Machines Like Me

It had taken all of my twenties to learn from women combatants that in a full-on row it was not necessary to respond to the last thing said. Generally, it was best not to. In an attacking move, ignore bishop or castle. Logic and straight lines were out. Best to rely on the knight.

I said, ‘It must have occurred to you last night, lying under a plastic robot, screaming your head off, that it’s the human factor you hate.’

She said, ‘You just told me he’s human.’

‘But you think he’s a dildo. Nothing too complicated. That’s what turns you on.’

She knew a knight’s move too. ‘You fancy yourself as a lover.’

I waited.

‘You’re a narcissist. You think making a woman come is an achievement. Your achievement.’

‘With you it is.’ That was nonsense.

She was standing now. ‘I’ve seen you in the bathroom. Adoring yourself in the mirror.’

An excusable error. My days sometimes began with an unspoken soliloquy. A matter of seconds, usually after shaving. I dried my face, looked myself in the eye, listed failings, the usual: money, living quarters, no serious work and, lately, Miranda – lack of progress, now this. I also set myself tasks for the day ahead, trivial stuff, embarrassing to relate. Take out the rubbish. Drink less. Get a haircut. Get out of commodities. I never thought I’d been observed. A bathroom door, hers or mine, could have been ajar. Perhaps my lips were moving.

But this was not the time to set Miranda straight. Across from us sat comatose Adam. Glancing at him now, at the muscular forearms, the steep angle of his nose, and feeling a prick of resentment, I remembered. As I said the words, I knew I could be making an important mistake.

‘Remind me what the Salisbury judge said.’

It worked. Her face went slack as she turned away from me and returned to the other side of the kitchen. Half a minute passed. She was by the cooker, staring into the corner, worrying something in her hand, a corkscrew, a cork or a flap of wine-bottle foil. As the silence went on, I was looking at the line of her shoulders, wondering if she was crying, whether, in my ignorance, I’d gone too far. But when she turned at last to look at me she was composed, her face was dry.

‘How do you know about that?’

I nodded towards Adam.

She took this in and then she said, ‘I don’t understand.’ Her voice was small.

‘He has all kinds of access.’

‘Oh God.’

I added, ‘He’s probably looked me up too.’

With this, the row collapsed in on itself, without reconciliation or estrangement. Now we were united against Adam. But that wasn’t my immediate concern. The delicate trick was to appear to know a lot in order to find out something, anything.

I said, ‘You could call it curiosity on Adam’s part. Or regard it as some kind of algorithm.’

‘What’s the difference?’

Turing’s point precisely. But I said nothing.

‘If he’s going to tell people,’ she went on. ‘That’s what matters.’

‘He’s only told me.’

The object in her hand was a teaspoon. She rolled it restlessly, worked it between her fingers, transferred it to her left and began again, then handed it back. She wasn’t aware of what she was doing. It was unpleasant to watch. How much easier it would have been if I didn’t love her. Then I could have been alive to her needs instead of calculating my own as well. I had to know what happened in court, then understand, embrace, support, forgive – whatever was required. Self-interest dressed as kindness. But it was also kindness. My fraudulent voice sounded thin in my ears.

‘I don’t know your side of it.’

She came back to the table and sat heavily. She said through a clotted throat she wouldn’t make the effort to clear, ‘No one does.’ At last she looked at me directly. There was nothing sorrowful or needy in her gaze. Her eyes were hard with stubborn defiance.

I said gently, ‘You could tell me.’

‘You know enough.’

‘Is going to the mosque something to do with it?’

She gave me a look of pity and faintly shook her head.

‘Adam read me the judge’s summing-up,’ I lied again as I remembered that he had told me she was the liar. Malicious.

Her elbows were on the table, her hands partly obscured her mouth. She was looking away towards the window.

I blundered on. ‘You can trust me.’

At last she cleared her throat. ‘None of it was true.’

‘I see.’

‘Oh God,’ she said again. ‘Why was Adam telling you?’

‘I don’t know. But I know this is on your mind all the time. I want to help you.’

This was when she should have put her hand in mine and told me everything. Instead, she was bitter. ‘Don’t you understand? He’s still in prison.’

‘Yes.’

‘Another three months. Then he’s out.’

‘Yes.’

She raised her voice. ‘So how are you going to help with that?’

‘I’ll do my best.’

She sighed. Her voice went quiet. ‘Do you know something?’

I waited.

‘I hate you.’

‘Miranda. Come on.’

‘I didn’t want you or your special friend knowing about me.’

I reached for her hand but she moved it away. I said, ‘I understand. But now I know and it doesn’t change my feelings. I’m on your side.’