The Midnight Men and Other Stories

by Lee Moan

  “Nathan, I never meant to hurt you!”

  But he said nothing, her voice so far away now.

  He was almost on top of her when she leapt up with a sudden burst of energy, and raced for the open bathroom door. He grabbed for her, tearing a piece of her designer dress at the waist, but then she was gone. He lunged after her again, only to find her too quick for his old bones. She slammed the bathroom door on his fingers. He heard the thick wet snap of bone and screamed. Once he’d retracted the two fingers, she shut the door firmly and slid the bolt across.

  “You bitch!” he roared, his voice so loud it appeared to shake the windows in their frames. Lightning flickered outside. He put his back to the door and slid to the floor, descending into a fit of heaving sobs.

  “How could you, Maria?” he whimpered. “How could you do this to me?”

  She was silent beyond the door.

  “And with him!”

  The thought of Francis Gallagher, that slimy, stuffed-sofa of a man, undressing his beautiful wife, kissing her, pressing his rough hands all over her body . . . The images brought the black veil over his sight once more. There was only one fate for her . . .

  With his good hand, he pulled the cloth pouch from his trouser pocket and unravelled it. The final piece seemed to stare back at him, beckoning him to finish his triumvirate of evil. He didn’t need to kick down any doors to kill her, he had a power which transcended all physical barriers.

  Tears coursed down his cheeks as he raised the lump of dead flesh to his mouth.

  “Goodbye, Maria,” he whispered, before slipping the grim talisman onto his tongue. He snivelled as the poisoned piece rolled around his mouth, numbing his gums and making his teeth ache.

  All he had to do was say her name, and she would be dead. Just two words.

  Maria Parker.

  But after the effort of chewing the juiceless piece of meat, he found his tongue had swollen so much that it was wedged between both sets of lower teeth. It was now so big, he couldn’t breathe. He felt the poison seeping into his blood. In his panic, Nathan tried to swallow it whole—

  (you only have to swallow it and say the name)

  —but the deadly lump only became wedged at the back of his throat, blocking his windpipe. He fell forward heavily onto his hands and knees, desperately trying to cough it up. But it was no use. He hooked a finger into his mouth, clawing at the offending article, but it defied his attempts. The poison was attacking the soft lining of his throat, a throat that was rapidly swelling, making the piece of meat harder to dislodge. Eyes bulging, Nathan clawed uselessly at his neck, hearing the strange alien noises emanating from his own mouth . . .

  Say the name!

  But his tongue was paralysed, itself a huge lump of swollen dead meat filling his mouth. Through a watery haze, he spied the drinks cabinet on the far side of the room and the decanter of brandy there.

  You’ll be needing this, Kane had said.

  Of course. How could he have forgotten the importance of the brandy? Somehow the alcohol dulled the poisonous effects for the time it took to swallow such a bitter pill.

  He started to crawl on hands and knees across the living room floor, but his legs felt like solid lead, his heart racing, ready to burst. He collapsed on his face in the middle of the floor. As the darkness closed in he heard a shrill mocking laugh coming from somewhere, but in his hysteria he couldn’t decide if it was the storm-swept trees scraping against the window, or Maria, or some voice inside his head.

  Oh, such wicked laughter . . .

  Killing Gloria

  The first time I tried to kill Gloria was on our first wedding anniversary. I took her to Gino’s for dinner, her favourite place. While I ate the four-course meal, she watched me with her usual doe-eyed look of adoration. Did I feel guilty, knowing what I had in mind that night? Not a bit. I’d had enough. Enough of her and her unconditional love. She had to go.

  So I drove her down to the canal, and we walked arm in arm along the towpath for a while, taking in the cool night air. The rain was falling steadily, soaking us both to the skin. I’m surprised she never twigged then. I mean, who goes walking at night in the pouring rain? But I was such a gentleman, she never suspected a thing.

  When I was sure we weren’t going to be disturbed, I turned to her. She was expecting a kiss, and dutifully pursed her lips. But I couldn’t reciprocate. It would only have been a Judas kiss.

  “I’m sorry, Gloria,” I said.

  Before she could form a response, I shoved her backwards with all my strength. She hit the oily black waters with a sploosh and a spray of foam. She was so heavy she sank beneath the surface like an anvil. I stood there for five minutes, watching the dark waters for signs of life. During that time the ripples she’d made faded away, the driving rain slowed to a light drizzle, and my heartbeat eventually settled to its usual steady rhythm. With no sign of her coming back up, I walked calmly back to the car and drove home. When I hit my pillow, I was asleep in an instant. I hadn’t slept that soundly in twelve months . . .

  ***

  . . . until six o’clock the next morning.

  The first thing I knew was the steady creak of the bedroom door as it swung open. My heart burned with fear, but I didn’t let it show. I remained still, with my back to the door, listening as bare feet padded carefully over to the side of the bed--her side--and then stopped. I heard the drip-drip-drip on the polished pine floor and I knew instantly it was her. A water-heavy garment was removed noisily and dropped on the floor with a loud shlupp sound.

  “David?”

  I said nothing.

  “I’m back.”

  I took my time before answering, choosing my words carefully. “Are you okay?” I said.

  “Yes. I’m fine.” The bed creaked as she sat down. “Just a little upset at what you did.”

  I remained silent, studying the outline of her shadow thrown across the far wall by the landing light.

  “Are you angry with me?” she said. “Is there something I’ve done wrong?”

  “No, honey,” I said in that mechanical tone I’d come to use a lot. “I’m not angry. You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s me.”

  “I still love you,” she said.

  Her words were like razors in my gut. Not from shame, you understand, or even guilt at what I did to her. What really burned me is that, even after all, she still bore me no malice. A real woman would have plunged a knife into my heart. I might have even respected her if she’d done that. Better a knife in the heart than this intolerable forgiveness.

  “You still love me, don’t you?” she asked.

  “Of course,” I told her.

  She slipped under the duvet then. As she moved over to my side I felt water soaking into the sheets at my back. When she wrapped her arms around me I flinched. She was ice cold. As we lay there in our silent embrace, the sounds of the early morning were drowned out by the noise of tiny motors whirring and clicking from somewhere deep down inside her. After a while, it was all I could hear, getting louder, and louder, and louder . . .

  ***

  Why did I marry Gloria? You may well ask.

  After forty years of feeling alienated by the entire living, breathing female population, I came across this advert in the back of a men’s magazine:

  ***

  UNLUCKY IN LOVE?

  TRY THIS REVOLUTIONARY NEW CONCEPT FROM RSA!

  (All our spouses are fully-functioning, emotionally intelligent replicants)

  CALL TODAY FOR A FREE CONSULTATION

  ***

  And so, one free consultation later, I decided to tie the knot with a mail-order replicant bride—my dear, devoted Gloria.

  Problem is, the Replicant Spouse Authority have very strict stipulations for prospective buyers. Marriage is compulsory with any replicant spouse - no ‘living together’ as far as the RSA is concerned. Replicants need stability. I suppose the RSA just don’t want their products being kicked out on the street after a few months.
>
  Also, there are no refunds. You cannot, under any circumstances, take it ‘back to the shop’. So when you agree to take on a replicant bride, you’re signing a binding, legal declaration of moral responsibility to said replicant wife for life. In return, you are promised a lifetime of ‘total devotion’.

  I was tired of being sad and lonely, and it seemed like a good idea at the time.

  But here’s the irony:

  Twelve months after the marriage, an RSA technician came to my house. A gorgeous raven-haired bachelorette technician named Kathy Bedford. She put Gloria on standby and then hooked her up to her laptop via a bullet-point in the base of Gloria’s neck, before ripping through a complex series of diagnostic procedures with breathtaking ease. It soon became clear that nobody knew their way around a micro-circuit board better than Kathy. I was in love.

  And, as we talked over Gloria’s inner wirings, I began to sense that she was attracted to me. No one was more amazed than I that a woman—a real woman—could find a middle-aged, balding, chunky-around-the-middle techno-junkie like David Hjortsberg not only good company, but also want to get him into bed. It was just my rotten luck she came along twelve months too late.

  Then, just as she was giving Gloria a final system check, Kathy spotted something. “There seems to be an awful build-up of saltwater in Gloria’s . . .” She trailed off, as if the answer to her query had exploded in her mind like a sunburst. She sat back on her haunches. “You tried to drown her, didn’t you?” she said calmly. And when she looked at me with those big brown all-knowing eyes, my cool façade just disintegrated.

  Over the course of six vodka and tonics, I told her that I knew it was a mistake from the minute I married her. A lifetime of devotion sounds great on paper, but when you’re in that situation day after day, no one can describe how maddening that kind of unconditional love can be. Unfortunately, the RSA’s ‘no divorce/no refunds’ policy meant that I was stuck with this . . . thing, for the rest of my natural life.

  “Well,” Kathy said, sliding her technician’s fingers over my hands, “that’s not entirely true, David. There are ways . . .”

  ***

  Once a month, Gloria has to shut herself off for a period of six hours, what the RSA calls ‘the recharge cycle’. After six hours on ‘standby’, they come back on, recharged and good as new. Kathy suggested I do the dastardly deed during those six hours.

  One of the worst parts about the recharge period is that they keep their eyes open throughout. It’s spooky. That evening, I approached her cautiously, running my hand in front of her eyes, but she didn’t stir. I picked her up carefully and carried her weighty form out to the car, placing her in the passenger seat.

  She was still ‘asleep’ when I parked my Mercedes on the cliff-face car park, but by then the predicted storm was starting to get serious. Charcoal clouds, fat with rain hung above the cliff-face like angry angels. The wind was forcing the trees to breaking point. And down below, the sea roared and crashed against the base of the cliff.

  I reached across to Gloria and lifted the tiny flap of skin behind her right ear. Beneath it was the emotion-inhibitor chip. This miniscule piece of technology was there to stop Gloria from—among other things—harming herself. If my cover story was to be believed, the chip had to come out. Using the micro-screwdriver which Kathy had given me, I removed it and slipped it into my pocket. I took a moment to study Gloria’s expressionless face in the light from the dashboard. Hopefully, I told myself, she wouldn’t know a thing about it . . .

  “Goodbye, Gloria,” I said, and released the handbrake. I opened my door to climb out when lightning struck an old tree on our left and a branch the size of a lamppost came crashing down not two feet from the car. There was a loud electronic beep from the passenger seat and Gloria’s inert frame snapped into life.

  “What? Where are we?” she said. Her eyes were wild with fear, and she grabbed my arm for reassurance. I turned to Gloria, soaking in the fear in her face, and I smiled inwardly. It was actually nice to see some real emotion for a change.

  The car was beginning to pick up speed. I had to get free of her iron grip or I’d be joining her on her express trip. I managed to shrug out of my coat and jumped free of the car.

  I watched my beautiful Mercedes rumble towards the precipice. Saw Gloria trying her door, only to find it locked. She clambered over into the back seat and pressed her hand against the rear windscreen. Without the inhibitor chip, Gloria’s system was racing through a succession of emotions, and I could see her features trying to find the right expression—that look of spurned agony—but ultimately, all she could manage was a mask of confusion.

  “I love you,” she mouthed.

  As my Mercedes teetered on the brink for a few moments I felt the pang I always feel at losing something of great value. And then it was gone . . . the car, I mean. All fifty grand of it, spiralling down, down into the wind-lashed night, alloy wheels turning, waxed bodywork reflecting the moonlight with a starburst sheen. A lump came to my throat as the car was dashed to smithereens. The resulting explosion lit up white waves cascading against the jagged rocks below.

  I pulled the inhibitor chip from my pocket and looked at it in the moonlight. For a moment I wondered if this tiny piece of technology was in some way to blame for all of this. What if I’d given the marriage a chance without it . . .?

  But then I remembered Kathy, and all the warmth that she offered, and let the chip fall, down, down, joining Gloria in her watery grave.

  ***

  After staggering home along two miles of deserted road in the driving wind and rain, I went straight to my bedroom, and jumped in the shower. I’d just finished shampooing my hair (what there was of it, anyway) when I caught the distorted silhouette of a female figure through the smoked glass shower door. A cramp of fear squeezed at my heart.

  “David?”

  In my panic, I grabbed a loofah for protection and rolled back the shower door. A momentary flash of lightning lit up the figure.

  It was Kathy.

  “Jesus, what are you doing here, Kat? I thought we agreed to avoid each other until . . .”

  She held up my bathrobe. “I know. I just couldn’t wait. I had to see you.”

  When I stepped out, she placed her hands on my wet face and then kissed me passionately. I sat down on the bed, and she knelt behind me, rubbing my shoulders with her technician’s hands. “She’s gone, isn’t she? Gloria, I mean? She’s definitely terminated?”

  I closed my eyes, trying to give in to the pleasure Kathy’s fingers sent through my body. “Yes,” I said. “She’s definitely terminated.”

  “Good,” she said. “Now all you have to do is call the RSA in the morning, tell them that Gloria was acting crazy all night and drove off with your car. They’ll find her body eventually and see that the inhibitor chip was missing, put the whole thing down as a ‘technical malfunction’. Then you’re free,” Kathy told me. “We’re free.”

  She slipped her arms over my shoulders and pressed her firm, warm body against my back. My heart quickened, and in the silence, I could hear hers beating faster, too. There were no motors whirring here. Just two hearts of flesh and blood beating as one.

  That had to be worth a Mercedes-Benz.

  “You’re right,” I said, falling into Kathy’s embrace. “We’re free.”

  ***

  It was the smell of cooking that brought me from my sleep. It had been a good, sound sleep, the kind of sleep I’d been aching for during the last year of my life.

  As I rolled over, I discovered that I was alone in bed. The sounds and smells of cooking which drifted to me from the kitchen downstairs filled me with euphoria. I was free now, and the woman I had found was not only good in bed, she also loved to cook.

  Lucky, lucky me.

  I looked around for my bathrobe, but the only one I could find was an old one of Gloria’s. It was a white frilly thing, but I thought Kathy might get a kick out of seeing me in it, so I put it on. A
s I descended the stairs, I became lost in an explosion of my favourite smells: fried mushrooms, grilled bacon and scrambled eggs.

  “Honey,” I sang, “this really is the first day of the rest of our lives!”

  I stopped short in the kitchen doorway. The woman hunched over the electric cooker was wearing my bathrobe, but it was not Kathy. When she turned, a shout of shock and revulsion escaped me.

  The unholy apparition was barely recognisable as the Gloria I had known. Most of her skin was gone, burnt off like so much wax. Her inner wiring was exposed. Her left leg was badly mangled, and as she started towards me she dragged it along behind her like a ball and chain.

  God, the irony just doesn’t quit.

  After much scraping and clanking, Gloria stopped and focused her naked electronic left eye on me. The skin and facial muscles on the right side of her face were melted into a gruesome mask. I found it hard to look her in the face, but I managed it.

  “David,” she said, her once-human voice now sounding like gears grinding together. “I’m finding it very hard not to be angry with you right now.”

  I took a hesitant step towards her.

  “Gloria, I thought you were—”

  “Dead?” she hissed. “Well, I suppose I should be after what you did to me.” She dragged herself one step closer. “But, I’m prepared to forgive you, David. One last time.” She held up a wooden spoon with a mouthful of scrambled eggs heaped on it. “I even made your favourite breakfast, just to show you how much I want us to get over this.”

  I shook my head vigorously, trying to clear my head of this aberration.

  “Jesus, Gloria! What does it take to get the message through? I don’t love you! I never did! Can’t you understand that?”

  Gloria cocked her head at a funny angle. “But you promised to look after me, David. I was your responsibility, wasn’t I? For life. Not something to be tossed away when you found someone better. That was the agreement. Can’t you understand that?”