difficult to find; the computer wasn't intended for patients and, as I say, this so-called ‘repressive' Authority has always struck me as rather casual. I shan't forget that moment, suddenly seeing my name on the screen. Theo: the embarrassed squirm at seeing it in print.

I learnt that my mother's name was Rebecca and that my father's name was Justin. I instantly liked the names, probably just because of my own self-loathing. They struck me as clean, healthy names.

I had hoped for a sudden pang in what Susan calls my ‘soul' when I discovered my parents' names. But what I felt was a sudden cramping in my bowels. Besides the names of my parents, I learnt a little more about my beginnings. I was born in the city of Manchester and was placed, almost immediately, in an institution. My mother, Rebecca, appears to have died in childbirth. It was this last piece of information that dropped a pinch of what I know to be sadness into my brain. Of course, I didn't miss her or even have an enormous desire to have known her, but it felt a little awkward that she'd died giving birth to me. I admit to feeling guilty and a little embarrassed that, in death, she had spawned such uselessness.

My file contained written accounts of my behaviour on the various trial excursions I'd been taken on as a child. I didn't recognise the events they described; I have no memory of the excursions to the outside world. The reports made terribly severe accusations of my state of mind. They cast me as a troublemaker, spoke of nascent sexual urges
that could only cause trouble. This struck me as laughable. Sure, I caused some stirs in my youth after a snort or two of dog dirt, but that powder made fools of us all. I didn't even know what a sexual urge was. But they're idiots, this Authority. I know that now. The system stinks.

I learnt that I'd been placed on ‘Creative Therapy' when I was seven years old and that I've been writing stories for fifteen years in total. The comments on my stories were unrelentingly damning. Even at an early age I'd apparently produced ‘unstable' stories, crammed with enough immorality and baseless violence to make my release unsanctionable. The comments you made hurt me, Susan. I'd always hoped you might have understood. I enjoyed the writing, did it with honesty and conviction. I hope that you experience some regret.

The most significant part of my file was right at the bottom, in a section titled ‘Risk Assessment'. There I found just four words: ‘Original Deviancy. (High Risk)'. It was these words, the allusive significance of them, that really stoked the fire in my belly. I remember walking back to my cell with the four of them rattling round my skull. I couldn't sleep. I just lay awake trying to fit things together: Original Deviancy, my mother Rebecca, the scraps of knowledge I possessed about sex and the Authority.

Those were muddled times. I confess that it was then that I grew weak: I surrendered to the dark shuffle. Oh, it hurts to admit it, especially to you, Susan. But yes, it was the only solution to my sleeping problems. I would masturbate over and over again till I was exhausted and couldn't think but just sleep, finally.

With every session on Evernet, I felt different; more complicated and prone to daydreams. I devoured the world
I found on Evernet. I read the magazines, viewed the TV programmes, the websites, the recipe books, the films, I became a right little shit. Serious. I was well fucked-up. No doubt.

Truth is. I'm all right.

But I knew what a woman was, finally. I knew what you were, Susan, at last. Because I found nudes on Evernet. I couldn't believe my luck. The nude sites were usually medical in origin; the only places you could legally display the female body in all its glory. I bit into those bodies with my brain. I tore off their limbs with my teeth and put fists down their throats. Those sterile specimens were quite enough for me. Enough to send my imagination trembling into the shadows. When I happened upon a turn-of-the-century pornography site, I couldn't believe my luck. It was, I think, the last of its kind. The last remnant of the civilisation of porn. I was overjoyed. With a computer's assistance, I became sexual, or rather, horny.

I found the concept of ‘Original Deviancy' easy to trace. It referred to a sort of commotion that surrounded my birth, as well as to the widespread use of a sex machine, about which I was able to discover more. The White Love 1000. My first response was one of amusement; the notion of a sex machine was completely at odds with my basic grasp of reproduction and sex. I couldn't begin to imagine the purpose behind such a contraption. In my isolation, I felt far superior to a machine. My late-night flights of fancy took me to some grave situations. I'm sorry to say I've contorted you on more than one occasion, Susan. I have placed you in situations that would make you shriek. I have shut my eyes and conducted my experiments upon your flesh.

As my research continued, I was able to piece together a fairly clear picture of the context into which I was born. I learnt about ‘unseen lives', ‘recreational abortion', the old Internet site ‘newsex.biz'. These were revelations to me. I got a strong impression of civilisation as a stuttering little creature. A kind of disorientated dwarf, chasing itself without exhaustion. A little runt, collecting things then misplacing them altogether. This was a surprise. Whatever I had imagined took place in the outside world was clearly wide of the mark. I had always seen society as a tremendously ordered and transparent affair – I was shocked to the core by its grim secrets, its neediness.

So I became a historian. I began tirelessly researching the world I had almost known. I would have liked to have gone farther back and learnt more about the twentieth-century wars, but with the rise of this petty Authority so much was repressed: history, the Internet, almost all the blessed porno. I am, how did they put it? Absolutely gutted.

The current Authority governs under the name ‘Future Love'. Its roots lie in the Antiporn movement and in the public horror provoked by ‘unseen lives' and ‘sex deaths'. I realise now that they keep the information on Evernet as a warning, as an example of the vile affairs that Future Love replaced. Why else would so much information on turn-of-the-century society exist? It's virtually all you can find on the Evernet system: documents relating to that civilisation and its people. They left so much information behind, stacks of it. The fashions, the media, the maps, the curricula, restaurant menus, sporting statistics, government documents, the endless blogs. I pored over everything. I'm fascinated by that period. Desperate to consume its colours and its freakish nosedives.

And my dear parents, such icons of that lost world, sometimes I feel so incredibly proud of them. Of myself, too; a real pride. You see, I feature as a kind of martyr in some of the founding texts of Future Love. I am the poor child that narrowly survived the reckless and sick attempts on his life. But sadly, they tell lies about my later life. They say that I work for the Authority and that I live with a wife and children in a place called Wolverhampton. But I suppose I'm cheerful anyway, simply to be associated with that strange old world.

I think about my father most of all. Justin was arrested shortly after my mother's death and put on trial. There was enormous press coverage. I've seen so many pictures of him being bundled into cars or booed by large crowds of Antiporn protesters. He's a real hero. And innocent, too. He'd done nothing wrong and he got let off. He'd never have got off nowadays, they'd have thrown him in here for just a whiff of sexual misdemeanour. But the government was keen to make it clear he'd done little wrong. I admire his innocence. Although, at times, I wish they'd found him guilty and that he'd become a real cornerstone of all this Future Love idiocy. But it wasn't to be. That honour was given to Colin.

My bowels are cramping again, I think it's this chair, this dreadful hard pine. I'm sure they'll be turning my light off soon. They do it without warning but I've developed a strange ability to predict when it will happen. I'll be typing away when, suddenly, I'll get a weird, vulnerable feeling. I'll stop and look up. Then be buried in pitch black.

In any case, I've said too much. These kind of bumbling descriptions won't win your approval, will they, Susan? But perhaps you understand me now? Ha, that's a joke. But
maybe you get it, that I'm making a stand? That sounds funny – making a stand. Like some old-fashioned rebel. But my story is the truth, near enough at least. That should be in my favour. Let me out of here, I'm ready, let me out!

Wait – I feel vulnerable, here it comes, then –

This morning, I returned from the lavatory to find Susan leaning on my desk, flicking through some notes I've been making. She isn't pleased with me. Her forehead was lightly coated in a small frown, her eyes were desperately trying to appear piercing. So I smiled, and apologised for the naughty things I've been saying about her lately. And yes, as you can imagine, it was a little awkward. She stood in a variety of absurd postures, attempting, in vain, to hide the precise geography of her body from me. But, Susan, honestly, it needn't have been so tense. You could have relaxed, laughed perhaps. We could have reclined on my thin bed together. We could have smooched and giggled about these stupid lives we're leading.

Susan tells me that Gordon certainly won't release me. No shit, I remarked. Then I told her that my face wasn't listening. Old world slang. Whatever else I might be, nowadays I'm so cool.

I'm the son of gods. I should never have been allowed to find out. If you let me out now, I'll just start blurting my mouth off wherever I can, and, if your hilarious logic is to be followed, then I'd probably start raping women. No, I confess, I have no hope of release.

Susan wants me to write about my innermost feelings. The mistake she makes is glaring. I don't have any innermost feelings. For twenty years I wandered contentedly between the rooms of this bright hell, unaware as to the
precise nature of my suffering. Yes, at times, I grew strangely weary, but I shrugged it off, not knowing how to comprehend what I now recognise as melancholy.

My mind is rooted firmly in my origins, my eyes averted from the future and fixed on my past. A past I know only through the medium of a computer screen. But there seems to me to be an honour in completion, in finishing the story that I suspect will be my last. I was fond of my characters, of Carly and Steve, Johnny, Colin and the others, my parents. I'm nervous to ask, but did you like it? The story, I mean. No, actually, stop, don't answer that.

I'll finish. Some truth at last. Jesus, I'm biting my lip so hard it's bleeding.

According to the testimony of the paramedics, Justin was loitering outside when the ambulance arrived at the house in Withington. Apparently he seemed nervous, jumpy, pacing the pavement as if he might flee at any moment. But he went with the paramedics to the bathroom. Crucially, for the spiny whiners who cheese out judgements on people's characters, Justin offered no help to the medics. He was asked to identify the young man who was barking blood from his arse and the dying fish of a girl, who was flinching around in her own guts. But Justin just shook his head. He claimed not to know either of them. And, instead of helping with the body lifting, he just turned and walked away.

Dear, dear Father, don't think I begrudge you this decision. But I do wonder where you went. I like to think you went to a pub, to a quiet and old-fashioned affair off the beaten path. I picture you sitting at the bar on a high stool, leaning on to polished mahogany, chatting idly to the elderly
punters. And then, of course, you drink too much. So much so, Justin, that you violently resist the landlord's attempts to get you out at closing time. I picture you spilling on to the streets with tears in your eyes, just because you're drunk and not because you care.