The Heart Goes Last (17 page)

“You’re not allowed out!” Charmaine whispers. “Remember what we signed! Couldn’t you just explain to them …” She knows this is futile, because rules are rules, but she wants to hold out hope.

“Forget it,” says Sandi. “I’m fucked.” Her teeth are chattering. “No free lunch for me, I should’ve known. Now you should put the hood back on and call a guard, and say why is this person in your cell, and they’ll clear me out of your way.”

“But I can’t just …” says Charmaine. “What will happen to you?” She’s going to cry. This is wrong, it
has
to be wrong! The chains, the handcuffs … Maybe they’ll only put Sandi in Towel-Folding or something.

“Just do it,” says Sandi. “You don’t have the choice.”

The white ceiling is even more boring than Consilience TV. Hardly anything’s going on up there, though there has been a fly, which has helped to pass the time. Scram, fly, Stan thought at it, to see if he could control it by broadcasting his mental electrical waves. But he couldn’t.

The other thing on the white ceiling is a small, round silver circle. It’s either a sprinkler or a videocam. He closes his eyes, then opens them: he should stay awake if possible. He concentrates on the chain of causes and effects and lies and impostures – some of them his – that has stranded him in this tedious or possibly terrifying cul-de-sac.

Which will terminate with Charmaine in a lab coat walking in here in about five minutes, or at least he hopes it’s that soon because he really needs a piss. The poor fluffbrain will think she’s about to send some serial killer or child murderer or old-person batterer to the next life. But when she approaches the gurney he’s strapped onto, it won’t be an unknown criminal element waiting for: it will be him.

What will she do then? Scream and run away? Throw herself onto his body? Tell Positron there’s been a terrible mistake?

Maybe she’ll flick a hidden switch to turn off the videocam, then unstrap him, and they’ll hug each other, and she’ll whisper, “I’m so sorry, can you ever forgive me for cheating, you’re the one I really love,” and so on, though there won’t be time for the drawn-out grovelling and cringing he has the right to expect. But he’ll squeeze her reassuringly, and then she’ll show him – what? A trapdoor? A secret tunnel? A set of clothes to wear as a disguise?

He’s watched way too much TV, over the years. On TV there are last-minute escapes, and tunnels, and trapdoors. This is real life, numbnuts, he tells himself. Or it’s supposed to be.

But there has to be some last-minute plot flip like that, because Charmaine would surely never stick the death drug into him, or whatever it is she does. She’d never go the whole hog. She’s too tender-hearted.

Unhuhuh
, he says to the ceiling. Because now he’s not so sure about her tender-heartedness. He’s not sure of anything. And what if something has fucked up, and the Positron spooks have caught up with double-dealing Jocelyn and arrested her, or maybe even shot her?

And what if, when the door opens, it isn’t Charmaine who walks through it?

They’re probably watching him right now, through that silver circle. They’ve probably tortured Jocelyn, made her cough up her entire subversive plan. They probably think he’s in on it.

I didn’t know! It wasn’t me! I’ve done nothing! he screams in his head.

Unhuhuhuh
.

Shit. He’s wet his pants. But it doesn’t seep, it doesn’t trickle. Have they got him in diapers? Crap. Not a good sign.

So he can’t be the first person who’s been here and done the pant-wetting thing. You can’t say they don’t cover the angles.

It takes Charmaine a while to regain her calm after the two guards have hauled Sandi away. By the armpits, because she couldn’t walk very well, what with the shackles.

“No need to mention this to anyone,” the first guard had said. The second one gave a kind of barky laugh. Neither of them were anyone Charmaine had ever seen before.

She takes some yogic breaths, she clears her mind of negative vibrations. Then she washes her hands, and after that she brushes her teeth: it’s like a cleansing ritual, because she likes to feel pure in heart when going into a Procedure. She checks herself in the mirror: there she is, the same sweet, roundish baby-face she’s always relied on at home and school; she hasn’t changed that much since being a teenager, though she’s a little dark under the eyes. She pulls a few strands of her blond hair forward to frame her face. But she’s thinner. She’s lost weight over the past while, slightly too much weight, and she’s looking pale. She’s been so worried, and she’s still worried, because even though her name’s been cleared and she has her job again, what will the future bring? Once she’s back at the house.

The very worst – well, almost the worst – would be if they told Stan about Max. Then what will happen when she sees Stan? He’ll be really mad at her. Even if she cries and says she’s sorry, and how can he ever forgive her, and he’s the one she really loves, he still might want a divorce. The mere possibility makes her tearful. She’d feel so unsafe without Stan, and people would gossip about her, and she’d be all alone in Consilience, forever, because you can’t get out. But she might not feel very safe
with
Stan, either.

As for Max, yes, she does remember hoping he might leave his wife for her so they could be together and she could be crushed in his embrace like a stepped-on blueberry muffin every minute of every day. He’d say, “There’s no one like you, bend over,” while nibbling on her ear, and she’d melt like toffee in the sun.

But on some level she’s always known that would be impossible. She’s been a distraction for him, but not a necessity of life. More like a super-strong mint: intense while it lasted but quickly finished. And, to be fair, he’s been the same thing for her, and if he was offered to her on a serving platter in exchange for Stan, she would say no thanks, because she could never depend on Max: he’s too fast with his mouth, he’s like a TV ad, pushing something dark and delicious but bad for you. Instead she would say, “I choose Stan.” She does feel quite certain that this is the choice she would make.

Though what if Stan rejects her, despite her new, virtuous intentions? What if he throws her out, tosses her clothes onto the lawn for everyone to see, and then locks the door on the inside? Maybe it will happen at night, and she’ll be outside in the night, scratching on the window like a cat, begging to be taken back. Oh, I’ve ruined everything, she’ll wail. Her eyes water up just picturing it.

But she’ll refuse to think about that, because you make your own reality out of your attitude, and if she thinks about it happening, then it will. Instead she’ll think about Stan’s arms going around her and him saying how miserable he’s been without her and how happy he is that they’re finally together once more. And she’ll stroke him, and cuddle him, and it will be like old times.

Because the days will fly past and it will be switchover in a couple of weeks, and she can finally leave Positron for her month as a civilian again. She’ll be working at her Consilience job in the bakery, and she won’t have to think about screams or women with hoods on chained to her bed, and she’ll smell like cinnamon from the cinnamon buns, such a cheerful smell, and not like the floral scent of the fabric softener from Towel-Folding in Positron, which if you have to breathe it all day is truly chemical and sickly. She won’t use that fabric softener on her own laundry any more, ever. She’ll be back in her own house, with her pretty sheets and the bright kitchen where she cooks such nice breakfasts, and she’ll be with Stan.

Because why would they even tell him about Max, supposing they know? Considering that the whole point of Consilience is for things to run smoothly, with happy citizens, or are they inmates? Both, to be honest. Because citizens were always a bit like inmates and inmates were always a bit like citizens, so Consilience and Positron have only made it official. Anyway, the point is the greatest happiness all around, and telling Stan would mean less happiness. In fact it would mean more misery. So they won’t do it.

Already she can picture, no, feel Stan’s arms around her; and then the way he nuzzles the side of her neck and says things like,
Yum. Cinnamon. How’s my little bun?
Or he used to say things like that, comfort-food kinds of things, though he was slacking off lately, as if he’d been preoccupied. Almost ever since she got tangled up with Max, come to think of it. But he’ll say those things again, because he’ll have missed her and worried about her.
How’s my cherry pie?
Not like the things Max says, which are more like
, I’m going to turn you inside out, after this you won’t be able to crawl. Beg me for it.

Stan maybe isn’t the most … well, the most. The most of whatever you’d call Max. But Stan loves her, and she loves him.

She does really. That thing with Max was only a blip, it was an animal episode. She’ll have to stay away from Max in future. Though it might be hard, because Max is so passionate about her. He’ll try to get her back, no question. But she’ll have to put her fingers in her ears and grit her teeth and roll up her sleeves and resist temptation.

Though why shouldn’t a person have both? says the voice in her head.

I’m making an effort here, she answers. So shut up.

She looks at her watch: two-thirty. Half an hour to go. The waiting is the worst thing. She’s never been so trembly before a Procedure.

She smiles her I-am-a-good-person smile, the smile of an absent-minded angel with a childish lisp. That smile has seen her through many difficult places, or at least it has since she’s been grown up. It’s a Get Out of Jail Free card, it’s a rock concert wristband, it’s a universal security password, like being in a wheelchair. Who would question it?

To give herself confidence she applies blush all over her pale face, then a thin coat of mascara on the eyelashes: nothing too overdone. Positron allows makeup in jail; in fact it encourages makeup, because looking your best is good for morale. It’s her duty to look her best: she’s about to become the last thing some poor young man will see on this earth. That’s a big responsibility. She doesn’t take it lightly.

Charmaine, Charmaine, whispers the small voice in her head. You are such a fraud.

So are you, she tells it.

Stan must have drifted off, but he comes awake with a start. That fucking fly is walking all over his face, and he can’t get at it.

“Fucking fly,” he tries to say.
Fuuuuuh. Fluuuh.
Nope, no speech functions so far. Drug’s got his tongue. He hopes like shit this isn’t permanent: he won’t be able to buy anything except with little notes.
Hi, my name is Stan and I can’t talk. Gimme ten bottles of booze
. He won’t care what kind, he’d drink horse piss. After what he’s been through he’’ll want to get falling-down blind drunk. Oblivious.

It will make a good story though. Once he gets out. Once he hooks up with Brother Conor and his band of merry men, and erases himself from the radar of everyone and everything to do with Positron, because what rule is there that says he has to be Jocelyn’s flunky and messenger boy once he’s out? Let her handle her own weird shit. He’ll have to get Charmaine out too, of course. Maybe. If possible.

Now that fly’s trying to get into his eye. Blink blink, turn the head: it’s not very scared of eyelashes, but it moves. Now it’s going into his nose. At least he has some control over his nostrils: he blows it out. His back is terminally itchy, he has a cramp in his leg, his diaper is sodden. More than anything, he wants this to be over. This stage, this phase, this powerlessness, whatever it is. Let’s get this show on the road, he’d shout, if he were capable of shouting. Which he isn’t. But he hopes he will be soon. He has a lot of shouting to catch up on.

Charmaine makes her way through the familiar corridors to the Medications Administration reception area, where three corridors come together. She’s wearing her green smock over her orange boiler suit; her latex gloves are in her pocket, as well as her facemask in case of germs. She’ll put it on before she goes into the room – that’s the rule – but then she’ll take it off again, because why should anyone’s last view of a human face be so impersonal? She wants whoever it is to be able to see her reassuring smile.

She’s a little nervous; probably they’re monitoring it, this nervousness of hers. And most likely it counts in her favour, because during the training course she took they’d put some electrodes on you and then showed you pictures of people undergoing the Special Procedure and measured how you reacted. What they were looking for was a certain amount of jitteriness, but not so much that you’d lose control. They’d weeded out the ones who stayed totally calm and cold, and also those who’d showed too much eagerness. They didn’t want people who got pleasure out of doing this – they didn’t want sadists or psychopaths. In fact, it was the sadists and psychopaths who needed to be – not euthanized, not erased, those words are too blunt. Relocated to a different sphere, because they were not suited to the life of Consilience.

Maybe that’s what will happen to Sandi, but in a nicer way. Maybe they’ll just take her someplace else, like an island, with the other people on it who are like her. People who don’t fit in, but not criminal elements. Surely that’s what they’ll do, because they do want the greatest happiness. The greatest happiness possible.

Now she’s reached Reception, and there’s the check-in box with the flatscreen on the front. The head is already there: it must be expecting her. Today it’s the woman with the dark hair and bangs. It’s the same woman who was with Ed when he’d visited the knitting circle the night before, the one with the hoop earrings and the grey stockings. Someone important. Charmaine feels a slight chill. Yogic breath, she tells herself. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

The head smiles at her. Is it only a recorded image this time, or is it a real person?

“Could I have the key, please?” Charmaine asks it, as she is supposed to.

“Log in, please,” the head says to her. It’s still smiling, though it seems to be looking at her more intently than usual. Charmaine presses her thumb to the pad, then gazes at the iris reader until it blinks.