That is what the Bible says, yes, agreed Claire, reluctantly.
Well, then, said Ron, take a look in the mirror, Claire. I’m not the one lying to my employer, and acting like a Russian spy! I am the one providing a service to people in need. Do you realise what sexbots could do for the Catholic Church? All those priests with erections under their man-skirts? With a bot behind the altar there’d be no need to abuse orphans and choirboys. There’d be no adultery, no fornication, none of that stuff in Exodus about shagging your brother’s wife.
I feel ill, said Claire. Excuse me, please!
She got up to go but Ron held up his hand.
Hear me out! said Ron. And when you’ve heard me out, judge me if you want to.
Claire sat down. I passed her the grilled cheese. She ate it mechanically (I was about to say robotically, but bots don’t eat). She ate it like a woman who needs help, even if it is from mozzarella.
Ron said, When my wife kicked me out – couldn’t happen with a bot – could not happen – I had to go back to live with my mum, but I couldn’t get in with any of the locals. I’d go down the pub and they’d all turn their backs and start speaking Welsh. I was an outsider and everyone was married.
So I bought myself a love-doll. Yes, I did. Mail-order. She was basic but she was mine.
I have always been a lonely man.
A sexbot is not a human being! said Claire.
That’s right! said Ron. And neither is a dog or a cat. We wouldn’t be without them, though, would we? Even tropical fish! People can feel close to fish. They come home from work and sit next to the aquarium. We all need something. That’s life. So why not a robot? My first bot was there for me when I got home from work and there was none of the usual where have you been what time do you call this? She was ready in bed for a cuddle, and I was getting sex every night. No warm-up. Straight in. Slept with my arm across her. I felt better. Stopped the Xanax. My rash cleared up.
(I glanced at Claire. Her intelligent eyes were fixed on Ron. She was mesmerised. Maybe Ron has something after all.)
Then a mate of mine back in Essex got made redundant and he said he was going to put his packet into Bitcoin. We had a look at it together online, and I thought I’d give it a go with the money that was mine when the divorce came through. Mum had been hoping for a new bathroom suite but what can you do?
I put in five large, and a year later, guess what? £300,000 in real money.
Mum got her bathroom suite. ’Course she did. And a new kitchen. Then she said to me, Daffodil! (She calls me Daffodil because I wear aftershave.) She said, Go on holiday, Daffodil, you deserve it.
I said, Where shall I go, Mum? And she fell into a bit of a trance, because she’s a bit psychic, my mum, and she said, Thailand! Something is waiting for you there.
So, out in Thailand there was this woman offering sexbots for sex. Very crude bots made in Korea – and not well-washed – and I didn’t want to do it with them anyway, even for free – they were offering the first shag free – because I didn’t want to spoil what I had with my own bot-girl at home. So I went with regular prostitutes. Lovely girls. Most of ’em still at school. I don’t judge – it’s a different style over there.
I was helping one with her English homework every night. I write poetry. That will surprise you, Ryan, but I do.
And I felt sorry for those girls – I really did, because some of the blokes out there need to soak their dicks overnight in a bottle of bleach.
Then – and this is how it happened – this is it coming up now. I was out one night under the stars – millions of them, like winning the silver-dollar jackpot off the slot machines at Vegas. Stars pouring out of the sky.
Then, with no warning, there was this big electric storm – big as God.
I was nervous because I’d just had my dick pierced for a bet, and I thought, suppose my dick gets struck by lightning?
I stood hovering in the darkness waiting for disaster. The resort I was staying in was shut down in total blackness, and I couldn’t find my way back, and I thought, even if I don’t get struck by lightning, this could be the end of the world. And I’ve done nothing with my life. Repaired a few toasters, and that’s more or less it.
I didn’t move. I was like a dead man. Your life flashes before you, flash, flash, because there’s so little of it. I mean, what have you ever done that was worth doing? I think what was happening to me was religious because later on, at home, I talked about it to the Reverend and he said, Daffodil, you were standing on a vast plain of emptiness.
Then I had a vision.
I saw armies of lonely men walking along a ruined road. Men with their heads bowed and their hands in their pockets. Nobody was talking. Each one walked alone.
Then, coming towards the men, suddenly, down the same ruined road, were all these beautiful girls. Girls who would never get old or ill. Girls who would always be saying yes and never saying no.
And in the sky there was the moon, big as a Bitcoin, and I knew I had to put myself at the service of humankind.
But there’s only so much you can do in Wales.
That’s why I’ve gone global.
Ron sat back. Claire was staring at him. She said, You were sent to me tonight.
You reckon? said Ron.
Claire said, I believe in your vision, Ron. I believe it was real.
Thanks, said Ron.
But you have put your vision in the service of Satan! Not humankind … Satan. Lust is one of the Seven Deadly Sins!
Men will always want women, said Ron quietly.
Claire’s eyes were shining. Have you ever thought of manufacturing a doll for Jesus?
Do you think he wants one? asked Ron.
I am talking about a Christian Companion, said Claire. Yes! It’s coming to me now! For the missionary, for the widower, for the boy tempted by the flesh. A Sister in Christ who could also …
Fuck you? said Ron.
That is a little crude, said Claire. I have an MBA, by the way, in Management.
Claire! Wait! I said. I thought you were here to investigate the future of our souls. Now you want to partner up with Ron in the bot business?
I go where the Lord leads me, said Claire, and I believe that my Lord has led me to Ron Lord.
They certainly share a surname, I said.
(Now it’s me Claire is glaring at.)
There’s something I want to tell you, said Ron. I hope you won’t be offended.
Go ahead.
My first sexbot, really, I suppose, the love of my life, was called Claire. That is, I called her Claire. She’s retired now. But, well, to me, sitting here now, it’s like you have come back to me in human form.
I was only suggesting I take a look at your spreadsheets, said Claire.
Yeah, yeah, said Ron, but this is sorta like a vision as well, isn’t it?
It may well be a gift from the Lord, said Claire. Tell me, how do you dress your bots?
Ron got out his phone. Please note that this is for the Adult market, Claire, not for Jesus.
Claire was flicking through Ron’s portfolio of leather and lace, denim and Lycra, thongs and tassels.
What I have in mind, said Claire, is a neat dress, tied-back hair, nice skin, no make-up, and—
Would we have to shrink the cup-size? said Ron.
40F might be a little too large for the Christian Companion, said Claire.
It would have to be specialist production, said Ron, like my Outdoor Girl. She’s the one that I do in partnership with Caterpillar. I mean, if I am going to invest in a new model, I’d have to be sure there’s a market.
We will create a market, said Claire with surprising ruthlessness. That’s how business works.
That’s how late capitalism works, I said.
Are you a communist, Ry? said Claire. I am a member of the Republican Party. A strong economy works for everyone.
No, it doesn’t, I said. But I am not a communist.
He’s trans, said Ron. L
ike I said, his real name is Mary.
My ‘real’ name is not Mary!
Claire didn’t look pleased. She didn’t sound pleased either … I am shocked at you, Dr Shelley. God makes us as we are and we should not tamper with it.
I said, If God hadn’t wanted us to tamper with things She wouldn’t have given us brains.
I agree with him on that, said Ron. Which is unusual. No offence, Claire.
I can see there is a lot of work for me to do here, said Claire. Yes, I can see that THE Lord led me to Alcor for this meeting tonight. I have found my mission.
Let me pour you another drink, said Ron.
Claire, what’s it like to be so certain about everything? I said. I mean, one minute you hate bots, and they’re all part of Satan’s plan to enslave humanity, and now you want to partner with a sexbot king.
Claire looked at me with compassion (or contempt?). Ryan, man proceeds by the arrogance of his intellect and his ego. I follow the path of revelation and inspiration. I change my mind when the Lord tells me to change my mind.
OK, I said, I get it. But tell me, Claire, don’t you ever hesitate? Doubt? Cry alone at night for what you can’t understand about yourself – or others?
No, said Claire. I pray. And I will pray for you, Mary. No one in the Bible is trans.
The Bible was a long time ago, Claire, I said. No one in the Bible flies in a plane, drinks bourbon or eats grilled cheese. Or … straightens their hair with hot tongs.
You have lovely hair, said Ron
Everything changes, said Claire. I change. You change. God changes not.
The band came back on stage. Good beat. Good tunes. Claire pulled Ron to his feet and challenged him to a square dance. I got up to find the restroom. It was a little way down the back of the bar, outside under the stars, in a set of stalls. The music faded as I pushed through the swing doors.
There was a guy at the urinal, older, heavy, unsteady on his feet. I glanced at him and went into a cubicle. I heard him finishing up. He heard me peeing. He kicked the door and shouted, YOU THINK I’M A FAGGOT?
I ignored him. A second later he had crashed out of the restroom, the door swinging back and forth. I zipped up, came out, and was washing my hands when he crashed back in. WHAT’S SO PRECIOUS ABOUT YOUR FUCKIN’ COCK THAT YOU KEEP IT TO YOURSELF?
You’re drunk, I said. Leave me alone.
I went towards the door. He blocked my way, his eyes swimming with drink. PISS LIKE A MAN. GO ON!
I’m done, I said. Excuse me, will you?
He mimicked me: EXCUSE ME, WILL YOU? You talk like a girl.
He lunged at my crotch – and found what I don’t have.
WHAT THE FUCK?
Let me go, I said.
You’re in the wrong stall, sonny, eh? What are you? A fuckin’ dyke?
I’m trans.
He was shifting from foot to foot. Get in the stall! Since you like it in there.
I tried to move past him to leave. He rammed me so hard I lost my balance. I was on the floor. He reached down to drag me up.
I thought: I’m going to get beaten up or raped. Which is worse?
I didn’t have to make that decision because he pushed me into the stall, slammed the door shut and forced me up against it. He fumbled with his zip and pulled his dick out, wanking himself half-hard.
THIS IS THE REAL DEAL YOU FUCKIN’ DYKE FAGGOT. YOU WANT IT?
No.
You’re getting it anyways. He pushed his hand under my shirt.
YOU FUCKIN’ FREAK! YOU HAD YOUR TIT SLASHED OFF? NO TITS. NO DICK. FUCKIN’ FREAK!
He started pulling at my jeans. His fat, dirty fingers were trying to get the zip down.
Get your hands off me, I said.
YOU DON’T LIKE MY HANDS ON YOU, YOU LITTLE FREAK?
He hit the side of my face with the back of his fist.
DROP THEM, I SAID!
His face was an inch away from mine. He was breathing cigarettes and whisky in my face. I undid my jeans and turned my head away from him. I could feel the blind, dead nub of his cock against my pubic hair.
He couldn’t come. Kept dry-pumping and couldn’t come. He was a lot taller than me and twice as heavy, but in the clarity that fear can bring I thought I could unbalance him. Use his weight and his drunkenness against him. He was so drunk he was resting his head against the cubicle door while he shoved his way in.
OPEN YOUR FUCKIN’ LEGS WIDER!
I moved, and as he moved I took a chance and pushed him as hard as I could. He fell back against the toilet, falling down, banging his head on the concrete wall. He was stunned for a second, and away from the door enough for me to get out. I pulled up my jeans, and ran into the night behind the bar.
Outside, I stood still and quiet, fixing my clothes, feeling myself carefully. No rips, no blood, no sperm. The dirty smell of him on my fingers. He was coming out now, lumbering, stumbling, shouting obscenities, angry. He paused in the outside door, the shadow of him on the deck. My sweat went cold. If he found me now … but two other guys were heading for the restroom; I heard their voices, their boots, then, HEY! STEADY, BUDDY! THAT’S THE WAY BACK TO THE BAR!
They must have turned him around because I heard the blast of music as he opened the door.
It’s OK. It’s OK, I said to myself.
I let myself slide down the rough wall of the outside shack. Knees under my chin. Folded into my own body. I was aching and sore. I needed a douche of disinfectant. Some cream. This isn’t the first time. It won’t be the last. And I don’t report it because I can’t stand the leers and the jeers and fears of the police. And I can’t stand the assumption that somehow I am the one at fault. And if I am not at fault, then why didn’t I put up a fight? And I don’t say, try working on the Accident and Emergency unit for a few nights and see where putting up a fight gets you. And I don’t say the quickest way is to get it over with. And I don’t say, is this the price I have to pay for …?
For … For what? To be who I am?
Cry at night for what you can’t understand in yourself or others. Cry at night. Don’t you?
The tears make my knees wet as I sit with my face on my legs as small as I can make myself. Make myself. This is who I am.
What is your substance,
whereof are you made?
Hope is a duty. Hope is our reality.
Shelley says so and he believes it so, but for me the light has gone out. The light inside and the light outside. I have no lantern and no lighthouse. I am at sea in waves too high and the rocks wreck me.
Rome. Venice. Livorno. Florence. We have returned to Italy because we cannot live in England. Small-minded, smug, self-righteous, unjust, a country that hates the stranger, whether that stranger be a foreigner or an atheist, or a poet, or a thinker, or a radical, or a woman. For women are strange to men.
But that is not my darkness. My darkness is what it has been since I was born to it; the darkness of death.
My little daughter caught a fever. My husband had travelled to Venice and I made the decision to follow him when I should have stayed and nursed my child in quiet. Four days of carriages, dust, filth, rattle, noise, polluted water, and by the time I reached Venice and he ran for the doctor my beautiful Ca had stopped breathing in my arms. I would not give her up. I held her cooling body to me. What is there to say?
The following year, 1819, we were in Rome. My boy, Will – Willmouse, we have always called him – spoke Italian like a street seller. Italy is home to him.
We were warned not to stay in Rome. Malaria is deadly in the summer. But Will was happy there, and my spirits were returning, and my love for Shelley was strong enough to light the lantern in me again, and him my lighthouse.
And then it happened. I should have died on 7 June 1819. Instead, Willmouse died, a little each day for a week, until he was gone. The life of him, gone. Where does it go? This life that is so strong? Is that all? The chemistry and electricity once extinguished, where does the life go? I SAID, WHERE
DOES THE LIFE GO?
My husband endeavoured to hold me, to stop me shouting at the painting on the wall. The painting of my child takes no fever. I am twenty-two years old. I have lost three children.
Shelley too, you will say, Shelley too, has lost three children. Yet he does not break. I am broken.
I am pregnant again. The next baby will be born in November. I do not know if I can bear this reality. The reality of death. Birth followed by death. Shelley comes to me: Don’t touch me.
I see him hurt and rejected by my unkindness. Oh, my love, my lighthouse that I cannot see, I am not unkind. I am going mad. Do you hear me? (This woman shouting at the wall.) I AM GOING MAD.
Can’t work, can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t walk, can’t think, except in jagged flashes that show me in a graveyard among burial plots. When I dream I dream of dead children. Monsters. What have I created that I have killed?
I will not let the servants change the linen in the bed where he died in my arms. For three months I have lain in the stink of death. Is it preferable to rot by increments, as adults do, finally decaying to busy infested dust, or is it preferable to die as children do? Their bloom on their cheeks? Lips red. Oh, with faces so pale!
Take me away take me away take me away from death.
One morning in September, Shelley knocked at my door holding a letter and some pages of newspapers sent from England.
There has been a massacre, he said. A month ago, but the news has only reached us now. I have the reports here.
Where? I said.
In Manchester. In St Peter’s Field. They are calling it Peterloo, after Waterloo.
I knew from my own experience how terrible were the conditions in Lancashire. In 1805 a weaver could earn fifteen shillings for a six-day week and keep his family without fear. In 1815, when the wars with Napoleon ended (and the wars ended with the Battle of Waterloo), those same workers might earn five shillings at best. In response, the government brought in the Corn Laws, forbidding the import of cheaper foreign grain to feed the starving families.
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