The Heart Goes Last (27 page)

She isn’t supposed to contact Jocelyn during the day, not by text, not by phone or email: no snail trails is Jocelyn’s motto. With no orders to follow, she occupies her mind by painting her nails, which is a very soothing thing to do when you’re anxious and keyed up. Some people like to throw objects, such as glasses of water or rocks, but nail painting is more positive. If more world leaders would take it up there would be less overall suffering, in her opinion.

After so-called work, she goes straight home. Jocelyn’s waiting for her in the living room, sitting on the sofa with her shoes off and her feet up. Charmaine is pained by the sight of those feet. As long as Jocelyn keeps all her clothes on it seems improbable that Max/Phil could ever have made love to her, but with the shoes off, displaying feet with real toes … And she has terrific legs, Charmaine has to give her that. Legs that Max/Phil’s hands must have stroked, in an upward direction, many times.

Charmaine can’t imagine Jocelyn in the grip of passion, she can’t imagine her saying the kinds of words Max likes to hear. She’s always so in control of herself. Nothing short of a thumbscrew could make her lose it.

“I’m having a scotch,” Jocelyn says. “Want one?”

“Why, what’s happened?” says Charmaine. Is there a shock coming? “What’s happened to Stan?”

“Stan’s fine,” says Jocelyn. “He’s relaxing.”

“All right then,” says Charmaine. She flops down into the easy chair; she’s so relieved her knees feel weak. Jocelyn swings her feet over and onto the floor, pads across the room to pour Charmaine’s drink. “Water, I think,” she says, “but no ice.”

It’s not even a question. Darn it, Charmaine thinks, when will she stop bossing me around? “Thank you,” she says. She kicks her own shoes off. “There was a funny thing today,” she says. “Ed wasn’t there. At his office. And there’s nothing on his calendar, no appointment. He’s just vanished.”

“I know,” says Jocelyn. “But he hasn’t vanished. He’s in the Positron hospital infirmary. He’s had an accident.”

“What sort of an accident?” says Charmaine. “Is it serious?” Maybe it’s a car crash. Maybe he will die, and then she won’t have to worry about whatever was supposed to come next. But if Ed dies, she’ll lose whatever power she’s got. She won’t have any function for Jocelyn She has a quick thought: why not do what Ed wants? Become his whatever. Mistress. Then she’d be safe. Wouldn’t she?

“Painful accident, I expect,” says Jocelyn. “Judging from the video surveillance records. But temporary. He’ll be back to normal soon enough.”

Whatever he calls normal, Charmaine thinks. “Oh dear,” she says, “did he break something?”

“No. Not break. But he got a little bent out of shape.” Jocelyn smiles, and this time it’s actually a friendly smile. “He got tangled up with you, as a matter of fact.”

“Me?” says Charmaine. “That’s not possible. I never …”

“Okay, your evil twin,” says Jocelyn. “That prostibot with your head. He got carried away. He squeezed your neck too hard, and then he bit you.”

“Not me,” says Charmaine. Jocelyn’s being mean. “It’s not
me
!”

“Ed thought it was,” says Jocelyn. “Those things can be convincing when combined with a personal fantasy, which is always the magic ingredient, don’t you agree?”

Charmaine blushes, she can’t help herself. So Jocelyn hasn’t forgiven her: she’s still holding it against her, that time with Max. With Phil. “What did I … what did it do?” she asks. “To Ed?”

“Some kind of electrical short,” says Jocelyn. “Those circuits are so sensitive; the smallest thing can throw them off, such as a foreign object – such as, oh, a pin – or a maladjusted setting. Maybe it was sabotage. Some resentful functionary. Who knows how it could’ve happened?”

“That’s awful,” says Charmaine.

“Yes, it’s terrible,” says Jocelyn. Would you call that a grin? It’s not exactly a sweet smile. But Jocelyn’s not in the habit of those. “Anyway, the thing went into spasm, trapping Ed inside it, and then it started thrashing around.”

“Oh my goodness,” says Charmaine. “He could’ve died!”

“Which would have been a business disaster for Possibilibots if the news leaked out,” says Jocelyn. “Luckily, I was keeping tabs on him, so I sent the paramedics in before too much damage was done. They’ve got some ice packs on him, and they’re using anti-inflammatories. There shouldn’t be too much bruising. But don’t be surprised if you see him walking like a duck.”

“Oh my goodness,” says Charmaine again. She’s got her hands over her mouth. Whatever she thinks of Ed, it wouldn’t be nice to laugh. A person is a person, however creepy they may be. And pain is pain. Just thinking about that pain makes a tingly wire shoot up her back.

“He was fairly mad at you, though,” Jocelyn continues in her detached voice. “He sent you back to the shop. He ordered you to be destroyed.”

“Not me!” Charmaine says. “Not actually me!”

“No, of course not. You know what I mean. The boys at the shop said they were sorry, and they’d tested it beforehand, but as he’d been informed, it was a beta and these things happen. They said they could debug it, but he told them not to bother because he’s through with substitutes.”

“Oh,” says Charmaine. Now she has a sinking feeling. “Does that mean what I think? You told me not to let him …”

“That still goes,” says Jocelyn. “He’ll be back on his feet again soon, and then you’ll have to keep yourself in view but out of reach. It’s crucial; I must emphasize how important that is, and how important you are. We’re absolutely depending on you. Play the piece of cheese to Ed’s rat. You’re clever, you can do it.”

It’s not very nice being told you’re a piece of cheese, but Charmaine is pleased that Jocelyn has called her important. Also clever. Up till now, she’s had the impression that Jocelyn thinks she’s an idiot.

Stan jolts awake. It’s still dark, but he’s moving rapidly through the air, feet first. Then there’s a bump. Muffled voices. Snap, snap, snap, snap: the fasteners on his casket. The lid lifts, light streams in. He blinks in the dazzle. White-clad arms reach for him, hoist him into a sitting position.

“Upsy-daisy!”

“Wow, what stinks?”

“Get him some other pants. Make that a whole other outfit.”

“Don’t be harsh, he didn’t do it on purpose.”

“All together now! Heave-ho!”

Stan is lifted out of the satin coffin, stood on his feet. How long has he been asleep? It feels like days. He shakes his head, tries to unslit his eyes. The room is lit with a bank of overhead LEDs – hyper-bright, but that’s because he’s been in the dark so long. He seems to be in an office; there are filing cabinets, a couple of desks. A computer terminal.

Two Elvises, in white and silver with blue capes, are holding him by the arms; three more are surveying him. Each has the hairdo, the belt buckle, the epaulettes, the lips. The fake tan. Propped against the walls there are seven or eight more, but those don’t seem to be real.

“Don’t let go of him, he’ll fall over!”

“Oh dear, his mouth fell off!”

“He looks like the walking dead.”

“Make yourself useful for once, get him some coffee.”

“I’d say a sports drink.”

“Why not both?”

Another Elvis bustles in, carrying yet another Elvis outfit. Stan blinks. Cripes, how many Elvises are there?

“Here we go,” says the tallest one; he seems to be the leader. “Let’s get you into something more comfortable. Don’t be embarrassed, everyone here’s wet themselves at least once in their life.”

“And most of them weren’t locked in a packing crate,” says another. “There’s a washroom over there.”

“We won’t peek!”

“Or maybe we will!” Laughter.

Fuck. They’re all gay, Stan thinks. A roomful of gay Elvises. Is this a mistake, is he in the wrong place? He hopes they’re not expecting … How can he tell them he’s straight as a Kansas highway without sounding rude?

“Thanks,” he mumbles. His lips are numb. He starts toward the washroom. His legs wobbly; he pauses, leaning against a desk. “Where’s Veron … where’s the Marilyn I came with?” Better not to mention Veronica’s name until he can figure out what’s going on. How do these gay Elvises fit into Jocelyn’s plan? Or are they just a way station? Maybe Veronica was supposed to collect him but didn’t make it, so he got delivered here by mistake.

Maybe he could lie low for a while with the Elvises, then head for the coast, blend in with the local population. Say he’s doing a tech startup. Get a job as a waiter. After that, figure out how to reconnect with Charmaine, supposing that’s possible.

“
That
Marilyn? She’s with the Marilyns,” says the chief Elvis. “They don’t live here.”

“It’s quite a different clientele. It’s all men, with the Marilyns. Help yourself to the bronzer in there, touch yourself up. Stick your mouth back on. Oh, and there’s a box of sideburns.”

Stan wants to ask about the clientele for the Elvises, but that can wait. He totters into the washroom, shuts the door. He peels himself out of his damp, whiffy white pants, dumps them into what he assumes is a laundry hamper, sponges himself off with one of the towels. He changes his jacket and cape as well, but he keeps the belt he came with, along with its buckle. He runs his fingers over it, back and front – if it has a document dump inside, there must be some way of opening it – but he can’t find any button or catch.

He does the belt up – after his time in transit, at least he’s thinner – then checks his face in the mirror. What a wreck. Dangling sideburn, smeared tan. He repairs his mouth as best he can – there’s some Insta-glue in with the spare ‘burns – and adds bronzer. He lifts his top lip, tries for a signature sneer. Grotesque.

Outside the door they’re discussing him. “What do you think? Is he UR-ELF material?”

“Can he sing?”

“Let’s find out. He’d have to do the full bump and grind, it doesn’t work without that.”

“You’re telling
me
!”

“Oh stop it for once, try to be helpful.”

Stan makes his exit from the washroom. The Elvises are encouraging.

“
Much
better!”

“A new man!”

“I love a new man!”

“Here, have a coffee. Sugar?”

The Elvises sit Stan in a desk chair, watch him while he takes a few sips of coffee. He dribbles: the fake lips are hard to manipulate. “You have to go like
this,
” says one of the Elvises, pushing his mouth out into a kind of snout. “You’ll get used to it after a while.”

“Thanks,” says Stan.

“Try that in lower register.
Thu-hanks
. Project from the solar plexus. More like a growl … Elvis had an
amazing
range.”

“Now,” says the chief Elvis, “what position do you see for yourself? Here at UR-ELF we have a wide choice. We’ve got Singing Elvis – dances, parties, anything that needs a little showtime; we charge the highest fees for them. Wedding Elvis, you’d need to get certified so it’s legal, but that’s not hard around here. Escort Elvis – that’s for going to events, taking them out to dinner and maybe a show.”

“And Chauffeur Elvis, if that’s what they want,” says one of the others. “Sightseeing around town and like that; they might want you to take them shopping. I like that the best. And Bodyguard Elvis, for the heavy gamblers, so no one tries to snatch their purse. Oh, and Retirement Home Elvis; we do the hospitals too. It can get depressing though, I warn you.”

“Singing Elvis is the most fun,” says a third Elvis. “You can really express yourself!”

“I can’t sing,” says Stan. “So that’s out.” Expressing himself is the last thing he wants right now. He’d only howl. “Which is the least demanding? To begin with?”

“I think maybe the retirement homes,” says the chief Elvis. “In there, they won’t know the difference.”

Do they think I’m gay too? Stan wonders. Shit. Where the fuck is Veronica, and why didn’t Budge prepare him for this part? Nobody ever said he would have to perform in this Elvis racket? Are they laughing at him? They don’t seem at all curious about why he was in a packing case, so that’s one good thing.

Maybe he can take this opportunity to run away. But run away to where? For starters, he doesn’t have any money.

The Elvises have prepared a space for him in the Elvisorium, which is what they call the fifties split-level bungalow shared by several of them. He sleeps on a fold-out cot in the laundry room, a tacit admission that he won’t be staying forever. “Just until your Catcher in the Rye shows up,” says the chief Elvis. “That Marilyn of yours should be along soon.”

“Meanwhile we get to take care of you,” a second one chimes in. “Lucky us!”

“We’re doing it for Budge,” says the chief Elvis. “Not that he doesn’t pay well. Full room and board.”

Stan asks how long he’s supposed to wait, but the Elvises don’t seem to know. “We’re just your cover, Waldo,” says the chief Elvis. “Keep you fed, blend you in, give you some bookings, make you look real. We get to play the Seven Dwarves to your Snow White!” They think this is funny.

They give him a few days of leisure while they decide how to book him. They tell him he should explore the street life, see the strip, so worth it! Though they insist he has to wear the full costume every time he goes outside. He’ll be less conspicuous that way: Elvises are a dime a dozen in this town. If anyone comes up to him and wants their picture taken with him, all he has to do is pose and smile, and accept the crumpled bill they might offer. He must resist all invitations to sing. He should nod at any other Elvis he might meet– a courtesy – but avoid conversation: not all the Elvises he might see are from their agency, UR-ElvisLiveForever, and it wouldn’t be good if those other, inferior Elvises started asking him questions.

These Elvises – his own Elvises – know he’s hiding from something, or that someone might be looking for him; shady business, anyway. But they’re discreet and don’t ask him for any details anything. Not even where he came from. Not even his last name.

He wanders the streets an hour at a time, taking in the sights, posing for the odd photo. He can’t stay out any longer: everything’s too hot, too bright, too gaudy, too supersaturated. Many jovial tourists stroll here and there, making the most of their absences from reality, shopping and bar-hopping and taking selfies with the impersonators. On the main drag there’s at least one of those per corner: white-gloved mice, Mickey or Minnie; Donald Ducks; Godzillas; pirates; Darth Vaders; Greek warriors. There’s a fake Roman Forum, a miniature Eiffel Tower, a Venetian canal complete with gondolas. There are other replicas, though Stan can’t make out what they’re imitating. The place swarms with vendors: balloon animals, street food, carnival masks, souvenirs of every kind. Several old women dressed as gypsies shove postcards at him, showing barely dressed young girls, with phone numbers.