by Andrew Fish
‘Then I’ll have to cancel. That would make me very unhappy.’
‘It’d make you unhappy?’ said Vid.
‘Very unhappy. A lot of people paid to come here tonight.’
‘You mean you’re charging entry now?’
‘I have to make ends meet somehow,’ said Harry. ‘People don’t seem to drink as much when you’re here.’
‘So why are you letting us play?’
‘I’m not… if your human doesn’t turn up.’
‘But we don’t need him.’
The owner looked at Vid sharply. ‘Without a human, you’re just a bunch of robots,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ Vid agreed, ‘but will people still pay to see us?’
The owner said nothing, but strode off towards the bar coughing hoarsely.
Riff turned to Vid. ‘Play without Ben?’ he asked in a hoarse whisper.
Vid shrugged. ‘What else could I say? We can’t throw away the opportunity just because he’s late, can we? He can join in when he gets here. Right, Nutter?’
Nutter frowned and started studiously adjusting his hi-hats. Vid turned to Keys who gave a wan smile. ‘Well?’ asked Vid.
‘You’re probably right,’ said Keys. ‘We don’t want to stay with Tony if we don’t have to.’
Riff let out a resigned puff of air from his wind instrument vent. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘We’ll do the gig.’ He moved to the left of the stage and adjusted his foot-pedal. The band took their positions. For a moment, none of them spoke. Then Nutter counted them in and the band launched into the opening riff from Ten Miles Up.
The streets of Fadora were almost empty – the sensible people had gone home for the night and many of the others were crowded into the bar of The Inferno listening happily to the sound of the band. Outside in the street, Sheila was attempting to ply her trade – attempting, because her human shadow was making the job harder than usual31. Doing her best to ignore his presence, she stepped forward as a smartly dressed man pulled up in an expensive sports car and leered at her poorly concealed charms.
‘How far do you go?’ the man asked, patting the upholstered seat next to him.
‘How much gas do you have?’ she asked tartly.
The human shadow detached itself from a patch of darkness and stepped forward into plain view. ‘Sheila,’ Ben objected. ‘You can’t do this to me.’
The man in the car looked at him, then back at Sheila. ‘You know this man?’
‘Yes,’ Sheila sighed.
‘I don’t do that kind of stuff,’ said the man simply. He drove off.
Sheila turned on Ben. ‘Thanks,’ she snapped.
‘What?’
‘That’s the third customer you’ve driven off tonight,’ she told him. ‘You’re worse than a dose of clap. How am I supposed to earn a living with you hanging around?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you,’ said Ben. ‘I don’t want you to do this for a living.’
‘What, and your band is gonna support me, is it?’
‘I don’t see why not.’
Sheila took out a cigarette and, striking a match against a wall, lit it. She took a long drag, then looked at the young man steadily. ‘Right. And how much have you been paid so far?’
Ben breathed deeply. ‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘but we will. We’ll have our name in lights and fill stadiums with fans – you’ll see.’
‘And what are we going to eat in the meantime?’ she retorted, pulling her plastic coat tight against a sudden blast of wind. ‘You can’t eat dreams, can you?’
‘We’ll cope somehow.’
Sheila snorted. ‘Nice to know you’ve got it so well thought out.’
‘Give me a chance,’ said Ben. ‘You haven’t even heard us play.’
‘I don’t suppose I ever will,’ said Sheila. ‘You’ll probably be sacked after tonight.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you were on an hour ago, that’s why.’
Ben gaped. ‘Are you joking?’ Sheila said nothing, but showed him her watch.
‘Why didn’t you say something?’
Sheila shrugged. ‘I tried telling you to sod off, didn’t I? You didn’t listen to that so why would telling you the time have made a difference?’
‘But… but this is my career.’
‘And this is mine. At least it was until you came along.’ She dropped her cigarette and ground it underfoot. ‘I’m going inside,’ she said.
‘You’re giving it up?’
‘No. I’m going in for a drink. Bugger all point staying out here in the freezing cold when you’re scaring all the customers away.’ She began to stride off in the direction of The Inferno’s side door. Ben followed her.
As they entered the building Ben heard the sound of music. It took him a moment to realise what the music was, but once he did, he thrust Sheila aside and ran for the stairs without waiting to see if she was alright. At the bottom of the stairs his progress was arrested by a broad-shouldered man with close-cropped hair.
‘Sorry son,’ the man said. ‘Paying guests only tonight.’
‘I’m supposed to be onstage,’ Ben protested.
‘Yeah, and I’m a member of The Sirian Peanut Troupe. Hop it, sonny.’ He looked up to see Sheila approaching.
‘Evening luv. You cutting early tonight?’
‘Ask him,’ said Sheila, nodding at Ben.
The bouncer looked at the young man with distaste. ‘Not one of your clients is he?’
‘Hardly,’ said Sheila. ‘He couldn’t afford a foot massage, let alone anything else.’ The bouncer let her pass and returned to barring Ben’s way. Sheila looked back over her shoulder. ‘He is who he says he is, though,’ she said.
‘What? He’s in the band?’
‘Assuming they still want him.’
Sheila walked off to the bar. The bouncer turned back to Ben. ‘Guess you can go in,’ he conceded gruffly, stepping aside. ‘Not that I think they need you by the sounds of it.’
Ben pushed past and charged into the room. Riff and Keys were just finishing a guitar duet on Listening to Nothing. Vid was standing to one side casually plucking his bass, whilst Nutter played a gentle beat on his drums. Furious and embarrassed, Ben stormed onto the stage and grabbed the bass from Vid. There was a loud thud from the speakers and the audience stared at the source of the interruption. Hastily strapping the bass guitar over his shoulder, Ben stepped up to the nearest microphone.
‘And now a song for a lady in the audience,’ he said and began to hammer at the E string somewhat erratically. The robots exchanged glances. Nutter shrugged and began to play a steady beat on his drums, which Ben attempted to follow. Riff waited for Ben to start singing and then, quickly getting a feeling for the song, added staccato strums on his guitar.
Vid could only watch and wince as Ben manhandled his bass. The song the human was singing, or rather wailing, washed over him. The lyrics were as unrefined as crude oil; the human poured his heart out in a rough semblance of lyricism, begging his prostitute to give up her life walking the streets so that he could take care of her. There was no danger that the song’s target would be misconstrued.
Vid looked to where Sheila stood at the bar. Her face was a strange mixture of emotions: a dash of something resembling pride mixed in a cocktail of fear and embarrassment. She looked like she was hoping for the first time in her life that nobody noticed her.
Ben, meanwhile, was running out of lyrics. He lunged awkwardly into a chorus comprised of one repeated phrase. Riff and Keys, trying their best to make a song out of the thing, added a harmony which was partly repeating the name Sheila, partly a wordless cry and Nutter hammered at his drums with such speed that his hands were almost invisible. The song went on in this manner for what seemed like an eternity but was probably only a minute, then Ben, perhaps finally realising what a fool he looked, brought it to a close with a couple of heavily-emphasised and badly-timed beats. Riff and Keys, who had joined in with his guitar on the second verse, augmented it
with a closing chord and Nutter added a drum roll.
A drum roll that didn’t stop.
The band held their positions for a few seconds, waiting for the drummer to finish, but he continued. Looking slightly embarrassed, they turned to see the robot drumming gradually harder and harder, his eyes glowing with an insane fire, smoke coming from the sides of his head. Riff took it all in at a glance and, as the speed of the drumming increased, he realised that the situation was beyond retrieval.
‘Down!’ he yelled and threw himself to the floor. Ben followed suit. Vid and Keys, both anatomically unable to copy his action, moved away from Nutter as quickly as they could. There was a sound like steam escaping, a brief silence and then a thunderclap ripped through the air, accompanied by a force that threw the two fleeing robots from the stage. After the clatter of their landing, silence descended.
For a moment nobody spoke, nobody moved. Smoke drifted across the room with a depressed waft. Eventually, Keys rose slowly and struggled to help Vid to his wheel. Then, as one, the band looked back at the drum-kit, whose mangled remains were scattered across the stage. Of Nutter, there was no sign at all.
41
Vid rolled unsteadily across the stage towards the scene of the explosion. Ahead of him, two police officers were dusting themselves down and removing the white gloves they had been wearing for the forensic examination. They jumped violently as the robot rolled accidentally onto a cymbal.
‘Sorry,’ said Vid solemnly. He rolled off of the instrument to a clatter not much quieter than rolling on. ‘I just wondered what you’d discovered.’
The taller of the two policemen, whose stripes marked him out
