Love and Robotics

by Eyre, Rachael

  Alfred only thought like this when he was alone. When Josh was in his arms - comforting him after nightmares, sharing his thoughts, dancing in nothing but a pair of rubber boots - he shook it off. When Josh looked at him he felt like Emperor of the world.

  Walking in the woods, Josh said he had something to show him. He wavered into nothingness. Alfred panicked, remembering CER’s attempts at invisibility. Josh sprang from a tree, landing on top of him. Worry turned to arousal. He had him up against the trunk, Josh’s legs around his waist.

  “Alfred?”

  “Yes?” He kissed the button nose.

  “When we make love -” the green eyes gleamed - “everything falls away. You’re all I see.”

  “Robots can’t be romantic, eh?”

  “This one can.”

  An Unwelcome Visitor

  When twenty invitations were returned unopened, it was the last straw.

  Gwyn had tried to hold onto her temper. She could ignore stares, nudges and spit. Staff giving notice could be replaced. But when the rally invitations came back, offensive graffiti across them, she snapped. She went down the shooting range and blasted ten clay pigeons away.

  If she’d only stood firm that day long ago, it wouldn’t have happened. Josh wouldn’t have become dependent upon Alfred, Alfred wouldn’t have been flattered, they needn’t have gone away -

  How, after everything Alfred had said about robots, could he stand to let Josh touch him? The third floor was a no-go area: they were so noisy and took so long, it was embarrassing. You couldn’t take tea below due to jangling chandeliers.

  She tossed down her gun and swung into the stables. Comforting scents of her childhood: fresh hay, sweating hides, leather and brass. She clicked with her tongue and received an answer from the last stall: Bess. She climbed onto the pen.

  “Hello, darling.” As a child she’d shared every secret and disappointment with the sweet natured bay. “You’re the only one who’s got time for me nowadays.” She paused. “Grizzly? You’ve got to be joking. He’s too besotted to look further than his own arsehole. Or Josh’s.”

  She shuddered. No one over fifty should have sex, or, if they did, they should sign a disclaimer promising to be discreet. Josh’s cries made that impossible.

  “Is somebody jealous?” A wiry figure dangled from the loft. She found herself glaring at Bill Kitzinger, the groom.

  “You think I want to have bum sex with my uncle? That’s sick!”

  “Don’t be so literal, doll.”

  Alfred thought conventional people were untrustworthy. Bearing this in mind, most of his staff had pasts. Certainly most gentlemen would take one look at Bill and dunk him in the moat. He’d fought for the resistance in some war, Alfred hiding him in the tunnels when he went on the run. He vanished one night with a priceless tea set, missing presumed dead.

  Shortly after her fifth birthday, the country had been hit by the worst winter in years. Though it had its advantages. She could stay at Chimera, which she loved with a precocious passion. Above all, Chimera meant Alfred. She never called him “Uncle”- too stodgy. First it was Alf - Alf, then, when she went to the zoo and saw a bear going around with its cub on its back, it became Grizzly.

  Alfred didn’t believe in bedtimes but her yawns were too big to ignore. “Come on, monkey. Bed.”

  He read to her every night, doing all the voices and changing the plot where he saw fit.

  “The troll, who was only acting according to her dietary requirements, ripped the third billy goat in half and stuck its head on a pole as a warning. The rest she turned into a fabulous stew. She toured the world as a famous chef, leaving goats and their perils far behind. The End.”

  “Could Nanny make goat stew?”

  “Maybe. We’ll ask her. Night, Bash.” He kissed her and tucked her in.

  A terrible clanging at the door. “Alf,” Uncle Ken called, “are you going to get that?”

  “Get it yourself.”

  “I’m working. What are you doing?”

  Alfred rose, Gwyn following. Halfway down the stairs he picked up a tomahawk. He drew back the bolts and squinted into the night.

  “By thunder!”

  It had been snowing the past three days. The grounds were snug beneath a thick white counterpane. At first Gwyn couldn’t see anything unusual. Then she noticed the scarlet footprints leading to the doorstep -

  “Toff?” a voice croaked.

  The man slumped against the doorframe was so mutilated, he was scarcely recognisable as human. One ear hung by a thread, a hand had been hammered out of shape.

  “Bill?”

  The man groped forward as though he was playing blind woman’s buff, then collapsed into his arms. A geyser of blood splashed Alfred’s dressing gown.

  “Get Nanny. Now!”

  Nanny came down and switched on the lights. She gasped. The battered hand lay like a monstrous spider; blood piped like soup. For the first time Gwyn noticed his left eye socket was empty.

  “Lulu Sholto. As I live and breathe,” the man rasped.

  “You won’t do either if I’ve anythin’ to say about it,” she snapped.

  “You two.” Alfred sighed like an adult forced to mediate between bickering kids. “Can you put your differences aside this once?”

  The man grimaced. Nanny folded her arms and stuck her nose in the air.

  “Please?”

  “I don’t know what you expect me to do. He should go to hospital -”

  “Are you mad?” the men exclaimed.

  She ran for her sewing basket, a bucket and sponge. “This might hurt.”

  She wasn’t joking. The man lay on the kitchen table, out of his mind with pain. Gwyn watched as she sewed on his ear, bound up his throat, slapped the bone into place. Alfred held his good hand and reminded him of old campaigns.

  “Don’t you dare die on me, Bill.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  “What happened to the tea set?”

  “Lost it in a poker game.”

  Uncle Ken wandered in, looking for a midnight snack. “Are we doing autopsies in the kitchen now?”

  “Bill Kitzinger,” Alfred said, as though that explained everything.

  “How long will you be?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  They worked till morning. Gwyn didn’t remember falling asleep but woke to find herself wrapped in a blanket, Alfred dozing in the chair opposite. She shook him awake. “Where’s Mr Kitzinger?”

  “The guest room. He’ll be fine.”

  Within a week he was appointed groom. He’d lived at Chimera ever since.

  Now Bill pulled two windfalls from a barrel and chucked Gwyn one. He bit his and made a face. “Bit sour.”

  “Not the only thing,” she said, feeding hers to Bess. “My life, for one.”

  “What’s steamin’ you up? Some village floozy given you the old heave ho?”

  “You know very well. Being pariahs.”

  Bill seemed puzzled. “How’d you figure that out?”

  “Have you been living under a rock?”

  “Here. That’s near enough.”

  “Nobody wants to have anything to do with us. All because Alfred can’t control his urges. How could he be so selfish?”

  “Oh - ho!” He rubbed his hands. “This is interestin’.”

  “What are you smirking at?”

  “Parental issues. You want to live here forever, Toff’s right hand -”

  “I do not!”

  “I can prove it. What’s your objection to Josh?”

  “Uh, he’s a bot and it’s disgusting?”

  “Did that bother you before?”

  “It was good for something to take Alfred out of himself -”

  “Not if it took him away from you.”

  “That’s not true. I’ve no problem with him dating. But Josh.”

  “Toff must see somethin’ in him.”

  “A cute bod? An endless capacity for sex? He’s like those old t
rollops who chase boys half their age.”

  Bill picked his teeth. “Goin’ by past form, he’s not that bad.”

  “Have you got dung in your eyes? He was with the most brilliant man this century and now he’s boffing a little blond nothing?”

  The toothpick snapped on his tongue. “You’re holdin’ Ken Summerskill up as an example of a good relationship?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s time you had a talk with Toff.”

  It must be one of Bill’s wind ups. Once he’d sent her down the corner shop for a left-handed screwdriver. Another time he persuaded her he could walk on water, only to reveal planks strapped to his feet. Even in a benevolent mood he liked to take out his glass eye and roll it around.

  Alfred had loved Uncle Ken. Yes, he was prickly and sarcastic, but scientists were borderline cases. She didn’t know when she had realised the official story was a cover, that Alfred and Ken, not her mother and Ken, were a couple. It seeped into her consciousness so by the time she was ten, seeing them kiss or hold hands when they thought no one was watching wasn’t unusual. Bill had to be lying.

  She stopped dead in the drive. A green vix was tethered outside, a familiar figure slouching on the bonnet.

  “Gwyneth!”

  She forced herself to be civil as she greeted her brother. “Marcus. Long time no see.”

  She’d always found it incredible they were related. There was no similarity between her features and his thinning hair, chilly eyes, weak chin. He was inches shorter and daintier. “The kids are the wrong way round,” their father used to say, as though it was her fault.

  “I’ve asked -”

  “Wendy hasn’t made me feel welcome. You won’t come here.”

  “Is it any wonder?” His nostrils flared. It didn’t take a genius to work out why. Josh was peeking between the curtains at a third floor window, clearly naked.

  “I -”

  “When I visit my ancestral home, I don’t expect to see my uncle rimming a robot in the window. The earls of Langton must be turning in their graves.”

  “What happens between consenting adults -”

  “Why are you defending him? I’m glad Mum’s dead. At least she never lived to see this.”

  “They’re not hurting anyone.”

  “What about the family? The kids are being bullied, Wendy’s funding’s been withdrawn. Doesn’t it bother you you’re living with a sex offender?”

  She’d heard worse. Widget fucker, bolt licker. Something about ‘sex offender’ revolted her. “Take that back.”

  “Touched a nerve?”

  They might have been kids again, the same certainty the adults would take his side. All except Alfred. She remembered his fury when Marcus pushed her out of a tree - “Wait till I catch you, you grotty little bastard.” He’d given him six of the best, the only time he’d hit either of them.

  “I always wondered about you two. Maybe that’s why you’re queer -”

  Twenty six years’ rage burst out in a punch. “Alfred is not a Deviant.” She punctuated each word with a kick. “If anyone’s twisted, it’s you. You’re scum.”

  A sickening crunch. He fell to his knees, limp, unmoving. Gwyn scanned the downstairs windows. “Nanny?”

  The cottage loaf figure was pegging out laundry. She tried again. “Nanny!”

  Gwyn wasn’t sure if Nanny saw the body on the floor or heard the desperation in her voice, but she hurried over. “Holy fuck cakes!” She dragged him along the gravel. “There’s a cess pit not far.”

  “We don’t know if he’s dead.”

  She put her ear to his chest. “Better luck next time. Let’s get him somewhere comfy for when he comes round.”

  “But - Grizzly-”

  “I’ll let him know. This is a showdown I’m not goin’ to miss.”

  ***

  Nanny didn’t have time for book learning but she knew people. She had powerful likes and dislikes and her opinion never changed. The body she was lugging onto the couch belonged firmly in the ‘dislike’ camp. As a boy he’d been sly and tale bearing; he’d grown into a petty, unlovable adult, “When I own Chimera” his favourite topic.

  He wasn’t aware of the document in the family vault. “If that fucker inherits my house, I’ll haunt it,” Alfred had said as it was drawn up.

  She dripped water on Marcus’s head. “Everythin’ alright?”

  “Hello, Nanny.” He saw Gwyn and went to hit her.

  Nanny snatched his wrist. “You’re too big to fight like ragamuffins.”

  “Yes, Nanny,” they muttered. She felt his head. The promise of a lump but otherwise minimal damage.

  “Hello, all!” Alfred breezed into the room, dressing gown billowing open. He took a seat and crossed his legs, shirtless and not caring a bit. “Afternoon, Marky. Nice of you to stop by.” He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. You could tell he’d had an explosive orgasm moments before, he glowed. “Social call?”

  “Is it social when you’ve come on an unpleasant errand?”

  “Frequently. But I’ve never been good at schmoozing.” Alfred scratched his neck, peppered with teeth marks.

  The sight gave Marcus ammunition. “I want you to see Lady Vandemar. She can help you.”

  “Oh? How?” He nodded to Nanny. “Please may we have some whisky, Lulu?”

  She loaded three glasses, passing one to Gwyn. “Marky?”

  “You know I don’t.” To Alfred, “She has experience with diseases of the mind.”

  “Has she? Fascinating.”

  “Oh, for Thea’s sake!” Marcus snapped. “Stop play acting. And you’re meant to have stopped drinking.”

  “This is my first drink of the day. Hardly a raging alcoholic.”

  “Lady Vandemar is Wendy’s aunt,” Marcus went on. “I recommend you see her. It’ll be better for you in the long run.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Do you think I am?”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past you. If you think by stuffing me in a nuthouse you can get your hands on Chimera, you’re mistaken.”

  “How do you propose to stop me?”

  “I will,” Nanny said. “Me too,” Gwyn nodded.

  “I don’t think much of your chances -”

  “Is everything alright?” Josh put his head around the door.

  “Oh, this gets better and better!” Marcus cried. “Flaunting your sex toys?”

  “He has as much right to be here as anyone else.” At the uncertain expression on the robot’s face, “Come here, lad.”

  Josh was shining with a happiness he didn’t hide. At least he was fully clothed. He stood behind Alfred’s chair. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Josh Foster -”

  “I know who he is.” Marcus looked through him. “Your catamite.”

  “What’s a catamite?” Josh whispered.

  “A young man who pleasures older men,” Alfred explained.

  “Is that supposed to be an insult? It isn’t very good.”

  “Depends how you look at it.”

  Marcus coughed. “You realise things can’t continue the way they are? If you receive treatment, you’ll avoid prison. Lady Vandemar -”

  “I’m familiar with Lady Vandemar’s ‘cure’, thanks. If I wanted to turn into a snivelling morphodite, I’d have signed up already.”

  “Is she the one who -”

  “Yes, Josh.”

  Gwyn doesn’t know, Nanny realised. How complicated lies were! They snowballed over time, building so there was no way of taking them back.

  “You’d rather do time?” Marcus said.

  “I have my reasons.”

  “So you’ll carry on flouting nature with your eunuch -”

  Alfred poured a glass for Josh and clinked it with his own. “He’s all man. I should know.”

  Marcus was puce. “Dad was right. You’re mad -”

  Alfred spat whisky across the room. “Lucas?”

  Josh clutched his shoulder. The warning
went unheeded. Alfred slammed his glass down. “Your blessed father was in no position to judge. A bankrupt, a suicide -”

  “Alfie,” Nanny protested.

  “If he was so bloody marvellous, why did he leave you in the lurch? Why did he beat your mother and push her down the stairs?”

  Marcus was outraged. “If you’re lying -”

  “He’s not,” Nanny said. “You might’ve had a little brother.”

  The door banged. They heard Gwyn running down the passage.

  “Well done,” Nanny scolded. “Way to crack a nut with a sledgehammer.”

  “It had to be said.”

  Marcus stood by the fire place, staring at them in abhorrence. “I don’t believe you. I won’t.”

  Alfred spread his hands. “I don’t care if you believe me or not.”

  “You think you’re untouchable. You haven’t heard the last of this -”

  Hands balled into fists, Marcus took a step towards Alfred. Josh flew around the side of the chair and pinned his arms behind his back. “If you don’t go, we’ll put you out.”

  Marcus clattered from the room. They heaved a sigh of relief when they heard the spurt of gravel.

  “Thank gods,” Alfred said. “I’ll be surprised if he shows his face here again.”

  “Could they?” Nanny asked. “Book you into Vandemar’s?”

  “He was trying to frighten us.” He turned to Josh, wearing a face so intense she felt like a voyeur. “Now, where were we?”

  Josh’s face was a picture. “I can hardly sit down.”

  “Minx!”

  Wrapping an arm around Josh’s waist, Alfred led him back to the bedroom.

  Last Day

  Alfred knew when he woke the next day they were coming for him.

  The Gentlemen of the Night were the unit responsible for apprehending sex criminals. Nobody knew how many there were and their identities were a state secret. Often former clergy, they were a byword for brutality. If a criminal died in custody, so much the better. It was only the PM’s desire to humiliate him that would keep him alive.

  If only he had more time. If only - no. He couldn’t have made more constructive use of the time they’d had, not in a million worlds.