by Rachael Eyre
“Take something down for me,” he says. It's a new chapter for the book, his master work, the one that will bare his soul to the masses. He could dictate it into the speakwrite, but then how could he see if I'm of value to him?
“The Artificial Wife,” he declaims. This is what the book is going to be called. I wondered how he could get away with it, but he had anticipated my question, or at least prepared his answer. As far as Robert is concerned, conversations are a series of lectures given by him.
“It's a metaphor, Audra. I don't mean an actual artificial, so to speak, but a woman with the malleability and unconditional love of one. Do you see?”
No. But it doesn't matter what I think. I'm only the recording angel.
“‘The artificial wife is meek and obedient. She moulds her personality to suit her mate’s wishes. Her interests and opinions become his. She is never dissatisfied because she is completely fulfilled.”
I try not to imagine what Elle would say to this. She'd fling it out of the window, onto the fire. She'd make a hole with her fingers and say, “You can fuck that, ‘cause you're not coming anywhere near me.”
He sets his alarm to give himself four hours sleep. He claims not to need any more, the great leaders of the past managed on less. This sounds like delusions of grandeur, but I keep that to myself.
“Let me talk to him,” Elle said last night. “It's inhuman, what he's doing.”
“Then what? He’ll know about us, about everything.”
“Us?” she echoed.
There's no use denying it, there is an us. There was an us from the very beginning, when she came to the attic door and asked if I was okay. I loved her before I even saw her.
“This can't go on forever,” I said.
We sat in there, clinging to each other. She left shortly before the alarm went.
***
It has been a week. Robert is starting to show fatigue - it manifests itself in snappishness, clumsiness.
“Sit on the landing till I want you,” he said yesterday.
So out on that stretch of worn carpet I sat, like a child sent to bed without pudding. I sensed Elle on the other side of the door, knew she was putting her hand to the wall where mine was. I feel her no matter what part of the house I'm in.
Perhaps he was having second thoughts. I hoped so. I hoped he would read over his manuscript and realise it was reactionary rubbish, that no one in their right mind would publish it. A madman yelling into the void. But when had he ever displayed insight or awareness? More likely it was an assertion of power, because he could.
I don't know how long I was there. I felt myself drifting, my head scraping the balustrade. A piercing sound brought me to my senses.
“Come down, Audra,” the noise was saying.
I willed myself not to obey, but my feet were already moving. It was invasive, horrible - I’d never felt anything like it. I'd gone downstairs and through the door before I realised where I was.
The study. And Vivaan was sitting in the green armchair.
He was wretched. The black eye has faded, the scratches look like they will be permanent. He is branded for all to see. He couldn't look at me - he squirmed in his seat and stared at the carpet.
“What can I do for you?” I honestly couldn't say which of them I hated more. Probably Robert, since at least Vivaan felt shame.
“Nothing,” Robert said, with an odious smirk. “Thank you, Audra. You may go.”
Shaken and humiliated, I returned to my post on the stairs.
Robert: The Programme
They say friends are more faithful than lovers. I wouldn't know, never having been replete with either. Still, I always thought Vivaan was different.
As Audra’s footsteps receded, he shook his head. “This is wrong.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He sat in my father’s old armchair as though he hadn't the energy to rise from it. “I can't do this, Robbie. I thought it sounded fun when you started, but now … I want no part in it.”
“I can't believe I'm hearing this. It was your idea.”
He practically screamed. “That's not true! Take it back!”
I stared at him with mounting incredulity. One of the things I like best about him is his dependability. You can predict at any given moment what he’ll say and do. I know it's something of a flaw in a philosopher, but there you go: I don't understand people, women especially. They're too inferior.
Now he was spitting, floundering. His eyes refused to meet mine. “You've fucked up, Robbie. When will you admit it? When will you be like normal people?”
Why was he acting like this? It was only make sense if - No. Surely not!
I hooted. “Oh, this is rich! You don't care about the morality! You're just jealous!”
“What? Are you shitting me?” But his cheeks flushed angrily, proving my surmise was correct.
“You're bored with your pedestrian job and your ball breaking wife. I give you an excitement you can't get anywhere else.”
He looked as though he wanted to hit me, but he wouldn't dare. Whatever he might tell himself and other people, I run this show. I saved the best till last.
“You want Audra, don't you? You dream of having her. Well, hard luck, Khatri. You can't.” I smiled coldly, enjoying his discomfiture. “She's mine.”
“The laws are changing. I could report you.”
“Don't be stupid. What were you doing when I bought her, picking daisies? You're every bit as guilty as I am.”
He'd turned grey, as though he was about to vomit. “I can't be here anymore.”
“Good. I don't want you here.” I held the door open. He nearly broke his neck in his haste to get away.
I don't need him. I don't need his hypocrisy and childish belief in human decency. The world view of a man who has coasted through life on superficial looks and charm. It's a jungle out there. Only you can decide whether you're predator or prey.
I climbed the stairs, noting the spotless banisters. Audra was crouching on the landing, looking as though she was praying.
“There you are. Something needs to be done about these grates …”
***
The Programme has been running for nearly a month. I wish I'd had longer with Ms Adelaide to ask about Audra’s capabilities. The more time I spend with her, the more I'm convinced her “accomplishments” are useless surface polish. What's the point of being able to play the piano if you can't do basic maintenance? I instruct her the best I can, but I'm sure she fudges it deliberately.
She's so blank, so unresponsive. It provokes me. When she gets it wrong I throw things or make her start again. “It's perfectly simple,” I tell her. “If you don't get this right, you don't sleep.”
She blinks at me, tries again. It has no effect on her performance. I can only assume artificials have limited wants and desires. I remember Chad, my friend from the forum. His artificial had been surly, dumbly insolent, until he had taken punitive measures. He said he had a pain button installed, but this would raise too many inconvenient questions.
My father’s revolver has been in the bureau for years, waiting for a purpose. Whenever she's recalcitrant, I fire at her skirts. The bullets scatter harmlessly to the floor. Before long the sight of it makes her behave.
“I don't like doing this,” I said. “If you did it properly first time, I wouldn't have to.”
She says nothing.
I'm neglecting Giselle while this is going on. I don't mean to, but a field study is an exhausting process. I fall into bed at the end of each day, dead to the world. Sex couldn't be further from my mind. I tried a few nights ago, but my cock refused to cooperate.
“Hard day?” she asked.
“You've no idea.”
I want to confide in her, but there's no telling how she will react. Though I'm acquainted with every inch of her, her mind remains opaque. Will she be hurt I've kept Audra’s existence secret? Can she feel anything as human as jealousy? She must be satisfied with th
e life I give her; she's never shown curiosity about the rest of the house or my comings and goings.
I'm being sentimental. They're both machines - they don't want or feel anything. I mustn't forget that.
***
It's three hours since I wrote the above. I want to score it out, commit it to flames, but that would be cheating. Plus the sight of fire gives me a sick, shameful feeling.
I couldn't sleep. Giselle implored me to rest, I was making myself ill, but I couldn't help it. I played with the revolver, wondering why my father had kept it all this time. How easy it would be to set it to my temple, still the clamour within. But greatness doesn't spray its brains over a wall.
Audra nagged at me like a loose tooth. I didn't see why I should endure this insomnia and she shouldn't. She had humiliated me in front of my peers and driven Vivaan away. I set foot on the stepladder.
“Where are you going?” Elle called.
“Nowhere.”
I wanted to see what she did when she was alone. I threw open the door and gazed around in disbelief.
She was sitting inside a chalk circle, her head resting on her knees like a clam. Everywhere I looked there were things where they shouldn't be. Flowers in window boxes. Pictures pasted to walls, cut out from magazines. Candles wavering. I snatched one up and pulled her hair. She clattered to her feet.
“Where did this rubbish come from? Did I tell you you could decorate it?”
Everywhere I looked, I noticed something else she must have smuggled up. Was this how she spent her spare time? Hoarding my belongings?
“It was like this the other day -”
“It was not. Don't lie to me.” I held the flame underneath her chin. “Tell the truth or you will suffer the consequences.”
“I swear, it was here -”
Wax fell on her exposed flesh. She gritted her teeth, refused to show pain.
Her obstinacy was the last straw. Something possessed me in that five minutes; even now I don't know what happened exactly. The bottles were swept to the ground, the candles broken, the window boxes tipped out and the flowers crushed. I must have asked her to burn her pictures, but have no recollection of doing so.
“Let that be a lesson,” I said. She sat in the centre of the room, shocked past speech.
She will think twice before she defies me again.
Elle: Azita and Sabra
I listened to the sounds from the attic, frantic. Glass breaking, pots shattering, Summer pleading. What was that brute doing to her? He'd locked me in and taken the key. Though I tried battering the door, it didn't give an inch.
Fury, followed by silence. This frightened me more than anything. Send me some sign, let me know you're okay. Was she keeping quiet because she feared Robert’s wrath, or was she beyond that?
He let himself into the bedroom, going into the ensuite. He didn't look at me - and it's a good thing he didn't. I needed that time to compose myself, lie. It's rich: he's always accusing Summer of dishonesty, but I've been lying since the day I was built.
He offered no explanation, but one of his cuffs was singed. Whatever he had been doing wiped him out - he was face down and snoring within minutes. I rushed upstairs.
A heartbreaking scene met my eyes. The room Summer had worked so hard to make her own lay in ruins. The pictures were ripped down, reduced to ashes; the window boxes upended. It looked like a whirlwind had raged through the room, a feral beast. If you ever needed a snapshot of Robert’s mental state, this was it.
In the middle of it all sat Summer, her shoulders shaking. The lovely smooth skin on her neck was blistered. I ran to her and swept her up.
“What happened?”
She struggled to get the words out. “I don't know! He came up, saw this - and went on a rampage.”
I held my hand above the bubbled flesh, not wanting to hurt her. “Did he do this?”
“Candle wax.” She wrapped her arms around me and buried her head in my shoulder.
“I'm going to kill him.”
It wasn't a figure of speech. The only way we could be free was if he was gone - I saw that now. Looking at the wreck of that room, the distraught girl in my arms, it seemed so clear. But I didn't want Summer to be involved. She had been through enough already.
“Okay.” I kissed her forehead and found a smile from somewhere. She looked at me in love and trust. “We've got to keep our shit together. Get this tidied up.”
It took the best part of two hours. I tried to chat, act normally, but she was still stunned. “It doesn't feel the same,” she said. “This used to be my safe haven - where I'd go if I wanted to be alone, or with you. Now I'm only going to associate it with him, with that.”
“We can cast a protection spell.” She looked at me as though I was barmy; I explained. “One of the arties I worked with, Rio, was big on things like that. Palm reading, cards, herbs. He always said they worked.”
She scuffed the chalk circle with her foot. “This was meant to stop him. Look how that turned out.”
She looked so crestfallen. I'd have done anything to make her smile, include talk total bollocks. I was making it up as I went along, but she didn't need to know that. “All you need is some soil -” we had plenty of that - “a candle, something belonging to the person you're doing the charm against.”
“I know just the thing.” She picked up a gruesome ornament, it must have been a present from Vivaan. A pottery man with a huge erect dick.
“Where did you get this?” I asked incredulously.
“In the conservatory. It's good for hanging washing on. Doesn't it look like Robert?”
“In his dreams.” She had a point, though. Apart from the cock - Robert’s is quite small, compensating you might say. Otherwise he had the same piggy eyes, crooked fangs, undiluted arrogance.
I turned the figure to the wall so it wasn't watching us, then sprinkled handfuls of soil over it. “Lady, protect us from your creation, Robert Percival. Make everyone know who he really is.”
Summer took the candle and wove it over the ornament’s head. She suited this kind of ritual with her long hair, white gown and bare feet.
The air felt thick and potent. An owl hooted outside. Summer nearly dropped her candle.“Did it work?” she whispered.
I couldn't say. It certainly felt different, but how much of that was wishful thinking? Rio would've improvised: invisible gold threads were crisscrossing over the door, keeping Robert out, binding us together. He was full of it.
“I feel better,” she said. That smile - it pierced me to the heart. “Thank you.”
As she got to her feet she stumbled. The long hours were catching up with her.
“Time you got some sleep,” I said, and steered her to the bed. “I'll keep watch.”
“What about Robert?”
“Fuck him.”
We snuggled beneath the covers, huddling together for warmth. She was running on empty but still couldn't sleep.
“Do you think there's ever been a situation like ours, somewhere else in the world?” she asked.
For all I knew it could be playing out in houses across the country, but I wanted to reassure her. “Not exactly the same, but similar. Like Princess Azita.”
“Who?”
I could hear Juno’s voice in my head, but I took the story and made it my own.
“There was an evil king, centuries ago. His wife had cheated so he swore revenge on all women. He decided that every day he would take a new bride, using her and executing her the following day.”
“I wonder who that could be,” Summer said drily.
“No idea.- He carried on like this for a year. The people lived in terror. Nobody knew who would be sacrificed next. Everyone's sister, daughter and lover was in danger. If the king’s eye fell on you, that was it. You were toast.
Azita, the vizier’s daughter, put herself forward as the next wife. Of course everyone thought she was mad and tried to talk her out of it. Why go looking for trouble? Why not escape from the c
ity, the first chance she had?
Azita wasn't mad or daft - far from it. She was as clever as she was beautiful and a rare hand at telling a story. Everything she spoke about became real. Though she was sickened by what she had to do, she thought she might be able to outwit him.
She had an excellent reason for nominating herself. Her handmaid Sabra had caught the king’s eye - he had already been heard making enquiries about her. What he didn't know was that Azita and Sabra were deeply in love, and had exchanged marriage vows in secret. Azita would do whatever it took to keep Sabra alive.”