Wildlife (27 page)

The dickhead bends down and removes the knickers from Roger's mouth.

‘Allow me. Allow me. I'm in a wheelchair!' gasps Roger. ‘There's an audience. I haven't wanked in ages cos my cock has disappeared. A dickhead's saying I was made in a lab. I love Anka, I really love Anka. I wasn't made in a lab. I want to be a West End star. I've got a past. I remember my past. I wasn't made in a lab . . . Anka!'

‘Very entertaining, I'm sure you'll agree,' says Ian, carefully regagging Roger. ‘We also planted technology into Roger. This was just a bit of a joke really, but we also thought it might help explain his personality a little. The past that Roger claims to remember is, I assure you, complete fiction. All these individuals got to know themselves by reading websites we designed for each of them. They read long lists of their “Interests”, “Musical Tastes”, “Favourite Books”, “Favourite Food”, “Family History”, “Blog History”, “Romantic Status” and so on. They believed what they read, as we knew they would. But all their memories are entirely fabricated. It's wonderful. In reality, they're just wild creatures, built in buildings!'

Ian moves along the line to Joe. He is clutching his travel seat tightly by the handle. He bites on his gums. He's trying to look hard. He's trying to intimidate the dickhead. Trying to make it clear that he can save this day.

‘Joe Aspen here is convinced he had a glorious relationship with the beautiful girl beside him, Life Moberg. I assure you, Joe, it never happened. You're programmed to be a lover of others, that's all, a carer, a rescuer, if you will. Even in the Wild World, our successors will need to talk about love and to be reminded that, unbelievable as it may seem, planet earth is a natural place. That's where individuals like Joe will come in to play. They will remind everyone of love, nature and all that stuff. Joe is even capable of caring for this little mutant baby we invented for a joke. He even cares for the little corpses we programmed for the baby to regurgitate. He even appears to have acquired a kitten. Marvellous! Above all, Joe has a desire to return to nature, and this will bring a pleasant poetry to life after the humans, indeed, such characters will be a polite nod to the deceased poetic of humanity.

‘Joe's former girlfriend, meanwhile,' says the dickhead, turning from Joe to Life, ‘is little more than something we invented because we were feeling really horny in the lab. And of course, in the Wild World, to give it variety, some females who aren't anorexic will devote a huge amount of time to looking beautiful. All worlds, even wild ones, need sexy females. That's sort of why we go on, isn't it? In addition to eating, females like Life here will be very open-minded towards sex. We called her “Life” as a joke. We made her Faroese because I holidayed there once and greatly enjoyed the food and the wildlife. Ladies and gentlemen, please, give both these people a generous round of applause.'

Joe and Life are staring at each other and shaking their heads, the sound of clapping in their ears.

‘Life,' says Joe quietly, ‘don't listen to him. He's a dickhead. What we shared was real. I love you. I can say it so easily. You left me, yes. You took a shit in my toilet, that was insensitive, but we can go back. We can be together. Listen to me, Life.'

Ian the Dickhead turns to the audience and raises both his arms in a shrugging gesture of genuine pride. The audience respond with even more rapturous applause, shaking their heads in disbelief, amazed at how real these people seem.

‘Finally,' he says, gesturing for silence, ‘many people in the Wild World will resemble this fellow.' The dickhead points at Janek. ‘They will live with earplugs in their ears. Exciting music of various styles will be pumped into their heads until, well, until everything around them becomes affected by that music, everything conforms to the merry beats and melodies that they hear. To people like Janek, life will seem like a lovely, upbeat dream. Janek here is incapable of seeing sadness. Everything he sees, however awful, is made sense of by the very cool beats and melodies we gave him to listen to. In fact, ladies and gentlemen, I could brutally sacrifice any of these individuals onstage and Janek wouldn't care. For example, I could slit the throat of Life here and drain every drop of black blood from her body, and Janek, though he's rather fond of her, would be utterly incapable of giving a shit.'

EVEN IAN SEEMS
surprised when the elderly audience begin baying for black blood.

‘Really?' he says, sweeping the cock over his head. ‘You'd really like me to kill one?'

The smartly dressed guests, even the guy who recalls the nineteenth century, are smiling, nodding and clenching their fists, shouting, ‘Yes. Yes. We'd like to see one bleed.'

A commotion is developing. ‘Really?' the dickhead keeps saying, ‘I can't believe you'd like to watch one die.' He's genuinely moved by the excitement of the crowd. He had, no doubt, expected a little more decorum from such elderly people.

Behind him, Joe has gathered everyone, even Janek, around Roger's wheelchair.

‘Let's make this quick,' says Joe. ‘Does this make sense to any of you?'

Life shakes her head. ‘It's bollocks.' She leans across and starts trying to get the earplugs of the N-Prang out of Janek's ears. It's difficult. It's like they're glued in.

‘Roger,' says Anka, ‘if I ungag you, you have to promise not to start talking crap. I'm serious. Can you do that?'

Roger nods. He relaxes his grip on the knickers and looks at Anka with honest, loving eyes. A second later she's ungagged him and he's taking deep breaths, trying to stay calm.

Life, meanwhile, has succeeded in pulling the N-Prang's earplugs out of Janek's ears.

‘Life,' gasps Janek. ‘It's. I . . .' Janek has tears in his eyes. ‘What's happening?'

‘It seems that you've been listening to the Beatles.'

Everyone can hear the familiar sound of the Beatles coming from the N-Prang earplugs. It's a famous song. ‘All You Need is Love'.

‘We're real,' says Joe. ‘Does everyone agree that we're real?'

Apart from Life, everyone seems unsure. Anka looks at Roger.

‘Was there two of me, Roger? Tell me honestly. Did you ever see two of me?'

Roger stares into his lap. He can feel the technology cranking inside him.

‘I'm not sure,' he says. ‘I'm sick. I'm confused. I'm not sure. I'm full of –'

Roger is interrupted by a loud and sudden bang.

Even though everyone is looking at Anka, waiting for her to decide whether she's real or not, it still takes them a second or two to realise that a bullet has just travelled through her head. To Life and Joe, it just looked as if her expression had changed a little. To them, when the bullet went through her head, it just looked as if she had all of a sudden remembered something extremely important. It was
only when the black blood started pouring from where her ear once was that they noticed she was dying. Anka Kudolski collapses lifeless beneath Roger's wheelchair. The others look towards the door at the side of the stage, to where another Anka Kudolski stands with a smoking gun in her hand and a bandage wrapped around her head.

‘It's me, Roger,' cries the new, still-living Anka. ‘She lied.' Anka points at Anka's corpse. ‘I'm the real me. Look.'

The new Anka is, in fact, just as thin as the one she just killed. But to Roger, she does seem slightly different. It's hard to explain why. But we have senses, us lot, weird ones. We're freaks. We are intuitive and wild.

‘Anka!' Roger cries.

‘Come with me, Roger. Now!'

Having been silenced by the gunshot, the elderly guests and Ian the Dickhead are now all staring in astonishment at Anka. They watch as she reaches into her rucksack and produces a ham sandwich. Holding it in the same hand as the gun, she brings it to her lips and takes a large bite.

‘I'm the real me,' she says again, her voice obscured a little by the food. ‘I can eat. I can get better. You're not full of technology, Roger. I swear you're not. Let's just go.'

Roger looks down at his body. It does seem so heavy. So full of crap. He fingers the black cords that come from both his ears. He looks at the corpse of Anka beneath him, the black blood leaking from her head, then at the living one eating the ham sandwich in the doorway. Around him, the young shellsuits with this season's arseholes are closing in. Fuck this, Roger decides, life is just too much fun. He leaps from his wheelchair and dashes for the door.

‘Let him go,' says Ian, calmly. ‘Let him go.'

Up on the stage, Janek, Life and Joe are being held by
their shoulders while the corpse of Anka Kudolski is cleared away.

‘Get those earplugs back in his ears,' whispers Ian to the girl holding Janek. ‘For fuck's sake,' he murmurs, adding, as an unsteady afterthought, ‘for Christ's sake.'

Though Janek tries to prevent her from doing this, deep down his struggle is all for show. He's glad. Better to live with music in your ears, he's thinking, than to actually listen to and understand the bullshit that goes on around you. Seconds later his head is swimming in happy sounds. The Beatles, or some other many-legged and musical group of men. In Janek's eyes, the elderly crowd are all suddenly sexy-dancing with each other, having a really cool time. In his eyes, Joe Aspen is not grimacing or trying to shake off his guardian and reach the travel seat. Life is not wiping tears from her eyes. To Janek, both seem fine. To him, they're both watching in amusement as Ian the Dickhead dances centre stage, swinging his head round, helicoptering his knob to the beat of the song.

In reality, however, Ian has regained his composure and is returning to the podium. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,' he's saying, ‘I can only apologise for that little interruption. Naturally, with such a complicated and groundbreaking project, there is still a little room for improvement. There are still things we can't fully control. After all, when we made these people, we were all pissing about so much that it's possible we weren't as thorough as we ought to have been. Yes, we were joking around so much that we often lost sight of the fact that we were building humans. But I'm sure we can still have some fun with these remaining specimens. Of course we can.'

Behind the dickhead, Joe finally succeeds in pushing his
minder to the ground. He runs to the travel seat, lifts Sally from it, places her over his shoulder and then turns to confront the dickhead.

‘I don't believe a word you say,' says Joe, bouncing on the spot in order to calm Sally down. ‘It's bollocks. All this. I've met dickheads like you before. I used to work in a theatre. I've known knobs who prance around making everything seem weird and dramatic, you're simply –'

‘I should say, ladies and gentlemen,' interrupts Ian with a smile, ‘that I think we made Joe's love for Life, that is to say, his love for this beautiful girl beside him, a little intense. I should make it clear because it might help us to understand his rather dramatic behaviour. We were drunk when we did it, the scientists and I, we were drunk and it's possible we made his love for this girl a little too intense. I'm sure you're familiar with how melancholy men can get when they've been drinking too much beer and wine. It's possible, in our drunken state, that we made his love for her far too strong. But don't be fooled. This boy bleeds black blood like the rest of them.'

‘I don't,' snaps Joe. ‘I bleed red blood and I love her because she's real. Aren't you, Life? Tell this dickhead. Tell him how real you are. Tell him about that shit you took before you left me.'

Life inhales anxiously inside her pretty red dress. Her lungs fill with air, causing her large and perfect breasts to protrude. ‘I don't know, Joe. I just don't know.'

You do, thinks Joe. You do know. We all know we're fucking real. It's just that sometimes we're afraid to admit it. In his frustration, Joe turns baby Sally round so she's facing Ian and, knowing full well that Sally will grab anything placed in front of her, he thrusts her forwards till her fingers are inches from his forehead.

‘Aaaaaaaagggghhhhh,' cries Ian. He's having his dick pulled extremely hard. Sally has a firm grip. Joe's pulling too. He's holding Sally by both feet, leaning back with all his weight. A shellsuited twat is up like a shot, trying to unpick the baby's grip. But the baby, naturally, is far too strong.

‘Keep hold, Sally,' shouts Joe, keen to tear the silly penis from the man's head and restore some normality. But as hard as they pull, it isn't coming off. How good the surgeons of plastic are these days. What absolute experts we are. What a gifted bunch of total fucking losers.

‘You are real, Life!' Joe's shouting, pushing away the tosspots who are trying to detach himself and Sally from the dickhead's dick. ‘I'm telling you. Listen to me. Remember, I kissed your arse. I cared for your crap. You are real, Life! We ate puffins together. You are real, Life. We ate puffins together.'

The whole occasion is chaotic. The guests don't know what to do. They hide their faces with their gloved hands. They cry out in shock. They groan. Heart attacks concealed in their ancient eyes. Ian the Dickhead has lost control. He's furious. His forehead is bruising under the strain of Sally's pulling. ‘A knife,' he keeps shouting. ‘Bring me a sharp knife!'

HOLDING TIGHTLY TO
each other, Anka and Roger run down the cold white corridors of the stadium. Neither of them knows where they're going. They turn corners at random, breathless, desperate to maintain the enthusiasm caused by their escape. The sound of the nearby crowd echoes down each corridor. Large undulations of human misery and human hope and joy. Men in orange coats stand at intervals staring at the floor. Anka and Roger turn down yet another corridor and come to a halt, panting and leaning against each other.