Frankie Styne & the Silver Man (15 page)

Hydraulics

That April, spring and summer merged into one. Overnight, colours brightened, and seemed wet-looking, as if recently applied. Trees and plants grew almost visibly exuding the scents of pollen and sap. On Onley Street, builders' skips and scaffolding appeared. Alice and Tom had the guttering done. Old windows were replaced, roofs were retiled. Window cleaners followed the builders, and women crouched in the gardens, pulling out couch grass, clover and dandelions, and shearing away last year's dead growth.

Jim grew, too. He was too heavy to carry in the sling for long walks, but cried when he was put in the stroller. If Liz thought about the whole of her life like this, lived one season following the other in a street like this––suppose she never got away––she felt almost as scared as she had when the man followed her, that night down by the carriages. She felt sick, her heart raced. Yes, she knew they were lucky to have the place, and what else could she do? She took to using the bus more often: to the city centre, or to different parks. She needed to be out and about, she explained to Jim. If you were on the move, it somehow felt as if things might change.

Frank worked on. He did not feel the urge to tidy or renovate. He sometimes liked to sit in the back garden, and he liked to look out on it, but the maintenance was dealt with by Green Fingers, who visited bi-weekly during the growing season. Towards the end of the month, he dressed in his suit and took the train to London to visit Dr Davidson's Harley St. clinic in connection with his real-life plot.

The clinic was situated in a four-storey Georgian terrace. Stone mullions graced the ground level, and above them arched windows were guarded by wrought iron balconies. Frank mounted five steps to a brass plaque and bell and a wide panelled door. Inside, Vivaldi seeped into the waiting area where he filled out the medical history form. He was then taken down a corridor to a small room where an elderly doctor, not Davidson, but a colleague, tested his reflexes, blood pressure and so on and took a blood sample. He was given coffee and sandwiches while he waited for the results of his tests. Finally, he was ushered into Dr. Davidson's consulting room, which was more like a formal lounge in someone's very expensive home than a medical office; there were abstract paintings on the walls and the tops of a blossoming cherry trees showed above the blinds covering the lower part of the windows, in front of which three Italian leather armchairs arranged to face each other.

‘Well, Mr Styne,' Dr Davidson said—he was young and lean, tieless, but wearing a cream shirt which looked like silk—‘you seem to have passed all our tests with flying colours! Sit down, please, sit down… I'm glad to say that I'm sure we can help you. But the first thing to say, really, is that I see forty new patients a week. This is a very common issue and there's absolutely no need to be embarrassed.'

Frank nodded, and indeed, perhaps unexpectedly, he did not feel self-conscious at all. The leather chair supported his back perfectly and the whole thing seemed so smoothly and professionally done, interesting, too.

Nothing physical was wrong, Davidson explained. Losing some weight and taking more exercise might help, but it could well be that the problem was psychological. In which case, such things took an age to unravel, talking about the past and so on twice a week for years… It was likely to be upsetting, the outcome was always uncertain, and meanwhile the problem persisted, possibly worsened, definitely cost a fair amount, since psychotherapy could be expected to last for years, whereas an implant could be purchased, installed, and only a week or so later, discretely pumped up at will, in seconds, in any situation one chose. Admittedly the pump was something some men felt to be a drawback. The doctor was sure that in a decade or so there would be a drug, a simple pill to be popped at will, but meanwhile, there were also self-administered injections, if the idea of surgery was alarming or prohibitively expensive . . .

‘Many normal men,' he continued, ‘would envy the range and sheer reliability that either solution provides. I do feel countless joyless marriages could probably be saved by these techniques. It's not a matter of deception, simply one of breaking a vicious cycle. Of
re-education
. One associates pleasure with the object involved: Pavlov. For instance, it does sometimes happen that what gives the wife greatest pleasure may be something of a letdown as far as the husband is concerned. This can upset both parties, especially over a number of years. Or it may be that with the passing of time the wife, though much loved (or perhaps there are children involved), has changed physically in some other way such as to make her seem unattractive to her spouse. We can solve these problems and save both partners a great deal of anguish.'

‘The fact is,' Frank began, ‘in fact, I'm not—' They were seated opposite each other with only a low coffee table between them. Dr. Davidson leaned in closer.

‘As for the single man, it can make a relationship possible. More than that, it's also a ticket to adventure. Situations that might perhaps intimidate can be taken on—and thoroughly enjoyed—without fear. One can return to the polymorphous perversity of one's youth. The world's your oyster, if you'll excuse the stock phrasing! We are,' he said, leaning back, smiling, ‘talking about a pretty simple mechanism here.'

It has not, Frank thought, been simple for me. He shifted in the chair. ‘I worry that it won't feel real,' he said. But then again, how would he know?

‘I think it feels real enough to most men! I know this can seem almost too good to be true, but don't put the cart before the horse,' Davidson said, increasingly falling back on the stock phrases he had earlier apologised for. ‘Above all, studies have shown, the impotent man's problem is confidence. And once you're A-OK in that department, all kinds of other problems will just disappear in a puff of smoke. And what I am proposing is pretty much bound to give you confidence, though of course I can't give a one hundred percent guarantee.'

Given the capacity, Dr Davidson pointed out, Frank could do whatever he decided to do, and enjoyment would be guaranteed… He could, therefore, Frank supposed, tie Katie Rumbold up with washing line and have sexual intercourse with her even if she was vomiting and even if she hated him, and enjoy it thoroughly. One thing led to another: an effect could be battened on to the cause of one's choosing. Any cause at all. The plan was completely viable.

‘You're saying that I can make myself enjoy anything at all?' he asked.

‘Absolutely. Nothing is out of bounds. This is a physical response. Bodily events in response to stimulus, feedback. Put your hand in fire and it burns; real as that, though pleasanter, of course! Just, as I said, you need a kick start, to break that vicious circle. It's a question of taking the plunge.'

Dr Davidson took an implant and attached hand-pump from the drawer of his desk and demonstrated it. It reminded Frank of the thing they'd just used to measure his blood pressure. Not very elegant, he thought.

‘I would need it by the ninth of May,' Frank said.

‘Well,' the consultant smiled, leaning back in his chair and counting on his fingers, ‘yes, I should think we could just about be up and running by then . . .' He squeezed the rubbery bladder and up it went. It was simple. Perhaps arousal was not a thing to be properly remembered without re-experiencing it, all there was being knowledge of the facts?

‘Hydraulics,' the consultant said, ignoring such philosophical niceties. Hydraulics came first, the feeling came after. ‘Of course, allowing your partner to operate the pump could well become an erotic experience for her—or him. Or even them! And surgically, it's child's play. There are a range of models, all effective and durable, though those at the higher end of the price range are perhaps a little more convenient.'

The cost was not unreasonable and far cheaper than facial reconstruction about which Frank had also enquired. Extensive facial reconstruction—frog to prince—grafts, tucks, shaved bones, such as he'd require, was not something he could afford even though he was comfortably off, and in any case could not be done in time.

‘Besides,' Dr Davidson said, ‘that's a long and uncertain route. Suppose you went through all that and still the problem persisted . . . But I sense you're uncertain, Mr Styne. Is the idea of surgery putting you off? We men can feel rather vulnerable down there.'

I don't feel anything down there, Frank thought. But surgery certainly wasn't something he welcomed and he grasped at the idea. Surgery introduced an element of risk he would rather be without. He had often used operations in his books, though not one exactly like this. Things went wrong. People died under anaesthetic, knives slipped, infections flourished. And the fact was, though of course he couldn't say this, he didn't need something permanent. It was only to be used the once.

‘Maybe,' he said. ‘You mentioned alternatives.'

‘Perhaps you'd be happier with the injections. We do the first one here, so that you know what to do and what to expect. After that you take your supplies and go… If that's your choice, would you like to step into the room next door?'

‘Your name is terribly familiar, Mr Styne,' Dr Davidson said cheerfully. ‘It's been nagging away at the back of my mind all the time we've talked . . .' Frank felt the needle slide in. ‘I know—you write those books. Is that you? I must say I've been a fan of yours for years. Would you sign one for me when you come for your check-up?

‘Takes about ten minutes. Put your things back on. You'd be surprised, Mr Styne, at the number of famous people—actors, sportsmen, TV personalities and so on, even royalty—who have sat where you are sitting now. Along with quite ordinary people as well. Confidentiality is, of course, absolute. Do you feel anything?' Frank nodded, preoccupied. It was growing. It ached.

Very occasionally, the consultant said as he counted out the syringes, the erection didn't subside, in which case there was a remedy, another injection, which, however, must be administered by a qualified medical professional. The best thing was not to use it the first time, but to wait downstairs, or at the very least not to go too far away for an hour or so until de-tumescence occurred.

Frank emerged, dazed, from the clinic's cool atmosphere, clutching his supplies. The light was over-bright, the city air smelled of burned dust. Nothing seemed quite straight or ­parallel; the bright white lines of sills and window frames appeared to fight with each other, broken suddenly into two halves that didn't quite meet. Traffic sped past nose to tail and the whole of London seemed to rumble as if there were a slow, steady earthquake running on and on, night into day. He had missed lunch to make the appointment which, he thought, might explain how shaky he felt . . . The erection burned between his legs. It felt separate from him, like something clipped on. Feeling very conspicuous, he crossed the road carefully and passed through wrought-iron gates into a small park. He thought he would sit there a while, sit very still, on a green painted bench under a plane tree, in deep shadow with his eyes closed.

He squeezed his legs together and felt the sensation shift, increase. The contact of skin on skin, the pressure, was real enough. So now he could do it . . . A syringe and a length of washing line. Pressure on nerves, travelling to the brain. It almost hurt. He could, Frank thought, visit a prostitute now, as a trial run. Though he had no desire to. Somehow, he just wanted to be on his own. He tried to think of the picture taped by the telephone, but his mind kept wandering away.

After a few minutes other sensations appeared. Tears began to ooze from behind his lids. He didn't touch them, but felt their slow tracks creeping down over the contours of his face, and somehow this made him very aware of the difference between inside and outside. Outside—on the surface—he felt the slow trickling, the coolness of evaporation: sensation which was real, physiological, yet felt unimportant. Outside was the thing between his legs, burning. Inside was a great hollowness, an empty and expanding space contained by something infinitely elastic which ached and ached. A seeming only, not really there; just a feeling which was, however, much more compelling than the sensations of tears or arousal. And as well as this he was afraid that everything­––that he––might burst. He breathed shallowly so as to prevent the aching space inside or the erection from growing any larger.

He felt he would never be able to move from that bench, until suddenly there were voices somewhere close and he found himself on his feet, striding in the opposite direction with the tears drying and the inside feeling at least temporarily gone. He took a taxi to the station, and by the time he arrived he was, physically at least, back to normal.

The train rumbled sedately through the endless suburbs. He'd brought his work with him.

He wrote about Sandra. Her legs were swollen, her belly pressed her to the bed. Besides, Dr Villarossa said, exertion would not be advisable. She spent her days lounging in her bathrobe, listening to the radio and watching television. The husband carried her meals up; Dr Villarossa supplied special supplements to her diet, and visited her at home every day . . .

‘I should have had it last month,' he made Sandra say.

Her face too was swollen, reddened, heavy. Her roots had grown out. Her eyes were bloodshot. She'd become lazy, ate with her fingers, was always hungry, had no sense of time. Thick blue veins pounded on her thighs. She had bedsores. Her husband had to help her to the toilet and shower. She disgusted him.

‘Everything is as it should be,' he made Dr Villarossa say.

‘Please,' she begged, ‘let me see another doctor.'

‘That won't be necessary,' Dr Villarossa replied.

‘It was what you wanted!' the husband said to his wife. ‘You've got what you wanted, so stop complaining.'