“Leave me alone.”
Alfred hitched his pack onto his shoulder and struck out into the blazing sun. Leaving Josh with no map, no supplies, nothing.
It took Josh half an hour to understand he had been deserted. The heat was interfering with his reasoning, to say nothing of the shock. Such a lot had happened since morning!
He struggled with this latest revelation. He knew Alfred wasn’t like other men, but had always assumed his friend was too peculiar for a woman to love. He supposed it made sense. He remembered that remark in the library, puzzling at the time: “Women do nothing for me.” Did that mean men did?
Why did this bother him? He’d never given the ghostly woman friend a face. Now a parade of beastly men appeared. A languid man with a moustache, exclaiming, “Darling, is this your bot? How fascinating!” A handsome lunk head, flexing muscles like hubcaps. A youth with crazed eyes and a cowlick. The thought of Alfred wanting these creatures filled him with rage!
After ten minutes he realised that not only had Alfred not come back, he was unlikely to. Artificial he might be, but he wasn’t obtuse. It must have taken courage to tell him something so personal, but Josh had pushed him away.
He put Aurelius back before he left. It felt like the right thing to do. Knotting his jacket around his waist, he started the long, arduous trek over the Wall.
Kicking up dust, turning words over in his head, he didn’t notice a dip. He had time to throw his arms out but the damage was done. His ankle twisted, his right wrist snapped. He let out a string of Alfred’s choicest swearwords.
The plummet wasn’t due to nature but a quarry hollowed out of the Wall. It dripped barbed wire and robot eyes - one started to shriek. He chucked a stone, smashing it.
A fat shirtless man popped up, unsteady on his feet. “Looky here,” he drawled. “Things do drop out the sky.”
“What is it, Mono?” somebody called.
“Gotta guess, your lordship.”
Josh’s heart raced, but the voice Mono addressed was peevish and hard. “I don’t play games. Put a shirt on, you look revolting.”
Mono closed his hand around Josh’s ankle. Outraged, he bit him. The fat man squealed, kicked Josh and broke his toes. The reedy voice laughed. “Might have a use for it after all.”
A cane came whizzing down, hitting Josh in the chest. A tall, thin man with a droopy moustache looked him over like a prize stallion. “Yes, you’ll do.”
They brought Josh in out of the glare and cooled him with ice cubes. Until he knew what they were up to he’d pretend to be an ordinary robot. A young man, good looking in a fey way, reset his wrist and ankle.
“I’ve never been this close to an artie,” he said. “Did that hurt?”
“Not at all.” Josh didn’t think Regular Robot - David, he named him - would feel pain.
“I’m Will, that pig’s Mono, and this -” he simpered - “is Sir Bartholomew Carfax.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
Will’s eyes popped. “He’s one of our most eminent archaeologists!”
“Can’t expect it to know,” Mono said. As he smacked a mosquito on his wobbly chest (“You bloodsucker!”), “Barty’s past it. This dig has to be a success or his uni’ll boot him out.”
“Which university?”
“Lowe. A bot’s gunnin’ for his job, you see.”
As Mono blasted himself with bug spray, going cross eyed, Josh decided he was insane. Will was nicer, but one track minded.
“You know, you look familiar. Are you an actor?”
The lie was instantaneous. “I work in a call centre.”
“I didn’t know bots worked for those. Learn something new every day.”
“Can’t we talk about archaeology?”
“Nah, it’s boring. I’d rather hear about you -”
“William, will you stop wittering?” Sir Bart stuck his head through a crevasse. “I could’ve taken anybody on this dig, you know!”
Will tittered. “Great men will be tempestuous. This is what we need to do ...”
***
Alfred couldn’t stay mad at Josh. It’d be like losing your rag with a kitten for getting into wool and tangling it up. It couldn’t help it, it was its nature. Likewise, Josh couldn’t help being tactless. Everything was new to him.
He had been walking for some time, looking neither left nor right, the sun baking down. He wished he could take his shirt off but he knew the sensation that would cause.
They must have taken a different trail earlier, he didn’t remember this arcade. The obligatory water fountain, an InfoPoint. A cafe selling a tourist’s idea of foreign food, three crappy shops. They had the same shoddy souvenirs: models of Farvan centurions, replica urns, chunks of the Wall.
He was filling his bottle at the water fountain when he glanced in one of the shop windows. Aurelius stared back like a portent. He was tastefully done, with burnished curls and an undeniable resemblance to Josh. All the anger hissed out of him. He realised what a dickish move it had been, abandoning Josh in a fit of pique. Augustin hadn’t appreciated what he had till it was gone. He wouldn’t make the same mistake.
He returned to the grove, calling. “Josh? Josh!”
The heat, crisp before, was starting to shimmer. Josh knew the protocol for weather like this: find shade and ice as soon as possible. There was no shade. Augustin had made sure of it, the bastard. He could peer around spindly trees and stamp the dust all he liked, it wouldn’t conjure Josh.
Think! Even if the artificial dragged himself to that grisly mall, he wouldn’t be safe. A robot turning up on their doorstep? They wouldn’t wait for the Hierophant’s agents. Everyone was armed out here.
Yes, he’d cocked up. But nobody could take Josh away from him. A long drink from his bottle. Bread that tasted like sawdust. Hat over his eyes. Ready.
Back to the squalid arcade. He ransacked his memory for Farvan. Had anyone seen a young man, so high, a – what the hell – beautiful man? Although shocked by his choice of words, they shook their heads. No, no young man. They had only seen his honourable self and a party of tourists. It was, perhaps, the wrong time of year.
They were clearly telling the truth. Perhaps there was another way to catch them out. He haltingly tried another word – ‘ruba’, meaning ‘robot’. Their manner, helpful before, changed to icy correctness. They wouldn’t allow such ungodliness here. Her Holiness decreed -
“Thank you for your time.” He filed the arcade as yet another place he was barred from.
Following the steps up to the Wall, he bit back a mounting sense of panic. How long would Josh last in these temperatures? Though he cursed CER for lumbering his friend with this flaw, it was as much his fault. All those times they’d chatted about nothing, he could have asked.
Without Josh reading the guidebook aloud, it wasn’t an extraordinary feat of engineering but a bloody wall. He tried to imagine soldiers guarding it, Augustin overseeing it, but it remained blank. A sandy expanse, chipped and scarred with slogans. Even one saying ‘Decimus gives the best head in the Empire’ didn’t cheer him up.
There was nothing for it but to walk the eighty miles of Wall, stopping at whatever manky eateries or gift shops broke it up. The craft only came two or three times a day. If he knew Josh, he’d stick to the path, or die in the attempt. It was that last part which bothered him.
It was growing cooler and the shadows were spreading. Soon the fireflies would be out. Alfred had been looking for Josh for five hours.
He was lividly burnt and crusted with sweat. Though he had few hopes of finding his friend, he carried on. Josh must have been arrested by the Hierophant’s agents. There was no other explanation. He would give it another hour, then bribe someone to drive him to the capital. He’d gain an audience with Her Holiness, remind her of services rendered in the past and get Josh freed. Then what? Expulsion, ignominy. He could kiss any chance of seeing Josh again goodbye. If there was one thing CER feared, it was scandal.
; He was so absorbed, muttering and scuffing pebbles, that he walked straight into a barrier. ‘No Trespassers Past This Point - Excavation in Progress’, a sign read, in faulty Farvan. Marvellous. Could this day get any peachier?
There were four breeds of person Alfred mistrusted like quicksand. Scientists: patronising wankers. Journalists: bloodsucking leeches. Writers: convinced that because they’d written a sonnet, everyone wanted to shag them. At the bottom of the heap were archaeologists.
Alfred loved history as much as Josh, but his feelings were more sentimental. He persisted in seeing its characters as people, found digging them up disrespectful. If these grave robbers thought they could stop him reaching Josh, they’d better have another think coming. In fact, he’d let them know himself.
He didn’t have far to look. As he scanned the horizon he saw three tents: one overblown like a marquee, the other two more modest. He climbed down the steps and approached the camp from behind the trees. Somebody was cooking sausages. His stomach rumbled.
He’d no schema for what an archaeologists’ campsite should look like, but it reminded him of a flea market. There was a bombastic scarlet armchair, an embroidered bean bag and a fussy pouffe in the middle of the clearing. This alternated with ‘proper’ gear - picks, torches, spades, cameras. A lute was propped against the pouffe, as though its owner had put it down mid strum.
Now he was closer he could hear the sausages sizzling, someone swearing when he burnt his fingers. Off in the shadows two men were talking. One had the profile of an aging billy goat, the other was fat and vicious.
“Quite the coup, eh?” the first man said. “We needn’t get our hands dirty.”
“Didn’t see you doin’ much of that.”
“Figuratively, you dumdum. We get this gee-gaw to finish the job. We wipe its memory so if it goes balls up, no one can trace it to us.”
“Dunno, boss. Sounds awful risky.”
“If I don’t bring something back, that effing widget will be head of department! My reputation rests on this, d’you understand?”
“Will it do it, though?”
“Arties do what they’re told, remember? It’s getting on with William like a house on fire.”
Alfred had heard enough. How many artificials could this crooked pair have come across? Tempting though it was to clobber them, he knew Josh would disapprove. He had to think of something else.
“Let’s see what they’ve rustled up. I’m starvin’!”
They had been sitting beside one of the tents, unable to see Alfred. Now it was time to become visible. As the duo rose, he strode forward.
“Do you have a permit, Mr - ?”
“For cryin’ out loud,” the fat one exclaimed, while his boss snapped, “Sir Bart Carfax, if you don’t mind. Of course I bloody have. Who might you be?”
He was a familiar type: the gentleman who, having gambled away his fortune, tries to win it back by fair means or foul. Despite youthful touches - a walnut tan, bleached hair, flashy wardrobe - he was at least ten years older than Alfred, and looked it.
Alfred could out swank anybody. “Anthony Makepeace, agent to Her Holiness.”
“I don’t believe you. Where’s your badge?”
He produced the badge he’d used while working for the Hierophant. He’d always thought it would come in useful. Sir Bart passed it to his subordinate as though he didn’t trust his own eyes. The minion bit into it. “It’s real, alright.”
Alfred hadn’t noticed that the food had stopped frying. A young man stepped out from behind the tents.
“David was showing me a new way to cook sausages. They’ve come up lovely -”
He was cute, if gormless, with mismatched eyes and fluffy hair. He looked between his employer and Alfred in confusion.
“This gentleman was leaving,” Sir Bart snarled.
“I hope you’re hungry, I think we’ve overdone it -”
Alfred sagged with relief. The slim figure walking towards them could only be Josh. Though now they were in a quandary: if Josh reacted, it would blow his cover. How could he get him to keep quiet?
When Josh noticed him, his eyes grew wide. But he was no fool, and could see his friend was up to something. Though he didn’t fake an accent, ‘Anthony Makepeace’ was as unlike Alfred as it was possible to be. Chilly, officious, even menacing. He used his height and appearance to intimidate in a way that would never occur to him normally.
The fat one was smarter than his master. “Sure I’ve seen you before,” he said.
“I’ve one of those faces,” ‘Anthony’ answered.
Until now he had avoided looking at Josh. He pretended to be startled.
“Where did this artificial come from?”
Josh allowed ‘Anthony’ to examine him, eyes turned upwards. You’d never have guessed he was anything other than a standard artificial.
“You do realise that robotic life forms are prohibited in this region?”
The fat one began to tell the truth, but his boss flapped at him to shut up. “He’s a respected archaeologist. Even you must’ve heard of him. Hector Miller -”
Josh opened his mouth to protest. Alfred raised an eyebrow. “I’m going to have to take it into custody. It will be returned to its place of origin in accordance with international law -”
Any composure Sir Bart might have had snapped. “Makepeace, I beg you, it’s a small thing - one mummy. Please.” Wild eyed, moustaches thrashing, he looked quite mad.
“That’s desecration,” Alfred said coldly. (The one thing he and ‘Anthony’ agreed on). “Where are you keeping it?”
The young man pranced to what looked like a pile of rags. “Found her this afternoon.” His passion for old things wasn’t limited to archaeology. He’d been making eyes at Sir Bart throughout and now he twinkled at Alfred. Ugh.
History or not, the mummy was a horrible object: shrivelled as a pickle, teeth locked together, twiggy hands and feet. Lank strands poked from an otherwise bald scalp. “Smashing, eh?”
“You’re entitled to your opinion. Now” - ramrod backed, stony eyed - “when I return I expect to see full documentation, as well as a permit authorising you to take the mummy out of the country. I must request that the artificial leaves with me immediately.”
Sir Bart was crazed with relief. “Take it! We’ll have the documents tomorrow!”
Alfred took Josh’s arm and led him to the Wall. When they knew they couldn’t be seen they burst out laughing and danced in a circle.
“You do know I’d never call you ‘it’, right?”
“Of course not, you were getting into character. Are you going back?”
“Nah, that was bluff. Those docs’ll be phony anyway.”
***
They put up their tent at dusk, Alfred in a better mood than he had been all day. Taking his time over knots, pounding in nails, humming. Josh cooked the fish they’d caught.
“If you joined these stars, what would you get?”
“A big game of Join the Dots?” Alfred popped the fish into his mouth. “If you fancy a change in career, you could always be a chef.”
“As well as a costume maker?”
“Gwyn was like that when she was little. If she played House she’d be a fire fighter, a pirate and an astronaut in one day.”
“Well, you were an explorer.”
“She always wanted to come along. I’d pretend the laundry basket was a canoe and row her across the hall.”
“Why did you become one?”
Alfred didn’t think about lying. Josh would see through him. “When you’re human they always ask, ‘What will you be when you grow up?’ I never had a clue. Then one day I was thirty and I still didn’t know. I created a job so I’d have something to do.”
“I thought humans had it all sorted out.”
“That’s an image we like to cultivate.”
“I think it’s splendid,” Josh said.
They lay with their arms cushioning their heads. Smoke curled into th
e air. “Sorry about earlier,” Josh said after a while.
“It’s okay. Must’ve been a shock.”
“I’ve disproved four theorems. I can cope with unconventional romance -”
“That makes me sound like a pig fucker. The word you’re looking for’s gay.”
“How long - I mean, when -”
“Always,” Alfred said, divvying out the biscuits. “I’ve never fancied a woman. Nanny guessed early on, Gussy soon after.”
“What about your parents?”
“I told them one night over dinner. They approached me afterwards, Mum first. ‘I had a close female friend while I was at uni. Don’t tell your father’. Then it was Dad’s turn. ‘I went with the captain of the rugger team. Don’t tell your mother.’”
“Bet that stole your thunder.”
“Tell me about it! Here I was, making what I thought was a dramatic announcement, and I wasn’t even the first in the family.” A howl in the distance. “Bloody wolves. No matter how often they cull them, they come back.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing one.”
“I’ll show you at a better time of year. Now they’re hungry and desperate.” Alfred slid the poker into the fire. “Bedtime.”
“I’m not sleepy!”
“I’m knackered.”
Josh was acutely aware of Alfred as he undressed, rubbed his face and yawned. He always turned away when he took his shirt off - shyness? Self consciousness? His back was a sunburnt wall of muscle, scattered with red-gold hair. By the time they faced each other they were in their nightclothes.
“You’re not worried about - ?” He gestured between them. “I’ll sleep outside.”
“No!” Josh was shocked. “Why’d you think that?”
“Chaps can be funny. One boy at school said I should get changed in another room. I’d caught him checking me out in the showers but didn’t say anything.”
Alfred fell asleep quickly and easily. He didn’t frown like he usually did; it was as though a burden had rolled from his shoulders.
Josh woke two hours later. He’d had queasy, unsettling dreams, centring around the mummy. First he thought she was trying to get into the tent, then a gnarled hand closed around his ankle. She pinned him down inside the sleeping bag, pressing down so he couldn’t breathe. The mummy’s face changed to Fisk’s: dank breath on his cheek, grizzled hair. “Good boy,” she said. Her hand slipped inside the bag.
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