Love and Robotics

by Eyre, Rachael

  Josh scraped away. Sure enough, it was agony on the ears. “I call it Toothache Sonata.”

  “Never mind toothache, that’s all your wisdom teeth coming through.”

  “Worst musician ever?”

  “No, there was that Farvan emperor who made everyone attend his concerts. His playing was so bad it made your ears bleed.”

  As he hit upon a chord combination unknown to God or woman, Josh exclaimed, “There. A flash in the glass.”

  “Positive?”

  “Yes, a purple streak. Look at Puss!”

  She couldn’t keep still: she kept pacing and growling. She’d even dropped the pheasant.

  “We’re onto something. Louder!”

  The strings snapped. The bow slapped Josh across the face.

  “Lousy fucking thing!” Alfred picked up a lamp but it shattered. Puss licked his hands. “Thanks for the pheasant breath. What’s it doing?”

  Josh’s eyes followed Perry’s progress. “It’s a ball of light, like a firework. I never used to believe in ghosts.”

  “Now is no time for scepticism!”

  It capered amongst the dolls, moving their heads and arms, popping out their eyes. Heads burst like balloons.

  “While I admire the sentiment, that’s making one hell of a mess. Let’s get the camera ready.” Alfred stuck his head beneath the tent and swivelled it round. “Where is it now?”

  “By that big doll, the one in the yellow dress.”

  “Bethany Realler than Real. Gussy got that for her birthday. We taught it every rude word we knew.”

  Something landed on its shoulders. “Bum! Poo! Willy! Toilet!” it squeaked.

  “Those aren’t swear words!”

  “They are when you’re five. Get that hook out - on the count of three -”

  All the china dolls exploded. Josh threw like a pro, a fluid movement like a shooting star. It caught hold of something and squeezed it tight.

  “Stick it in that helmet.”

  It didn’t want to go. They had to tug on the grappling hook to ram it in, where it gave up sulkily.

  “There.” Alfred nailed it shut. “Won’t be bothering us now.”

  Josh put the light on. “Oops.” They were surrounded by smithereens of china and glass, melted plastic and scorches on the carpet.

  “I’ll clear up in the morning. That was the easy part.”

  The second stop was the ballroom. Pinpoints of light on the chandelier, rippling mirrors, fat cherubs on the ceiling. Alfred remembered their dance practice, the possessive stirring as he saw Josh waltz with Gwyn. The germ of his feelings, had he but known.

  “Who’d haunt a ballroom?”

  “This one makes Perry look like a sweetie. In life her name was Kathleen Shaw.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “Think back a hundred and fifty years. My grandmother was fifteen. It was a small party - there was a war on, the eligible men had been called up - with twenty intimate friends.

  In every group of friends there’s somebody you don’t like. In this case it was Kathleen. She was sour, stringy and plain. While other girls might have used this as an opportunity to develop a personality, she hadn’t. She was a sneak, a spy and a bully. The other girls tolerated her as they had no choice.

  Parties were pretty much the same then as they are now. My grandmother opened her presents, had her birthday tea, danced with the young men. While this was going on, Kathleen slipped off. She’d bought my grandmother a coral necklace for her present - a necklace she wanted for herself. Overcome by greed, she stole it.

  Nobody knows what happened next. What is known is another girl ate too many ices and had to go in the next room to lie down. She screamed. Somebody slapped her face to calm her. Then they looked up. Kathleen was strung up from the chandelier, body limp. There was no feasible way she could have got up there, or that she’d strangled so quickly. Her fingers were clamped around something. When they were prised open, they saw it was my grandmother’s necklace.”

  Josh poked the necklace as though it was a snake. “This one?”

  “The very same.”

  “Why did she keep it?”

  “When she woke up the next morning it was around her neck. Try as she might, she couldn’t get it off. Nobody believed her - they thought it was a delusion. She was put in an institution when she was thirty.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  “Yes. My grandfather told Nanny, who told Dad, who told me. I know it sounds far-fetched but Dad never lied. When she was dying she saw Kathleen at her bedside. ‘Take it,’ she said, ‘I don’t want it.’ As she grew cold the clasp snapped.”

  “If all she wanted was the necklace -”

  “Ghosts aren’t happy people. Maybe they left something undone, maybe they hate the thought of not existing. In Kathleen’s case it was spite. She attaches herself to female members of the family. Mum saw her as she was dying, never mind she was on another continent. She followed Gussy in her last days.”

  “But -” Josh’s eyes widened. “Not Gwyn.”

  “Don’t worry, she’s okay. She’s just had to bear more losses than anyone her age should. Gussy died when she was ten; her father killed himself when she was seventeen. A few times she’s mentioned seeing a plain, freckled girl on the grounds. I’d hate it if Kathleen adopted her.”

  “I want to get rid of her.”

  “Good man.”

  Josh touched the restrung fiddle. “Will this work?”

  “Perry wasn’t harmless. It’s worth a try.”

  Josh propped the instrument beneath his chin. His hands shook. “Listen, ghost. You don’t like us and we don’t like you. You’ve caused no end of grief -”

  Alfred kept his eyes on the mirror. Did the chandelier shiver, or was it his imagination?

  “We’ve had enough. Leave Gwyn alone, do you hear?”

  Yes, he could hear it chiming. At the same time the ceiling bubbled, dripped something onto Josh’s face. He put out his tongue and licked it.

  “It’s blood.” He trembled so much he couldn’t play. The fiddle clattered to the floor. “I’m frightened -”

  “Thank Thea.”

  Alfred stiffened. In all the stories he’d heard, nobody had mentioned her speaking, but this was how Kathleen Shaw would sound. The voice of a cold dry throat, emptied of life and compassion.

  “Ms Shaw?”

  A horrific giggle. “Hello, Langton! I never thought I’d meet a male member of your family -”

  “Alfred, don’t -” Josh whispered.

  “- but you hardly count, do you?”

  “Show yourself.”

  “Why? It spoils the fun!”

  Puss streaked into the hall. Alfred couldn’t blame her.

  “She wouldn’t have been any good. Only a well regulated mind can survive being fucked. Just like you want to fuck this little bitch -”

  The voice mellowed, became soft and tuneful. Josh stopped quivering. The blood was black against his face. The eyes he turned towards Alfred weren’t his.

  “Get out of him now!”

  The artificial took a step towards him. “Do you fancy me, Alfred? Do you want to screw me right here, on the ballroom floor?” He smashed his lips against his.

  Alfred pushed him off. “Get back to yourself. I know you’re in there, love -”

  “Love?” The voice was Josh’s, but the laugh a cruel, mocking one he would never use. “Why would I want your love? You sad, pathetic old bastard -”

  “Stop it. I’m warning you.”

  “It’s simple, Langton.” His lips didn’t move. “There’s only one way to save your boy toy. Take the gun in your pocket and shoot him through the head. I’ll leave Gwyn alone then.” Josh’s fine mouth twisted. “Or maybe not.”

  Alfred reached for his gun. He focused on all he saw that wasn’t Josh. The snide turn of the lips, the creature staring out of his eyes. His shoulders slumped in defeat.

  “I can’t.” He tossed the gun onto the ground. �
�I won’t hurt him.”

  He closed his eyes. He heard somebody scramble for the gun, waited with his fists clenched.

  “My dear.”

  It was a sick joke. He wouldn’t look.

  “Hello, ghost. I’m the S20, better known as Josh Foster. I want my body back.”

  A gun shot. Alfred opened his eyes to find Josh on the floor, a bullet hole in his cheek. Foul smoke spiralled from the wound, up into the air.

  “Ow. Stupid ghost.”

  Alfred stumbled over. “You’re alright? You’re not hurt?”

  “Nothing I can’t fix.”

  “I thought - oh, Josh-”

  “You won’t get rid of me that easily.”

  “I wouldn’t want to.”

  The excitement of the night over, they prepared for bed. Josh clung to Alfred’s arm outside the guest bedroom. “Stay. Please.”

  “I can’t -”

  “It’s the last time we can.”

  Josh didn’t put the light on. Alfred was glad: he didn’t want to think of everything he’d done to make this Josh’s room, how everything might have been different. They collapsed on the bed, drained.

  “Sorry that got heavy.”

  “Still better than the gaming hall.”

  They settled into their old positions: Josh with his head on his chest, an arm around his waist. For some time they didn’t speak. He thought Josh had gone to sleep when, out of the shadows, came the question: “Do arranged marriages work better than normal ones?”

  “Depends. At least if you’ve never been in love you can never fall out of it. Lots of marriages are stupid kids having a fling. Once that’s gone, they’re stuck with a construct they don’t understand. At least this way you know what you’re getting. On the Volka Isles there were girls who didn’t see their husbands until they lifted their veils, and they screamed if they were old or ugly. Some carried daggers just in case.”

  “I don’t feel I know Claire. I like her but is it enough?”

  “It’s a start.”

  “I feel like I’m missing out. Cora says -” he jerked, agitated - “she doesn’t think artificials fall in love. Is this it? The best I can expect is a girl I sort of like?”

  “What do you want instead?”

  “I don’t know! Passion. Somebody who understands me.” Realising the provenance of those words, he changed tack. “Like The Clockwork Opera.”

  “I thought you hated it.”

  “I hate the ending.”

  “The measure of a good opera’s the number of stiffs at the end. Oh, and the tunes.” Alfred started to hum No Girl Can Resist These Charms. Josh joined in.

  “See? You don’t like it but you remember the words.”

  “I remember everything. It’s the bane of my life.”

  “I’d love a perfect memory. I never remember where I put things, then Gwyn yells at me.”

  “Do you know anyone who had an arranged marriage? Did it work out?”

  “Well -”

  “Come on.”

  “I was a bodyguard for the Iri royal family. Prince Farukh was twenty four. His father despaired: he wanted to hand the throne over but Farukh refused to settle down. One of the conditions of being Sultan is you have to be married. Farukh wanted to carry on hunting and drinking with his friends. He didn’t care if he never succeeded.”

  “Doesn’t sound too promising.”

  “He was a handful. A lot of the time I acted as go between, ferried rude messages back and forth. When this had been going on several months, the Sultan reached the end of his patience. He dispatched his miniaturist to paint pictures of the princesses from neighbouring sultanates. When he came back there was a definite winner: Princess Saida.”

  “Going by her portrait? She could’ve been horrible.”

  “Young men aren’t that discerning. The Sultan had decided: the princess would be shipped over within the month, ready to marry Farukh as soon as she arrived.”

  “They were going to marry him without his permission? That’s outrageous!”

  “He was my friend despite his faults, so I let him know the day the princess was due to dock. I’ve never seen anyone as furious. He knew his father was at a special service - thanksgiving for the impending nuptials - so we got on horseback and raced towards the dome. He spat swearwords and lashed his horse, vowing all kinds of desperate measures. He’d take poison. He’d set the dome on fire. He’d never be Sultan, never.

  At the city gates we met a procession of ladies on horseback. They were beautiful and splendidly dressed, pressing around a lady whose face was covered by a veil. Farukh barged into the middle and plucked it off.”

  “Well?”

  “She was exquisite. Since he was a far from unfortunate young man, she was equally taken with him. By the time they were married they were madly in love.”

  “Oh.” Josh was pleased. “I like that ending. It’s a keeper.”

  “You could say that.” No need to say the Iri royal family had been slaughtered two years later in a revolt, or that he’d slept with Farukh several times. Josh liked his stories to be tidy and idealistic, preferably with a moral. No wonder this business with Claire ruffled him.

  What did he want for Josh? He knew what he wanted, but that was selfish. Josh deserved a sweet loyal girl, bright and good company. It could be the making of him.

  They could still see each other. There wouldn’t be any harm in it. Normal girls didn’t think about this sort of thing; it was an exotic vice other people practised. Certainly not Josh’s eccentric old friend. Nobody over the age of fifty had romantic feelings.

  He wanted him to be happy, honestly he did. It would just kill him to see him happy with somebody else.

  “What are you thinking about?” Josh asked. “You keep sighing.”

  “Nothing much.”

  “It’s my bachelor party. I command you not to be sad.”

  “You’ll have to try harder.”

  Green eyes gleamed in the darkness. Warm lips brushed his, hands slid inside his shirt -

  Alfred pulled away. “Don’t.”

  “I can’t once I’m married, and I want you so much. Please. See it as your wedding gift.”

  The awful thing was, he was tempted. Josh was so near. He could make out the line of his throat, his head thrown back. All he had to do was climb on top of him, coax him open. It’d be better than a silver teapot -

  He couldn’t. How could he go back to friendship after this? Survive on the memory of one night for the rest of his life?

  “No.”

  Josh took his hand and traced it down the front of his shirt. When he didn’t respond, he started to grind against his lap. Damn it, now he was massaging him through his trousers, biting his fingers. He sucked the last, staring at Alfred intently. “I’ll do anything you want.”

  Alfred pushed him away. “I’m not doing it.”

  “I thought -”

  “What? I fancy you? I don’t want to be a one night stand or share you with Claire.” His voice thickened. “I want to be your lover. Me, nobody else. I can give you passion and understanding, if you’d let me.”

  “CER says love’s between a woman and a man -”

  “I’m fine to fuck but not worthy of a relationship? Thanks.”

  “I didn’t say that -”

  “You did.”

  “Okay.” Josh sounded miserable. “I promise to keep to myself.”

  Sleep proved elusive that night. Alfred lit a candle and walked the halls. He felt the reproach of lines of Wildings, ghosts with Gussy’s dark eyes and his unruly mane.

  All my lads get married in the end. He’d met them years later, grey and harassed with a gaggle of kids, their wives scowling in the background. Gwyn served a similar purpose for local girls - a stepping stone to married life. The last degeneration of the Wildings. Who knew where Chimera would go when they were dead.

  He’d wanted Josh to be different. He knew, hand on heart, the artificial would be his last. He didn’t
want anybody else.

  The day before the wedding, a package arrived at Josh’s flat. Claire signed for it, eaten up with curiosity. Obviously a wedding present, it was only addressed to Josh. She hovered until he agreed to open it.

  “Well?”

  He fumbled with the paper - waxy yellow, wrapped with a familiar messiness. The string fell away.

  “What is it?” she asked, eying the plate critically. “If it’s you know who (she always called Alfred that), you’d think it’d be dearer. You could get that from a flea market.”

  He traced the dragons with his fingers. Golden scales, tails like comets. The lovers torn apart by an arranged marriage. Even old mandarins have their limit.

  “Stick it on the pile,” she said. He slipped it into his satchel when she wasn’t looking.

  When she had gone, he stared at the plate until shutdown.

  PART THREE LOVERS

  Red String

  When Josh woke that morning he sensed something was different. He opened the curtains and blinds, washed and fixed his hair. It wasn’t until he stepped from the shower that he saw his likeness in the corner, trussed up in a wedding suit. Peacock blue with caramel shoes and tie, an orchid in the buttonhole.

  Shit. Here at last.

  He dragged the suit on. It seemed tight. The last thing he needed was buttons popping off on his wedding day. Now that was sorted, he couldn’t get his hair to lie flat. Squirt of gel, flick of a comb, dab of powder.

  His last morning in the flat. He remembered Alfred leading him through it, his anxious grin. Everything it stood for: freedom, adulthood. He had convinced himself he’d be happy to move into a flat Claire had found. “At least there’s not a friggin’ great hole in the roof,” she pointed out.

  That’s what it represented: something that was his. So much of marriage seemed to be about dividing your life up, making you less than you were. Even the vows reeked of ownership: “I transfer myself, body and soul, to you.” You went in as So and So, Esquire, and came out Her and Him. Encumbered with a certificate and a ring like a manacle. He’d never thought it would happen to him.

  He walked the familiar rooms, smiled at favourite parts of the murals. Touched the furniture, memorised their texture and smell. “Goodbye, washer. See you, hoover.” It wiggled. “See you, lamp.” A pity he couldn’t keep it. He liked the stained glass effect, how it shone a carousel of pictures along the walls.