Videodrome

by Jack Martin

  But not Nicki.

  She drew him out and into her until he was able to give up for a time and float beyond the normal boundaries. Pleasure that flirted with pain, pain that became pleasure . . . that was her thing, apparently. And who could say she was wrong? In a world of pre-programmed options, something—something—was required to restore the edge, the sharpness. For the first time he began to comprehend the logic of it.

  She was the doctor, wasn’t she? She was. He reminded himself of that as they lay by the electronic hearth with its flickering, endlessly repeating patterns of humiliation and submission, of nerve endings lashed into heightened states, of blood hammering in a quickening flow that was fast and hot and could no longer be stemmed.

  They lay together again, fitting as perfectly as spoons, his skin now flushed dark as hers in the glow from the screen. He measured the length and curve of her body; beneath his impatient fingers her pulse speeded visibly on the taut drumhead of her abdomen. He moved his hand back up to her collarbone, the gentle indentations there, the tangle of hair spilling over her shoulders, the bleached streak, the graceful shape of her skull . . .

  She was not asleep.

  Without opening her eyes she directed his hand to the small box she had carried to the pillows. His fingers found its outline, pried it open, felt what was inside.

  A thin length of cold steel.

  A hatpin.

  The red bead on the end of it attracted him, a round, staring eye.

  He knew what she wanted.

  He held back for only a moment.

  Then he set to work.

  He held her head with one hand, cupping the back of her neck. He drew the point of the needle from its protective cork and raised it to the purifying flame of a candle, then made the first thrust. He pushed hesitantly at first, then more forcefully as he found his courage. The trick was not to stop until it was done. The skin of her ear stretched. He was about to withdraw and give up. Then he broke through.

  She did not make a sound.

  He pulled the needle out and bridged over her. She slid under him, presenting him with the other side of her face. He switched the cork and needle to her right ear and pushed steadily. This time the skin broke almost immediately. She moaned as he penetrated and slid through several inches, moving in place as though performing an act of pure love.

  He nuzzled the wisps of hair at her temple. He set the needle aside, daubed Scotch on her ears and sucked them clean, as the breath hissed through her teeth and the air became red.

  His eyes focused past her to the video background behind their heads.

  Onscreen, the red room was empty. The moist, sweating wall framed by manacles was dark and waiting.

  But that wasn’t right.

  He had seen the tape many times. The young couple. They were always there, from the opening seconds. As he watched, the lighting intensified until the room was a ripe blood-red. He could almost feel its heat.

  He shook his head to clear his eyes and looked down at Nicki, trapped beneath him. Her complexion was flushed, livid.

  It matched his own color.

  He felt her fingernails. No. It was only beads of perspiration popping out on his skin and rolling down to the small of his back. He lifted from her and saw now the pools of condensation forming like heat mirages around the cushions. The floor melted and sloshed with electrified water. The dark walls of his apartment seemed to close in, the ceiling lowering, reflecting the flickering of the candles like the phosphors of a television image: warm, deeper than orange, and finally red as a darkroom. The sofa and furniture blurred into insubstantial shadows, then fell away completely, leaving them naked under the light of the red room . . .

  Nicki stirred and rolled against him.

  He shut his eyes and arched, pinioning her to the floor. Her fingers laced his. He kissed her ears, her mouth, her neck, burying himself, moving faster, ignoring the texture of a hard, sweating gridwork beneath his knees, the charged water all around, dangerously close, the sound of her breathing in his ear like the echo of his own breath bouncing off the walls of a cell, closing in, nearer and nearer.

  He waited to hear the slogging approach of heavy boots. But they did not come. Not this time.

  He stretched as Nicki lolled next to him. I don’t know how she keeps going, he thought. I’m exhausted.

  She sighed. “Mmm. I’ve created a Frankenstein,” she teased, inserting the wires of her earrings through the new holes.

  Max watched her come awake next to his limp body. Except for her earlobes and the cuts which he knew were healing on the back of one shoulder, all of her that he could see was perfect. In fact she looked healthier than ever; her skin glowed.

  “You can bring me to life any time, Doctor,” he said.

  He smiled at the possibility.

  She sat up, reached for her underwear and slipped back into her bra.

  “Max?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m going away tomorrow. For two weeks.” She waited, but he wouldn’t take the bait. She rehooked the clasp and unrolled the straps. “Guess where?”

  He made a guess to please her. “L.A.”

  “Pittsburgh,” she said. She sounded happy about it. Or maybe she only wanted him to think that.

  “Fabulous,” he said. “Don’t stay in the sun too long. I hear it’s bad for the skin.”

  “No, c’mon. Isn’t that where they make VIDEODROME?”

  All at once he felt cold. “Yeah,” he said, trying not to let it show. “Why?”

  “I’m gonna audition. I was made for that show.” She smiled at him cryptically.

  She would say anything to keep him off-balance, he decided. The more outrageous the better. But he was determined not to give her the advantage.

  “Nobody on earth was made for that show,” he said guardedly.

  She reached for the rest of her clothing, eyes down. She was not smiling.

  He felt a chill, as if someone had walked over his grave.

  “Hey. Listen to me.” When she continued to ignore him he moved closer and spoke directly into her face. He softened his voice to get her to look at him. “Listen to me.”

  “What?” she said innocently.

  She was taunting him, all right. Words were one thing. And games were games. But how far was she willing to push it? What did she really want from him?

  Could be it’s not me she’s after at all. I might not have anything to do with it. What, then?

  “I want you to stay away from it. Those mondo-weirdo video guys. They’ve got unsavory connections. They play rough.” She was ignoring him. She’s not naive, he thought. She can’t be. Then it dawned on him: he had not understood until this moment how truly reckless she was. He was appalled. He grabbed her arm. “Rougher than even Nicki Brand wants to play,” he said angrily.

  “Sounds like a challenge,” she said. Defiantly.

  He quit. I’m not going to play, he thought. This is not a game.

  “Got a cigarette?” she said.

  She’s not a girl. And I’m not in high school; we’re not arguing over the Senior Prom. She’s an adult, a highly competent professional. Is it possible that she doesn’t know what might be involved here?

  “It’s not a challenge,” he said calmly. He lit a cigarette for her. “You know, in Brazil, Central America, those kinds of places, making underground video is considered a subversive act. They execute people for it. In Pittsburgh . . . who knows?”

  He hoped he’d gotten through. She doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. Neither do I. She’s reconsidering. Thank God. Go to Pittsburgh, he thought. I wouldn’t want to interfere with your career. Only don’t—

  “Max?”

  “Hm?”

  He watched her drag methodically on the cigarette until it was a red-hot ember. Then, as if this was part of a test she’d had in mind to perform as soon as she was sure she’d found a receptive audience, she inverted the cigarette and lowered it to her chest.

 
Her eyes were looking at him.

  “Nicki, don’t!”

  Before he could get to her she touched the cigarette to the top of her breast, an inch above the black lace cup. There was a sizzling and the sharp smell of burning flesh.

  She threw her head back and let out a short, orgasmic gasp.

  “Nicki,” he said helplessly, quick tears springing to his eyes. “Don’t . . . don’t!”

  She smiled, then took another drag and passed the cigarette back to him.

  Without taking her eyes off him, she lay back and said, “You can bring me to life any time now, Doctor.”

  Chapter Six

  He observed the belly dancer bumping her way between the tables, beating out an ancient and insistent rhythm on the tiny brass cymbals which seemed to grow from her fingers.

  The dancer slithered toward the circular stairway that led down to the lower levels, and her gauzy veil whipped over the tablecloth in front of him. As the veil jerked aside, Max saw that Masha was avoiding his gaze; she ignited another Turkish oval and coughed out a cloud of smoke as solid and opaque as ectoplasm. The smoke snaked away to the ceiling and Masha came back into focus, squinting at him across the table and peeling bits of tobacco from her tongue.

  “Another hangover?” she asked.

  Max’s eyes went back to the dancer, who was wriggling her way to the main floor of the restaurant. The soft skin bulging out of her halter vibrated to the Greek music.

  “Stayed up late watching TV again,” he said. “So? Business is bad?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “You look shaky. Exhausted. You hustle too much for a woman your age.”

  “Funny.” Masha set her gold cigarette lighter upright and caressed its length. “I thought it was keeping me young.”

  “Then maybe it’s something else.” He peered down through the wrought-iron railing at the main floor. The dancer’s body bounced and writhed faster and faster, her flesh one with the music. “You got in touch with our friends in Pittsburgh?”

  Masha blew another smokescreen through the frayed border of the black feather boa around her neck. “In a way. At a distance.”

  She leaned in for emphasis and lowered her voice despite the tide of bouzoukee music in the background.

  “Max . . . VIDEODROME is something for you to leave alone. It is definitely not for public consumption.”

  Max laughed humorlessly. “Channel 83 is a little small to be considered public.”

  “It’s still too public.” Her voice was a whisper. “Do you understand me?”

  “No. What is it? What’s the punchline?”

  “I think it’s dangerous, Max, VIDEODROME.”

  “Why? It’s Mafia? They do business.”

  “It’s more . . . how can I say? More political than that.”

  “Come on, Masha. What are we talking about?”

  “VIDEODROME . . . what you see on that show . . . it’s for real. It’s not acting. It’s—snuff TV.”

  “Snuff? Where did you learn that?”

  Masha glared at him. Her eyes protruded. “Don’t you condescend. I sold the first snuff films from Argentina to Wundercable in Switzerland. I knew the word before you did.” She was shaking. Her cigarette touched the side of her cut crystal glass and a shower of sparks hit the tablecloth. “But that was all fake. VIDEODROME is for real.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  A burst of applause resounded below. As the belly dancer bowed, Max noticed caches of dirty dollar bills folded into the cleavage of her top and pressed under the elastic of her waistband. So her sensual display was all for profit, and the bearded customers knew it. They leered after her as she stole away from the floor. Max shook his head.

  “So,” said Masha coldly, leaning away. “Don’t believe it.”

  “Why do it for real?” Max reasoned. “It’s easier and safer to fake it.”

  “Because . . . it has something that you don’t have, Max,” said Masha disdainfully. “It has a philosophy. And that is what makes it dangerous.”

  “Whose philosophy?”

  “I . . . don’t know. I made sure I wouldn’t know.”

  “Who’s selling it?”

  Masha refused to answer.

  “Who’s buying?”

  Her voice remained a whisper. “There is no buying and selling of VIDEODROME.”

  “Tell them I’m interested.”

  “Maxie,” she said somberly, the crest of her turban dipping low, “you’re not.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell them I’m interested. Find me a name to talk to.”

  She refused to look at him.

  “Masha, Masha, you know me. I stay away from the scary stuff.”

  “Max.” She sighed. “You are going to have to be nice to me for this.”

  “We can take a shower together. Any time you say.”

  Masha’s worn mouth widened in amusement. “I’m sure you would be very beautiful . . .”

  A lithe waiter appeared with Masha’s coffee. He had layered, peroxided hair and trousers that had been shrunk to fit the perfectly agape cheeks of his buttocks. He catered directly to her and ignored Max.

  “Thank you,” she said, her eyes lingering on the waiter’s body, “so much.” He bowed and departed. Masha returned her attention to Max. “I’m sure,” she repeated dreamily. “But, ah, you’re a little older than I prefer.”

  She stirred her coffee.

  “Sell me a name,” he bartered.

  No response.

  “And I’ll make Apollo and Dionysus part of the package.”

  “That hurts me, Max.”

  “Hey,” he said quickly, charmingly, “the world’s a shit-hole, ain’t it?” He determined that it was what she wanted, what she expected to hear in the long run, anyway.

  “Yes, Max. It is.”

  She gazed back with rheumy eyes, and something which had died within her long ago was blessed and buried once more. Her face sagged. Suddenly she looked very old, old and tired beyond all hope of redemption.

  “Brian O’Blivion,” she said tersely. “That is the only name I have to give. Professor Brian O’Blivion.”

  The Cathode Ray Mission was located in the worst section of the city, which is to say in the cheapest rent district, a choice that befitted an institution devoted to serving the poor, the deprived, the walking mad, those who had nowhere else to hide themselves by day.

  The Mission had taken over a run-down gray building dating from the fifties, when such featureless crackerbox constructions passed for modern and progressive. In other words, practical, cost-effective and utilitarian. Like a three-story pile of folded deck chairs, thought Max, as he parked the car and crossed the street to join the milling crowd.

  The structure was identified clearly enough by incongruously clean stainless-steel letters mounted between the second and third stories, as well as by an appalling mock-religious insignia of the most extreme tattoo parlor variety: a passionate purple-and-red heart, complete with emphasis lines representing rays of light and surrounded by barbed wire. There was no dagger with the word MOTHER on the handle to pierce the symbol, but there was a three-dimensional drawing of a fat cross engulfed in flames at the top.

  Not such a bad logo for the unwashed masses, thought Max. In fact it had a certain vulgar appeal. A lot more striking than the Xerographic cels that his own Art Department had come up with for the station.

  Now shuffling lines of downtrodden customers were queueing up at the main door. The Letraset sign at the top of the steps read OPEN FOR LUNCH 11:30 A.M.

  I’m just in time, thought Max, and merged with the others.

  The door opened and he inched his way forward past peeling handbills and grimy windows. In one pane of dark glass he caught up with a clouded image of himself. His overcoat appeared dirty, his sweater bagged and ratty. He glanced down at himself. It was more or less true. He hadn’t sent anything to the cleaners in a long time.

  Jesus Christ, he thought, I don’t
look that much different from any of these people. In fact, I’m getting to look more and more like them all the time. Sometimes I don’t even remember to shave before I leave for the office. He touched his face self-consciously. The stubble was like #5 sandpaper.

  I’ve got to get my act together. Of course, I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. But that’s no excuse. It doesn’t scan.

  He felt eyes on him as he moved slowly forward. See? he thought. They know I’m not one of them. They can tell. He tossed away his cigarette and stuffed his hands into his pockets, hunching to avoid their disapproving stares. As he did so, a gang of men broke from the line and dove in a scuffle for the butt he had thrown to the sidewalk. They certainly had been watching him. He hustled to fill up the gap, which brought him to the entrance in record time.

  The Mission itself was not what he expected.

  Inside, walls had been torn out, turning the entire first floor into an enormous room that was nearly the length and breadth of a city block. It was like the waiting room of a train station, except for the partitions. Old hospital room dividers, plywood flats and the sides of oversized shipping crates had been erected to create hundreds of separate booths or cubicles. White-smocked attendants greeted the new arrivals and ushered them forward like patients to assigned examination areas. A rising babble of voices was magnified by the high ceiling. Somewhere a television set was playing. No, several television sets, all tuned to different channels.

  Snap out of it, he told himself. Everything sounds like TV to you these days.

  A stern young woman hovering somewhere between twenty and thirty moved among the aides and matrons, dispensing orders and making notes on a clipboard. She directed the staff with a nod of her head, a raised eyebrow and was instantly obeyed. That would be the daughter, Max realized, the one who oversees this place. She was as Bridey had described her. He crossed an aisle and approached her.

  “This way, please.”

  A no-nonsense matron with shoulders broader than his own took him by the arm and walked him in the opposite direction. He started to explain. But she didn’t want to hear it.