The Heart Goes Last (25 page)

“If there’s a booboo and the wrong person finds you, just say you were drugged, and you have no idea how you got into the packing case,” says Veronica. “As long as you’ve already made it to Vegas, they’ll find that believable. Now, have a good sleep! Here comes Budge, it’s my turn.”

She lowers the top, and Stan hears the catches being snapped shut. Now he’s in the dark. Shit, he thinks. This better work. Best case, he makes it to Vegas, then gives Veronica the slip, ditches this outfit, and travels – how? – to rejoin Conor, because a life of outlawry is a lot more appealing to him than anything else that’s going on right now. Though that wouldn’t work, because Conor, via Budge, has a contract to deliver him, so that’s what he’ll do.

Worst case … He has an image of himself inside the packing case, abandoned in a nighttime airport in, say, the wilds of Kansas, yelping to emptiness:
Help! Let me out!

Or, worse yet, identified as a terrorist threat by some addled sniffer dog and detonated by Homeland Security. Sideburns and silver all over the place.
What the hey! I think Elvis has left the building!

He squirms around inside the slippery satin cocoon, trying to get comfortable. He doesn’t want to take a pill, he’s had enough of drugs lately. It’s completely dark; a few hours in here and he’ll start seeing things. The air is already stuffy; it reeks of Insta-glue, from the lips. Maybe it will make him high, and therefore less anxious. When did he set out along the path that’s led to this dark cul-de-sac, how has he managed to agree to this crazed escapade, what’s become his so-called life? Will he ever manage to see Charmaine again? If only he’d stolen her sculpted head: at least then he’d have something tangible.

The image of her lovely, pale, tear-streaked face floats before him. She’s had few real choices; she’s as unprepared for all this shit and crap as he is. Lying in the satin-lined void with the Elvis collar itching his neck and the Elvis wig steam-cooking his scalp, he forgives her everything: her stupid interlude with Phil/Max, the moment when she thought she was killing him, even her obsession with slipcovers and those gnome coffee mugs. He should have cherished her more, he should have taken better care of her.

Right beside his ear he hears Veronica’s voice. She’s whispering.
Hi, Stan. There’s a mic in your shoulder pad and one in my bear. It’s our own walkie-talkie, ultra-secure, just you and me. Letting you know it’s okay, I’m in my own box, we’re moving out. Signing off now. Just relax.

As if, Stan thinks, as he feels his feet end lifting into the air. Fucking hell.

Charmaine and Ed are having dinner at Together, which is the very same restaurant where Charmaine had dinner with Stan that first night they were at Consilience, before they’d actually signed in. It had been so magical then. The white tablecloths, the candles, the flowers. Like a dream. And now here she is again, and she must try not to remember that first time, back when everything was still simple with Stan, back when she herself was still simple. When she’d been able to say what she really felt.

But now nothing is simple. Now she’s a widow. Now she’s a spy.

She’s finding this date with Ed a little difficult. More than a little: she doesn’t know how to play this, because it’s unclear what he wants, or not what: when. Why can’t he just blurt it out?

“Are you feeling all right?” Ed says with concern, and she says, “I’ll be fine, it’s just …” Then she excuses herself and goes to the ladies’ room. Grief must be expected to overcome her from time to time, which it does, truly, only just not right now. But the ladies’ is a reliable place, a place a girl can retreat to at moments like this. The dinner hasn’t even started, and already she needs a time-out.

It’s soothing in here; luxurious, like a spa. The countertops are marble, the sinks are long and made of stainless steel, with a line of tiny faucets endlessly shooting thin streams of silvery water. The towels aren’t paper, they’re soft white cotton pile, and happily there’s no air dryer that blows your skin into flesh ripples up as far as your wrists; she hates those, they make you realize that your skin could be peeled off like an orange rind. When there are no towels, she’d rather take her chance with the microbes and wipe her hands on her skirt.

There’s lotion that claims to be made from real almonds: Charmaine rubs it on her inner arms, breathes it in. If only she could just stay in here, for ever and ever. A woman place. Sort of like a nunnery. No, a girl place, pristine, like the white cotton nighties she had at Grandma Win’s, when she could be clean, and not hurt and afraid. A place where she feels safe.

The toilets play a tune when you wave your hand in front of the toilet paper dispenser. The tune is the theme song of Together; it’s from some old song about not having a barrel of money and wearing white-trash clothes, and having to travel along, side by side all of which was more or less the way it had been when she and Stan were living in their car; but in the song, none of that matters because the two of them are together, singing a song. A song about being together, for the restaurant called Together.

It’s lying, that song. Not having any money does matter, and having to wear those worn-out clothes. It’s because all those things matter that they signed into the Project.

She checks herself in the mirror, refreshes her lips. Why is it she’s finding Ed so hard to be with? It’s because he’s like that weirdo psycho nerd who admired her so much in high school, what was his name …

Get real, Charmaine, her reflection says to her. He didn’t just admire you. He had a nauseating sexual crush on you, he used to slip anonymous notes into your locker, to which he seemed to have the combination even though you changed the lock twice. Those notes – typed, but not emailed, not texted, he was smarter than that – those notes listed your body parts and which ones he most wanted to slide his hands over or into. Then came the day of the damp tissue left inside her jacket pocket, reeking of jerkoff; that was truly icky. Why had he thought she’d find it in any way attractive?

Though perhaps the goal was not to attract her. Perhaps the goal was to repel her, then overwhelm her despite her aversion. The wet dream of a boy who hoped he was a lion king but who was really just a slimy loser.

She returns to the dining room. Ed stands up, holds her chair for her. The avocado with shrimp appetizer is in place, and a bottle of white wine in a silver bucket. He raises his glass of white wine and says, “To a brighter future,” which really means “To us,” and what can she do but raise her glass in return? She does it modestly, though. Tremulously. Then she sighs. She doesn’t have to fake the sighing.
Sigh
is what she feels.

She blots the corner of her eye, folding the trace of black mascara up in the serviette. Men don’t like to think about makeup, they like to think everything about you is genuine. Unless of course they want to think you’re a slut and everything about you is fake.

“I know you must find it hard to believe in a brighter future, so soon after … ,” he says.

“Oh yes,” she says. “It is hard. It’s so hard. I miss Stan so much!” Which is true, but at the same time she’s pondering the word
slut
. Just one letter over from
slit
. It was Max who’d pointed that out, pinning her to the floor,
Say it, say it
 … She presses her legs together. What if she could still … ? But no, Jocelyn stands between them, with her sarcastic look and those blackmailing video. She’ll never let Charmaine be together with Max, ever again.

That’s over, Charmaine, she tells herself. That’s gone.

“He died a hero,” Ed says piously. “As we all know.”

Charmaine looks down at her half-eaten avocado. “Yes,” she says. “It’s such a comfort.”

“Though in fairness,” he says, “I have to tell you that there are some doubts.”

“Oh,” she says. “Really? What kind of doubts?” A wave of cold sweeps up from her stomach. She flutters her eyelashes. Is she blushing?

“Nothing you need to be troubled with right now,” he says. “An irresponsible rumour. That Stan didn’t die in that fire but in a different way. People will make up some very malicious things! Anyway, accidents do happen and data gets mixed up. But I can take care of that rumour for you. Nip it in the bud.”

You jerk, she thinks. You’re bribing me! You know I killed Stan, you know I have to pretend he died saving chickens, and now you’re twisting my arm. But guess what, I know something you don’t know. Stan isn’t dead, and pretty soon I’ll be together with him again.

Unless Jocelyn is lying.

“You still working on that?” says the server, a brownish young man in a white dinner jacket. At Together they want everything to look like a movie, an old movie. But no one in an old movie would ever have said,
You still working on that?
as if eating is some kind of a job. He forgot to say ma’am.

“No thank you,” she says with a quavery little smile. Too sad, too refined, too battered by fate, to do anything so hearty, so greedy, so gross, as chewing: that’s her story. She can pig out when she gets back home. There’s a packet of potato chips in the cupboard, unless Jocelyn and Aurora have helped themselves the way they’ve helped themselves to everything else in her life.

The server whisks the plate away. Ed leans forward. Charmaine leans back but not too far back. Maybe she shouldn’t have worn the black V-neck. It wouldn’t have been her choice, but Jocelyn had selected it for her. That, and the push-up bra underneath. “You have to suggest that he might be able to look all the way down,” she’d said. “But don’t let him actually do it. Remember, you’re in mourning. Vulnerable, but inaccessible. That’s your game.”

Working in secret with Jocelyn like this – it was like being on TV. She’d made her face up carefully, with a little extra powder for the pallour.

“I respect your sentiments,” says Ed. “But you’re young, you have a whole life ahead of you. You should live it to the fullest.” Here comes his hand, planing slowly across the white tablecloth like a manta ray in one of those deep-sea documentaries. It’s descending onto her own hand, which she shouldn’t have left so carelessly lying around on the table.

“It doesn’t feel like I could do that,” says Charmaine. “As if I could live it to the fullest. It feels like my life is over.” It would be shockingly rude to remove her hand. It would be like a slap. His hand covers hers: it’s damp. Pat, pat, pat, squeeze. Then, thankfully, withdrawal.

“We’ve got to get the roses back in your cheeks,” says Ed. Now he’s being fatherly. “That’s why I ordered steak. Bump up your iron.”

And here’s the steak in front of her, seared and brown, branded with a crisscross of black, running with hot blood. On the side, three mini-broccolis and two new potatoes. It smells delicious. She’s ravenous, but it would be folly to show it. Tiny, ladylike bites, if any. Maybe she should let him cut it up for her. “Oh, it’s so much,” she breathes. “I couldn’t possibly …”

“You need to make an effort,” says Ed. Will he go so far as to pop a morsel into her mouth? Will he say, “Open up?” To head him off, Charmaine nibbles a sprig of broccoli.

“You’ve been so kind,” she says. “So supportive.” Ed smiles, his lips now glossy with fat.

“I’d like to help you,” he says. “You shouldn’t go back to your old work in the hospital, it would be too much of a strain. Too many memories. I believe I have a job you might like. Nothing too demanding. You can ease yourself into it.”

“Oh,” says Charmaine. She must not sound eager. “What sort of job?”

“Working with me,” says Ed. “As my personal assistant. That way, I can keep an eye on you. Make sure you’re not overstrained.”

You don’t fool me, thinks Charmaine. “Oh, well, I’m not sure … That sounds …” she says as if wavering.

“No need to discuss it now,” he says. “We have lots of time to do that later. Now eat up, like a good girl.”

That’s the role he’s chosen for her: good girl. She feels a sudden wave of longing for Max. Bad girl was what she was for him. Bad, and deserving of punishment. She leans forward to cut up a potato, and Ed leans forward too. She knows exactly what the view is from his vantage point: she’s rehearsed the angles in the mirror. A curve of breast, with an edging of black lace.

Is he sweating? Yes, make that a definite. Is that his knee, giving her own knee the gentlest of nudges under the table? Yes, it is: she knows a knee under the table when she feels one. She moves her own knee away.

“There,” she says. “I’m eating. I’m being good.” She looks at him over the rim of her wineglass: her blue-eyed look, her child’s look. Then she takes a sip of wine, pursing her lips into a pout. Maybe she’ll leave a lipstick kiss on the glass for him, as if by accident. A pale kiss, a shadow of a kiss, like a whisper. Nothing too blatant.

Stan wakes and sleeps, wakes and sleeps, wakes. He’s taken one of the pills Veronica gave him, which conked him out though not for long enough, and now he’s hyper-alert. He doesn’t want to take any more pills, because what if the plane lands soon? He can’t be asleep for that: he may need to spring into full-throttle action, though he’s got no image of what kind of action. Saving the world in a blue cape and an Elvis ducktail doesn’t convince him, even as a fantasy. But it would have an element of surprise if the enemy thinks he’s a robot.

What enemy? Back at Positron the enemy is Ed – control-freak body-parts salesman, potential baby-blood vampire –, but who will the enemy be once he gets to Las Vegas? In the pitch-blackness a parade of potential enemies marches across his eyeballs. Corrupters of Charmaine, kidnappers of Veronica, platoons of slavering men much more lecherous than he is, with scaly skins and clawlike fingernails and slitty-pupilled lizard eyes. In addition to which they have superhuman strength and can walk up the sides of skyscrapers as if they were human silverfish.

There goes one of them now, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, Charmaine under one arm, Veronica under the other. But it’s Stan to the rescue. Luckily his blue Elvis cape and his silver belt buckle have magic powers. “Drop those women or I’ll sing ‘Heartbreak Hotel.’ It won’t be pretty.” The monster shudders and clutches a hand to either pointed ear; while he’s distracted, Stan presses his silver buckle and a lethal ray shoots out of it. The monster screams and disintegrates. Both scantily clad beauties tumble, their diaphanous garments fluttering. Stan vaults forward, flies through the air, and catches the wilted lovelies in his outstretched arms. They’re too heavy, he’s losing altitude, they’re about crash! Which wilted lovely should he save? And which will therefore go splat? He can’t save both of them. Considering that Veronica will never hump anyone but a stuffed animal, maybe he should stick with Charmaine.

So much for that daydream, which lands him right back in the breakfast nook with him and Charmaine fighting over which one of them has cheated the most, and then whether Charmaine really wanted to kill Stan, and then tears. “How could you believe that about me! Don’t we love each other?” Yes or no? Maybe isn’t allowed. No matter how he plays it, he’ll come out an asshole. Or else a wimp. Are those his only choices?

He eats the energy bar, which tastes like coconut-flavoured sawdust. It’s freezing cold in here. How long is this fucking flight going to go on? Why doesn’t he have a light-up watch? It’s totally dark, not to mention noisy. He knows – he knows with the rational part of his mind – that he’s inside a satin-lined shipping crate, which in turn is strapped into place, along with four other Elvises, inside an aluminum Unit Load Device, which in turn is in the cargo hold of a transcontinental plane; but with the other part of his mind – by far the larger part at the moment – he thinks he’s been buried alive.
Get me out! Get me out!
he screams silently. As if in answer, there’s the muffled barking of a dog. Some gloomy pet, the slave and toy of a bejewelled concubine, herself no doubt the gloomy pet of a sadistic plutocrat. He sympathizes.

Like a fool, he’s drunk both of the bottles of water packed for him by Veronica, and now, of course, of course! he needs a piss. Veronica’s instructions were that he was to pee into the empty hot-water bottle, but where the fuck is it? He gropes around, locates it snarled up in his cape, unscrews the top. Why didn’t they give him a flashlight? Because he might forget to turn it off, and then the light beams coming through the air holes would give him away, and they’d unsnap his cover, guns at the ready.
Yo! Bro! This Elvis is not a robot, this Elvis is alive! Undead Elvis! Get the garlic and the spike!

Calm down, Stan, he orders himself. Next contest challenge: unzipping Elvis’s fly. He fumbles around. The zipper sticks. Of course! Of course! “Fuck, shit,” he says out loud.