Authors: Rachael Eyre
The last exhibit claimed to make ‘Friends of the Future!’ He went for a closer look. For obvious reasons the emphasis had shifted from replica humans to cutesy, cuddly robots. He spent ten minutes trying to shake a dogbot from his ankle.
A stocky young man beckoned through the curtain. “Looking for something different?”
Something about him gave Alfred the willies. He looked in his thirties, middle height, colourless hair, unremarkable - yet. His runny eyes stared too much, his hands were unpleasantly damp. Yellow teeth protruded over his lip. His voice was much too soft.
Alfred followed his guide into a low room bathed in sterile light. Trolleys were ranged in a semi circle, each with a recumbent figure.
“These are the latest models. They don’t bite.”
Alfred bent to inspect them. A gorgeous Hujian woman, a Radan gent in his forties. Their every feature - hair, lashes, nails - was perfect. If it hadn’t been for the tag beneath their right ear, they would have looked as real as him. Certainly they were in better nick.
“I’ve never seen such life like robots.”
“You can make an advance order.”
“Um, no thanks. They’re not my -”
“Ah.” The man’s voice became solicitous. “You want my
special
range.”
They went down a claustrophobic passage, past models of varying ages, races and attractiveness. There was a small blond man that, if Alfred had seen him in a bar and not
known
he was a robot –
They edged into a room so cramped it was a wonder his guide could fit into it. The light came on. Alfred gasped, fighting back the urge to vomit. Packed into containers, like fish on a market stall, were a series of child robots. They were naked and vulnerable, their glassy eyes staring ahead. Everything fell into place: the man’s insinuating manner, the winks and twitches. For only the third time in his life, Alfred stared into an evil so vast it threatened to swallow him.
“Get me the fuck out of here.”
The man sniggered. “They’re just kid shaped vibrators. Think of all the crime that could be prevented. I mean, it’s only a preference, right? Like being queer -”
Alfred snatched at something to shut him up. Realising it was a model of a child’s arm, he dropped it and raced outside.
The tent was dismantled and its ‘special range’ brought before a horrified public. Forty eight hours later the man drove his vix into a ravine. Eric Spalding, aged twenty three. Undoubtedly a genius, yet - whisper - a
clone
. It made sense. Nobody human would think of something like that.
“Alfred?” Josh laid his book aside. “Are you alright?”
“A bad dream, that’s all.”
“This Larch stuff’s a bit gloomy. Airships?”
“Okay. Go easy on me.”
That lovely grin. “I promise no such thing.”
***
The next day was unseasonably hot, so they went for a ramble. Alfred was saddened to see the great oak had been struck in the storm. Her roots trailed across the path. “There’s history in this tree,” he said, stroking the familiar bark. “It’s where Uriel Craven was offered the Protectorship, and where my parents met.”
“Was it romantic?”
“Not really. Mum was doing a cycling tour of the county; she’d sneaked onto the grounds. She found the tree, read the inscription -” now blasted into oblivion - “and lined up her camera. Then, crunch! Her foot got caught in an animal trap.”
“Ouch!”
“Dad was moping around, he’d come home for the summer, and overheard. He found this little Fells lass hopping about and swearing.”
“That’s not very lady like!”
“Love at first sight, he said.” Alfred stopped, embarrassed. Unlike everyone else he knew, who blamed their parents for everything, he had adored his.
“Tell me about them.”
“Won’t you find it boring?”
“I’m always talking about Dr Sugar.”
They feasted on berries as Alfred talked, Josh listening avidly. His folks. Lord Arthur, gentle giant. He’d dabbled in everything but never found his vocation. Lady Constance had been dynamic and forceful; it was her idea to open Chimera to the public. A marvellous mess - she’d shed hair pins, clean spouse and kids alike with spit - but a loving one.
“They sound wonderful.”
“They were.”
Conscious of the time, Alfred rose so suddenly the trunk seesawed. They landed on the grass, showered with berries. They laughed and laughed.
That afternoon they went their separate ways. Josh continued his research, Alfred had an article to write. As night fell, Josh went down to the library. Alfred worked in the lamp’s rosy glow, surrounded by balls of paper. He sighed, kneading his forehead. Josh stepped across the rug and laid his hand on his friend’s head.
“What’s it about?”
“That’d be telling.” Relenting, “It’s out next week.”
“Have you packed?”
“Everything’s on the chair.”
Josh opened the heavy canvas bag and rifled through. “Uh -”
“Don’t say you’re not impressed.”
He lifted out a crossbow. “In what scenario will we need
this
?”
“Protection?”
“Can’t we take Puss?”
Alfred’s eyebrows were semaphores. “You want to sneak up on the Toaster with a
lion
?”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“There’s a shortcut to the cemetery. Come on!”
Some ideas slot seamlessly into place. A combination of luck and planning means everything works out and you look back with pride. Others unravel, making you wish you’d never had them. The night of the Larch Toaster belonged to the second category.
Josh wasn’t cold, but he was uncomfortable and restless. Perhaps this tree hadn’t been the best hiding place. One false move and they’d plummet into an open grave.
Alfred obviously thought the same. “What are we
doing
up here?”
“They won’t see us amongst the foliage.”
“Couldn’t we have gone behind a headstone?”
“It’s the best vantage point -” He registered Alfred’s averted eyes. “You’re not scared of heights?”
“No,” he said, too quickly to be convincing.
“Your voice goes up an octave when you lie.”
“Thanks, Mr Tactful! I’m
not
, just wary. They’re so rickety and - high.”
Josh touched Alfred’s wrist. It nearly caused a conflagration; he was lighting up to calm his nerves. The snuffed pipe dropped into space.
They ran through their list of waiting games - I Spy, Twenty Questions, Thumb War. Josh doubted the Toaster was going to show up. It was twenty three forty by his estimation.
“Bet he’s croaked,” Alfred said. “Talk about selfish.”
“What makes you think it’s a man?”
“Can you see a woman doing something this naff?”
Alfred had a theory the Toaster was a traditionalist: “He’ll do it on the last stroke of twenty four, mark my words.” Either he hadn’t received the memo or his watch was fast. It was twenty three fifty seven when they heard an effortful creak on the other side of the cemetery.
Josh focused his vision. Whoever it was had a scarf pulled up over their face and they were walking gingerly. Something sloshed in their pocket.
“Got you,” Alfred whispered.
“There might be an innocent explanation -”
“If my auntie had balls, she’d be my uncle.”
“I daresay she would.”
The oak hung directly above Larch’s grave. Josh could read the inscription. He knew the writer’s fame was posthumous, but it was a drab memorial. ‘EA Larch 1832 - 1871’. No ‘Grievously Lamented’ or ‘Departed This Life,’ though you’d hope he had.
The Toaster knelt, tracing the letters with their fingers. “Thank you for everything,” a voice murmured, more masculine than otherwise. Alfred dug Josh in the ribs, grinning ear to ear. Humans loved being right, perhaps because it didn’t happen very often.
Josh launched himself from the tree, pulling on Alfred’s leg. He came down too, yelling in astonishment. Though perhaps he had the best of it: while Josh struck his chin against the headstone, closer than he wanted to be to a slug, Alfred’s fall was broken by the Toaster. That gentleman wasn’t too pleased to have sixteen stone of explorer land on top of him. He lay wheezing in the mud, trying to get up.
“That didn’t go according to plan,” Josh said, and “You can say that again,” Alfred grumbled. Out of the murk a third voice asked, “Lord Langton?”
“Are we speaking to the Larch Toaster?”
“If I say yes, will you get off?”
“Why not?”
Alfred heaved himself up, Josh helped the Toaster to his feet, and they sat on the headstone. As the Toaster snapped on a flashlight, Josh gasped. With his pinched features, bulging eyes and oily hair, he looked uncannily like Larch. Alfred clocked the resemblance too.
“Do you want something to drink?” the Toaster asked.
“Thought you’d never ask.” The kit bag contained three tumblers. Josh rolled his eyes as Alfred gave himself a generous helping. “Good stuff. Too good to waste on a dead man.”
“But you said -” Josh began. A flash of blue eyes stopped him.
The Toaster fidgeted. “I’m sure Larch wouldn’t mind a libation -”
“They don’t call you the Toaster for nothing!” Alfred chinked glasses with Josh, then their new acquaintance. “Didn’t the great man say, ‘Give me a drink, a girl and a song/And nothing that follows can ever be wrong?’ Always thought that sounded dodgy but, you know, values dissonance.”
“I don’t recall that one,” the Toaster said.
“I thought a fan like yourself would know every line. I remember reading about someone who was so obsessed with a writer, she paid a thousand Q for a shopping list. Yet you’ve honoured his death every year for the past thirty years. Funny, that.”
“What are you inferring?”
“I’m not implying anything.”
Josh read the man’s body language. He put his hands on the Toaster’s shoulders and watched his face. “There never was an EA Larch, was there?”
The man was racked by painful sobs. It was only as he stopped hiccupping and Alfred passed him a handkerchief they made out what he was saying. “Thank Thea, thank Thea.”
“He’s mad,” Josh whispered.
“No, he’s gone sane,” Alfred said. Raising his voice, “Tell us in your own words. It’ll go no further.” He refilled the tumbler and put it into the Toaster’s hands.
“No.” His voice, weak at first, steadied. “There’s no E A Larch. Or, rather, whoever’s under that stone isn’t
the
E A Larch. Oh, it’s such a relief to tell someone!”
“Why did you make him up?” Josh asked.
“My father was brilliant. Have you any idea what it’s like, being related to a genius but ordinary yourself?”
“Yes,” Alfred said. Josh poked him.
“He was the headmaster of a boys’ school; not nearly good enough, but he had a temper and offended people. His real work was resurrecting late, great playwrights.
I
wasn’t good at anything. I squeaked through my exams, got a job as a clerk. If he thought of me at all, it was as his bitterest disappointment.
One night I was caught in a storm. I’d had a long, demoralising day at work - my supervisor hinted that if I made one more mistake, they’d let me go. I seriously considered standing out in the fields and getting hit by lightning. But I couldn’t do it.
I took a short cut through the cemetery. I don’t know why this stone caught my eye. It’s not big or grand, it doesn’t have an epitaph. Looking at it, the craziest scheme came into my head. My father only respected dead writers. What if I invented one?
At last I’d found my true calling: forgery. Once I’d written a piece and treated the manuscript, you couldn’t distinguish it from the real thing. I banked on my father’s vanity - whatever my shortcomings as a writer, he’d be so keyed up, he’d ignore them. If I’d been sensible, I’d have made Larch a minor poet, but I couldn’t resist experimenting. I created a back story -”
“I wondered when we’d get to that,” Alfred said. He must have found the pipe; smoke rings drifted into the trees. “Was Laura fictional too?”
“No, she was a girl at work.”
“She inspired your best stuff.”
“I never told her. She disappeared after a few months; rumour had it she’d married one of my colleagues. He didn’t deserve her. Years later I learned she’d died. My heart went with her.”
Josh and Alfred reached for the same arm to comfort him. He pulled away, wincing.
“Did your father find out?” Josh knew the answer. It was in the tight, strained lines of the Toaster’s face.
“Can’t get anything past you, can I? One terrible day, thirty years ago. He turned up unannounced - there was a manuscript soaking in the sink. I’ll never forget his face. That evening he had a heart attack. He died the following week.”
“Then you began your toasts.”