Friction (19 page)

Steve goes to the door. In the living room the beardy guy is whispering to a red-faced brunette of about thirty. They're probably discussing why Steve didn't have a key. Why he helped to break down his own front door.

‘The ambulance is on its way, mate. It'll be a couple more minutes.'

Steve turns to the bedroom again, to Carly drowning in red. Jesus. He goes over to the Sex Machine, which is slumped in the corner, spattered in tiny crimson tears. Suddenly, Steve's heart slows down to crawling pace. He watches as the Sex Machine becomes alive and stares back at him with a fixed grin. It props itself up against the bedroom wall. Wow.

‘How do you do?' says the Sex Machine.

‘You speak English?' asks Steve, edging backwards away from the machine, until he's leaning against the bed.

‘Yes, yes indeed I do, I have a basic grasp,' exclaims the Sex Machine, his voice plump with pride. The Sex Machine has a suave demeanour which is rather intimidating.

Steve sighs.

‘What did you do to Carly, my girlfriend?' he asks.

At this, the Sex Machine appears to blush. No, no it can't possibly blush. It muddles its straps for a moment, as if deep in awkward thought. It taps at the skirting board with one of its white pleasure pads. It's slightly ashamed.

‘Yes, yes I'm sorry about that,' says the machine, finally, turning to face Steve. ‘She's a lovely girl, my first love. My first love, indeed. Oooh, my goodness, that must sound too far-fetched, me a machine and whatnot. That must sound sick to someone who is indeed alive. Of course, I'm a machine.' The Sex Machine jangles its various components for a second, as if confirming to itself that it is, indeed, a machine.

‘Why is she bleeding?'

‘She's bleeding because, when we were making love, we fell into the coffee table. Do you realise that your coffee table is made entirely of glass? It's rather tasteless.'

The machine corrects its posture properly now. It rearranges its straps and its pleasure pads so its appearance becomes much more refined. Steve sits cross-legged and stares down at his red palms, ignoring the groans and whimpering coming from Carly's bloody mouth. He cups his hands around his mouth and nose then points his eyeballs at the Sex Machine. Which smiles.

‘Do you have any questions?' says the Sex Machine, striding about now, jauntily swinging its pads and straps. It walks like a 1930s homosexual: reserved but with great rhythm. It's self-assured. Worse: the Sex Machine is cool. Steve can't bear to watch. Questions, he thinks, what can I ask a Sex Machine?

‘Well, what did you do to her?' he says at last, causing
the Sex Machine to pivot on the tips of its pleasure pad and walk in his direction.

‘I electrocuted her mildly in a number of key areas, her nipples and . . . er . . . downstairs, if you get my meaning, haha.'

The machine chuckles. Oh God. It's overexcited, dancing like a chorus girl. All it needs is a cane or a large pink feather. ‘In addition,' continues the machine, ‘I vibrate. Very powerfully. Small spheres in these pads of mine vibrate so intensely you can't actually tell they're moving at all. The human eye is too lazy and slow, but your skin and your sexual zones, well, they are perfect for me. Don't thank me.'

‘I wasn't going to.'

‘So be it, my friend,' says the machine, turning once more and prancing wistfully along the skirting board towards the wardrobe. Steve uncrosses his legs and crawls panther-like to where the Sex Machine is admiring itself in the wardrobe's mirror. The machine catches Steve's reflection coming towards it, and sighs.

‘You raped my girlfriend, you bloodied her,' whispers Steve, holding the machine's gaze in the mirror.

‘Haha!' the machine guffaws, turning to face the crouching Steve.

‘Do not laugh, you machine,' whimpers Steve, recoiling from the machine's manic grin.

‘Your girlfriend strapped me to her body and switched me on. She loved me. She loves me still.'

Steve's handsome features shape as if to burst with rage, but then they relax into an expression of sad surprise. Like an arresting officer has just tapped him on the shoulder. The game's up. The Sex Machine registers Steve's melancholy. It moves cautiously towards him and gently strokes
his knee with one of its pleasure pads. There there, man, thinks the machine, there there. Steve removes the machine's pad from his knee and gets to his feet.

‘Please, could you just fuck off?' says Steve.

‘Yes, yes, I suppose I could,' says the Sex Machine.

The machine calmly and carelessly fucks off, collapsing gently on to the floor. It won't be returning, it won't be speaking again. Steve turns again to Carly, she looks as if she's lost consciousness. Poor girl. She's lost so much blood, the bed seems as if it's covered in a plush velvet tablecloth. Her eyes open, like nuts cracking, they flicker in the direction of Steve, her lover: ‘Steve . . . there are things I like about you . . . ouch . . . of course there are.'

Steve looks at his lover with total disgust. Machine, he thinks, you shagged that bastard machine.

‘I thought I could change the world once, you know?' he says, standing, groping self-consciously at his acutely fashionable shirt. ‘I thought I could pick holes in its policies, the way it tricks and trades.' Steve's voice is scarcely audible. He wills tears to his eyes, but he's as dry as a bone.

He walks to the doorway and is greeted gloomily by the man with black beady eyes. Che Guevara. Beady eyes tells Steve that the ambulance has arrived. The living room is illuminated by paramedics, a well-washed man and a well-washed woman in green outfits. Steve beckons them into the bedroom, the paramedic with the thin hair and the creased face addresses Steve, asking, ‘Thank you, sir. Are you the boyfriend?'

In the interests of consistent human behaviour and because he understands English, Steve says, ‘Yes.' Then watches as the paramedic rushes to Carly's aid.

‘Hello, Carly, my name's Jonathan, I'm a paramedic.
We're gonna get you in the ambulance as quickly as we can, OK? Jesus, what happened here, mate?' The paramedic turns to Steve, noticing the extent of Carly's injuries.

Steve shrugs and expels a breath of air: ‘She was having sex with a machine and they fell into my glass coffee table. It broke. It's really ruined.'

Carly's shredded body is wrapped in plastic and lifted on to a stretcher. Steve gathers some of Carly's clothes and takes them out to the ambulance. On the way back, he passes Carly and the paramedics on the stairs. He stands and watches as she's carried to the rear of the vehicle and put into place. Carly, so beautiful and strong, even when she's covered in cuts and blood. Oh Carly, Steve runs out to the ambulance. Carly, Carly, my love.

‘Will she be OK, mate?' he says, tugging at the green uniform of the paramedic.

‘She'll be fine. Are you coming, mate?' A door slams.

‘No, I'll follow in the car. It's an Audi TT. Carly's my girlfriend. She's fit, isn't she?'

The paramedic places a hand on Steve's shoulder and looks seriously at his face: ‘Yes, mate, she's fucking fit.'

Steve opens the ambulance door and ventures in, crouching over Carly's beautiful face. He runs his hands through her matted hair. He looks at her eyes in such a way as to suggest that, in this instance, forgiveness is possible without recourse to anal sex. It's romance, it has to be. After all, she only shagged a machine, it's an unfortunate accident, that's all. He leans in and kisses a bloodless portion of her forehead. The seal of her mouth breaks, she speaks.

‘Steve?'

‘Yes, my love?'

‘Keep the machine safe.'

‘What? But . . .'

‘I mean it, Steve. Keep the machine safe. Clean it.'

‘What?'

Carly's thin eyes, shot and crisp with blood, spear Steve with a stare. Slowly and carefully she says, ‘It is incredible. So please, clean it and keep it safe.'

Steve edges out of the ambulance, a door slams, within seconds his brain is floating in the sound of sirens. In his mouth there are sirens, in his eyes, too. The evening falls down to earth. A bad light. Silent cars smudge the streets. Steve climbs the stairs, enters his flat and closes what remains of his door. She chose this device over me, he thinks, sitting on the bed, prodding the excellent Sex Machine with an outstretched toe.

THERE IS A
click, then there is a flame, it is bright against the night. Sheltering it carefully, Justin guides the lighter towards Rebecca's mouth and the cigarette is lit. He sees to his own, inhales, exhales, and laughs.

The motorway lay-by is bathed in heavy orange light. Cars go by at speed, lorries too, like shots from a futuristic firearm. Colours painted on black, quick streaks of light. Rebecca leans on the bonnet of the car, seemingly indifferent to her hair, which is airborne and circling her scalp, dancing wildly with the wind. It's as if neither of them is quite enough, neither is able to be larger than their surroundings. Neither can outdo the atmospheres and the subtle boredoms with exceptional living. Having begun an experiment and having taken risks, Rebecca and Justin reacquaint themselves with a sinking sensation. Like weak children in quicksand. Sinking. They experience a deepening despair. Shit, they think, once again we're dwarfed.

Justin edges towards the road and blows smoke at the cars and their loud sounds. You only have to stand by a motorway to realise how precarious our situation is, how easily we are fooled and what tightropes we walk.

‘It was another failure, wasn't it, my love?'

A few shards of Justin's question are blown into Rebecca's ears, just enough. There is a sense. She understands.

‘Yes. It was another failure,' she shouts back. Shit. Rebecca turns and scrapes the soles of her shoes through the grit of the hard shoulder, irritated that she's having to shout to make herself heard. On top of everything else that has disappointed and malfunctioned, she is forced to shout in order to be heard. Sensing irritation, Justin turns from the road to find Rebecca strutting and angry by the rear spoiler. He traps her against the cold car. The traffic rages at superhuman speeds. Life is cinema.

‘I suppose we should try something different, think more carefully and be more discerning about who we deal with,' says Justin, a hand on each of Rebecca's shoulders.

‘But it has to be fun, Justin, it must be enjoyable, in some ways at least. What happened tonight felt like fucking rape. Bill Clinton was trying to get up my arse and Thatcher was really chewing at my tits. It felt like fucking rape.'

‘I know, I know.'

‘Gandhi refused to wear a fucking condom.'

It is unheard of for Justin and Rebecca to kiss, except as part of the experiment, when they're working and researching. But they kiss now. Justin's right hand journeys from her fringe over her head and down her back to where her hair stops. He leans in and so does she. Now they're kissing by the motorway with gentle, dry lips. Rebecca melts
a hand into Justin's chest, another reaches up and kneads his cheek, his neck, his hair. There is a growing warmth, a defeating of the wind and the cold air.

‘So how did it feel?' asks Justin, pulling away and framing Rebecca's face like a rather twee painting; an all too realistic portrait of a breaking youth. ‘So how did what feel?' Rebecca replies, disappointed that the kiss is already ended.

‘When you thought you were being raped, was it good? Is it an answer?'

‘Oh, Jus, you don't really believe that we're saving the world, do you?'

‘Yes, I do. I want to know if it felt good. If it did, then we could orchestrate a rape, somehow I'm sure. How did it feel, Rebecca? Because if you want we could—'

‘No good, Justin,' she interrupts. ‘It felt no good.'

Rebecca escapes under Justin's arm and makes for the door of the car. A light rain begins to fall, introducing new sounds to the atmosphere; slimmer sounds. A thin hissing that slides under the clatters of the traffic.

‘You are a beautiful and wonderful girl, Rebecca. I'm glad that I met you,' Justin shouts through the weather. A handful of seconds fall silently to the ground.

‘I don't want a boyfriend.'

‘I don't want a girlfriend.'

‘We should get back on the motorway.'

They spent the evening at an event called ‘Fuck Power' hosted by an eccentric group of people from Cheshire. ‘Fuck Power' invites people to come along and partake in protracted orgies consisting of people dressed up as major political figures of the past and present. It's billed as a way of venting frustration, political as well as sexual, getting
your own back. But it turned out to be about a dozen people, all in possession of a dense desire for aggressive sex.

Thatcher, Clinton and Gandhi were there. Tony Blair, of course. Nelson Mandela, Churchill, the Queen, Nixon, Princess Diana, Lenin. Bushes Snr and Jnr (they 69ed, in fact). But the masks were poor and the likenesses implausible. Motivation was also lacking. Mandela's mask came off at one stage, mid-screw, and he didn't even bother to put it back on. He just kept hammering away at the Queen. He wasn't even black.

Rebecca and Justin were not required to dress up. They played themselves, as usual. They were simply meant to take the opportunity to have sex with world leaders, to fuck power. Jesus, the whole situation was dreadful. I suppose the dominating desires of the politicians should have been expected. It was unlikely that Blair was ever going to be submissive. He was always going to bend Rebecca over, was always going to hold her in place while Thatcher probed.

So the experience was a failure. No answers. Still no closer to sexual happiness and self-knowing. The problem with most of these fetish groups is that the participants rarely possess much in the way of taste. They rarely live in exquisitely lit apartments or grand mansions. It's all very well being granted the opportunity of sex with Richard Nixon, but if you have to wait in a narrow, brightly lit corridor watching Gandhi wank himself hard beforehand, then it hardly seems worth it. Fuck Power took place in an atrociously furnished bungalow in Chapel-en-le-Frith. Lenin and Nixon discussed the hazards of applying creosote to their rotting garden fences. Churchill offered
Bombay mix and miniature gherkins to those about to fuck. Where do all the brilliant moments occur? Please, where?