D. Compton - The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe

Later, except for him and her, the rooms were quite empty. She sat up. Incredibly, he had found a TV set and was watching it. Yards away, past hideous, lumpy somethings his face was lit by the purplish TV glow. She stared around: the place was a huge, idiotic shambles. Anybody could hang mirrors on plastic threads and twiddle them. Anybody could trundle in machines and out again. Anybody could blow up plastic bags and call them furniture.

He heard her move and quickly turned off the set. He looked up at her from the upholstered hollow in which he was sprawling. In the houses of the rich, apparently, nobody was expected to sit. ‘Feeling better?’

He didn’t attempt to come to her. She shook her head. ‘Not much.’

‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to accept lifts from strangers?’

‘Which mother?’

She could be as clever as he, say as little, wait.

‘I reckon they spiked your drinks. How much do you remember?’

Then she did remember. Coldly she thrust her clothes down between her legs. ‘I was raped,’ she said.

‘No—’ He heaved himself up. ‘That was what they wanted. Something of the sort. But—’

‘Do you think I don’t know?’

‘They went away. I swear it. Sidled out like a bunch of naughty children.’

‘Do you think I don’t know?’

He hurried to her, tried to take her hand. But she hid it away. ‘Believe me, Katherine. When it came to it, there wasn’t a man who would. That’s the truth.’

‘But the machine…’

‘They spiked your drink. You were confused.’

She remembered the breath in her face, the dry ache. ‘Where are they now?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s a big house. And there’s always next door. They’re all pals up here on Fairhills.’

‘How long have I been—?’

‘Not more than an hour. I tell you, Katherine, they spiked your drink.’

She shook her head, remembering the breath in her face. But she didn’t want to talk about it. ‘How much do you know about computers?’ she said instead.

‘Me, I don’t even know about people. When I refused them their peep-show they got real mad. I’d’ve said they were all set to hurt someone. But—’

‘I have a theory about computers. You see, they don’t have self-knowledge. On a fundamental level there’s no feedback. Otherwise it’d be like an audio system. If a microphone hears what it transmits, it transmits what it hears. Louder and louder till something breaks.’

‘Katherine, I wish I knew what the hell you’re talking about.’

‘I’m a bit more than a computer, Rod. I have self-knowledge. I understand what I know what I know what I understand.’

‘So do we all.’

‘But you’re not dying of it. I am.’ She let him take her hand. She dared, in the dark and secret, no-place room, dared tell him anything. ‘So I’ve been warned what to expect. Louder and louder till something breaks.’

‘Louder? When you say louder, do you really mean faster?’

She took off her goggles, leaned back, closed her eyes. It was good that he should understand. She remembered breath in her face where he said there’d been none. She remembered the dry pushing between her legs where he said there wasn’t a man who would. She believed him. And the wheels of the machine, the smooth and beautiful machine, would have left lines in the thick red pile of the carpet… She felt a rigor coming, and dismissed it as hysteria, mere wishful thinking. Rather this than Lord of Upper Egypt: rigor, paralysis, sweating, coordination loss, double vision, incontinence, hallucination, breakdown of… It was untidy to have missed out on the incontinence, untidy not to have every symptom every time. But clearly her twenty-four days were down to less, to ten, or six, or three, or two.

‘Rod? What peep-show did you refuse them, Rod?’

He squeezed her hand. ‘It doesn’t matter. They didn’t get it. It doesn’t matter.’

Her fingers were huge and swollen, so that they rubbed together like sausages where he held them. ‘I’ve got to get old,’ she said. ‘There’s… so much I’ve got to understand.’

‘So have we all.’

‘Does it sound such pious bullshit the way I say it?’

‘It doesn’t sound pious bullshit at all.’

‘Oh Lord…’ Her mind was wandering off, meeting the rigor halfway. ‘The thing is… we expect the impossible. We always expect things to have to mean something.’

‘And don’t they?’

‘Poor Rod, of course they don’t. Just… circuits.’

He sat beside her for a long time. Somewhere in the dark velvet spaces of the room a clock struck midnight. The sculptures turned and flittered. He sat beside her through the rigor and the paralysis, and beyond. Finally she slept.

When Dawlish, the monitoring engineer, finally got through to Vincent he was in his dressing gown, pouring the last of the brandy, preparing for bed. Vincent had had a busy Sunday, knocking Roddie’s accumulated footage into shape for the evening transmission. Running it at thirty minutes — twenty-seven with commercials — they had plenty of good stuff left, possibly to plug gaps with later on.

Judging from the switchboard’s reports, the show’s reception had been mixed. He wasn’t worried — reaction to something new was always cautious. They’d looked, and they’d look again. At this stage he asked for nothing more. Harry’d been on the phone, of course, just to say how pleased he was everything was going so nicely. His wife looked surprisingly well, he thought.

Vincent had watched the transmission alone, and then settled down to unwind with a bottle before going early to bed. He had a wife, too, but they seldom met. Mostly he lived in a suite at the top of NTV House.

He listened carefully to what Dawlish had to say, thanked him for thinking to keep him informed (he was good with subordinates), and said he’d be down at once. In fact it took him ten minutes to get down to the monitoring room. He had shaved first, and put on a clean shirt and a sharp check tie. No problem looked so bad if you weren’t yourself shop-soiled.

‘… Rod. I have self-knowledge. I understand what I know what I know what I understand.’

And on the screen, Katherine Mortenhoe, wearing her ridiculous goggles.

‘What’s that supposed to mean? Eh?’

The monitoring engineer sighed. ‘Looks like she’s gone round the bend, sir.’

Vincent peered at the screen, wishing Roddie’d give him a half-shot, some idea of what was going on. ‘How long have they been in Rondavel’s house?’

‘Since about seven, sir.’

‘Why the hell wasn’t I called earlier?’

Roddie’s voice: ‘Louder? When you say louder, do you really mean faster?’

‘Well? Turn that bloody thing down. Why wasn’t I called sooner?’

‘I’ve… only just come on duty, sir. Mr Simpson probably thought—’

‘I see. You’re Dawlish, aren’t you?’

The man nodded, straightened his white coat at being recognized.

‘Well, Dawlish, I’m glad someone in the department uses his head. What’s been happening?’

‘Quite a lot, sir, one way and another. I’ve been rerunning the tapes. I’m afraid they’re pretty hot.’

‘The chairman’s no angel, Dawlish. We all know that. And I’m sure I can rely on your discretion.’

‘Of course, Mr Ferriman.’

Dawlish brought out the pompous in him. He could scarcely believe there were Dawlishes left — he’d thought one of the last had been his house master… On the screen Katherine Mortenhoe appeared to be asleep. The picture crept away from her, around acres of typical dolce vita decor. Vincent could hardly credit it. The designer had done exactly the same for him once, on a drama one-shot. He wondered if the chairman knew.