Love and Robotics (11 page)

Sugar’s benevolent forehead wrinkled. “I don’t see why not.”

Malik shrugged. They turned to Fisk. She might have been in a trance, twisting the chain around her neck. “Julia?” Sugar prompted.

The cold fishy smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Looks like I’m outnumbered.”

“There’s still Frida to ask,” Malik pointed out.

“We’ll let you know,” Sugar said.

Dismissed. Alfred did a shuffle on the landing, stopping when Pip saw and grinned.

Jerry was incorrigible the next day; Alfred couldn’t get away. He imagined Josh sitting in the window waiting for him and damned the Mayor’s eyes. At twenty three hours he called it a night. He was dozing over a paperback when the speakertube rang.

“It’s me,” Josh said.“I haven’t woken you, have I?”

“No,” he lied.

“Why do you sound blurry?”

“Alright, you caught me napping. What’s up?”

“The doctors say I can live somewhere else, as an experiment.”

Now Alfred was wide awake. “When did they decide this?”

“Dr Sugar said they’d been thinking about it.” Hearing his affectionate exasperation, Alfred wondered how anyone could say he wasn’t human. “He’s an even worse liar than you.”

“I
might’ve
given them a nudge.”

“Thanks. It’s what I’ve always wanted. But -” doubt slithered in - “I don’t know anything about houses -”

“Me neither. We can learn together.”

Alfred saw a good many apartments that fortnight. Josh had drawn up a list of requirements. He didn’t like ceilings to be too low, insisted upon decent lighting and a garden. The estate agents must have thought he was barking: sometimes he took one look, said, “No thanks,” and walked out.

“I don’t want it to be
too
finished,” Josh had said. “I want a blank canvas.”

They were both disappointed he couldn’t come along. Sugar said that if the agencies knew he was buying for a robot, they’d block the sale, but Alfred knew the real reason. Fisk didn’t want anyone else near him.

The Games drew nearer. Alfred knew every square of that rotten arena, was sick of demonstrating security measures. Jerry was a liability, setting off ejectors and tear gas when his back was turned. It was after one such demo - Jerry had drenched everyone with allergenic foam - that he asked for “a teensy weensy favour.” Alfred was applying antidote to the last security guard and didn’t need the interruption.

“Langton -” jab jab, cheeks bulging like a hamster - “Langton.”

Alfred raised his eyes to heaven. The security guard, who wasn’t half bad (mid forties, tanned, rugged) winked. “You’d better go.” 

“What’s the matter, Mayor?”

“Could you invite your little chum?” He’d called Josh that since the protest.

“I don’t think it’s his sort of thing -”

“The crowd would love it.”

Fair dos, Fisk had monopolised Josh long enough. If there were ravening pubescent girls he’d need moral support.

“If he’s coming, he’s with us. No CER.”

“Epic!”

Digging his hands into his pockets, Alfred found a scrap of paper. The security guard had slipped him his number. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Getting around the doctors proved straightforward. Alfred pointed out that after they had taken such pains with the ceremony, wouldn’t it look odd if they left their star exhibit at home? They needn’t worry, Josh would sit with him and Jerry in the VIP box.

“I’ll guard him like my own personal virtue,” Alfred promised.

“That’s what worries me,” Sugar said. “Get him home by bedtime, okay?”

Josh was thrilled. “Really? Can I take photos?” His new camera was his pride and joy. He’d take pictures of the most mundane things, like lamp posts and mail slots.

Gwyn wasn’t interested.“The last thing
I
want to see, a load of meatheads flexing their muscles.” She sounded just like Gussy.

At eight that historic day they were waiting at CER for Jerry. They dressed with care; the eyes of the world’s media would be upon them. Alfred whistled as he did his tie in the mirror.

“You’re in a good mood,” Josh said.

“The sun is out, the Games are on - and Jerry’s late. What
is
keeping him?”

“You’re making a mess of that tie.”

Watching Josh concentrate on the tie, Alfred wondered if their friendship would be affected if something happened with the security guard. He didn’t want his life to go back to how it had been before.

If only you weren’t a bot.
It was a throwaway thought; he didn’t consider its implications. There wasn’t time - an unholy din startled him from reverie.

“Jerry?” Josh asked.

“Or a pack of randy hyenas. I wish he wouldn’t customise his vix.”

Whatever hazards Sugar thought they’d run, they paled beside Jerry’s driving. He swerved to avoid a crossing robot, uprooted a road sign and toppled a pile of electribikes. At last he traced a figure of eight and braked outside the stadium.

Right on cue, a thousand girls screamed. “JF! JF!” Banners swam before their eyes.

“Ye gods,” Alfred said. “I didn’t tell anyone, did you?”

Josh had gone rigid. “No.”

“I might’ve,” came from the front seat, through a mouthful of blueberry pie.

Josh was shaking. Jerry said he didn’t have all day, he had places to see, people to do, and this was showing him up. Alfred scowled. “He’s nervous.”

Jerry shrugged and climbed out. “Suit yourself. Mollycoddling -”

Alfred wound the window up. “You know him, anything’s an excuse for a photo shoot. But if we stick together you won’t get badgered.”

“Promise?”

“Have you ever known me to break one?”

They stepped out, Alfred guiding him. Jerry wooed the crowds: thumping hands up and down, kissing babies, flashing his toothiest leer. “My very good friends, Lord Langton and Josh Foster!” he trumpeted.

Alfred shepherded Josh as he signed autographs. A pair of knickers hooked around his ear, still damp; Alfred stuck them in the bin. “Josh, we love you!” the chorus sobbed.

They went their separate ways: Jerry to give the athletes a pep talk, Josh to claim their box, Alfred to find the security guard. He hadn’t put on his third best suit, a new tie and what Gwyn called ‘Totty Stuff’ for nothing. It didn’t take long; the guard was prowling the turnstiles. He cracked an attractive grin. “Lord Langton!”

“Hello -” Alfred looked at his badge - “Graham.”
It couldn’t be helped, but it was hardly a name to groan in the throes of passion. He was shorter than he remembered, with a gold tooth.

“Have you thought about -?” Graham gestured to his pocket.

Now Alfred had noticed the tooth, it kept looming. “I’m old fashioned. Couldn’t we go for a drink, then maybe -?”

“You can’t mix booze with them. Fucks you up.”

Alfred rubbed his eyes in disbelief. Inches from the visicams, Graham was unloading a suitcase stacked with pills.

“You stupid, arrogant
dick
.”

“I thought you liked to party.” Seeing Alfred’s hurt, angry face, Graham burst out laughing. “You didn’t think this was a
date
? Wait till I tell the guys. Lord Langton, Arse Explorer -”

“Fuck you.”

Alfred made his way back to the seating banks, punching turnstiles as he went. To think he’d woken with such high hopes. Of what? A sneaky blowjob in the gents? Time to face facts: even that coked up troll was beyond him. Sex was out of his reach, and as for love, forget it.

Climbing towards their box, he sighed. Jerry was obviously saying something appalling, Josh trapped by his good manners. He caught the tail end of it - “Time to point Percy at the porcelain”- as Jerry stumbled out.

“Where have you been?” Josh demanded.

“You know how I said that despite appearances, men were fundamentally good and
not
total wankers?”

“Yes?”

“I was wrong. Let’s get a curry, I’m
starving
.”

Alfred liked playing sports - Physical Culture had been his minor at uni - but found watching them infernally boring. The idea of putting yourself through agony for a piece of tin was alien to him, though not as alien as it seemed to Josh. It was like dealing with a visitor from another planet. This didn’t make sense, what
were
they wearing, wouldn’t it be better if they did that? Once Jerry had slipped into an alcoholic smog it began in earnest: bets, speculations, games that made their sides ache.

Even a journo coming to quiz them wasn’t the pain it might have been. They jogged Jerry awake, he muttered, “Pass the carrots, Neville,” and passed out. Josh had an attack of the giggles. Alfred said the opening had been spectacular and the athletes knew their stuff, only to succumb too. She left without a quote.

A starting gun went off, waking Jerry. He staggered down the stands like a tranquilised bull. “I’d better go,” Alfred said, “he’ll never get back on his own.”

Jerry went to the gents, had the world’s longest piss and blundered to the bar. Alfred sat at a nearby table. One eye on his pint, the other on the shot put, it took a while to realise Jerry was talking to him.

“Eh, Langton?”

“Yes?”             

“Me and the fellas were wondering. What do bum bandits
do
?”

Alfred pretended he hadn’t heard. Unfortunately Jerry had the hide of an armadillo. “Can’t imagine anything worse than some bloke sticking his todger up my fetid arsehole, can you?”

Something inside him snapped. “I don’t have to imagine it.” He downed his pint and left.

Jerry computed what he had said. His eyes bulged, his lips moved in different directions. Before Alfred reached the first stand, the Mayor was skipping sideways to keep up.

“Langton? I’m not, you know,
like that
-”

“I’m sure I’ll get over my crushing disappointment.”

“Why?” he demanded. “Aren’t I sexy enough?”

“Let’s pretend this conversation never happened.”

“Alright.” Jerry sounded relieved. “No feasting your eyes on my junk.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“We’re just in time to see your chum go in the cannon -”

“Wait,
what?
”

Ulterior motives, Alfred fumed,
everyone’s
got ulterior motives. Whether it’s scrotes wanting to unload their junk on you, tizzicky mayors using Josh in harebrained stunts -

“You’re putting Josh in a
cannon
?”

“He’s not going to mind, is he?”

Alfred had never been sure if Jerry was an evil genius or the most vacuous man in history. Now he knew. There was no way you could hear Josh laugh, see him try curry or invent new games and not know he had feelings. Jerry was a
dolt
.

He’d wangled the story out of him. The cannon was due to be wheeled out any minute. Josh would put on an aerodynamic suit, climb inside -

“Only he won’t,” Alfred said stoutly. “I know him.”

“I asked him earlier. I don’t know if he knew what he was getting into -”

“Once a robot makes a promise, they keep it. Did you know?”

The first signs of conscience flitted across the Mayor’s face. “Yes.”

“Just as well your imaginary enemy hasn’t shown up. I’ll kill you myself.”

They pushed through the crowds of bored guards and lounging athletes onto the stage. The cannon was gigantic, built along the lines of a syringe. When you pulled the plunger, Josh would be propelled at break neck speed into the river Ira.

“He can’t swim! Jerry, you
prick!
”

“Lord Langton?” Sugar skidded over. “Jerry flipping Etruscus -”

“Alfred?” Josh appeared, wearing a sheer suit with a helmet. “The Mayor
asked
me. I can’t refuse. Hello, Dr Sugar.”

“I say no,” Sugar said. “I created you, and
I
say it’s bloody stupid.”

“If Jerry wants to fire the cannon so badly, why doesn’t
he
go in it?” Alfred agreed.

Josh looked at Alfred. Alfred nodded to Sugar. Sugar glared at Jerry. Just when they thought they had reached an impasse, Jerry spoke. “That sounds like a
corking
idea.” He took the helmet from Josh, stuck it on his bonce and wriggled inside the cannon. “Pull the plunger!”

Josh did as he was told. “Tally ho!” Jerry shouted as he soared over the spectators’ heads.

“Am I having another stroke?” Alfred asked.             

“I must be too,” Sugar said.