reverb books
reverb: getting writers read

Off the Shelf

by Steve Redwood

The Library shelves were unusually well-stocked today, with golden-skinned women dangling languid bare legs over the edges. They were not allowed to speak here, of course, but their sad eyes pleaded, "Take me, take me." Through a half-open door at the back, he saw a couple of them being treated.

He pushed Maria 8, her skin already unhealthily blotched, towards the counter, and forced a smile for the Blueskin sitting behind it. She didn't return it.

"I've come to renew this woman," he said. His tone was defensive.

She frowned. "There'll be a renewal fee, of course."

"I know."

She took his name - John William Smith - and Social Security number, then tapped buttons on her computer keyboard, her fingers moving with the speed of hummingbird wings.

Behind her, he noticed a huge reproduction of Magritte's shrouded lovers. Were they hiding their faces from each other to avoid disappointment? he wondered.

She printed out a sheet from the computer, and passed it over to him.

He glanced at it, then looked up angrily.

"But this is twice as much as last time!"

"That is correct."

"But why?"

She looked at him through lidless eyes. "You know very well that the longer she goes without a Service the quicker she deteriorates. And the treatment is correspondingly more costly."

The computer bleeped. She glanced at it, and then looked back at him.

"It appears that someone has reserved her, anyway. For...let's see... the 14th. Next month."

"What!"

"Which means you couldn't renew her for more than two weeks anyway."

Inside, he felt an enormous relief. No more pretence! It was no longer up to him! But at the same time...

"Who's reserved her?"

"You know we can't give out information like that."

Maria 8 stood to one side, her face expressionless. But he could almost smell her fear.

"But I don't understand. Why does he want her? Was he the owner before?"

She refused to reply.

He knew it wasn't wise, but he couldn't stop himself muttering, "It's not as if she was in very good condition even when I got her!"

The Blueskin's head snapped up, and her third eye pulsed ominously.

"Please remember you are on State Benefits! We provide for your minimum sexual necessities, but you can't expect us to provide you with the latest models, or allow you to pick and choose what you think suits you. If you want a brand new woman, then get yourself a job, and pay for one!"

Realising he had gone too far, he made a placating gesture.

"I'm sorry. It's just that this bill is so much higher than I expected."

"I can't help that. Please make up your mind: do you still want to renew her - but only till the 14th - or would you rather exchange her now?"

He glanced across at Maria 8, remembered where he was, and looked quickly back at the Librarian. He hoped she hadn't noticed his weakness.

He intended to say, "Well, if it's only a couple of weeks, I might as well return her now." What he actually said was:

"My present renewal is still valid until the end of this month. Can I come back in a day or two and let you know?"

She looked surprised. Then frowned. "You can do that, if you wish."

"Yes, thank you, I think I'll do that. Goodbye."

He didn't waste time smiling this time, but, pushing Maria 8 before him, moved towards the door, trying not to notice the array of sparkling legs. Maria, his treacherous mind remarked, was like a grey cloud passing in front of the sun.

So someone had reserved her. As the unemployed were not allowed to make reservations, and the average working citizen would not be allowed to use State Benefits, it had to be somebody above the system. Someone really high up. He felt almost relieved. It was out of his hands. He'd done his best. She couldn't blame him for this.

But he knew she would.

...

He sat thinking as she prepared the lunch in the kitchen. She had hardly spoken on the way home. He noticed his hands were clammy. Nervousness. But why, for God's sake? He'd done more than could ever have been expected of him. Not only renewed her twice already, but even been prepared to do it yet a third time! Which would have made four months. Four whole months with the same used woman! He doubted if anyone else in the City had ever kept a woman out as long as that without a Service, certainly not one as damaged as she had been.

Lunch was uncomfortably silent, until at last he said, trying to adopt a light tone:

"Well, it seems you have an important admirer! You should feel complimented."

"Maybe I would if I knew who it was." A moment's silence. Then inevitably: "Why didn't you exchange me then, get it over with? Like you really wanted to?"

He didn't answer at once. A few weeks before, he would have flared up, demanded to know how she could be so ungrateful: acting the victim, when he was the one making the sacrifices! But he was now resigned to her distrust, knowing, deep down, that it wasn't unfounded.

Two weeks before, she had caught him glancing through the catalogues.

"I'm only looking!" he had protested as she stared at him with sadness and disappointment. "Come on, if I really wanted another woman, I only have to take you back, like everyone else!"

He had meant it as a defence, not a threat, but it had been a turning point. She had never mentioned it, but he knew she had never forgiven him.

Which was crazy, since there was nothing to forgive.

Now, he said, not answering her question: "It's almost better this way. For your sake, I mean. Maria, if you don't go in for a Service soon, you're going to be really ill. You could even die!"

"A Service would destroy my memories."

"But sooner or later, not having one will destroy you!"

"I am my memories."

"You lost your other memories, the ones before me, and yet you've been all right."

"All right? When I came here, I was empty, empty, empty! Do you want me to return to that again?"

He looked at her, wanting to say so much - and yet not enough. When she had arrived, she had been nothing more than a bright shiny receptacle for his desires. Someone who had language, and a passable knowledge of everyday things, but not a single personal memory. This had been a conscious policy decision on the part of the Government, once the Blueskins had offered their skills: it was bad enough not being able to afford to buy your own woman, without having to put up with any emotional baggage the State hand-outs might be carrying.

And he'd renewed her, and renewed her again, and his reward was that she had developed enough character and personality to be able to ... what?

To have her own desires? To presume to judge him?

Before he could answer, there came a ring at the door. Voices. Steve! That was one person he would have preferred not to see right now. Especially if he had come - and he would have, of course! - with his new woman.

Maria opened the door. Steve looked at her, surprised.

"You're still here?" he said. He had no intention of being rude or hurtful.

"Nor for long," she replied,

Steve's new woman stood smiling beside him. She wasn't exactly beautiful, of course - after all, Steve too was on State Benefits - but really glowing. It wouldn't last very long. Within a very short time she too would begin to lose her shine. It always happened. The women always lost their shine. Nonetheless, the contrast now between the two women was too painfully marked, like the difference between a waterfall throwing back flashes of sunlight, and stagnant pond water on a grey day. And he was more than ever conscious of how thin Maria's skin had become, what was left of it. Almost transparent. The signs of previous operations were now clearly visible.

Also the size of the wounds she had suffered.

Who could have done a thing like that?

Steve at once steered him towards the kitchen.

"Don't tell me you've renewed her again! Whatever for?"

"I couldn't do it. I couldn't dump her back on the shelf again."

"OK, OK, we all go through this at some time or other. It's natural. We grow fond of them. Nothing wrong in that. I renewed a woman once. But this is the third time! Look at her, John, almost no shine left, she's already decaying. She has to be Serviced. You can always take her out again, if you really like her."

"She wouldn't remember me, you know that."

Steve slapped him on the shoulder. "So what? So long as she remembers how to cook and clean and treat your cock like an emperor...!"

He was right, of course. Few men denied that it was more pleasant if you liked the woman you rented, but it could hardly be considered indispensable.

"She's been reserved, in any case."

Steve whistled his surprise, and was about to say something when his new woman, followed by Maria, came into the kitchen, already looking anxious. They were all like that at the beginning, unable to be away from their men for more than a few minutes without something akin to panic setting in. While obviously not the same quality as those in the private sector, Steve's woman was still in very good shape, perhaps the best the Library - that was odd, why was it called a Library? he suddenly wondered - had to offer. He could have drawn her out himself the week before, he thought ruefully. What's wrong with me?

"Isn't this a lovely kitchen?" she said. Her voice was high, sharp, like a new kettle.

"It's the same as any other subsidised housing," Maria answered coldly. It was clear she didn't much like her. Didn't want to remember what she had once been herself?

"But you've made it specially nice, I can tell! To keep John happy. Still, you'll see, I'll do even better for Steve!"

"I applaud your ambition."

"Oh, isn't it wonderful to be off the shelves? To be alive?"

There was the tiniest pause before Maria answered: "What does 'alive' mean?"

The other woman frowned momentarily, then giggled.

"It means making Steve the happiest man in the world!"

"Ah yes. Something only you could do, of course."

Nonplussed, the woman turned her attention to Steve. John saw, however, that his friend, though holding and caressing his woman, wasn't really listening to her at all, he was listening to Maria. Steve has noticed it, too!

That was satisfaction of a sort. A small recompense.

The visitors didn't stay very long. Besides, it was impossible to talk to Steve in private. He would arrange to meet him later.

Afterwards, Maria said: "Steve looks very happy today. Why do you think that is?"

She was deliberately provoking him. "I don't know. You tell me." The worst possible response.

"I don't need to." She was staring out of the window. The light picked out the tendons of her muscles. 'Flayed' was the word that came to mind.

He wanted to shout out, "Well, show some appreciation, then!" but held himself in check. It didn't help.

"What are you trying to prove?"

The injustice stung.

"I'm not trying to prove anything. But, God damn it, I'm doing it for you!"

She swung round, her eyes blazing.

"Yes, for me! That's just it! Not for you! Just for me! Oh, John, don't you see, it's almost worse this way, it's almost worse!"

"What's wrong with you! What more do I have to do to...?"

To ...what? The words went round his head like an echo, like another voice.

He stormed out into the dingy back yard. She followed him a few minutes later.

"Oh John, I'm sorry, it's the memories, that's what I'm scared of losing. I'm so scared of waking up one day, and there was no yesterday."

She touched his arm, and added:

"And there are things I've learnt that I know I wouldn't learn again, not with a different man."

There were many things he could have said then. He said none of them. The moment passed.

Such moments had never come in his life before. He didn't know how to handle them.

...

Who had reserved her? Some lover of the low life who had simply liked her photo in the catalogues, or - a chilling thought - the same man who had caused all that damage before? He was afraid of him, without knowing why. He felt - although he had no logical reason to feel this - that the reservation of Maria 8 had been a challenge to him personally. He sensed danger, as if he were a beetle lying helpless on its back on the edge of a sandpit, and the nameless man was the lion ant lurking beneath. If he struggled, the first grain of sand would start to fall in, then the second...

...

Watching her undress that night, he noticed more signs of decay. Where the gold had flaked off, bruised flesh was showing through, and hair was beginning to show under her armpits, and on the lower part of her belly. As she got into bed, he noticed a slight odour. For the first time it entered his mind that she might actually die.

He cursed himself for his own weakness. Here he was, with a woman becoming more unattractive day by day - even her hair now showed streaks of brown and black - when all he had to do was exchange her, like everyone else did.

It was ridiculous, there would be no point in renewing her for two more weeks. She would simply deteriorate more. He would exchange her tomorrow. It would be the best thing for her.

He woke up in the night, and found her curled up on the floor, naked, weeping silently, photographs of their early days clutched in her thin hands, smudged with her tears.

...

He took her to the Library the following day to renew her.

The Blueskin didn't hide her displeasure.

"If you do insist on taking her out again, why don't you at least leave her overnight, so she can have a Service? She'll be ready again by midday tomorrow."

"Without any memories."

"Of course. A Service deletes personal memories, egoism, desires. That's what you brought us here for."

"No, thank you. It's only for two weeks, anyway. I'll take her as she is, if you don't mind."

She obviously did mind, but proceeded to fill out his Library card. As she was doing it, he suddenly thought: since the Services are so vital, why do they even allow women to be renewed without one? Why give us the choice? It didn't make sense.

A lot of things, he was beginning to realise, didn't make sense.

As they were leaving, the Librarian said:

"Remember, she must be back by the thirteenth at the latest. To allow time for Servicing. We'll repair her, of course, make her as good as new, but we can't guarantee she won't be mistreated in the future."

Why had she said that? He turned round slowly, unwillingly, while a warning voice was telling him not to listen.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm simply reminding you that there are no guarantees for the future of Maria 8."

"Why should anyone harm her?"

"That's a question we often ask. Indeed, that's why we're all here, isn't it?"

"Are you saying that this other man, the one who's reserved her, will harm her? Has harmed her in the past?"

"No, I'm not saying anything. I'm simply reminding you that there are no guarantees."

"But why are you telling me? Now?"

"It's a warning we give to all our ... clients who keep a woman longer than is necessary or advisable. We assume that the woman has been renewed because the client is seeking more than sexual gratification. And might therefore have some interest in what happens to her after she is returned."

She paused for a moment, and he saw the triumphant malevolence in her third eye.

"I've been authorised to inform you, by the way, that the person who made the reservation was the Prime."

He turned away and walked out slowly, this time completely unaware of the glittering women on the shelves and their vacant golden eyes.

...

The days fell away like the last leaves of autumn, fluttering away from his reach as he tried to grab and hold them.

Things changed with Maria 8. Not only because this was the final renewal, but because of the Librarian's last words, which buzzed round his head like disturbed hornets.

He told himself again and again that whatever happened to Maria 8 after the 14th, he was in no way responsible, there was nothing he could do. Yes, he might, or might not, have made the final renewal only out of a sense of guilt, or weakness, or sheer cussedness, or some incipient sense of loyalty - he didn't know himself - but he found himself worrying more and more about her future.

... Because he was beginning to feel certain that it was the man who had just reserved her who had inflicted the terrible wounds which were becoming more and more visible as her golden skin fell away. He had no evidence at all for this, it was as if the knowledge had always been with him.

The last traces of Maria 8's brightness disappeared. In bed, he had begun to notice a strong odour when they copulated. She had begun to sweat. Her breasts now flattened slightly when she lay down. Although she tried to continue doing the household chores as before, she was tired, and frequently didn't finish them.

There was no logical reason at all to keep her now. And every reason not to.

But he realised with shock and something akin to fear that, even so, he didn't want to take her back.

He had no word for this unknown feeling.

But it was the day he realised this that he began to wonder whether there might be some way to avoid returning her.

But for the reservation by the Prime, it might have been possible. He could have invented excuses not to return her - forgetfulness, illness, and so on - and in the end the Library might have simply let the matter pass. It could hardly matter to them, he thought, which of the women were in stock, and which were out on loan.

But you didn't mess around with the Prime. His power was absolute. He owned everything. It was said that he could annihilate you with a mere thought.

Yes, the Prime's power here was absolute. But outside the City?

All his life, there had been rumours that the City wasn't everything, that there existed somewhere else, an outside, a magical place where women didn't have to be Serviced, where the Blueskins were unknown.

But no one who left the City, it was said, ever returned.

He mentioned his crazy idea to Maria. The look she gave him then, the way she came across and folded herself in his arms, made the idea seem not crazy at all.

They made their plans.

And were arrested fifteen days later on the outskirts of the City, taken to the Palace, and hurled into separate dungeons there.

...

After he had been lying alone for a few hours, shivering, listening to the sinister dripping of water somewhere, a bright light suddenly burst into the cell. No one was to be seen, but a voice boomed and echoed all around him.

"John, you've surprised me. I really didn't believe we had it in us."

"What have you done with Maria?"

"Your first question is about the woman. I'm learning a lot. But I can't answer that question yet, I'm afraid."

"Who are you?"

"And I, your King, your Keeper, only merit the second question. I could be offended. Thing really are so much simpler here. Me, I'm the Prime, of course. And the next question is, or should be, "Who is the Prime?" However, for the sake of your sanity, I don't think I'll answer that question, either. Not yet."

"Why am I here?"

"If you mean 'here', in this cell, why, the answer's obvious. You've been a bad bad boy. But if you mean - which, of course, you didn't, but never mind - 'here' as in 'in the City', why, to see what you're going to do."

"What do you mean?"

"Why do geneticists love fruit flies so much? Because they don't waste time hanging around, they live and die in a couple of weeks, things are speeded up, you can see what's really happening. The Big Picture."

"Why did you reserve Maria?"

"Hmm, the heretic interrogates the Inquisitor! This is a strange place, indeed! But I don't mind: even your questions are my answers. I just told you. To speed things up. Put you under pressure. Anyway, she isn't your woman. She's ours."

"Did you own her before? Was it you who damaged her?"

"Now there you've really hit the nail on the head! That's what I'm trying to find out. Was it me who damaged her? And if so, do I care? That's why I'm here. Or should I say, that's why you're here. Tell me, what were you planning to do?""

John didn't answer.

"You weren't planning to leave my little kingdom, were you?"

John remained silent.

"Ah well, I can wait, I'm not a fruit fly," the other said calmly. "Meanwhile, let's take a really close peek at your mind, shall we?"

They must have drugged him, because he began to have a crazy dream, or vision, he didn't know which. He thought he saw himself asleep on a bench outside a restaurant, and Tweedledum wandered by with Tweedledee, saying to Alice, "If that there King was to wake, you'd go out - bang! - just like a candle!" Opposite the restaurant, there was a statue of an eyeless prince, the tiniest sliver of gold leaf hanging from one shoulder, with a dead bird lying at its feet - whether swallow or nightingale, he couldn't be sure, but it was well and truly dead, stiff and cold, and somehow that seemed to matter. A frog hobbled out of the restaurant on crutches, accompanied by another Prince, this time a little one, who was wearing an elephant on his head. "They ate my legs, and didn't even kiss me!" the frog muttered. "Don't they realise how vital it is to kiss me?" It swivelled a reproachful eye back inside the restaurant. "I guess, to be fair," the Little Prince was musing , "it was easier for me: I only had one rose on the planet, in any case. We're going for a stroll with Jorge in the Garden of Forking Paths," he added, "where we might well see some butterflies, very educational, their life cycle. If you'd like to join us... "

The vision began to dissipate. He knew he wanted to go with them, that they had the answers, but ...

"Not just yet. One final turn of the screw, to be sure."

The voice was his own. But he hadn't spoken.

...

He was taken to see Maria the next day. Her body lay on the floor in a corner. It was dull and heavy, a soggy, imperfect thing. There was blood between her legs.

He flung off the guards in a fury, knelt down, lifted her, and held her and howled, while his tears, the first ones he had ever shed, fell on the dull, lifeless flesh.

And where they fell new skin sizzled into existence, skin that gleamed and flashed and danced in the light, and flickered all around, swirled like trillions of tiny glistening raindrops that rapidly engulfed him.

...

The rain poured down but still the man - whose name might or might not have been John William Smith - walked. And walked. Lines of Robert Browning echoed through his mind like the ticking of an underwater clock:

My soul
Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll
Freshening and fluttering in the wind

When, drenched with the rain, he finally entered the flat, he heard her in the kitchen. He threw off his coat, dried himself in the bathroom, and stood for a long time staring down into the garden. The sun broke out, and the water droplets on the leaves suddenly shone and shimmered in the light. Brighter than gold. He rubbed his eyes and frowned. As if trying to catch a memory. He went slowly downstairs and into the kitchen.

She was at the sink. Thin arms, so often holding a dishcloth or a Hoover, thin legs, so often dragging her back from the shopping, thin face, so often hardly even noticed, let alone kissed. Etiolate, because he had stopped giving her any light... how could anyone shine with no light?

As if in a trance, he went to her, lifted her arms out of the sink, and pulled her towards him, forcing her head against his chest, and held her.

Just held her.

He had once, years ago, had words for this feeling.
Printable version