The Heart Goes Last

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“I think you two need more time apart,” was what Jocelyn said about it, as if he and Charmaine were squabbling children who’d been given a time-out by a loving but strict mother. No, not a mother: a decadent babysitter who’d shortly be charged with corrupting minors, because right after that prissy little sermon, Stan found himself on the blue sofa with its chaste but by now grubby lilies enacting one of Jocelyn’s favourite scenes from the frequently replayed video-porn saga featuring their two energetic spouses.

“What if it were both of us at once?” he found himself growling as if from a great distance. The voice was his, the words were Max’s. The script called for some handwork here. It was hard to remember all the words, synchronize them with the gestures. How did they manage it in films? But those people got multiple takes: if they did it wrong, they could do it over. “Front and back?”

“Oh no, I couldn’t!” Jocelyn replied in a voice intended to sound breathless and ashamed, like Charmaine’s on the video. And it did kind of sound that way: she wasn’t acting, or not entirely. “Not both at once! That’s …”

What came next? His mind went blank. To gain time he tore off a few buttons.

“I think you could,” Jocelyn prompted him.

“I think you could,” he said. “I think you want to. Look, you’re blushing. You’re a dirty little slut, aren’t you?”

When would this be over? Why couldn’t he just skip all the role-playing crap, cut to the chase, get to the part where her eyes rolled back in her head and she screamed like ripped metal? But she didn’t want the short-form. She wanted dialogue and ritual, she wanted courtship. She wanted what Charmaine had, right there onscreen, and not a syllable less. It was pitiful, once Stan stopped to think about it: as if she’d been left out, the one kid not invited to the birthday party, so she was going to have her own birthday party, all by herself.

And she was having it all by herself, more or less, because Stan wasn’t present in any real sense. Why doesn’t she just order herself a robot? he thought. Among the guys down at the scooter depot, talk has it that full production has begun on the new and improved sexbots that are in the trial stage somewhere in the depths of Positron. Maybe it’s an urban legend or wishful thinking, but the guys swear to it: they have the inside track. It’s said to be a line of Dutch-designed prostibots, some for the domestic market, but the majority for export. The bots are supposed to be really lifelike, with body heat and touch-sensitive plastic fibre skin that actually quivers, and several different voice modes, and flushable interiors for sanitary purposes, because who wants to catch a dick-rotting disease?

These bots will cut down on sex trafficking, say the boosters: no more young girls smuggled over borders, beaten into submission, chained to the bed, reduced to a pulp, then thrown into sewage lagoons. No more of that: plus, they’ll practically shit money.

But it won’t be anything like the real thing, say the detractors: you won’t be able to look into their eyes and see a real person looking out. Oh, they’ve got a few tricks up their sleeves, say the boosters: improved facial muscles, better software. But they can’t feel pain, say the detractors. They’re working on that feature, say the boosters. Anyway, they’ll never say no. Or they’ll say no only if you want them to. Stan doubts all of this: the empathy modules at Dimple Robotics wouldn’t have convinced a five-year-old. But maybe they’ve made strides.

The guys joke about applying to be prostibot testers at Positron. It’s said to be a wild experience, though creepy. You get to choose the voice and phrase option, the bot whispers enticing flatteries or dirty words; when you touch her, she wriggles; you give her a jump. Then, while the rinse cycle is kicking in – that part is weird, it sounds a little too much like the drain cycle on a dishwasher – you have to fill out a questionnaire, check the ratings boxes for likes and dislikes of this or that feature, suggest improvements. As an on-demand sexual experience, it’s said to be better than the bonk-a-chicken racket that used to go on at Positron, they add. No squawking, no scratchy claws. And better than a warm watermelon too, the latter being not all that responsive.

There must be male prostibots for the Jocelyns of this world, thinks Stan. Randy Andy the Handy Android. But such an item wouldn’t suit Jocelyn, because she wants something that can feel resentment, and even rage. Feel it and have to repress it. He knows quite a lot about her tastes by now.

The night before New Year’s Day, she’d made popcorn and insisted they eat it while watching the video prelims: Phil’s arrival at the derelict house, his restless pacing, the breath mint he’d slipped into his mouth, his swift preening of himself in the reflection of a shard of glass left in a shattered mirror. The popcorn was greasy with melted butter, but when Stan moved to get a paper towel, Jocelyn laid a hand on his leg; lightly enough, but he knew a command signal when he felt one. “No,” she said, smiling that smile he increasingly can’t read. Pain, or intent on causing it? “Stay here. I want your butter all over me.”

At least it was something extra, that butter. Something Phil and Charmaine hadn’t done. Or not on the videos.

And so it went on. But toward the end of January, Jocelyn’s ardour or whatever it was had flagged. She seemed distracted; she worked in her room at the computer she’d set up in there, and instead of wanting sex on the sofa she’d taken to reading novels on it, with her shoes off and her feet up. He knows more about her now, or more about the story of herself she’s using as a front. How did she get into the Surveillance business? he’d asked her, for something to do at the breakfast table.

“I was an English major,” she said. “It’s a real help.”

“You’re bullshitting me, right?”

“Not in the least,” she said. “It’s where all the plots are. That’s where you learn the twists and turns. I did my senior thesis on Paradise Lost.”

Paradise what? The only thing that came to Stan’s mind was a nightclub site in Australia he’d once seen online when looking for soft porn, but the place had shut down years before. He wanted to ask Jocelyn if that book was made into an HBO mini series or something, in case he might have seen it, but he didn’t do that because the less ignorance he displayed, the better. Already she was treating him like a brain-damaged spaniel, with a mixture of amusement and contempt. Except when he was in full-throttle pelvic action. But that was happening less and less.

Some nights he found himself drinking beer alone because Jocelyn was out of the house. He felt relief – some of the performance pressure was off – but also fear, because what if she was about to discard him? And what if the destination she had in mind for him was not Positron Prison but that unknown void into which the bona fide criminals originally warehoused at Positron had vanished?

Jocelyn could erase him. She could just wave her hand and reduce him to zero. She’d never said so, but he knew she had that power.

But the first of February had come and gone, with no switchover for him. He’d finally dared to bring the subject up: when, exactly, would he be leaving for Positron?

“Missing your chickens?” she’d said. “Never mind, you might be joining them soon.” This made his neck hair stand up: the nature of the chicken feed at Positron was a matter for grisly rumour. “But first I want to spend Valentine’s Day with you.” The tone was almost sentimental, though there was an underlayer of flint. “I want it to be special.” Was special a threat? She watched him, smiling a little. “I don’t want us to be … interrupted.”

“Who’d interrupt us?” he said. In old movies, the kind they showed on the Consilience channel – comic movies, tragic movies, melodramatic movies – there were frequent interruptions. Someone would burst through a door – a jealous spouse, a betrayed lover. Unless it was a spy movie, in which case it would be a double agent, or a crime movie in which a stool pigeon had betrayed the gang. Scuffles or gunshots would follow. Escapes from balconies. Bullets to the head. Speedboats zigzagging out of reach. That’s what those interruptions led to, though followed by happy endings. But surely no such interrupting was possible here.

“No one, I suppose,” she said. She watched him. “Charmaine is perfectly safe,” she added. “She’s alive and well. I’m not a monster!” Then that hand on his knee again. Spider silk, stronger than iron. “Are you worried?”

Of course I’m fucking worried, he wanted to shout. What do you think, you twisted perv? You think it’s a kiddie picnic for me, being house slave to a fucking dog trainer who could have me put down at any minute? But all he’d said was, “No, not really.” Then, to his shame: “I’m looking forward to it.” He’s disgusted with himself. What would Conor do in his place? Conor would take charge, somehow. Conor would turn the tables. But how?

“Looking forward to what?” she said with a blank stare. She was such a gamester. “To what, Stan?” when he stalled.

“Valentine’s Day,” he muttered. What a loser. Crawl, Stan. Lick shoes. Kiss ass. Your life may depend on it.

She smiled openly this time. That mouth he would soon be obliged to mash with his own, those teeth that would soon be biting his ear. “Good,” she said sweetly, patting his leg. “I’m glad you’re looking forward to it. I like surprises, don’t you? Valentine’s Day reminds me of cinnamon hearts. Those little red ones you sucked. Red Hots, they were called. Remember?” She licked her lips.