Authors: Rachael Eyre
“She was keen on her work.”
“It’s not her, it’s whoever was writing to her.”
Alfred became unnervingly quiet. “Give me those.”
His friend’s expression - sullen, hinting at violence - warned Josh it would do more harm than good. “I don’t think -”
The letters were wrenched from his grasp. Alfred took the pile to the window and held it to the light. “Leave me.” The dismissal was curt, rude.
Pain burned across Josh’s wrist. “Yes,” he whispered. Alfred grabbed further letters as he left, shoulders shaking.
The tower was worse second time round. Josh clung to the wall and spidered his way down. He couldn’t have said how long it took, but it seemed like hours.
He was used to thinking of Chimera as a safe haven. “Alfred seems gruff but he’s a darling,” Gwyn once said; an opinion he’d come to share. If even
half
the stories were true -
He stumbled into sunlight. Past the shrubbery where Puss liked to lurk, past the chimera statue that so impressed him on his first visit. Now he wasn’t agitated, he saw it looked sheepish. It reminded him of Alfred, pricking him with guilt. He couldn’t leave things as they were. He’d have to apologise.
Gwyn lounged in the hall in her favourite chair, rats frolicking in her clothes. The game’s object seemed to be finding a titbit she’d hidden. One delved towards her sock.
“Clever boy! Hard luck, Algy.” She looked up. “If you’ve lost Grizzly, follow the racket.”
Now he tuned his ears, it was obvious. A warble sharpening to a screech, coming from the minstrel gallery. “Thanks.”
He took the central staircase to the second floor and went down the corridor. He pushed open the double doors and stopped dead. Taking up half the wall - he couldn’t understand how he’d missed it - was a custom built pipe organ. The pipes were like macabre black candles, dribbled all shapes and sizes.
Alfred sat at this curio, playing quick trilling notes. Josh laid a hand on his back. He raised a pair of bloodshot eyes. So much clicked into place. Alfred’s mood swings, his haggard mien. He was an alcoholic.
He might have been looking at Josh from the bottom of a well. “I told you to go home.”
“Yet here I am.”
“Thought bots couldn’t disobey orders.”
Josh nodded to the flask poking from his pocket. “You can’t claim the moral high ground.”
“Never said I was perfect.”
If it had been anyone else, Josh would have felt cheated. Part of him flinched. But another, the side that first brought him to Chimera, stood its ground. He wouldn’t be driven away.
Alfred turned his back. Josh pushed down a handful of keys. “As a matter of fact, it
is
my business. It affects everyone who cares about you.”
“Like who?”
“Gwyn. How do you think she feels?”
“She’s used to it -”
“She endures it. It isn’t the same thing.”
Alfred put his head in his hands and groaned. “What kind of cripple am I?”
“You’ll do. But you’ve got to stop.”
“If it was a case of pressing a button, wouldn’t I have done it by now?” He winced at the blunder. “Sorry.”
“People drink because they’re unhappy. We’ll start there.”
“How?”
“We’ll think of something.” Josh flipped over, playing from a head stand.
Alfred burst out laughing. “Sounds like an elephant in labour.”
“Or Fisk in the bath.” They made faces at the thought.
They composed a cacophony together, giggling. “Enough,” Alfred said, and tried to teach him to play properly. He was scandalised Josh didn’t know his composers. “Music makes life bearable.”
“What about books? Paintings?”
“
All
the arts. They’re marvellous.” Alfred rubbed his chin. “Thanks for cheering me up.”
“Thanks for letting me. I thought you’d dunk me in the moat.”
He nodded at Josh’s hand awkwardly. “I didn’t - it doesn’t -”
“It’s fine.”
“That isn’t me. Well, it
was
, but - do you see what I’m trying to say?”
“Dr Sugar says you should count to ten before you lose your temper.”
An expressive snort showed what Alfred thought of this advice.
“Think of something silly. A crocodile twirling around a parasol.”
“A
what?
”
“It was the first thing I thought of.”
Alfred chuckled. “You know, that might work?”
“See? You’ve a nice smile when you remember how.” Josh clapped a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, I don’t know where that came from.”
“I don’t mind. Same time in three days?”
Alfred often thought of the artificial while they were apart. It was time he had a hobby, though he didn’t know what to call it. Was there a robotic equivalent of anthropology? He liked the visits, liked Josh. Josh reciprocated, if he was any judge. Probably he made a refreshing change to all those brain boxes. At least he didn’t treat him like a halfwit.
“He doesn’t understand, you know,” some besom had said in a shop. Fuck that. Josh understood him better than most humans.
He’d come this close to wrecking it. The lad had looked so disappointed - he couldn’t let it happen again. Already the artificial was the exception to his sweeping generalisations about the world.
As MP for Langton, he was summoned to the Forum for the monthly Session. He’d zoned in and out - more exams, fewer signs, new Perversions - only to become aware of the PM clearing her throat.
“Langton? Would you honour us with your presence?”
He scrolled his mind back. Drinking in Sessions? (Everyone did it). The miscreant who kept screwing elms? (Get him to a tree surgeon). “Undoubtedly,” he said.
“You haven’t listened to a word, have you?”
Murmurs - “I thought his sister invented the things,” “Black sheep in every family,” “Did you read that article? Spleen
everywhere.
”
“Prime Minister?” Alfred raised his voice above the din.
“Yes, my learned friend?”
“Were we talking about robots?”
She rolled her eyes. “Give the boy a biscuit! Yes. Any thoughts?”
“The launch?”
“Not the phrase I’d use, but yes. CER’s bleeding the taxpayers dry.”
Growls like a kennel of toothless bulldogs. Lady Masefield regurgitated her old mantra: “Not the world we lived in as children, oh no.”
“I’m going,” Alfred announced. “As guest speaker.”
The room fizzed.
“But you’re so anti -”
“Where’s
my
invite?”
“Do they
let
their enemies picket?”
The PM waited for the questions to break. “Explain yourself.”
How could he say it without sounding twee? “I’ve got to know Josh. The artificial. He’s sort of become my friend.”
Questions, speculations. Pros invited him on board, antis turned up their noses. The PM gave him a disappointed toss of the head before moving on to the Century Games.
***
The launch was in two days’ time. Josh couldn’t wait: at long last he could say goodbye to this cloistered life and
do
something!
The day he went to see Alfred, he cannoned down the banisters before anyone could stop him. He spent the journey to Langton in a happy bubble. There were mutters that he should go in the last carriage with the luggage, but nobody said it to his face.
Soon it was time to disembark. A sprig of blossom floated to the platform - he picked it up, sniffed it, then tucked it into his pocket. He set off on the road to the estate, hoarding impressions. A duck taking off from the river, five others in pursuit. The bells striking the hour, one a beat behind. Somebody was cutting the grass in the fields; he could smell treacle tart. A ladybird landed on his hand.
He passed into the light and shade of the woods. He glimpsed the squirrels’ sly faces, watching him - and then he was walking up the drive to Chimera. To think he’d once found the house ugly! Yes, it would never be harmonious, with all those spikes and clashes of style. But there was grandeur, history and romance - things you couldn’t accuse CER of having -
He was knocked flying. Something snapped close to his ear, breathing raw meat into his face. Puss.
“Idiotic animal!” He made out Alfred, holding something behind his back. “Don’t move.”
“Can I do anything else?”
“Miaow! Not
you
, dummy! Play dead.”
Josh made himself limp. Puss batted him with a huge paw. Out came a canister of water. Alfred pressed the nozzle. “Naughty!”
She fled. Alfred helped Josh up. “She used to pounce on guests when they were in the bath. Give her time to get used to you.” His eyes dropped to Josh’s arm. “That looks sore.”
A chunk of skin had been ripped away, showing a gash of metal and oil. “I didn’t feel a thing.” The oil flowed astonishingly fast - it had soaked Alfred’s cuffs. Now a patch was forming on his shirt front. “Your shirt -”
“Blow the shirt.” One hand stemming the oil, the other in the small of Josh’s back, he supported him. “Let’s get you inside.”
Josh insisted he was alright but Alfred wasn’t having it. He pushed at the nearest door.
“Oh, my days!” Josh gasped.
“The library.” He detected a note of pride. “The forty second Earl shot herself by the fireplace. There’s a phantom bloodstain. Sit tight.” He vanished.
Plugging the wound, Josh sat in a green winged chair and looked around. Books rose from the floor to the ceiling, a staircase spinning around the outside. Off to the left, close to the haunted fireplace, was a fabulous writing desk. He wanted to investigate but knew it’d be unpardonably rude.
The door whipped open. Alfred carried a first aid box; tipping it onto the desk, he found a length of bandage. “We’d never pass a health and safety check.”
“I’m accident prone.” Josh held out his arm and watched it disappear.
“Trouble magnet, that’s you.” Alfred admired his handiwork. “Better?”
“What’s this butterfly?”
Alfred looked embarrassed. “Gwyn was always bashing herself. You get used to making them.”
“He’s lovely. Sorry about the shirt -”
“Shut up.” Alfred rubbed his chin. “Nanny’s putting something special on for you. We’ve got to keep out of the way.”
“For me?”
“She likes you. We all do.”
“Thanks. Tell you what -”
“Yes?”
“May I have another look at the machine? Please,” Josh added, remembering his manners.
Alfred did a low, courtly bow. “Your wish is my command.”
They sneaked upstairs like kids playing truant. Alfred chuckled as he unlocked the door. “You see to the knight. The dragon’s getting rusty.”
Throwing Josh a chamois leather, he busied himself with a can of oil. Coating his fingers, he applied it to the automaton’s plated back. He rubbed her down, humming as he worked. Engrossed as he was, he didn’t forget Josh; he asked about the demos, laughed about the people he’d seen. “Never got on with eggheads. Take themselves far too seriously.”
Josh dusted the knight. “How long have you been working on this?”
Alfred considered.“Two years, five months, ten days.”
“It must mean a lot to you.”
“On a good day, yes. It bucks me up when it’s going well.”
“On a bad day?”
“Can’t stand the sight of it. Sometimes I don’t touch it for months.”
“Maybe you’re too critical.”
“Says the lad whose hair caught fire!”
Josh mimed spraying him with a canister. “Naughty!”
“Could’ve done with that then, that’s for sure.”
Within the hour it was scarcely recognisable. The knight challenged, mace in hand; the vine leaves twined. And of course the dragon, ruby eyes squinting down her long snout. Alfred patted her fondly. “It’s a bugger, but it’s the best thing I’ve done.”
“Have you never given it a name?”
“Machines don’t need names.” He knuckled his eyes. “Sorry.”
“I’m not offended.” Picking a name from the book he was reading, “Swanhilda?
“Ugh! Thingummy’ll do.”
“Can I have another go?”
Alfred’s eyes returned to his arm. “Are you sure?”
“I can feel it mending.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn him,” he confided in the dragon. Josh giggled. “You’re out of your tree.”
The Thingummy thrummed into life. They took everything it chucked at them. The knight tipped over, legs spinning. The vines slipped through their fingers; they ducked the nooses. When the dragon gave her hot, tarry roar, Alfred whipped a throw from the sofa and smothered it. They landed on the polar bear skin, out of breath.