The Heart Goes Last - Страница 33

“Now why would I do that?” says Aurora.

“Someone did,” says Charmaine. “Because I’m wearing different clothes.” The thought of Aurora changing her clothes like a Barbie doll’s while she was out cold gives her a shuddery feeling all over.

“I expect you did it yourself, and just don’t remember it. You must have had an episode of temporary amnesia,” says Aurora in that know-it-all voice of hers. “A shock like the one you’ve had can bring on a fugue state. You were on the sofa when I got here ten minutes ago.” She sets the tea tray down on the coffee table. “The brain is very protective, it decides what we choose to remember.”

Charmaine feels anger flooding her, pushing out the grief. If she’d been down in the cellar getting stuff out of her locker she’d remember it, in addition to which she never would’ve picked this blouse. What kind of a fashion loser do they think she is? Who brought her back here from Medications Administration, anyway?

She pulls herself upright, swings her legs down onto the floor. She absolutely, totally does not want Aurora to see her in this state, the state of a mud puddle. She wipes her nose and eyes on her sleeve since a tissue is lacking, brushes the damp hair back off her forehead, pulls her face into a semblance of order. “Thank you,” she says as crisply as she can. “Actually, I’m fine.”

Does Aurora know about what Charmaine has done to Stan? Maybe she can bluff, conceal her weakness. Say she fainted because she had her period or low blood-sugar or something.

“Well, that’s very strong of you,” says Aurora. “I mean, not many people would have such a firm sense of duty and loyalty.” She sits down on the sofa beside Charmaine. “I have to admire you, I really do.” She pours the tea into the cup – Charmaine’s cup, with the pink rosebuds that Stan never liked. But he never liked tea anyway, he was a coffee kind of guy, with cream and two sugars. She represses a sob.

“I really should apologize, on behalf of management,” says Aurora, setting the cup down on the coffee table in front of Charmaine. “It was so tactless of Logistics.” She’s put a cup for herself on the tray; she busies herself with filling it. Charmaine takes a gulp of tea. It does help.

“What do you mean?” she says, though she knows perfectly well what Aurora means. Aurora’s enjoying this. She’s relishing it.

“They should have booked you for someone else’s Procedure,” says Aurora. “They shouldn’t have put you through such an ordeal.” She measures the sugar into her own cup, stirs it.

“What ordeal?” says Charmaine. “I was just doing my job.” But it’s no use: she can see that in the tidy non-smile on Aurora’s over-lifted mask of a face.

“He was your husband, wasn’t he?” says Aurora. “Your most recent Procedure. According to the records. Whatever the state of your private life together, and that is none of our business and I don’t want to pry, but whatever that state, carrying out the Procedure must have been … truly a difficult decision for you to make.” She cranks up her smile, a smile of smarmy understanding. Charmaine feels like whacking her across the face. What do you know about it, you shrivelled-up prissy-pants? she would like to yell.

“I just do my job,” she says defensively. “I follow the prescribed routine. In all cases.”

“I appreciate your desire to – shall we say – blur the outlines,” says Aurora. “But we happen to have taped the entire process, as we do at random, for quality control. It was very … it was touching. Watching you struggle with your emotions. I was moved, I really was, we all were! We could see you faltering, it was only natural, I mean, who wouldn’t? You’d have to be inhuman. But you did overcome them, those emotions! Don’t think we haven’t noted that. The overcoming. Of the emotions. In fact, our chief himself, Ed, would like to thank you in person, and a little bird told me, it’s not official, but I think there might be a promotion in the offing, because if anyone deserves it for the heroic –”

“I think you should leave now,” says Charmaine, setting down her cup. In one more minute she is going to throw that cup and everything in it. Smack-dab in the middle of Aurora’s prefab face.

“Of course,” says Aurora, with a half-smile like a perfectly symmetrical slice of lemon. “I do feel your pain. It must be so, well, so painful. The pain that you feel. We’ve booked a trauma counsellor for you, because of course you will be experiencing survivor’s guilt. Well, more than just survivor’s guilt, because with a survivor, all they did was survive, whereas you, I mean …

Charmaine stands up abruptly, knocking over her cup. “Please get out,” she says as steadily as she can. “Right now.”

Go on, says her little inner voice. Bash this teapot over her head. Cut her throat with the bread knife. Then drag her downstairs and hide the body in your pink locker.

But Charmaine refrains. There would be telltale bloodstains on the rug. Plus, if they’d videoed her with Stan and the needle, they might have a way of doing that inside this house as well.

“You’ll feel differently tomorrow,” says Aurora, standing too, still smiling her flat, stretched smile. “We all adjust, in time. The funeral is on Thursday, that’s in two days. Electrical accident at the chicken facility is the explanation we’re giving; it will be on the news tonight. Everyone at the funeral will want to offer condolences, so you should be prepared. I’ll arrange a car for six-thirty, to pick you up for your concussion X-ray; it’s after hours, but they’ll be waiting for you specially. In your state, you shouldn’t be driving your scooter.”

“I hate you!” Charmaine yells. “Evil witch!” But she waits until after the door has closed.

Coffeetime

“Stan,” says a voice. “Time to move.” Stan opens his eyes: it’s Jocelyn. She’s shaking his arm. He stares at her groggily.

“About fucking time,” he says. “And thanks for leaving me in cold storage. Do you mind unshackling me? I need to take a leak.” He has an image of how the next few minutes would go if this were a spy film. He’d deck Jocelyn, knock her out, find her keys, snap her onto the bin, steal her phone so she couldn’t call for help when she woke up – she must have a phone – and then go out and save the world all by himself.

“Don’t do anything spontaneous,” says Jocelyn. “I’m the only thing standing between you and rigor mortis. So pay very close attention, because I can only go over this once. I’m due at a top-level meeting, so we have almost no time.” She’s wearing her business get-up – the trim suit, the little hoop earrings, the grey stockings. Strange to think of her prone underneath him or naked on top of him, where she has often been – legs splayed, mouth open, hair wild, as if blown by a squall. That seems like a different planet.

She unlocks his tether, helps him to climb down out of the teddy bear bin. He’s still wobbly. He staggers in behind the bin, takes a piss – he can’t see any other place to do it – then staggers back out again.

She has a small thermos of coffee with her, thank fuck for that. He guzzles greedily, washing down the two painkiller pills that she hands him. “For the headache,” she says. “Sorry about it, but that drug’s the only one we could use. Mimics the effects of the real thing but without the finale.”

“How close did I get?” says Stan.

“Nothing worse than a strong anesthetic,” she says. “Think of it as a holiday for your brain.”

“So,” says Stan. “I was wrong about Charmaine. She went for the bull’s-eye.”

“She couldn’t have been better,” says Jocelyn with an irritating smile. “Acting wouldn’t come close.”

You callous asshole, he thinks. “You know you’re a triple-grade shit,” he says. “Putting her through that. You’ve fucked up her head for life.”

“She’s a little shaken, yes,” says Jocelyn evenly. “For the present. But we’ll take care of her.” Stan doesn’t find this too reassuring: take care of her could mean something less than kind.

“Good,” he says nonetheless.

“But I expect you’re hungry,” says Jocelyn.

“Understatement,” says Stan. Now that he thinks about it, he’s ravenous. Out of her handbag she produces a cheese sandwich that he scoffs down in one bite. He could use a couple more of those, plus some chocolate cake and a beer. “Where exactly the fuck am I?” he says, once he’s swallowed it all down.

“In a warehouse,” says Jocelyn.

“Yeah, I got that. But am I still inside Positron Prison?”

“Yes,” says Jocelyn. “It’s part of the facility.”

“So, are those coffins?” He nods toward the oblong boxes.

Jocelyn laughs. “No. They’re shipping crates.”

Stan decides not to ask what they might be shipping. “Okay, so,” he says, “where do I go? Unless you plan to keep me in here with these fucking bears.”

“I can understand your irritation,” says Jocelyn. “Bear with me, pardon the pun.” She gives him a big-toothed grin. “There are two things you have to remember, for your own safety during your time here. First, your name is now Waldo.”

“Waldo?” he says. “Can’t I be … Shit!” In no way does he see himself as a Waldo. Wasn’t that some kind of cartoon rabbit on kids’ TV? Or a fish? No, that was Nemo. A cartoon thing, anyway. Where’s Waldo?