Touch

fracture_childSun 13/01/08 10:34

TOUCH

The bruises tomorrow morning would be beautiful. They would be the perfect, transitory souvenir of the best gig Aaron had ever been to. The music had reverberated around and through the crowd but he had hardly heard it. All he had cared about was the heaving mass of sticky bodies crushing him from all sides. Glimpses of strangers that had flashed past him were now recorded in perfect detail in his memory. A blonde girl, eyes wide with love and chemicals. A long haired boy, his wiry body taut with the promise of violence. A dark haired girl, like a young Rose McGowan, gazing up at the sky, her mouth gaping with unspoken thoughts. The sweat slimed face of a guy thrust so close to Aaron that he could smell his sour breath and see the tear drop tattooed at the corner of his eye. In those brief seconds, Aaron was connected to them, knew them more truly than they did themselves.
He had gone alone. He always did. He never spoke to any of them, however close they came. There was no need. Those brief touches were contact enough.
Dawn was only half an hour at way at most. The streets were quiet. The only sound Aaron could hear was the ringing in his ears. Absently, he ran his fingers over his battered torso, exploring the tender skin beneath his drenched red t-shirt. He must have lost a few pounds at least just in sweat tonight. There was little left of the puppy fat he had been shedding since he entered adolescence. In a year's time he would officially be a man, yet his body had never felt lighter.
He found himself looking up at that corporate blocks, the neon Middia Hycron logo blazing at the top of each one, that loomed over him. They reached so high that they seemed to block out the sky. A thousand people worked and slept in each one. They were waiting for him join to them as they waited for all of the young.
Aaron shivered. His elation had been replaced by queasy fear. He reached into his pocket and re-assured himself that his wallet was still there. He knew that there was a two hundred yen dollar note inside. Enough for a few hours in the Berths at least.
He heard a clattering of high heeled feet. A gang of girls had appeared ahead of him. Three of them, loud with drunken confidence. Alcohol still held its age old appeal for some. As the trio drew nearer, Aaron recognised one of them. Claire. Tall, beautiful, elegant and tough. His girlfriend until two months ago, when she had finally tired of his peculiarities. The raucous conversation had suddenly subdued to a whisper. They were talking about him. Aaron wondered what she was telling them. That he could hardly bare to touch her, let alone make love to her? That after weeks of relentlessly pursuing her, when she'd finally given in, he'd lost all interest? That she didn't know if he was gay or frigid or just plain strange? The girls started giggling as they passed him. Aaron stared down at the pavement, trying to think of the press of strangers. The laughter was swallowed up by the night as the footsteps receded behind him.
He took a deep breath. The Berths, he told himself. Go there and forget everything else.
Twenty minutes later, he walked through the doors of Mr Redberry's establishment. Not many admitted to knowing of its existence but everyone knew where it was. Even now, the Berths lurked in a grey area between the criminal and the legal. A multitude of pressure groups wanted them banned and raids were a regular occurrence.
The premises had once been a warehouse for a medical supply company that had expired at the turn of the century. All the old fixtures had been removed. There was no decoration. All that the vast, echoing room contained was a line of upright metal caskets that ran along one wall. The blue surfaces shimmered hypnotically under the light tubes that hung from the ceiling. These were the Berths. Machines that moulded dreams from reality.
Aaron looked over to his right. Just as he knew it would, a small, plain door opened and Mr Redberry emerged from his box of an office. He was an extremely short, tubby man with a bowl haircut and a perpetual, rather unnerving smile. Aaron had always thought that he looked like an old school comedian from the analogue days.
‘Well, well, Aaron' beamed Mr Redberry. ‘It's been a while since we've enjoyed your custom'
‘I've only got two hundred'
The smile grew broader.
‘I'm sure I can allow you a little extra. You can owe me a favour'
Aaron nodded gratefully and handed him the money. He had no idea what kind of ‘favour' Redberry had in mind and at the moment he didn't really care.
The diminutive proprietor lead him to a casket and, puffing, swung back the heavy lid. Aaron clambered into the narrow recess. The door clanged shut behind him.
There was a faint humming as the Berth came to life. Needles pricked at his arm. A Codeine and Prozac Beta Four solution began to pump direct to his bloodstream. A warm, relaxing glow spread through Aaron's body as a screen flickered into life in front of him.
R u an Xisting Usr?
Yes, he thought. The machine registered the impulse, probing his DNA to confirm identity.
Do u want an Xisting or nu construct?
He considered. The Berth could recall everything it and its siblings had ever made for him. There was no fantasy that could not be relived. Now though, he wanted something fresh, built from the experiences of the night.
Nu.
The Berth meshed its software to Aaron's mind. It caressed his synapses, running cold, disembodied fingers through his psyche. A screen disappeared. A figure started to form in front of him. A dark haired girl, eyes wide with love and chemicals, body taut with the promise of violence. Her mouth gaped with unspoken thoughts, A black shape beneath one eye resolved itself into a tear drop tattoo. Sour breath tickled his cheek as lips like a young Rose McGowan's kissed him. The construct gently wrapped its around him, drawing him into a soft embrace.
Some used the Berths to create elaborate scenarios, populated by dozens of characters. But for Aaron this was enough: to be held in the darkness by a nameless thing.
The image of a small clock appeared discreetly in the corner of his vision. Counting down his allotted time. He had three hours: two paid for, one exchanged for a favour. After that, the door would automatically open.
The construct was stroking his back now, comforting him like a mother with a child.
From outside, there was a sudden pounding of fists against a wooden door, followed by a splintering crack! Booted feet rang out on the stone floor. Men were shouting. From the sound of them, men in uniforms. Something crashed into the side of the Berth, jolting it. The construct flickered for a few moments and Aaron whimpered in dismay. It reformed quickly, close and consoling once more.
He heard Mr Redberry's protesting voice as it faded into the distance, by turns threatening and cajoling.
Silence.
It must have been another raid, he thought. A civil police agency perhaps. Maybe the Hollywood lawyers were pissed off about people using their clients' images in their dreamscapes or perhaps there was another lobby group sponsored movement against post modernism or post structuralism or whatever the hell they were calling it these days. At least he was safe.
The clock had vanished.
A shiver of excitement ran through his body. The construct was still active but the timing mechanism had disengaged. There was nothing to