Out of her handbag Jocelyn produces a cheese sandwich that he scarfs 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?
"It's a databank move," says Jocelyn. "You're replacing a previous Waldo. He had an accident. Don't look at me like that, it was a real accident, involving a soldering iron. You're inheriting his code, his identity. I've gone into the system and spliced in your biometrics."
"Okay," he says. "So I'm fucking Waldo. What's the second thing?"
"You'll be on a Possibilibots team," says Jocelyn. "Just watch the others and follow orders."
"Possibilibots?" says Stan. Is this something he's supposed to know? He can't place the term; he's feeling dizzy again. "Any more coffee?"
"Possibilibots makes a Dutch-designed line of exact-replica female sex aids," says Jocelyn. "For home and export. I'm sure you'll find the work interesting."
"You mean those prostibots? The sex robots? The guys at the scooter depot were talking about them."
"That's the unofficial name for them, yes. Once they're put together and tested for performance, they're packed into these boxes" - she indicates the stacks of coffin-shaped containers - "and shipped outside Consilience, for deployment in amusement centres and other franchise areas. The Belgians are nuts about them, certain models. And some of the other models are very big in Southeast Asia."
He thinks for a moment. "And who will they think this Waldo is? The one I'm supposed to be? Won't they wonder where the other Waldo has gone?"
"They never knew that Waldo. They don't even know there was a Waldo. He was deployed elsewhere. But if they check the databank, you'll be Waldo in there. Don't worry, just keep saying your name is Waldo. And remember, the job here is the key to transferring you safely to the outside world."
"When do we do that?" says Stan. And through some beam-me-up-Scotty sleight of hand? An underground tunnel? Or what?
"You'll be approached by someone here. The password is 'Tiptoe Through the Tulips.' I can't tell you any more, in case you're suspected and questioned. In a perfect world I'd be overseeing the questioning, but it's not a perfect world."
"Why would I be questioned?" says Stan. He doesn't like any of this. Now that he's getting close to it, he no longer wants to be shipped to the outside world, because who knows what extreme crap is going on out there? It could be total anarchy by now. Given the choice, he'd elect to stay in Consilience, with Charmaine. If only he could rewind to day one, wipe all that Jasmine crap, treat Charmaine the way she wanted to be treated, whatever that was, so she'd never go wandering off. The mere thought of her, and of the house he once found so boring, makes him feel weepy.
But he can't rewind anything. He's stuck in the present. What are his options? He wonders what would happen if he snitched on Jocelyn. Her and her philandering scumbucket of a husband. But who would he snitch to? It would have to be someone in Surveillance, and whoever it is would surely report directly to Jocelyn herself, and then he'd be dog food.
He'll have to take his chances, go through with the Waldo charade, be Jocelyn's courier, in the name of freedom and democracy, no doubt. Not that he gives much of a flying fuck about freedom and democracy, since they haven't performed that well for him personally.
"You're unlikely to be questioned so long as you stick to the Waldo cover," says Jocelyn. "But there are no unsinkable boats. I'm late for that meeting. Here's your Waldo nametag. All clear?"
"Sure," he says, though it's clear as rust paint. "Where do I go now?"
"Through that door," says Jocelyn. "Good luck, Stan. You're doing fine so far. I'm counting on you." She pecks him on the cheek.
His impulse is to wrap his arms around her, clutch on to her like a lifeline, but he resists it.
AJAR
Charmaine has a little time before the car arrives to take her for the scan; not that she thinks she needs a scan, but better to humour them. She wanders around the house - her house - putting things back in order. The tea towels, the pot holders. She hates it when the kitchen implements are left lying around, like the corkscrew. That corkscrew has definitely been put to use, by Max and his wife. They've always been slack on the tidying details.
In the living room there's a table lamp out of place. She'll fix that later: she doesn't feel like crawling around on the floor looking for the wall socket. And there's something in the DVD player of the flatscreen TV: its little light is flashing. What has Max been watching? Not that she's still obsessed with him, not after the shock she's had. Killing Stan has wiped Max from her mind.
She pushes Play.
Oh. Oh no.
The blood rushes to her face, the screen swims. It's shadowy, it's out of focus, but it's her. Her and Max, in one of those empty houses. Racing toward each other, colliding, toppling to the floor. And those sounds coming out of her, like an animal in a trap...This is awful. She pushes Eject, snatches up the silver disc. Who's been watching it? If it's only Max, reliving their moments together, then she's kind of safe.
What to do with it? Putting it in the trash would be fatal: someone might find it. And if she breaks it into pieces, all the more reason for them to reconstruct it. She takes it into the kitchen, slides it in between the refrigerator and the wall. There. Not a terrific hidey-hole, but she's improvised hidey-holes in the past, and that worked out okay, so it's better than nothing.
Act normal, Charmaine, she tells herself. Supposing you can remember what normal is.
--
She's unsteady on her feet, but she makes it to the powder room off the front hall, where she splashes water on her face, then wipes it off and leans in closer to the mirror. Her hair's a bird's nest, her eyes are puffy. Maybe some cold teabags? And she can spray product on her hair, which will keep it in place for the short-term.
Stan didn't like the scent of the hair product: he said it made her smell like paint remover. She's nostalgic even for his annoying put-downs.
Don't cry any more, she tells herself. Just do one thing at a time. Get from hour to hour and day to day like a frog jumping on lily pads. Not that she has ever seen a frog doing that except on TV.
Her makeup and stuff is in the bedroom. She stands at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. It seems like a long climb. Maybe down to the cellar first, check out her locker. Get out of this stupid floral print blouse, find the right one, the peach with the ruffles. It's easier to go downstairs than up. As long as you don't fall down them, Charmaine, she warns herself.
Her knees are weak. Hold on to the railing. That's the girl, as Grandma Win would say. Put one foot on the first stair, then the other one beside it, like when you were three. You need to take care of yourself, because who else will?
There. Standing on the solid cellar floor, swaying like a, like a. Swaying.
Now she's standing beside the four lockers, which are side by side. They're horizontal, with lids that lift up, like freezer chests. Her locker, pink. Stan's, green. Then the lockers of the Alternates, which are purple and red. The red one is Max's, and the purple one belongs to that wife
of his, whom Charmaine hates on principle. If she could wave a magic wand and make both of those lockers disappear, she would, because then she could make that whole chunk of the past disappear as well. None of it would ever have happened, and Stan would still be alive.
She leans over to punch in the code for her locker. The lid is open a little, from whoever has been rummaging in her things. Here's the peach blouse. She takes off her suit jacket and the blue print blouse and struggles into the peach one. Struggles because one of her shoulders is sore: she must have hit it when she passed out. Doing up the buttons is hard because of her shaky fingers, but she manages it. She puts the suit jacket back on. Now she feels less discordant.
And here are all her civilian clothes, including the ones she had on the last time she checked in at Positron. The cherry-coloured pullover, the white bra. Someone must have brought them back here and put them away; they must know her code. Well, of course they know her code, because they know everyone's code.
She used to hide things in this locker. She used to think they were truly hidden. How ditzy that had been. She'd bought that cheap fuchsia lipstick that smelled like bubble gum so she could put kisses on her notes for Max. I'm starved for you, silly things like that. She should get rid of it. Bury it in the backyard.
She'd wrapped that lipstick in a handkerchief and tucked it into the toe of one of her shoes with the high heels, right here.
But it's gone. It isn't there.
She feels around with her hands. She needs to bring a flashlight: it's most likely rolled out somehow when whoever it was pawed through her stuff. She'll find it later, and when she does she'll throw it far, far away. It's a memento, and memento means something that helps you remember. She'd rather have a forgetto.
It's a joke. She has made a joke.
You are a shallow, frivolous person, says the little voice. Can't you keep it in your stupid head that Stan is...
Not another word, she tells it. She shuts the top of her locker, codes it CLOSED. As she turns to leave, she sees that Stan's green locker is ajar. Someone's been in there too. She knows she shouldn't look in. It will be bad for her to see Stan's familiar clothes, all neatly folded - the summer T-shirts, the fleece jacket he used to wear when he pruned the hedge. She'll start thinking about how those clothes are empty of Stan forever, and she'll start crying again, and then it will be the puffy eyes, only twice as puffy.
Better to erase it all. She'll call the Consilience removal service tomorrow and have them come in and take away Stan's clothes. She can start anew, in a whole different place; they'll put her in one of the condos for singles. Maybe there's a special building for widows. Even though she'll be a lot younger than the average widow, she can do those widow things with the other widows. Play cards. Look out the window. Watch the leaves change colour. It will be peaceful at any rate, being a widow.
So she should not upset herself by messing around with Stan's coffin. With Stan's locker. But she walks over anyway and lifts the lid.
The locker's empty.
ERASE ME
She's sitting on the cellar floor. How long has she been doing that? And why was it such a shock, finding Stan's locker empty? She should have expected it. Naturally they would come and clear away his things. To save her the distress. They're very thoughtful, the Consilience team.
Maybe it was that gloating meanie, Aurora, she thinks. Can't keep her nosy nose out of it. Rolling around in my sadness like a dog in poo.
The doorbell rings.
She could just sit here until they go away. She's not up to getting her head CAT-scanned, not right now.
But the bell rings again, and then she can hear the door opening. They have the door code, of course they do. She pulls herself upright, makes it to the cellar stairs, and climbs.
There's a woman in the living room. She's bending over, doing something to the TV, even though it's off. Dark hair, a suit.
"Hello," says Charmaine. "Sorry I was late answering the door. I was just down in the cellar, I was..."
The woman straightens up, turns. She smiles. "I'm here to take you to your CAT scan appointment," she says.
The small hoop earrings, the bangs, the square teeth. It's the head from the Reception box at Medications Administration.
Charmaine gasps. "Oh my gosh," she says. She sits down on the sofa like a stone falling. "You're the head!"
"Excuse me?" says the woman.
"You're the talking head! At Reception. In the box. You told me to kill Stan," says Charmaine. "And now he's dead!" She should not be saying these words, but she can't help it.
"You've had a shock," says the woman in a compassionate voice that does not fool Charmaine for one second. They pretend to be sympathetic, they pretend they're helping. But they have other ideas in mind.
"You said it was a test," says Charmaine. "You said I had to follow the Procedure, to show I was loyal. So I darn well followed it, because I am darn loyal, and now Stan's dead! Because of you!" She can't stop the tears. Here they come again, out of her puffy eyes, but she doesn't care.
"You're confused," says the woman calmly. "It's normal to blame others. The mind in shock reverts to the habits of childhood, and provides agency; we find it hard to grasp the randomness of the universe."
"That is total garbage and you know it," says Charmaine. "It was you. You were in that Reception box. What I want to know is why? Why did you want to kill my Stan? He was a good man! What did he ever do to you?"
"It's important for you to see a doctor," says the woman. "They'll check for concussion, then give you a sedative to help you sleep. I'm so sorry about your husband, and the terrible accident at the Positron Prison chicken facility. The fire was caused by faulty wiring. But because of your husband's swift action, most of the chickens were saved, as well as a number of his co-workers. He was heroic. You should be proud of him."
I have never heard such a bag of pure twaddle in my entire life, thinks Charmaine. But what should I do? Play along, pretend to believe her? If I don't, if I keep on telling the truth and pushing her to tell it as well, she'll say I'm unstable. Disruptive, hallucinating, off the charts. Call in the Surveillance heavies, haul me off to a cell, shackle me to a bed like Sandi, then stick a drug into me; and then, if I don't so-called improve, it might get terminal.
She takes a breath. Breathe out, breathe in.
What they want is compliance. The opposite of disruptive. "Oh, I am proud of Stan," she says. Gosh, does her voice ever sound so phony. "I am so proud of him, I really am. I'm not surprised he sacrificed himself to save other people, and the chickens too. He was always such an unselfish man. And an animal lover," she adds for good measure.
The woman smiles her deceptive smile. Underneath that business suit she's muscular, thinks Charmaine. She could tackle me, have me down in an instant. I wouldn't win a scuffle with her. And she's not wearing a nametag. How do I know she is who she says she is?
"I'm glad you agree," says the woman. "Keep that story firmly in mind. Consilience Management will do whatever is required to help you with the grieving process. Is there anything you feel you need right now? We could send someone over to stay with you tonight, for instance. Provide some company, make you a cup of tea. Aurora from Human Resources has kindly offered."
"Thank you," says Charmaine demurely. "That's very kind of her, but I feel sure I can manage."
"We'll see," says the woman. "Now it's time for us to get you to that CAT scan appointment. They're waiting for you. The car's outside. Do you have a coat?"
"I think it's in my locker," says Charmaine, but when the woman opens the hall closet, there it is, her coat: hanging on a hanger, ready for her. It's like a stage prop.
--
A pale pink smear lingers in the west, from where the sun has set; there's a light dusting of snow. The woman takes Charmaine's arm as they go down the walk. There's a dark silhouette in the front of the car: the driver. "We'll sit in the back," says the woman. She opens the door, stands aside for Charma
ine. They certainly do treat you like royalty when they decide to take care of you, thinks Charmaine.
Now the inside car light is on. As she gets into the car, Charmaine sees the driver's profile. She gives a small scream. "Max!" she says. Her heart opens like a hot rose. Oh save me!
The driver turns his head, looks at her. It's Max all right. How could she ever forget him? His eyes, his dark hair. That mouth. Soft but hard, urgent, demanding...
"Pardon me?" says the man. His face is immobile.
"Max, I know it's you!" she says. How dare he pretend not to recognize her!
"You're mistaken," says the driver. "I'm Phil. I drive for Surveillance."
"Max, what in heck is going on? Why are you lying?" Charmaine almost shouts.
The man has unpinned his nametag. "Look," he says, handing it to her, "Phil. That's what it says here. My nametag. That's me."
"Is there a problem?" says the woman, who's now sliding into the back seat beside Charmaine.
"She says my name is Max," says the driver. He sounds truly puzzled.
"But it is!" says Charmaine. "Max! It's me! You lived for our next meet-up! You said that a hundred times!" She reaches for him over the car seat; he pulls back.
"I'm sorry," he says. "You've confused me with someone else."
"You think you can hide behind that stupid nametag?" Charmaine says. Her voice is rising.
"I'm sure we can set this straight," says the woman, but Charmaine ignores her.
"You're trying to erase me!" she cries. "But you can't change one single minute of everything we did! You loved it, you lived for it, that's what you said!" She needs to stop, she needs to stop talking. She's not going to win this one, because what proof does she have? Except the video: she's got the video. But it's back in her kitchen.
"I've never seen her before in my life," says the man. He sounds aggrieved, as if Charmaine has wounded his feelings.
This is hurtful. Why is he doing it? Unless - Charmaine, don't be so dumb! - unless this woman is his wife or something. Now that would make sense. If only she could be alone with him!
"I apologize," the woman says to him. "I should have warned you. She's had a shock, she's a little delusional." She lowers her voice. "That was her husband today, at the chicken facility fire. It's a shame, he was so brave. We'll go to the hospital now, please."