The Heart Goes Last

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“Do I have to, you know,” says Charmaine. “Go all the way?” The idea of having Ed crawl around on her naked body gives her the queasies.

“Absolutely not. In fact, that’s crucial. You need to delay,” says Jocelyn. “If he starts coming on strong, tell him you’re not ready yet. You can plead sorrow for a while. He’s part of the reality in which Stan is dead, so he’ll understand that. He’ll even welcome it. He’s never seen those videos of you and Phil – I’ve made sure of that – so he thinks you’re modest. That’s part of his obsession with you: so hard to find a modest girl these days.” Is that a twitch, an almost-smile? “If you don’t want to help us, we could show him the videos. His reaction would be adverse. At the very least, he’d feel betrayed.”

Charmaine blushes. She is modest, it’s just that … The thing with Max wasn’t her true self, it couldn’t have been. Maybe he was using some kind of hypnotism on her. The things he made her say. … All of which have been recorded. This is blackmail! “All right,” she says reluctantly. “I’ll try.”

“An appropriate decision,” says Aurora. “I’m sure you’ll come to realize that, in time. You’ll be helping me – you’ll be helping us – more than you know. Here, have a cookie.”

Dressups

In the room at Possibilibots where Budge has stashed him, Stan dozes fitfully. He’s dreaming of blue bears: they’re outside the window, peering in at him. They clamber up onto the sill, they wiggle suggestively, they stare at him with their round, inexpressive eyes. Now they’re laughing at him, displaying rows of pointed shark teeth. And now they’re squeezing into his room through the half-open window, dropping onto his bed …

He wakes with a start and a muffled bark but it’s only Veronica, shaking his arm. “Hurry,” she tells him. There’s bad news: over at Ed’s office, IT has discovered that some crucial files have been copied. That would be the files on the flashdrive Stan’s supposed to be taking out. There’s bound to be a thorough search in the morning. Luckily, there’s a rush order: five Elvises are leaving for Vegas at three a.m., and one of them will be him. She and Budge have everything ready and waiting in Shipping, but he needs to come right now.

He pulls on his clothes and follows her. She’s wearing jeans and a T, ordinary-enough clothes, though with her inside them they look like silk. Life is unfair, he thinks, as he watches her undulate through the hallways.

She has all the right passcards as she leads him through a series of doorways to Shipping. “You’ll find everything you need in the Men’s,” she says. “I’ll be in the Ladies’, getting my own outfit on.”

“You’re coming to Vegas too?” he says stupidly.

“Of course I am,” she says. “I’m your minder. Remember?”

There’s not much time to spare. The Elvis outfit is hanging in one of the stalls. Stan shoehorns himself into the costume: it’s half a size too small. Could he have gained that much weight on Positron beer, or was whoever picked this fucking outfit for him a bondage fetishist? The white bellbottoms on the jumpsuit are too tight, the platform shoes pinch his toes, the belt with the big silver and turquoise buckle just barely makes it around his waist. Did Elvis wear a girdle, or what? He must’ve suffered from a permanent case of crotch cramp. The jacket is encrusted with studs and spangles, with a little cape attached; the collar sticks up like a Dracula cloak, the shoulder pads are grotesque.

The black wig is slippery – some sort of synthetic – but he manages to pull it on over his own hair. His head is going to cook in this thing! The eyebrows stick on quite easily, the sideburns less so; he has to try twice. He applies bronzing powder with the brush supplied: instant tan.This is like Halloween, when he was a kid. It’s probably a crappy job, but who’s going to see him? No one, if he’s lucky.

All that remains are the chunky rings – he’ll leave them till last – and the fake lips, top and bottom which come supplied with their own Insta-glue. Not a total success; the lips feel precarious, but at least they stick on.

He poses in front of the mirror, does a lopsided grin; though he barely needs to grin because the lips are doing the grinning for him. Underneath them, his own lips are semi-paralyzed. He wiggles his new black eyebrows, flings back his head, smoothes his hair. “You handsome devil,” he says. “Back from the dead.” The faux lips are hard to manoeuvre, but he’ll get the hang of it. Oddly, he does look something like Elvis. Is that all we are? he thinks. Unmistakable clothing, a hairstyle, a few exaggerated features, a gesture?

There’s a discreet knock: it’s Veronica in her Marilyn getup, her hair hidden under a short blond wig. She’s chosen the black suit from Niagara, with the skintight skirt and the white scarf. Her mouth glistens like slick red plastic. He has to admit she looks terrific; she even looks like the real Marilyn. She’s got a large black carry bag, which doubtless contains her knitted blue fetish.

“Ready to go?” she says. “I’ll tuck you into your box, then Budge will do the same for me. Your cargo is in the belt buckle, don’t lose it! We have to hurry. Wait, let me even out your skin tone a bit.” She picks up the brush, powders his face some more. She’s standing way too close; this is torture, but she seems unaware of that. He longs to crush her against him, bury his nose in her Marilyn hair, smash his rubbery mouth onto her bright red lips, futile though that would be. “There,” she says. “Now you’re perfect. You look just like an Elvis bot. Let’s pop you in.”

The transport case is marked ELVIS/UR-ELF in stencilled block letters; it’s one of the set of five stacked on the loading dock, ready for shipment. Beside it are five smaller cases labelled MARILYN/UR-MLF, one of which is standing open. It’s lined with pink satin, with Styrofoam packing moulds to prevent breakage. His own packing case is lined with blue. “Is this safe?” he says as he clambers in. “How will I breathe?”

“There’s air holes,” she says. “They aren’t very noticeable because no real bot would need them. I’m tucking in this hot water bottle, it’s empty. See, it’s right beside your elbow. You should be able to move your arms enough to pee into it, if you have to. Here’s a few pills in case you get pacnicky, they’ll put you right under, don’t take more than three at a time. Oh, and here’s your bottled waters, I’m giving you two, we wouldn’t want you to shrivel up, and a couple of tear-and-shake Little Hottie hand warmers, in case it gets cold on the plane. And an energy bar if you get hungry. I’ll make sure they let you out!”

What if they don’t? Stan wants to yell. “Okay,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant.

“If there’s a booboo and the wrong person finds you, just say you were drugged, and you have no idea how you got into the packing case,” says Veronica. “As long as you’ve already made it to Vegas, they’ll find that believable. Now, have a good sleep! Here comes Budge, it’s my turn.”

She lowers the top, and Stan hears the catches being snapped shut. Now he’s in the dark. Shit, he thinks. This better work. Best case, he makes it to Vegas, then gives Veronica the slip, ditches this outfit, and travels – how? – to rejoin Conor, because a life of outlawry is a lot more appealing to him than anything else that’s going on right now. Though that wouldn’t work, because Conor, via Budge, has a contract to deliver him, so that’s what he’ll do.

Worst case … He has an image of himself inside the packing case, abandoned in a nighttime airport in, say, the wilds of Kansas, yelping to emptiness: Help! Let me out!

Or, worse yet, identified as a terrorist threat by some addled sniffer dog and detonated by Homeland Security. Sideburns and silver all over the place. What the hey! I think Elvis has left the building!

He squirms around inside the slippery satin cocoon, trying to get comfortable. He doesn’t want to take a pill, he’s had enough of drugs lately. It’s completely dark; a few hours in here and he’ll start seeing things. The air is already stuffy; it reeks of Insta-glue, from the lips. Maybe it will make him high, and therefore less anxious. When did he set out along the path that’s led to this dark cul-de-sac, how has he managed to agree to this crazed escapade, what’s become his so-called life? Will he ever manage to see Charmaine again? If only he’d stolen her sculpted head: at least then he’d have something tangible.

The image of her lovely, pale, tear-streaked face floats before him. She’s had few real choices; she’s as unprepared for all this shit and crap as he is. Lying in the satin-lined void with the Elvis collar itching his neck and the Elvis wig steam-cooking his scalp, he forgives her everything: her stupid interlude with Phil/Max, the moment when she thought she was killing him, even her obsession with slipcovers and those gnome coffee mugs. He should have cherished her more, he should have taken better care of her.

Right beside his ear he hears Veronica’s voice. She’s whispering. Hi, Stan. There’s a mic in your shoulder pad and one in my bear. It’s our own walkie-talkie, ultra-secure, just you and me. Letting you know it’s okay, I’m in my own box, we’re moving out. Signing off now. Just relax.

As if, Stan thinks, as he feels his feet end lifting into the air. Fucking hell.