by Krissy Kneen
She giggles. Her hand whips around me and I am shuffling backwards, pressing my own bottom against the flexible wall. She scoots forward on her hands and knees and I am pinned here wide eyed as she clambers up my body and thumps her hips down at the edge of mine and starts to rub herself on me and pushes her face to my face. Her lips are on my lips. She laughs into my mouth. ‘I can feel your gentleman’s sausage,’ she says.
I fall to the side, roll away, and then I’m running, wiping my lips on my arm and running, tripping, running away from her.
‘It’s okay,’ she calls. ‘Machiney, you’re a good toy. I won’t hurt you.’
I tumble out onto the soft gel of the ground and race to where Hamish is standing, frowning, staring into the scrum of boys, looking for me. I glance behind me but Ellen is still hidden in the tube. Hamish turns and sees me running and I smile as best I can.
‘Where did you get to?’ he asks.
‘There are stars in the tube,’ I tell him and he nods.
‘Well, you should let me know before you are out of sight.’
‘I didn’t want to wake you.’
‘Cheeky,’ he says, and laughs. ‘I wasn’t asleep.’
And I jump onto the bench and roar instead of arguing with him because Hamish doesn’t like to be argued with at all.
*
I have a Real Visit scheduled for the afternoon. Real Visits are carefully monitored. There is so much data to be collected, so much about the Hebephiles that we don’t understand. We are in their brains. That’s how I like to think of it, as if Hamish and Liv and I are sitting in the Hebe’s skull, looking out through Hebe eyes, but I suppose it is more like Liv sitting up in my head and Hamish riding shotgun in the Hebe’s body.
Liv sits on the edge of my bed and she bounces. I have only met her twice before but I like her. She gets to see the virtual recording from the prisoner’s head and she looks out through my brain too, so if you think about it we have had sex together in an odd kind of way. I have never had sex with a woman but I suppose if I did I might like to have sex with Liv. She has silver hair cut quite short, which makes her look like she is young and old at the same time. Her eyes are very clear and very green and there are about a million very tiny wrinkles turning the skin beside her eyes into crumpled paper.
She glances up at my grey walls.
‘You need a painting,’ she says. ‘Something. This place looks like a mausoleum.’
‘There used to be a photograph,’ I tell her. ‘I loved it so much; too much.’
She pushes air out through her lips, humfing like an irritated horse. ‘No such thing as liking art too much. That is the point of art in the first place, to encourage an excess of emotion. Or else challenge how you think.’
That isn’t what it says in my art book but I believe her. She is very old and Hamish told me she was an expert so I suppose she knows what she is talking about.
‘I’ll talk to Hamish. It will be good for you. I’ve got a print by de Chirico in my bedroom but I suppose that kind of thing would be a bit disturbing for a kid.’
‘It’s a photo,’ I tell her. ‘The one I had in here before.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. You need more things that you like in here. You need to express your personality. I don’t think this will really work in the long run if you are treated as different from a real boy. What toys do you like, Cam?’
I frown. I lie back on the bed and drag my knees up to my chest and rock. ‘What, like dildos?’
Liv snorts with laughter. It is a strange noise for an old lady to make and it makes me smile. She lies next to me on the bed and doesn’t seem to mind that her hair is getting mussed up when she turns on her side and rests her head on my pillow. She stares at me, into me, grinning. Her eyes are like fingers tickling me, so intense and probing. I have to laugh.
‘Swings,’ I say. ‘Swings like in the park.’
She nods. She turns on her back and stares up at the ceiling. ‘I wonder if we can fit a set of swings in here. What do you think?’
I giggle.
‘Do you like to read?’
‘The internet?’
‘No, not like your lessons. Books.’
I hesitate. I am not sure what is the right thing to say.
‘Does Hamish give you books?’
‘Boys don’t read.’
‘No. Boys read. Who told you that?’
‘The data.’
She rolls back onto her side and touches my face, pulling my hair away and out of my eyes. I really like her. I want to roll over and hug her close but I have to control myself.
‘You know, what makes you human is individual variations moving away from the median data. If you were neutral, if you were just the middle of all the graphs and charts, then you would be no one. You would be a zero. You would be a computer.’
I frown. The words feel bad. They are like a gentle slap. Maybe I am being Chastised. It’s hard to tell.
‘You have been programmed to learn, to develop your own anomalies. You have the capacity to develop a personality built on the experiences you have.’
‘Like a real boy?’
‘Yeah. Just like a real boy.’
‘Girls like to read,’ I tell her.
‘And some boys, too. It’s okay if you don’t like it. I’m just asking if you like it, never mind the data. I’m asking about you. If you get pleasure from it.’
‘Yes. Maybe I do.’ I remember the picture books, the fairytales. These were an important part of my socialisation but I enjoyed them. I did get pleasure out of them. I remember the story of Pinocchio. ‘I think so,’ I say.
‘Okay.’ Liv sits up, smooths out her shirt but her hair is still a tumble of misplaced grey spikes. ‘How about I bring you some books to read.’
‘Instead of internet time?’
‘If you like. You can read them whenever you like. I think you shouldn’t have such a regimented schedule. I think Hamish should ease up on you. You are working too hard for a kid. It isn’t fair.’
I’m a kid. That’s what she said. It isn’t fair to treat me as a computer. I grin at her. I try to channel my excitement away from my dick.
‘An Uncertain Grace,’ I say as Liv shuffles off the bed and stands.
‘What’s that?’ she smiles.
‘It’s the photograph.’
‘The title?’
‘Yes. By Sebastião Salgado.’
She nods. ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Now I am beginning to find out who you really are. Your personality. Your variation from the median point. That’s good, don’t you think? I’ll see what I can do. An Uncertain Grace.’
When she’s gone there is a hint of something sweet left on the air. Not as strong as perfume. Maybe her face cream. Anyway it smells like jasmine and it is nice. Boys don’t wear perfume but maybe I could ask for some anyway. Something nice with flowers in it. Something that a boy would never wear, but it would push me out of the median range for sure. It would help me be myself. A real boy. A real live boy.
*
I do the deep breathing that Hamish taught me. I need to be careful about my level of excitement. My skin is tingling already. I keep looking to the numbers on the clock beside the bed. I bounce at the edge of the bed until I realise I am holding my breath again. Quiet. Breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth. All the human parts of me respond to the intake of oxygen. I can feel my muscles begin to relax. I want to be at the peak of my performance.
Liv is in my head. I know she is along for the ride, recording my experiences, finding some sense in the narrative of this Real World session. She is in my head, watching along with whoever this man will be. I close my eyes and visualise the words hello Liv. I draw a winking face beside it as if I was texting her. I wonder if she will see this exactly as I am thinking it or if she will just get my heart rate, the movement of my limbs—the basic data that will be stored in the history of my electronic brain. I don’t know how she works. She is one step ahead of me, like
…my elder. Maybe in the scheme of things she is like a grandmother or…a great aunt. It is nice to think of her as family, and while I’m thinking of her I don’t need to do the breathing. It calms me just to work out Liv’s place alongside me in this family tree.
Then the door opens and my heart leaps and I am hard. Working well.
He is a man with a strange face, caved in on one side as if a truck has run over his head and that side, the left side, of his face was on the gravel. It’s pocked, too. Probably by acne when he was a teenager, but it adds to the story of that truck grinding forward, grinding back across the side of his head. His eyes flick towards me then quickly away. He can’t seem to settle on looking at just one thing. His gaze dances around the room, flickering over my things, the bedside clock, the computer, the television. I think Liv will see this recording and realise she was right. The Hebes need some clear signals that I am a boy, or else they’ll think of me as a robot and I won’t be as effective for their research. I grin. I am thinking of the girl, Ellen. She called me Machiney. I stiffen my arms, pull my face into a rictus of a smile. I wave my arm back and forth as if it is a mechanical thing—which is only half true.
‘Hel-lo,’ I say in my best robot voice. I know Hamish will be displeased with this little performance but once I’ve started it is difficult to stop.
The Hebephile is sweating. It is a sour, pungent smell, but I don’t mind it. It is the smell that humans make when they are nervous. He glances at me, at my shorts, which are already tenting. I am excited to find out what he will do with me.
‘Nice to meet you,’ I say in my robot voice. It started as a joke but I can see that it relaxes him to think I am not human. He glances at me and wipes his hand across his brow. His fingers catch on the plastic patches there. He knows he is being monitored. He knows that his time in prison will depend on his behaviour in this room with me. He knows they will feel the rise in his blood pressure, the beating of his heart. It isn’t really fair. They give him no opportunity to be himself.
His fingers twitch, his body is a stiff board of anxiety. He might just stand here for the whole half-hour, which is his allocated time.
I pitch my voice at a whisper. ‘I’m not really a robot,’ I tell him. He doesn’t move, fixes his eyes on a point on the grey wall. I stand and unbutton my shorts and pull them down around my ankles. I take my dick in my hand and squeeze it as if to show him it’s all right. I’m not booby-trapped. I won’t explode if you touch me. And it feels good when I touch it. I rub my hand up and down along the shaft.
‘It’s flesh and blood,’ I tell him in my own voice. I can hear that croaky depth to it that arousal brings. I stroke myself, find my rhythm. I want to reach for the lube, which would make it more pleasurable, but I feel like any sudden movement will scare him more. His eyes have moved to my dick. I can see his chest rising and falling as his breathing becomes more laboured. He is becoming aroused just by watching me. That makes me swell even harder. He is just standing there and staring and now I can see where his cock pushes against the fabric of his trousers. I work my fist harder, faster. I am going to need lube any second now and if he doesn’t start something soon I am going to have to just finish up by myself. My hand is trembling, my cock is getting sore and red. I am light-headed with the excitement. The smell of him, his unflinching gaze, and fuck it, I turn to grab the lube and as I am unbalanced, my arm outstretched, he lurches forward. His weight presses on my back and his chest pins me as he pushes his hand roughly down between us to unzip. I wriggle, stretching my arm as far as I can to find the lube but he has no time for it. He lifts and pounds down onto me. Already hard and thick and his cock pummels at my bum. It is all too dry down there. When he aims it properly it bends and slips out at the wrong angle.
‘Hey!’ I snap. ‘I have lube. Hey!’ But he is not listening. He puts his fumbling hands around my bum, one holding each cheek and then he pulls to separate and stabs uselessly in that area a few times. If he let me lift my hips I would be at a better angle. I try to move. I struggle. Nothing shifts. He has me pinned, then he is gone.
There are two security models. Synthetics, not humans, because of the ethics committee. They hide the sight of what the Hebes do to us away from real people, but the security don’t have human elements, they really are machines. They hold and clamp his arms and I watch his penis getting smaller as they drag him back towards the door. It curls down out of his pants and it looks pretty funny. I laugh.
When the door closes behind them I hold my dick again and try to finish what he started, but there is some discomfort and I stop. My skin is grazed, front and back. I lie on my side and sigh in a fairly dramatic way.
‘Hamish!’ I yell. ‘Hey, Hamish!’
And the door opens. It isn’t Hamish. It is Liv. I pull the sheet across and over me. I am suddenly a little shy.
Liv climbs up onto the bed and rests a hand on my shoulder.
‘Bit of…tissue damage?’ She smooths my hair away from my face and it feels so nice that my hand moves to cup my genitals under the cover of the sheet. I take an accentuated breath in and then fake a long and vigorous sneeze.
‘Ah-tissue-damage?’ she says, mimicking my own sneeze.
‘Ah-tissue-damage,’ I say. ‘Ah-tissue-damage.’ And I laugh.
‘Okay,’ she says, patting my shoulder till I settle. ‘Okay. We better get you to the doctor.’
‘Not that much ah-tissue-damage. Just a little bit.’
‘Just enough for some cream?’
I snort-laugh. ‘He didn’t cream.’
‘No.’ She frowns and shakes her head. ‘We didn’t let him, did we.’
‘You know, I feel sorry for him?’
‘You do?’
‘Cause he didn’t mean to hurt me. He just got too excited.’
‘Is that what happened? You think?’
‘Yeah. I get too excited because there is all this stuff to calm me down and then there is a real human and you don’t know what he is going to do to you, and it is too exciting. Don’t you think?’
She shrugs, propping herself up on her arm.
‘So he was just too excited.’ I do my best Hamish impersonation: ‘Overstimulating yourself. He was overstimulating himself.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I suppose.’ Then she leans close to my ear and whispers. I remember the girl in the park, whispering into the very same ear and I feel a bit odd. ‘But you’re okay, are you? Are you really okay?’
‘Okay Donkey,’ I say and laugh. Then I see Hamish in the door already and I know he would have heard me making his voice and laughing at him behind his back and I feel a little mean. But not too mean.
‘Right oh, soldier,’ he says to me then. ‘The doctor is going to visit in a while but she’s given us the all clear to put some cream on it. You do your penis yourself but I’ll do your bottom, okay?’
I nod and flip onto my stomach and Liv peels the sheet off me so that Hamish can get to the chafed skin with his cream.
‘You’re a good boy,’ she says, as if I was a real boy.
I close my eyes and I am grinning and grinning.
There is a ring of concrete pathway stretching around the perimeter of the park. Beyond this a brightly coloured high wall with just a glimpse of an overpass behind it. Everything else is green space and fluoro gel rubber. The kids are distracted by the colour, but for some reason, today, my eye is drawn back and back again to that tiny glimpse of grey over the edge of the wall. I am riding my skateboard. Usually I practise kicking the board up, flipping it, landing as surely as I am able. My muscles learn from practice. My body responds to repetition as any child’s body does. My brain is learning too. A simulation of real thought as one piece of information builds on top of the last.
Something is different today. I can’t focus on the colour and the movement of the children running up the gel climb and rolling down the slide. I don’t care about the moves I might perfect on the skateboard deck. I just roll, staring at that tiny glimpse
of unadorned concrete, and my head swivels as I pass it, roll, swivel, roll, swivel. I’m like a ballerina doing pirouettes and keeping a point in my vision to stay balanced. Eventually I get off the board and just sit on it and stare. There are cars there, just beyond my view. The roads are raised to keep them out of the flash flooding that comes every summer. Actually this is the only month of calm in a year of dangerous extremes. People worry about the weather because of the children. Everyone hand-wringing and moaning all the time. What will it be like when my children grow old? I won’t grow old. That’s the thing about my synthesis of real cells and finely engineered components. I will be renewed, but I will continue unchanged.
The cars, hidden but indicated by the stark curve of concrete, are continuing on their set paths. They will take their passengers home, or to work, or to school. They will anticipate the schedules of the families who own them. Families inside cars. Mothers. Fathers. Children. And the man who visited in Real Time yesterday was someone in a family. A father, maybe, sitting up in front, punching his directions into the screen of the vehicle. At the very least he was once a child. Small and sullen, with his crooked face and his ears so misaligned that he must have been teased mercilessly at school.
I remember his hands trembling. The way he looked everywhere except at my face. I imagine a young version of him or other children just like him, hunkered down in the back seats of the cars that are passing right now, not every car, but some of them. Five or six out of every hundred cars have a future Hebe or Pedophile in them because that is the percentage of known offenders. I looked it up online. Known offenders.
So I sit on the skateboard and rock it back and forth as I stare at all those unseen cars. Probably the statistics should be more than that. Double, maybe. A lot of the offenders would be able to hide their secret desires. Many would never even offend, they’d just keep their obsessions safely locked away and play out their fantasies in their dreams. So ten or twelve cars, then, in every hundred. They pass by silently, unseen. These men, almost all men, who want me. These men who will never meet me. I’m not sure what to make of that. I sit and stare at them anyway.