The Heart Goes Last

VIII | ERASE ME Binned

When Stan wakes up, he’s no longer strapped down. He’s curled up on his side, lying on something soft. He’s dizzy, and he’s got a crashing headache, like three prime hangovers all at once.

He unglues his eyelids: several pairs of big white eyes with round black pupils are staring into his. What the shit are these? He struggles to sit up, loses his balance, flounders in a mound of small, yielding, fuzzy bodies. Enormous spiders? Caterpillars? Despite himself, he yelps.

A grip, Stan, he tells himself. Get two, they’re cheap.

Ah. He’s lying in a large bin filled with knitted blue teddy bears. Those are the white round-pupilled eyes watching him. “Fuck,” he says. Then he adds, for good measure, “Fucking hell!” At least he’s got his voice back.

He’s in a warehouse with metal rafters and a dim strip of fluorescent lighting overhead. Peering over the side of the bin, he scopes out the floor: cement. That must be why they put him on top of the teddy bears: there’s nothing else in this place that’s in any way soft. Someone’s been thoughtful.

He feels around his own body: parts all accounted for. Thank crap they got rid of the diaper or whatever that was, though it’s humiliating to visualize the removal process. They’ve even put some new clothes on him: an orange Positron boiler suit plus a fleece jacket. And thick socks, because it’s cold as a witch’s tit in here. Stands to reason: it’s February. And why heat a warehouse with nothing in it but teddy bears?

What next? Where is everyone? Not a good idea to shout. Maybe get up, find the exit? But wait: one of his legs is tethered to the side of the metal bin with, yes, a nylon cuff. That must be to keep him from wandering around, leaving this warehouse, bumping into whoever’s outside the door. Nothing to do but wait until Jocelyn comes and tells him what the fuck he’s supposed to do.

He checks over the warehouse interior once again. More bins like the one he’s lying in, arranged in a row. That’s a freaking large number of teddy bears. Also – over toward what he’s now identified as the doors, a small one for people, a big sliding one for trucks – there are some stacks of long boxes that look a lot like coffins, narrower at one end. He sure hopes he’s not shut up in here with a bunch of soon-to-be-rotting corpses.

Which is what Charmaine must think he already is himself, the sad bitch. Her distress wasn’t faked: those tears were real. She was shaking when she felt his neck and then stuck the needle into it: she must’ve truly believed she was murdering him. She must’ve passed out right after that: in the split second before the drug hit him and he went out in a blissful swirl of coloured lights, he’d heard the impact as she did a vertical face-plant onto the floor.

If he’d had money on the proposition that Charmaine would never go through with it, he’d have lost the bet. She’s amazing in her own way, Charmaine; under all that fluff she has guts, he has to give her that. He thought she’d let love get in the way, that she’d lose her nerve and start whimpering and back off. That she’d maybe throw herself onto him, wreck the plan. So much for his ability to second-guess: Jocelyn’s fix on Charmaine had been better than his.

Poor Charmaine, he thinks. She must be putting herself through hell right now. Remorse, guilt, and so forth. How does he feel about that? Part of him – the vengeful part – is saying, Serves her right. Her and her cheating heart, and he hopes she writhes in anguish and boo-hoos her angelic blue eyes out. Another part is saying, To be fair, Stan, you’ve cheated on her too, both in intention and in deed. True, you thought you were chasing a different purple passion than the one you caught. With whom you had sex on many occasions, and though your heart may not have been into it, your body was. Or into it enough. So let bygones be bygones and wipe the slate.

Yeah, says the vengeful part, but dumb Charmaine doesn’t know about Jocelyn, so if you ever get back together with her you can hold her fling with Max/Phil over her head forever. Tell her you’ve seen the videos. Repeat back to her the things she says on them. Turn her into a handful of soggy tissue. Wipe your boots on her: there would be some satisfaction in that. Not to mention the fact that she murdered you. She’ll be your slave, she’ll never dare say no to you, she’ll wait on you hand and foot.

Either that or she’ll put rodent poison in your coffee. There’s a steely side to her. Don’t discount it. So maybe you should strike first, given the chance. Dump her. Toss her clothes onto the lawn. Lock the door. Or hit her on the head with a brick. Is that what Conor would do?

You forget, he tells himself. I’ll probably never be back inside that house again. Unless something goes wrong once I’m outside the walls, I’ll never be back in Consilience. That life is gone. I’m supposed to be dead.

Should he be angry about that? Maybe not: being dead is for his own good. On the other hand, he didn’t ask to be dead, he didn’t wish it upon himself. He’s simply been assigned, as if he’s a member of an army in which he’s never enlisted. He’s been fucking drafted, against his will, and meanwhile he’s in here chained to a binful of knitted bears, and that sadistic bitch Jocelyn seems to have forgotten all about him, and despite the headache he’s starting to feel hungry. Plus he’s freezing his nuts off. It must be near freezing: he can see his breath in front of him.

He lies down again, covers himself with blue teddy bears. They’ll be some insulation. The only thing to do right now is go to sleep.

Teatime

When Charmaine wakes up, she’s alone. And she’s back in her house. Their house, hers and Stan’s; or rather hers and Stan’s once, but now only hers, because Stan will never be in this house again. Never, never, never, never, never. She starts to cry.

She’s lying on the sofa, the royal blue one with the pretty off-white lilies; though with her face up close to it like this, she can see that it needs a cleaning, because someone’s been spilling coffee on it, and other things. She can remember pretending to dislike this pattern, pretending to want to change it, pretending she was going to look at fabric swatches as an excuse to leave the house early on switchover days so she could be with Max. Stan could be counted on to take no interest whatsoever in slipcovers or wallpaper or any of those things. His lack of interest once annoyed her – weren’t they supposed to be home-building together? – but after that she’d welcomed it, because it was a blind spot of his that gave her some time with Max. Now it makes her cry because Stan is dead.

There. She said it. Dead. She cries harder. She’s sobbing, her breath coming in staccato gulps. Stan, what have I done to you? she thinks. Where have you gone?

Though she’s crying as hard as she can, she nevertheless notices a strange thing: she’s no longer wearing her orange boiler suit. Instead she has on a peach-and-grey checked outfit in a light wool weave, with a flared skirt and a fitted jacket. There’s supposed to be a matching blouse, which is peach imitation silk, with peach flamenco dancer ruffles on the front, but that isn’t the blouse she has on, which is a blue floral print and doesn’t go with the outfit at all. She selected the peach-and-grey ensemble with care from the “Smile in Style” section of the digital catalogue just after she and Stan signed into Consilience. It was a choice between the peach and grey and the other combos, the navy blue and white, which was a little too Chanel for her, and the lime green and orange – no contest there because she can’t wear lime green, it washes her out.

Plus she folded up this outfit and stored it in her pink locker in the cellar along with her other civilian clothes right before going in for her latest stint at Positron. So someone has the code to her locker, and someone has been rummaging through her things. The very same somebody must have taken off the boiler suit and dressed her up in the checked outfit, with the wrong blouse.

“Feeling better now?” says a voice. She looks up from the sofa. Holy heck, it’s Aurora from Human Resources, with the overdone face job that makes her look like a gecko: unmoving cheek muscles, pop eyes. Aurora is about the last person she wants to see, not only here and now but ever.

Aurora’s carrying a tray – Charmaine’s tray, she picked it herself, from the catalogue’s tray options – with a teapot on it. Charmaine’s teapot, though it came with the house. Charmaine feels invaded. How dare Aurora barge into her home while she herself is passed out on the sofa and simply take over the kitchen as if she owns it?

“I’ve made you some nice hot tea,” says Aurora with a pitying, maddening demi-smile. “I understand you’ve had a shock. You hit your head when you fainted, but they don’t think you were concussed. You should have an X-ray though, just to be sure. I’ve arranged that for you, later today.”

Charmaine can’t get out a word. She struggles to control her tears. She’s heaving, she’s gasping; snot is running out of her nose. “Go ahead, have a good cry,” says Aurora, as if granting royal permission. “A good cry clears the air. Not to mention the sinuses,” she adds: her version of a joke.

“Did you open my locker?” Charmaine manages to squeeze out.

“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?

“It’s a data bank 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 data bank, 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. Some beam-me-up Scotty slight 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’s most likely 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 back then, 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 dogfood.

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 X-ray; not that she thinks she needs an X-ray, 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 have her code. Well, of course they have her code, because they have everyone’s code.

She used to hide things in this locker. She used to think they were truly hidden. How silly 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 the top of 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 fall 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 things. 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’s 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 bitch, 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 god,” 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. “Stop lying. 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. Darn, her voice sounds 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 lying, square-toothed 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 Charmaine to get in first. 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. She can’t help it, it just comes out.

The driver turns his head, looks at her. It’s Max all right. How could she ever forget him? His eyes, his mouth. The 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 time together! 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.”

“No problem,” says the man. He puts the car in gear. Charmaine hears the locks clicking shut. Holy shoot, she thinks. I am darn well not delusional. You can’t be mistaken about a man who’s done those kinds of things to you. With you. But what if that woman knows about us? What if the two of them have planned this thing together? Is this about Max wanting to get rid of me? What a coward.

Don’t cry, she tells herself. Now is not the time. There’s nobody on your side.

She’ll need to keep her wits about her if she wants to lead any kind of a half-decent life in Consilience from now on. The life of a respected widow, keeping her mouth zipped, her smile at the ready. Rather than ending up in a padded cell; or worse, as a blank line in the data bank.

She’ll have to bury the truth about Stan, and the truth about Max too, as far down inside her own head as she can. Make sure she doesn’t blurt things out, ask the wrong questions the way Sandi did. Even if she could tell someone, and even if they believed her, they’d pretend not to, because they’d see the truth as toxic waste. They’d fear contamination.

She’s on her own.