Room Little Darker

by June Caldwell

  ‘You said you have something important to show me,’ he said.

  She seemed more interested in licking the cream filling from the sugar slab lending her bachelorette life definition. She’d spend her spare time listening to cool jazz in the bath with aromatherapy candles mollifying the dismaying details of her protégées. Afterwards, dripping lavender oil over Laura Ashley alabaster oak floors on the landing. Folding gingham tunics into the hot press scrupulously. Sleeve ends tucked in just so, thinking of hot dates in arthouse cinemas with chinos-wearing blockheads who’d encourage her to express her deepest feelings and weep if she had to.

  ‘I do Michael, I do, and I want us both to respond as responsible adults, to be open-minded, gracious even. I hope that makes sense?’

  She lobbed a sleek brochure in front of him. A row of common-or-garden seraphic BoyBots, smiling through synthetic protoplasm. Their flesh-like casing similar to the blocks of silken tofu John used to buy when he went vegan for a while. How bio-inspired, he thought. How lead-acid-battery fabulous. Some of them dressed in small business suits. Others were a bit more trendy, donned in bomber jackets and ripped combats as if they’d already chosen to join the army as soon as they were of age. One was decked in denim dungarees, perfectly suitable for a hillbilly porch somewhere in deepest darkest Up the Jacksie Arkansas. A cavalry of marble eyes. A gangbang of abominable Dorian Grays.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ Marion!’ he hissed, turning to see if any of the other arbitrary pastry scoffers felt as flaked out as he felt in this moment. ‘No Marion, just fucking no.’

  She reached out her hand to grasp at his, but he stopped her. ‘You don’t pillage my personal space. Isn’t that what we learnt? Don’t dare touch me uninvited,’ he warned.

  ‘You’re right Michael, I apologise, but I need you to calm down. I need you to listen to me here, carefully. You agreed to take whatever measures were deemed necessary: a condition of your release. This is a dynamic new domestic-environment therapy with 100 per cent effectiveness demonstrated in trials across twelve countries on three continents. It’s a four-year program you have signed up for, with interpersonal tasks, talk therapy and genitive rebalancing. You will be monitored and helped, fully supported and coached. You will not be alone in this Michael. This time, you are not companionless.’

  He snatched his coat off the back of the chair, kicked the table leg full force, knocking over the cold glop of coffee stranded in the Delph mug scattered with happy wide-eyed owls. ‘It’s you lot who need your fucking heads examined,’ he bawled, making a beeline for the tinkling door. ‘Not in a million years, over my chemically dead cock!’

  BARGAINING

  He counts five new bars just after the midway point down Capel Street. Austrian Austen and Hairy Harry with their arms drowsing on fat railings outside some Tex-Mex tequila joint on the corner of Jervis Street where the Luas ding-dings by crammed with watching faces. Both of them, their hands sunk in a plastic avocado bucket scooping up chunky guacamole with squid ink tortilla chips.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he says.

  ‘Piss off,’ Harry tells him. Genuflecting into his grub. Wouldn’t even honour with the eye.

  ‘You always were an ignorant Limerick prick Harry.’

  ‘Yeah? Well I’ve got a nephew that age you filthy wanker.’

  ‘Austen,’ Michael says, ‘Austen mate…?’ Austen does not look up. Austen who stayed on their couch. Given the low-down by John on the intricacies of Public Private Partnerships the night before his civil service exam. He’d cooked them crisp sea bream with tamarind dal and coconut sambal. Even sacrificed his fifty quid memory foam pillow so he’d get a decent night’s kip. Austen who stayed four months and bawled when he eventually left for his own place.

  Michael walks. He is not upset. They don’t know. For they know not what they do.

  The night he strolled into the apartment with sunflowers for John.

  The night he strolled into the apartment with a bottle of Sancerre for John.

  The night he strolled into the apartment having swapped shifts for John.

  The night John had no idea he would stroll into the apartment.

  The boy at the very edge of the couch, crying.

  ‘He’s alright,’ John said.

  The way John watched him stroll into the galley kitchen.

  The worried look on John’s face when Michael continued to stare at them both, first at John, then at the boy.

  The boy who stood up and strolled from the apartment without a word the night Michael came home early.

  ‘What the fuck John?’ Michael said, as he strolled over to the couch.

  ‘It’s nothing, you know the way teenage boys are, total fucking histrionics.’

  He asked again who he was, who the boy was.

  ‘He’s a friend’s son,’ was all he said, though that too would turn out to be a lie.

  The look on John’s face when Michael strolled away into the bedroom, slamming the door.

  DEPRESSION

  ‘There was a time when humanity faced the universe alone and without a friend. Now he has creatures to help him; stronger creatures than himself, more faithful, more useful, and absolutely devoted to him. Mankind is no longer alone. Have you ever thought of it that way?’

  He’d read all of Isaac Asimov’s short stories and liked them, on holidays in the Loire with John a few short summers ago. Now here he was slap-bang amid marauding protestors outside the clinic which sat prostrate above a hardware shop. Even the pro-life loons, which tickled Michael for a split second. These babies were neither born nor unborn and would never have a mammy and a daddy. Batch of muesli liberals from Victims Aloud. Some holes-in-jumpers politicos with banners. ‘Sick bastard!’ someone shouted. He pushed quickly by, punching in the code Marion texted him earlier. A ClinicMedic™ in mink-coloured cords and green hospital overcoat directed him into a cubby office just inside reception for a pre-signature PepYak™.

  ‘You’ve chosen Conor,’ he said, when they made their way upstairs. He flipped to page 15, clicking on a corresponding Vimeo file on the desktop. ‘Great choice, he really is spectacular. Sharpest model in my opinion. I assume you’ve watched the FamiliarSesh™?’ Michael dipped his head in acknowledgement. Dipped his head in an Oh fuck. Dipped his head because he also wanted to laugh. ‘You’ve completed your SexPsych™ course with Marion?’

  ‘I have, yes,’ he said.

  ‘How did you find it? How are you feeling now?’

  ‘It hasn’t been easy at all,’ he admitted. ‘But she’s been great and I think I have a deeper understanding of what’s ahead.’

  ‘Good stuff,’ mink cords said. ‘That’s what we like to hear. It’s a truly unique programme, Michael. Hasn’t even landed in the UK yet. We’re chuffed to be one of the first European states to release the balloon. It’s just us and the Swedes so far. Now I have some additional information you’ll need to glance over before we can sign off properly.’

  He handed Michael an A5 gloss sheet with a picture of blonde muscular ivory innocent Conor standing behind a sofa, gazing sideways over his shoulder at an unspecified owner.

  ‘These are the core basics. There’s a lot more to this insightful little fella than what’s listed here. It’ll take a bit of time to get acquainted, to get comfortable. When you’re ready, you can scrawl here and I’ll take you straight into the Salon for your first user experience, which won’t disappoint. Has the doctor spoken to you about coming off Bicalutamide and Flutamide? As soon as you take Conor home, you’ll be declared “active” once again and you’re free to take it from there at your own pace.’

  ‘He has, thanks,’ Michael said, staring down at the leaflet.

  About Conor: Conor predominantly grew up in Paris but travelled the world living in a host of high-culture destinations as his father is a hard-working diploma
t. Conor therefore is a highly educated young person, speaking twelve different languages fluently with a LangLearn™ option for 1,400 more; the most popular being Mandarin Chinese. He loves to read world literatures and can read to his discerning owner at a preferential pace. His favourite novels are: The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner, Moby-Dick by Herman Melville and Ulysses by James Joyce. He also loves to discuss world cuisines and is very knowledgeable, storing 3,000+ one-pot recipes on his KitchenCard™. Conor is sexually active but prefers to take things slow and sensual with a new owner. He is fully proficient in MassageMe™, Kundalini Reiki, NatterTherapy™, MyTarot™, PhysioBash™, Amatsu and Acupunture. 4Play™ and SexLite™ options in MakingOut™ mode include: SlowCuddle™, RimMe™, MutualMasto™, LickLove™, DigiSex™ and In2MeC™. Full details of all these RareGifts™ are listed on page 156 of MasterManual™. Advanced BraveSmut™ options are only accessible in BoyBeloved™ mode upon successful completion of a ten-month RobotReady™ end user license training course. Extra benefits for the European market include: HouseClean™, TravelNow™ and Rights4Humans™. Please note: PubCousin™, HomePharma™, DriveMe™ and BoySolicitor™ functions are currently unavailable for the Irish market due to legal restrictions. A standard Prerequisite of Use clause limits BoyBot™ to indoor environments only. This excludes all outside areas or public viewing platforms such as patios, gardens, balconies, and windows. Your SexPsych™ therapist will discuss this with you before taking BoyBot™ home for the first time.

  ACCEPTANCE

  Dear John,

  I’m grand. And I hope you are too, I really do. It’s not easy being a Banquo. The tragic ways we Macbeth ourselves even if the running plot is from an established or cosy source we thought we understood. The witches’ prophecy is there to tell us that intense introspection kills! So know that it is me who feels for you now, not the other way around. No more demands. Though I’m prohibited from ever being close to you in the flesh. John, we will never be able to wilfully see each other again. That smashes my heart up. To that end and with a clear view to moving on, I want to write finally to tell you about my life-changing meeting with Conor. The Salon was pure wild. At first glance it looked like a tea dance in Mullingar back in the 1950s. All these lads sitting shy and dumfounded on wooden chairs pressed up against the wall, in front of them a row of ten or so BoyBots in meet mode, orating those tentative first words. Now this shouldn’t be funny but there was one guy down the very end who’d obviously had a bit of a head start, turning up before the rest of us. Married with five kids apparently. He had his cock out and he was sobbing like a right Nancy. His BoyBot Tim was jerking him off but the wrist function was stiff or faulty or something and the clinic medic was trying very hard not to raise his voice. ‘Come on Hugh, let him touch you with an open mind, an unburdened heart, there’s no shame here.’ A robo engineer running the circuit like a greyhound hare trying to source some castor oil for them. ‘Please, no, please, Jesus!’ your man Hugh was hollering, like totally surreal stuff. They had to escort him out, a bemused clinic medic holding him by the elbow, another carrying Tim who was still gripped on. But anyway they bring Conor in, right, lift him in as he’s not yet in stroll mode until I programme him fully. He’s wearing black Tommy Hilfiger jeans and a ribbed grey polo neck, a right mop of blonde curls, lovely green eyes and lips that are probably a bit burgundy for my taste but sure … the start-up button is behind the left earlobe, so I press it and I swear to God the little fecker’s eyes light up like love. ‘Michael, this is wonderful, I’ve been thinking long and hard about meeting you. I have heard so much. Our journey will be a good one.’ The clinic medic scribbling down his notes, watching my reaction to everything. I mean I was sweating, thinking, Am I doing OK? Am I doing all right? I say, ‘It’s great to meet you too Conor, I think we’re going to get on just fine.’ Next thing a smile as wide as goal posts. It melted me a bit. I caressed his arm and he leans forward and places a fleshy hand on my shoulder. ‘I have a feeling we will be great pals Michael,’ he says. And you know what? I think we will be, seriously. He’s a veritable font of knowledge. We spent a good forty minutes talking about all sorts: the impact of Brexit, high-speed train travel, Trump’s resignation and the total havoc that wreaked on world markets, the dying off of bees, tricky capital cities of the world, I can’t even recall it all, it was so quick, natural. The great thing is he’s lightweight and folds up quick as a Brighton deckchair. I’ve never felt so at ease walking up Capel Street with him tucked under my arm. It was the first time I couldn’t be bothered browsing shopfronts, scanning for faces I might know, or just giving a toss in general. I’m even ready to say goodbye to the apartment now, which amazes me. We did our time there, didn’t we John? It was wonderful in so many ways. Those ridiculous parties, those wayward soirées! I have all these gorgeous memories of what it really means to be deeply loved, to be properly adored. You are the one and you will always be the one. Know that. Feel that. I always will. Give my best to Brian too. For God’s sake take it slow, I know what you’re like! Build on it, enjoy the process. It’s a unique juncture, a special time. I’ve no regrets, just warm smiles when I think of our meant-to-be time and all that it engendered in me for the better. I feel like a fully integrated person. A real man. You really did give me life. I’ll honour that and live it to the max. Take care my sweet beautiful love. That’s all for now.

  Michael X

  In the hallway of the apartment Michael yanks his coat off, hangs it on the cast iron wall hook. He unpacks Conor, unfolding him tenderly. He stares at the Yeabridge Green paint on the cornicing that they chose to symbolise growth, harmony and fertility: the colour of human eyes. There’s no time to get to grips with the hefty might of the master manual. It’ll probably take weeks or even months to wade through. So he grips Conor from under the armpits, drags him into the sitting room, his ETQ Amsterdam trainers scraping off the oak-finish floors. He plops him on the couch, makes him assume position. ‘Clever,’ Michael says, when he notices his size 5 feet are not capable of touching the ground from the sitting comfy position. He switches him on, walks back out to the hall for the remote control. ‘Well Conor, this is it, this is home for the foreseeable.’ No response. He realises he hasn’t pressed the auto lip. ‘There now,’ Michael says. He walks to the window, looks out briefly and draws the blinds. ‘There’s a great view at a right angle all the way up the street here Conor. Night time is particularly entertaining with all the messing that goes on but we have to take care, don’t we?’ Conor’s neck whirs to the right slightly, taking in the direction of Michael’s voice. ‘I don’t doubt it Michael, it really is a prime city centre location.’ Michael laughs. ‘We might put you to work as an estate agent yet.’ Conor’s head follows Michael around the room. ‘I don’t understand Michael, estate agent, is that the same as a realtor? Perhaps you’d like me to make you a meal? Complex carbohydrates are best consumed before 1 p.m. daily.’ Michael smiles at the idea. He was always the one to take charge of the cooking. ‘You’re a wily little fellow, aren’t you?’ He walks over to where Conor sits, standing directly in front of him, towering. ‘I am designed to be astute at all times Michael, this is true. What would you like to do today? Can I read an extract from your favourite novel?’ He looks at Conor’s blonde locks, probably fashioned from horse hair, and thinks of Rolf Gruber, the telegram boy in The Sound of Music who falls in love with Liesl. Starting out as the innocent messenger boy flying about the place on his bike. Turning into a more cold and detached member of the Hitler Youth before too long. ‘Would you like to ride a bike one day Conor?’ He realises RecreRestrict for indoor use only means there’d be no jaunting about on cycle and hiking trails at Avondale Forest Park like he used to enjoy with John. ‘I do already have advanced modification with special joints Michael. A gyroscope records the tilt of my body, which is then used to calculate how far to turn the handlebars in order to remain balanced. It’s based on Masahiko Yamaguchi’s KHR-3HV humanoid prototype.
Would you like more information on the complexity of the mental processes involved in what we find to be relatively simple actions?’

  Anything they’d attempt to discuss, Conor would automatically know more about. He wondered how quickly he might tire of this type of comprehensive knowledge. How soon it would drown him out, making him feel lonely, uncherished? He could politely torture Conor’s end effectors by getting him to meticulously count thousands of grains in a packet of quinoa for a salad. But of course he wouldn’t feel a thing. At least it’d be funny to watch. Or get him to walk in circles anti-clockwise. Deep clean the oven. Demould the bathroom walls. He could see the boy was trying to make a concerted effort to connect with him more intimately using artificial intelligence algorithms. His carefully coordinated motions with ocular reflex using depth perception with the angle of convergence between the eyes. Michael felt very overwhelmed. ‘Look, as it’s our first proper day together, why don’t we just chill out? I’ll put you into mellow mode and we’ll just sit here, play some music, let the hours pass slow, like the boats do crossing the lagoon to Murano from Venice.’ Conor, while programmed to be perpetually inquisitive, was also unaffectedly subservient. ‘That sounds like a great plan Michael,’ he said. ‘I am extremely pleased with your suggestion.’

  By early evening Michael felt totally whacked and could barely muster up the strength to get the spare room ready. He wanted Conor to enjoy some proper autonomy, space of his own, even though he’d be switched off most of the time in there. He’d been too superstitious to sort it out in advance. His own mother didn’t buy Michael a cot until he was two weeks home from the hospital. He slept wrapped in swaddling cloths and blankets at the end of their bed, like one of Herod’s babies balanced precariously on a riverbank. When he was done he finally made it to his own room and watched Sky News for a while. Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change, one of his favourite lines from Frankenstein, and how true that seemed now as he slowly began to drift off. But his dreams were dark and begrudging compared to the optimism of earlier.