The Extremes

by Christopher Priest

  As they rounded one of the steeper bends a truck on the other side of the road did not take the grade and it tipped to one side, crashing down and skidding towards them, crushing their car with devastating effect.

  Teresa was driving the curves of Highway 2, north of Los Angeles, through the mountains; it was May 15, 1972. She braked, hauled the car over to the side of the road and did a U-turn. Grit and dust flew up behind them, and hovered in the sunlight after they had accelerated away down the hill.

  After driving ten miles back towards the city, she took a left on the freeway heading east towards Las Vegas, and settled down for the long drive. The radio was playing the Mothers of Invention, and her girlfriend was rolling a joint. When they came to the desert the road became a blur, the car’s engine note steadied, and there was nothing more to do or see.

  Teresa waited until she was certain, then recalled the LIVER acronym.

  Teresa was instantly aware of heat, bright lights and clothes that were too tight for comfort. She blinked, and tried to see what was going on around her, but her eyes had not yet adjusted. There were people standing further back, beyond a ring of lights, not paying the least attention to her.

  A woman came up to her, and brusquely patted her forehead and nose with powder. ‘Hold still a while longer, Shan,’ she said impersonally, then moved back behind the lights.

  Shan, Teresa thought. My name is Shan. Shouldn’t I have known that from the start?

  Full of curiosity, Teresa looked down at herself and discovered that she was dressed as a cowgirl. She raised a hand to touch her hair: she had some kind of cowboy hat on her head, making her scalp feel glossy with sweat, and the strings dangled beside her face. She peered down at her chest and found that she was wearing a shirt made out of a cheerful check material. With one finger, she eased forward the V above the top button, and glimpsed a tiny under-wired bra made of black lace. She had breasts that swelled wonderfully above the cups, in a way she had always dreamt of. The leather mini-skirt she was wearing exposed most of her legs, which she could see were clad in sheer silk stockings. She touched them sensually. Her fingers discovered what felt like a suspender belt under the skirt. She knew she had panties on, but they were far too tight and they were cutting into her flesh. Her boots were made of white calf, and came up to her knees. They pinched the sides of her feet.

  * * * SENSH * * *

  She turned to see where she was, feeling the clothes twist uncomfortably against her body and tightening under her armpits. She discovered she was sitting precariously on a high bar stool, next to a wooden counter with a polished surface. Behind this was the space where the barman would work, and on the wall behind that was a tall mirror with an ornate gilt surround. Teresa could see her reflection in the mirror, and she looked at herself with immense interest and amusement.

  Her face had been made up with lavish and exaggerated features: black-outlined purple eyeshadow and heavy mascara, white foundation cream, too much blusher, and lip gloss that glistened wetly, like red plastic. The woman’s efforts to dull the sheen of perspiration on her brow and nose had been only partly successful. Long auburn curls tumbled from beneath her hat.

  Teresa straightened, and by shrugging her shoulders and pulling at the seams of the clothes attempted to make herself more comfortable. She tried unsuccessfully to pull down the hem of the mini-skirt.

  There was a man standing next to her, also dressed in cowboy clothes. He had a long drooping moustache and a beard, both apparently false, and he leaned back on the counter with one elbow, showing no interest in her. He was holding a tabloid newspaper in his free hand, and was reading the sports page. She thought she should know his name, but apparently that information was also not a part of the package.

  * * * SENSH * * *

  She looked into the main part of the room, but the bright lights still made it difficult to see the other people clearly. There were at least four men there, as well as the woman who had spoken to her. One of the men was also dressed in cowboy clothes. It was hard to make out the area beyond them, but Teresa gained an impression of unused space and that this small set, the bar of a western saloon, was the only part in use.

  A large video camera stood on a tripod. Another slightly smaller one was being held by one of the men, who was making some adjustment to a battery pack he wore around his waist.

  After a few more moments of consultation, one of the men stepped forward to where Teresa could see him. He was short and bald, and was wearing a filthy T-shirt with a cannabis leaf drawn on the front. He raised his voice. To her surprise Teresa discovered he had a British accent.

  ‘All right, everybody, we’ll do another take. Quiet please! Everyone in their places. Are you ready, Shandy and Luke?’ Teresa said she was, and the man with the big false whiskers put his newspaper out of sight somewhere behind the counter. ‘OK, we’ll start now.’

  Shandy and Luke. Teresa glanced at Luke, who gave her a wink.

  * * * SENSH * * *

  Teresa had been expecting the director to shout ‘Action!’, but apparently this was not necessary. Both cameras came into use, indicated by tiny red LEDs that glinted at the front.

  Luke at once moved towards her roughly and began grappling with her, his arms round her back, trying to kiss her. At first, Teresa instinctively resisted, but after a few seconds she forced herself to relax and not to try to control the events of this scenario. She felt the areas of her mind and body that were Shandy’s also resisting Luke’s advances, but with less conviction. After a few seconds of half-hearted wrestling, Luke took the front of her shirt in both hands and tore it open. Teresa heard the familiar screech of velcro, and realized that the buttons were fake. Her exaggerated breasts were revealed.

  Shandy turned away and picked up a bottle from the counter. Holding it by the neck, she brought it down on the crown of Luke’s head. It shattered instantly with an unconvincing noise that sounded more like plastic apparatus dismantling than glass breaking. Luke reared up, shook his head, then came back for more.

  * * * SENSH * * *

  This time he snatched at her bra, hooking his fingers under the scrap of cloth that connected the half-cups. He pulled at it roughly. The bra tore apart as easily as the shirt had done, and fell away from her body instantly. Tossing it aside, Luke sank his face between her breasts, cupping them in his hands and pressing them against his cheeks. Teresa felt the stiff bristles of his moustache scratching against her. She groaned in ecstasy. The man with the hand-held camera moved in closer.

  She allowed Luke to nuzzle her breasts for several more seconds, but then there was an interruption. The man in the cowboy suit who had been standing behind the lights stepped forward.

  He grabbed Luke by the collar, pulled his head back and away from her body, then took a mighty swing with his fist. To Teresa he appeared to miss by several inches, but Luke’s head jerked backwards, and he staggered away from her, his arms windmilling. He collapsed into a table and two chairs, which smashed at once. Both cameras briefly recorded this, then returned to their main focus of interest.

  Her rescuer was now sizing her up with over-acted relish, standing before her and stroking one of her naked breasts with his fingers. Shandy licked her lips, and her nipples became erect. She stroked her hand across the front of his jeans; Teresa was startled to realize that there was already an immense bulge inside them. His hips were gyrating slowly. This went on for some time.

  * * * SENSH * * *

  Behind them, the director’s voice cut in.

  ‘Come on, Shan!’ he shouted. ‘Get on with it!’

  Shandy deliberately delayed a little longer, letting her tongue play temptingly across her lips, but after another annoyed shout from the director she reached across to the zipper of the man’s jeans and slowly slid it down.

  Teresa was undeniably impressed by what she saw come prodding out of there, and was intensely interested in what Shandy and the man did for the next uncounted minutes. She stayed to the end of the a
ction, thinking how little she had previously known about certain kinds of sexual performance, how well and enthusiastically Shandy could perform them, how much quick pleasure they brought, but how few of them were ultimately worth knowing.

  Finally it was all over. With not much more likely to happen Teresa recalled the LIVER mnemonic. Shandy was walking towards a shower cubicle, clutching the tiny costume against the front of her body.

  * * *

  You have been flying SENSH Y’ALL

  * * *

  * * *

  Fantasys from the Old West

  * * *

  * * *

  Copyroody everywhere—doan even THINK about it!!

  * * *

  A piece of inane music, synthesized somehow with a drumming beat and an endlessly repeated sequence of three chords, jangled deafeningly around Teresa as she returned, not entirely willingly, to reality.

  Later that evening, alone in her room and stirring restlessly with her memories of the day, Teresa took her notepad from her bag and found an unused page. She regarded it for a long time.

  Finally, in careful handwriting, she put down the words:

  Dear Andy—I didn’t need that. I’m sorry, and it will never, ever happen again. I enjoyed it, though. I think. It was interesting, anyway.

  That wasn’t what she had meant to say, wasn’t even what she thought. It hadn’t been so interesting. Size wasn’t everything. Neither was stamina.

  She didn’t sign the page, but instead stared at the inadequate words, trying to summon memories of her times with Andy, the long and happy years becoming so increasingly difficult to recall. The caprice of writing down the flippant words had instantly died, to be replaced by a familiar longing.

  He was slipping ineluctably away from her, ceasing to be the person she remembered, becoming instead simply the bearer of a name, the man who had had a past rôle in her life, someone she recalled as a lover but not as someone making love, except in fragments of memory, incidents that had with time lost their passion. A man, a figure, a lover, a friend, a husband, he had been all of these, but he was becoming more remote from her. He would never know this reality of the years beyond his death in which she had to live without him. How could he ever have known them? She would never have flown to England for this trip, never have stayed in Bulverton. This had become her life, and it would always be without him. She knew she was ceasing to grieve, that she was therefore losing him, not because he had changed but because she had: she could not prevent herself changing and moving on. She still had no idea what she would do in her life without him, where eventually she would go, but she knew that this was the way, ultimately, that Andy would have to die.

  She left the notebook open while she showered, but before she went to bed she tore out the page and crumpled it up. She threw it in the wastebin next to the door. Before she fell asleep she changed her mind again. She climbed out of bed, retrieved the page from the bin, then tore it into shreds.

  CHAPTER 26

  Nick Surtees stared in silent disbelief at the contract that had just been handed to him by Acie Jensen. What had started out as an ordinary-seeming morning in the hotel, with familiar chores lined up ahead, had been abruptly swept away by visions of virtually unlimited wealth. This cataclysmic event had occurred a few minutes earlier, during a remarkable interview with Ms Jensen inside the large van parked behind the hotel.

  The contract itself was a boilerplate, but Jensen said she would let him have this copy so he could familiarize himself with the wording ahead of time. She seemed to assume Nick would want to retain an attorney. There was a blank line on page 17, where the amount of money he would be paid would be inscribed when the deal was agreed. Ms Jensen had until now appeared to Nick to be a dissatisfied guest, but this morning she had been amiable and relaxed and seemed even to take pleasure in the amounts of money being bandied around. At one point she had drawn Nick’s attention to how large the space in the contract was, to accommodate the generous sums available.

  The contract itself was a mass of impenetrable legalese, finely printed compact text which filled more than thirty large sheets of paper.

  The first page was a summary. This was written in relatively straightforward language, and outlined the intent and effect of the agreement. For most people offered the contract, it was obviously assumed that this would be the only page they would read. It explained that in return for payment for full disclosure of ‘relevant memorative information’ as held by the licensor, the GunHo Corporation of Taipei, Republic of China, the licensee, would have complete and unlimited rights of ‘electronic creation, adaptation, development, retrieval and replay’.

  Significantly, the most prominent passage occupied the bottom third of the page. It was printed in large characters and was enclosed in a thick red border. It said:

  YOUR RIGHTS. This contract is valid throughout the member states of the European Union as presently constituted, and is written in all official languages of the countries in the Union; this version is in English. Similar validity operates within the U.S.A., but an attorney should be consulted. The contract describes an agreement concerning electronic creative rights to psychoneural memories. All such agreements within the European Union are protected by the protocols of the Treaty of Valencia. Before signing the contract, or accepting payment for your memories, YOU ARE STRONGLY RECOMMENDED TO SEEK COMPETENT LEGAL ADVICE.

  Nick was in a state of mild shock: everything in his life was now centred on those thirty-odd pages of closely printed words. The prospect of suddenly receiving a substantial fortune had the capacity to change a life for ever. It was impossible to pretend away such a sum of money; it couldn’t be ignored. No matter what, things were about to change.

  For Nick, money had always been something that came in and went out at more or less the same rate, leaving him never rich, never poor, but more the latter than the former. Now, within the last thirty minutes, he had been told that he was on the point of becoming a rich man. Seriously rich. For the rest of his life.

  There was no hurry: Acie Jensen had advised him to take his time, to read the contract carefully.

  This must be how it felt to win a lottery. Or to be left a fortune by a relative you hardly knew. Possibilities opened up in all directions, dominated by the petty concerns of the immediate present. In the short term he knew he could at last settle his bills, pay off his overdraft (a strenuously worded demand from the bank had arrived only that morning), clear his credit-card debts. Then the luxuries would become instantly available: a new car, a new house, new clothes, a long holiday. And still there would be millions left over. Investments, dividends, property, endless financial freedom…

  Nick had come up to the bedroom alone, closing the door behind him. His first instinct had been to rejoice, to find Amy and grab her, dance down the street with her and share the incredible news with her. But an inner darkness had loomed.

  It was not that he wanted to keep the money to himself, but within the first few moments he knew that it signalled the end of his relationship with Amy. The windfall was his ticket out of Bulverton, away from the hotel, and inevitably away from Amy. They were held together only by pressure of past events.

  The money transformed everything, and it would release them both, a violent throwing open of the gates. He was trying to cope with an onrush of thoughts: it wasn’t the money, because he could and would give half of it to her and still be wealthy beyond his dreams, but its impact on them both.

  He felt a tremendous dread and misery rise within him, but not predominating, somewhere out on the edge of his consciousness. It had to be confronted, though, because it was rushing towards the centre. This windfall had come too suddenly: where he and Amy were headed was no secret to either of them, but he didn’t want it precipitated by a sleazy get-rich deal. Which was exactly what this was.

  He went down to the bar and poured himself a large Scotch. There was no sign of Amy, who earlier had been working in the kitchen. He returned quietly t
o the privacy of the bedroom.

  He felt he was going mad: his thoughts were whirling around. Plans, relief, excitement, guilt, dreams, freedom, places to go and things to buy and ambitions at last to fulfil. Then the darker side: a raging guilt about Amy, a fear that all this money would evaporate as quickly as it had materialized, that there was some unannounced drawback, some evil catch that Ms Jensen had not warned him about. He looked at the contract lying on the bed beside him, and again read the warning on the first page.

  He decided to follow its advice, and after searching around for his address book he put through a call to an old friend of his who practised in London as a solicitor.

  John Wellesley was in a meeting when Nick telephoned, but returned his call a few minutes later. By a massive effort of will Nick had still only sipped his whisky once or twice. Every familiar instinct and habit urged him to drink himself into a horizontal position, but a harder centre warned that he needed to keep his wits about him.

  He gave Wellesley a brief if slightly hysterical description of what had been offered to him. Until he began speaking he had no real idea of the effect the news had had on him. He heard the words tumbling out, and he could hear that his voice was pitched several tones higher than normal. It took a conscious effort to stop himself babbling.

  Wellesley listened in silence, then said calmly, ‘Is it a Valencia contract?’

  Nick took a breath, feeling giddy. ‘I think so, yes. There’s something about that on the front.’

  ‘Is it thirty-two pages in length?’

  ‘Yes,’ Nick said, riffling the sheets and looking at the number on the last one.

  ‘I have to be sure about something, Nick. I know it sounds like an irrelevance, but I have to know. Are you asking me for informal advice on this contract, or do you want me to negotiate it on your behalf?’