The Holy Machine (18 page)

53

A terrrible silence fell.

Looming in front of me, the grinning faces froze.

Both shepherds stood up.

‘Take us to her,’ Petros told the cross-eyed boy, his voice icy and clipped. Spiro picked up the lamp.

Frantically I struggled to my feet.

‘Oh come on, fellows, I was only joking. Lucy and I had a row that’s all and I was angry with her. She’s not a robot. It was only a joke!’

‘That we can decide for ourselves,’ said Petros coldly.

I tottered and tried to grab him, but the big policeman came forward at once, took me by the collar and flung me aside. I fell against the stove, scalding myself and cutting my temple.

Laboriously I dragged myself up again.

‘Really, you must leave her alone. She’s sleeping! She’s not well!’

Spiro and the two shepherds ignored me. They were already heading up the rickety little stairs at the back of the shop. The policeman meanwhile had gone to the door and was shouting out into the street.

‘We have a demon! Come quickly! The atheist has brought a demon down from the north!’

I groped at the air. The room spun round me. It was hard even to make out the bottom of the stairs. I lurched forward.

And then from above came a dreadful inhuman roar.

‘Lucy!’ I shouted out, dragging myself up the stairs.

‘Mother of God!’ muttered the policeman in horror, crossing himself and running to get his gun.

‘Demon! We have a demon!’ he shouted out again.

Those roars, those ragged blasts of white noise, came again and again from upstairs.

In the church, the chanting had gone silent. Doors were opening in the dark street.

Lucy stood by the window in the yellowish paraffin light, facing the two frightened shepherds. Her head and limbs were human, her body a mechanical plastic box. Her face was devoid of expression but from between her slightly parted lips came again and again that awful electric roar.

With the boy Spiro cowering behind them with the lamp, the two shepherds advanced slowly, knives in hand. Their knowledge of robots was limited to myths and rumours. They had heard that some could kill or maim with a magical light, that others were stronger than oxen. They had heard that the creatures were animated by devils from hell…

‘Leave her! Please leave her!’ I begged them.

‘You go for the throat, Andreas,’ murmured Petros, ‘and I’ll go for the chest. Now!’

The two of them rushed forward but Lucy, with another blast of noise, plunged headfirst through the window, splintering glass and wood.

Cursing, the two shepherds used their knives to poke away the jagged shards sticking out from the frame, then leapt down after her. I followed them, twisting my ankle painfully as I dropped heavily into the road.

There were many villagers out there, some holding lamps, others carrying knives, spades, pitchforks, guns…

‘Demon! Demon!’ they were shouting excitedly, but like the shepherds they became more subdued when they were faced with Lucy herself.

Lucy clambered awkwardly back to her feet. To the right and the left of her, hostile, hate-filled faces loomed in the lamplight. But there was still one direction that no one was yet blocking. Straight ahead of her, a donkey track between two houses headed up the mountainside. She rushed forward.

But Lucy couldn’t run. It was not part of her repertoire. She could only manage a sort of speeded-up walk, stumbling again and again on the stones of the track. This strange gait thrilled and appalled the villagers.

‘
Demon! Demon!
’ they chanted. And then everyone was calling out to one another as they began to follow her.

‘She’s heading for the quarry!’

‘We’ll get her there.’

‘She won’t be able to get out.’

There was elation, almost a carnival feeling in the air.

‘Yes! She’s had it! We’ve got her cornered now!’ shouted gleeful voices.

And the crowd surged excitedly after the solitary figure that was stumbling off into the darkness.

Unnoticed by everyone, I brought up the rear, hobbling on my twisted ankle, pleading uselessly for mercy, struggling to keep up.

The track led straight up into the small quarry, now unused, which for centuries had provided building stone for the village. It was a dead-end.

Lucy looked around. Crumbling rock faces rose ahead of her and on either side. The space between was bare except for a dilapidated wooden shed. The only way out was the way she came in, and from there the braver of the villagers were already pouring into the quarry, clutching their lights and their weapons.

They grinned and cackled at her as she turned to face them. Brandishing knives and pitchforks and burning branches, they edged slowly forward.

‘
Demon! Demon! Demon
!’ they hissed.

Someone let loose with a shotgun. Pellets rattled against Lucy’s hard torso. A red flap of flesh fell away from her cheek. The crowd cheered.

‘
Demon! Demon! Demon
!’

Lucy backed away. She had known hostility and violence in the ASPU house, but this was different. This was the hatred of people who
knew
she was alive. Her lips parted and from her mouth came out again that inhuman roar of noise. This gave the villagers a delicious frisson of horror:

‘
Demon! Demon! Demon
!’

Lucy tripped on a stone and stumbled backwards. Seeing her fall, the crowd rushed forward shouting. But before they reached her, she managed to get back on her feet. With her strange speeded-up walk she raced to the shed, flung open the door and pulled it closed behind her.

Everyone hooted and laughed as they heard her piling things up inside to block the door.

‘Well, that shouldn’t be hard to force!’ said the shepherd Petros, stepping forward with Andreas and some other village men.

But the priest had his own ideas.

‘Wait!’ said this venerable old man, ‘No need to break down the door. We should
burn
the devil out!’

The villagers approved.

‘Burn! Burn! Burn!’ they chanted.

Three young boys were sent running back to the village to get paraffin. Others threw stones mockingly at the shed.

‘Watch out whore-demon, you’re going to burn, burn, burn! Let’s see what happens
then
to your pretty face.’

I made a forlorn attempt to intervene.

‘Have pity on her, please!’ What a thin, reedy little thing my voice sounded. ‘She’s done no harm. She can’t help what she is!’

I tried to push forward, but two young men grabbed hold of my arms and held me tightly, chuckling.

‘Eh, the demon has bewitched this City boy!’ called out a hard-faced young woman, in a voice as dry and abrasive as sandpaper. ‘She has bewitched him good and proper with her plastic tits and her pretty plastic eyes.’

The crowd laughed. More stones hurtled through the air.

Then the little boys came back up the path carrying a jerrycan between them, and the shepherds emptied it over the door of the shed. Someone else came forward with a burning torch. The dry wood burst into flames and the priest lifted his arms to the sky and pleaded with Father, Son and Holy Ghost to deliver them all from evil. The whole village joined in with a hymn.

Great orange tongues of oily flame reached up ten metres into the evening sky and illuminated the bare little quarry with apocalyptic light.

‘Burn! Burn! Burn!’ chanted the crowd when the hymn had finished, and the boys flung stones into the flames.

Eager to get a closer look, my excited captors released my arms and ran forward.

* * *

And then all that was left was a pile of smouldering ash with some scorched bits of metal farm machinery half-buried in it and, lying right in the middle, a vaguely human shape. Some of the young men made attempts to fish out the remains of the robot with pitchforks. There was a good deal of daredevilry and cheering and laughing, while the village girls played their part by giving terrified squeals and begging the boys to take care.

But the burnt robot was too far into the embers, and the heat too intense, for anyone to reach it.

‘We’ll get it in the morning,’ shouted the loudest of the boys, ‘We’ll nail it up high somewhere like they do in the north, so everyone will know that we kill our demons too.’

‘Let’s shove a pole up her and stick her outside the church,’ said another.

‘Ugh! That’s disgusting!’ said one of the girls.

‘Yes, Paulos, you are disgusting,’ said another boy.

‘You can’t talk. What about that donkey?’

‘What donkey, you lying swine?’

They were walking past me. I had expected them to turn on me now as the demon’s lover. I had expected to be knifed or hung or perhaps flung into the remains of the fire. But it didn’t happen. The villagers ignored me completely. They walked right past me as though I had become invisible. In small groups and large ones, the whole village made its way back down the donkey track, talking and laughing like revellers returning from a party.

I was left there on my own. Still unsteady from so much raki, I tottered to the edge of the glowing ash. Lucy’s body lay face down, its hands stretched outwards, devoid of any remnant of human flesh.

* * *

I remembered her room back at the ASPU house, the books that been placed there simply as props for the young college-girl image, yet each one of them slowly and painfully read by her in her efforts to understand the world in which she lived…

54

After some time, I made my way down the dark donkey track to the village. Although it was now the early hours of the morning, it seemed that the whole village, from aged crones to tiny children, was gathered either inside or outside of the single store. Bottles of wine and raki were being passed around. The policeman was drinking with the priest. A CD player was blasting out bouzouki music. Arm in arm the shepherds Petros and Andreas were dancing with the young men who’d tried to pull the shell of Lucy from out of the fire. There were many cheers and shouts of laughter.

‘Did you see when I shot her?’

‘If Markos wasn’t afraid of a little heat, he’d have held onto me and I’d have been able to fish the demon’s body out.’

‘We’d have knifed her there and then if she hadn’t dived out of the window.’

‘But did you hear that
noise
?’

‘I tell you I hit her fair and square with that shot. That body of hers must have strong armour.’

No one paid the slightest attention to me. Except for a few children, no one so much as glanced in my direction.

I went over to my car. The bags that Lucy and I had left in the upstairs room had all been piled up neatly against the front wheel, and someone had scratched a symbol onto the paintwork on the door: a Greek cross, the emblem of the Greek Christian Army.

I climbed in and started up the engine, with an empty seat beside me. Then I drove very slowly away.

No one even looked round as I headed off into the darkness.

I drove all through the night, lurching and bumping along those crumbling roads, the car creaking and groaning, loose stones cracking against the doors and windscreen.

Trees, rocks, buildings, loomed momentarily into the headlights and vanished again.

Occasionally there was a goat or a rabbit.

Once I passed a priest, striding along alone in the middle of the night.

55

After I’d lost Lucy to the fire, I wandered for a long time with no purpose, without any sense of myself as an individual person who acted and made decisions in the world. Yet things still happened. A month or so afterwards, someone stole my car in the port of Patras. The loss of it troubled me, yet I had left it unlocked, as if part of me
wanted
to lose it. Something inside of me sought to rid myself of everything, to tear away the surface and expose the cowering thing inside, like Lucy tearing away her irrelevant flesh.

I went to the docks and bought a ticket for the first ship to sail. It was going north, to the Ionian islands, just across the water from where my journey began.

I arrived late at night in Corfu. I needed somewhere to rest and I found a sailors’ hostel near the port, where I’d have to share a room.

My roommate didn’t get in until two in the morning. He was an elderly Venetian seaman. He had just been paid and had been out in the Old Town drinking. He had finished off by visiting a prostitute. Now he was feeling disgusted with himself.

‘It seems so delicious in anticipation, doesn’t it?’ he grumbled, when he found that I was still awake and could speak Italian. He undressed noisily in a gust of garlic and booze and sweat. ‘And then afterwards you feel ashamed.’

He belched mournfully as he climbed into bed.

‘Never mind. I’m truly repentant, so I’ll confess to a priest in the morning and God will forgive me.’

He rolled to and fro, looking for a comfortable position in the hard, damp bed.

‘You could do with a wash, my friend,’ he muttered as he settled down.

But I was fascinated by his ability to manage his conscience.

‘You can really do that, can you?’ I asked him. ‘Any time you do something bad, you can go to a priest and confess and be forgiven.’

‘Of course,’ the Italian answered drowsily.

‘But why does it work?’

The sailor sighed, drew breath and then explained slowly as if to a child: the human race was given free will so that it could chose good or evil. But Adam and Eve made a wrong choice and, as a result, humans have been sinful ever since, so that really all of us deserve to burnt for the rest of eternity in hell. Luckily, God was merciful and sent his only son to be crucified to pay the price of human sin. As a result, though all human beings were still sinners, they could be saved from the fire if they believed in Jesus and repented their sins.

With that the sailor rolled over and once more prepared himself for sleep.

‘But do you really believe in this?’ I asked him.

‘Of course!’ the Italian protested indignantly. ‘Now, will you let me sleep?’

‘But I thought that God was omnipotent. If he wanted to change his own rules, why didn’t he just change them? Why did he have to punish his son?’

‘These things are mysteries,’ muttered the Italian.

I considered.

‘What happens if people sin in heaven?’

He sat up.

‘Please, enough. I want to sleep. No one sins in heaven. Everyone knows that!’

‘Don’t they have free will anymore in heaven?’

‘Of course.’

‘But I thought free will meant people could choose.’

There was a brief silence. I had clearly over-taxed the sailor’s skills as a theologian.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘in heaven they just know the right thing to do.’

‘Didn’t Adam and Eve?’

The Italian growled.

‘To cast doubt is also a sin you know,’ he said, lying down again, ‘and now, if you have any more questions, save them for the morning and go and see a priest.’

And with that he sank down into loudly snoring sleep, leaving me lying awake, as I did every night, going over and over in my mind the moment when I had betrayed Lucy.

It wasn’t an accident, that was what haunted me, it wasn’t just a slip of the tongue brought on by too much raki. I had made a choice. I had arranged on purpose for her to be destroyed.