Tin

by Padraig Kenny

  Blake sighed and shook his head in exasperation. ‘Oh, Christopher, Christopher. What we’re doing here is trying to uncover secrets. Your memories have been tampered with in order to hide something.’ Blake gave a tight, bitter smile. ‘Someone once told me that secrets are secrets for a reason. I tend not to believe that. I think secrets are there to be uncovered. Like buried treasure.’

  ‘You say hide something. Hide what?’ Christopher asked.

  Blake ignored the question and simply smiled to himself. He reached behind him on the table for something in a tin box: a small rectangular piece of metal. He showed Christopher both sides.

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘Nothing, it’s blank,’ said Christopher.

  Blake reached inside his breast pocket and took out a black piece of metal shaped like a pen. He started to inscribe something on the small rectangle with this pen. When he was finished he held it up. Christopher could see the symbols he’d engraved. They glowed with a soft white light for a moment, and then faded out, leaving just the elegant black script Blake had created.

  ‘What do you see now?’ he asked.

  ‘Glyphs.’

  Blake smiled. ‘Very good, yes. Glyphs.’ He climbed down off his stool and started to look through another, larger box on the table.

  When he turned back to face Christopher he had what looked like a metal marionette in his hand. Its head was smooth and featureless. He started to delicately inscribe tiny symbols on its skull.

  ‘The secret of glyphs is in their combinations. Different combinations produce different results, different personalities and suchlike, and there are all manner of variations. There are sets of glyphs and subsets of glyphs. Certain sub sets can be used to create memories. Now, your friends, they wouldn’t have needed memories. They would have woken into the world with a clean slate, much like this.’

  Blake put his lips together and blew some of the steel shavings from the head of the marionette, then he enclosed the head with his hand, closed his eyes and whispered something. Light glowed from under his hand for a moment, and then it faded.

  A few seconds after the light had faded the marionette’s legs started to jerk. Blake smiled and put the marionette on the table. Its legs spasmed and went from under it. It clambered up, and then jerkily started to walk across the table, eventually finding a smooth rhythm.

  ‘Stop,’ said Blake.

  The marionette stopped.

  ‘Sit,’ said Blake.

  It sat on the edge of the table with its arms down by its sides.

  Blake smiled and spread his hands out in front of the marionette. ‘Voilà. The rudimentary. The basic system animated in its simplest form.’ Blake seemed genuinely pleased with the result. His eyes were shining like those of a small child. ‘It never ceases to amaze me,’ he said, then shook himself. ‘Anyway, to work.’

  He was holding up the pen-shaped instrument again. He walked towards Christopher and stood near his head. He pushed a lever and the chair started to recline. As he sank lower, Christopher felt the panic rise in him again and he tried to sit up.

  ‘Shh,’ said Blake, laying a firm but surprisingly gentle hand on his chest.

  He positioned himself behind Christopher and laid his right hand on his forehead, just below his fringe.

  ‘You may have heard Mr Reeves referring to something called patching.’

  Christopher nodded.

  ‘Patching is a process which requires quite a lot of skill to be done properly. A high-grade mechanical may be patched and re-patched to suit the owner’s needs. The best way to explain patching is to demonstrate it.’

  Blake held the piece of metal in front of Christopher’s eyes. Up close Christopher could appreciate even more the delicacy of the script on its surface.

  ‘This is a patch,’ said Blake. ‘This one is interesting because I’ve modified it with very specific glyphs.’ Blake pressed down a little firmer on Christopher’s forehead. ‘If you would permit me.’

  Christopher didn’t think he was in a position to argue. He was also strangely curious, and nodded as best he could.

  Blake pushed up the fringe of Christopher’s hair, gave a little jerking motion with his hand, and suddenly Christopher’s hair was rising from his head. Christopher twisted around in shock. ‘It’s a standard feature,’ said Blake. His smile was almost apologetic. ‘Settle back.’

  Christopher tried to relax. He fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and he felt Blake’s hand move to his skull, the slight pressure of the patch on his head. There was a small click, the sensation of a tiny added weight. Blake let Christopher’s hair flop back down.

  ‘Now,’ he said.

  ‘Now what?’ said Christopher.

  ‘Do you remember that picnic you went on when you were five years old? You had Rusty with you.’

  Christopher frowned.

  ‘Your pet dog.’

  Christopher looked bemused. ‘I’ve never been on a picnic, and I’ve definitely never had a d—’

  There was a burst of golden light, the warm, green scent of grass. Christopher was on a hillside overlooking rolling hills bathing in a haze of sun. He was sitting on a blanket. The remnants of sandwiches were scattered around him. There was a bottle of lemonade by his side. Just by looking at it he could feel the tang and fizz of it on his tongue. He remembered the burst of flavour as he swigged it back and screwed his eyes shut against the brilliance of the blue sky and the sun, and he could hear barking – barking, as Rusty joyfully lolloped towards him, his tongue hanging out, his reddish-brown ears flapping. Rusty, his dog, running towards him, getting closer.

  Christopher held out his arms.

  There was a click and a deadly whush sound, and the world suddenly seemed to grey again before Christopher found himself back in the chair. The pang of loss was almost unbearable. He jerked forwards and clenched his fists against his chest.

  ‘What was that?’ he gasped.

  ‘Christopher—’

  He spilled off the front of the chair and almost collapsed in a heap on the floor. ‘What was it?’ he screamed.

  ‘I’m sorry, it was the easiest way to show you,’ said Blake.

  Christopher leant forward and braced himself against the front of the chair with his right hand. The sense of loss was fading – he could still see Rusty, but the pang of grief that had been so sharp was dulling. It was like waking from a particularly realistic dream, when you carry the emotion with you into the waking world, until gradually it fades like a ripple vanishing in water.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Blake. ‘I do apologize.’

  ‘Was it a dream?’ asked Christopher.

  Blake shook his head. ‘No, it was a memory.’ He paused in thought, frowning. ‘Or at least the imitation of one.’ He held the piece of metal up for Christopher to see. ‘A patch has inscribed upon it what you might call memories. Once attached to a mechanical, it gives them the illusion of having had a past. To give you an example of a practical application: as you know, some buyers seek mechanicals as child replacements. They may deem it necessary for the purchased device to have certain memories of their family. Their first day at school. An incident where they were stung by a bee and comforted by a parent, and so on.’

  Christopher still felt nauseous. He didn’t like the way Blake was speaking, as if he was delivering a public lecture, and was expounding on his own greatness. The engineer looked at Christopher, attempting to feign concern, but Christopher could see something else in his eyes, a glint of callousness that told him that Blake only saw him as a means to an end.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Blake asked.

  Christopher rubbed his forehead. He felt a sudden weariness, as if a great weight had settled on his shoulders.

  ‘So my memories aren’t my memories?’

  ‘Well, now, that’s the thing. We don’t know for certain. Some of what you recognize as your memories may well be that. Some of them, alas, maybe not.’

  Christopher had a sudden vision
of his mother. Flour in her hair. Her smile. The pang in his chest was back again, but this time it was fiercer, and this time he knew it would last.

  ‘How do I know what happened and didn’t happen? How do I know what was real?’ he sobbed.

  Blake stepped towards him and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Christopher. We’ll find out together. I promise.’

  He could see Blake’s face wobble and waver through his tears.

  How can I cry? he thought again. The very idea of it seemed to be a mocking insult.

  Blake shushed him and got him to settle back into the chair. Christopher felt ashamed and embarrassed as great gulping sobs convulsed him. He’d felt the urge to run earlier, but now he realized there was no point. And yet he also wanted to stay – he needed to know what were his real memories and what weren’t. He needed to know who he was, and it frightened him.

  ‘It could be a long process,’ Blake said softly. ‘You’ve been patched quite a bit. We have to separate the false memories from the true. It’ll take a little bit of delving.’

  Christopher nodded and rubbed his nose with his hand. He tried his best to straighten up as Blake examined his skull. He stared ahead at the ceiling, and thought again about the way life had changed for him, and about what was true and what was false.

  Jack watched Estelle as she sat up in bed and glowered. She was still wearing her overcoat, and she had her hands jammed deep into the pockets. He could see the muddy soles of her boots which she hadn’t taken off, even as she slept.

  ‘Are you thinking, Estelle?’ asked Rob.

  Early morning light was seeping through the window. Rob was sitting in a corner, while Manda, Jack and Gripper all leant up against the back wall.

  ‘Yes,’ said Estelle, without taking her eyes off the wall.

  ‘I knew it,’ said Rob. ‘I knew it because you were doing your frowny thinky face. I’m not as good at doing a frowny thinky face because I don’t have real skin like you, but when I want people to know that I’m thinking, I sometimes stroke my chin, like this.’

  Rob narrowed his eyes and started to stroke his chin between his thumb and index finger.

  ‘That way people can tell I’m thinking. Then if they want to ask me for advice they’ll know it’s a good time. I might be thinking about something helpful, you see, something like how to—’

  ‘Rob,’ Jack said gently, ‘this isn’t helping.’

  Rob took his hand away from his chin and looked disappointed. He turned back to Estelle. ‘What are you thinking, Estelle?’

  ‘The same thing I thought yesterday. I’m thinking he’s not going to help us,’ said Estelle, still looking at the wall.

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Jack, trying his best to sound as if he didn’t believe in the harsh truth of what she was saying.

  Estelle gave him a look that was almost pitying. Jack was not impressed, and he felt a tingle of resentment.

  ‘How do you know, Estelle? He might change his mind.’ Even Gripper turned to look when he heard the sharpness in Jack’s voice.

  ‘You said he refused to help, didn’t you?’ said Estelle.

  ‘We can change his mind,’ Jack countered.

  Estelle shook her head and snorted.

  Jack sprang to his feet. ‘Well, what do you want to do then? Do you want to give up and leave Christopher to the Agency?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Estelle, leaping off the bed.

  ‘Well then,’ said Jack, as if that was enough to settle the matter.

  But Estelle wasn’t going to let it rest there, she was about to shout something else when a bright cheerful voice interrupted her.

  ‘Porridge?’ it said. ‘Or maybe boiled egg and soldiers?’

  Everyone turned to see Egbert standing in the doorway. His fingertips steepled delicately together. He was smiling from ear to ear.

  ‘What?’ snapped Estelle.

  ‘I was enquiring as to whether madam might like porridge for her breakfast, or perhaps boiled egg and soldiers.’

  Estelle looked at Egbert as if he had two heads.

  ‘Perhaps madam would like both? What about honey for your porridge? And may I suggest—’

  ‘No, you may not,’ snapped Estelle. ‘And it’s miss, not madam. Didn’t Mister Cormier teach you proper manners? Actually, no, forget I said that. Mr Cormier and manners don’t even go in the same sentence together.’

  A still smiling Egbert was unfazed, which sent Estelle into an even bigger rage.

  ‘I’ll bet he’s a very obliging chap, Mr Cormier. Or at least my friend Jack thinks he might be.’

  Jack clenched his jaw. ‘I was only suggesting—’

  ‘What? That we get down on our hands and knees and beg, is that it, Jack? He’s not going to help – why can’t you get that into your thick metal skull?’

  Jack took a step towards Estelle. ‘Don’t. Don’t you dare—’

  ‘Well, actually, Mr Cormier can be quite accommodating,’ said Egbert.

  ‘Nobody asked you, skinny. Why don’t you just shut up!’ Estelle roared.

  Egbert kept smiling. Jack started shouting at Estelle. Estelle screamed back at him. The shouting became fiercer, until nobody could distinguish who was shouting at who or indeed what they were saying, until finally another voice joined in:

  ‘I MISS CHRISTOPHER!’

  All eyes turned to see Round Rob standing defiantly in the centre of the room with his fists clenched.

  ‘I miss Christopher,’ he repeated, looking fiercely at each of them in turn. ‘And we shouldn’t be fighting. We should be doing the best we can to find him.’

  Jack turned back to Estelle, who looked shamefaced. She lowered her eyes to the floor.

  ‘It’s simple,’ said Rob. ‘We just do our best for him because he’s our friend, and we miss him. We owe him our best. He’d do it for us.’

  Jack smiled and nodded in appreciation at Rob. Rob straightened up proudly and gave a little wriggle to get the stiffness out of his joints.

  ‘Porridge,’ sighed Estelle, turning towards Egbert.

  Egbert bowed. ‘Very good, madam.’

  They all trooped downstairs after Egbert. There was no sign of Cormier anywhere. The butler breezily informed them that: ‘Mr Cormier will be with us after breakfast.’

  He led them to a dining room with a table so large it looked like it had been built for a giant. Estelle sat and hunched her shoulders forward, holding her hands between her knees. Jack thought she looked like someone half her age, and for the first time he realized that her anger was really just a mask to hide her fear. She was as worried about Christopher as any of them.

  Egbert offered the mechanicals some oil. Everyone sat at the table except Gripper who stood by the door, moving awkwardly from one foot to the other, because there was nothing big enough for him to sit on.

  Jack was nervous. He could almost hear the crackle of tension in the air. He knew he only had one more chance to convince Cormier to help them before they were booted out of the house, and he could feel the responsibility weighing down on his shoulders. But he had to do it for Christopher. Rob had reminded them of that, and he turned to thank him for his outburst upstairs.

  But Round Rob was missing.

  Round Rob had always had what Absalom called ‘a curious streak’ in him. He was always nosing in things, and prone to wandering off whenever they went anywhere.

  He’d felt the old impulse as they made their way down Cormier’s hallway for breakfast. The niggling feeling had crept up on him as soon as they’d left the room upstairs, and so it was that Rob had found himself looking around as the others receded into the distance, and he started to scan the walls, as if he might find something interesting there.

  That’s when he heard the skittering sound.

  It came from somewhere to his left. Rob turned to look in the direction of the sound. If he had a heart it would have skipped a beat – a narrow doorway leading to another part of the house had been left aja
r.

  ‘What’s that? Who’s there?’ said Rob, smiling in excitement.

  The skittering sound came again, like tiny scampering feet on metal. Rob couldn’t help himself. He took one final look at the others as they disappeared around a corner, and then he turned and stepped through the doorway.

  The corridor on the other side was narrow and gloomy. It was bordered on both sides by stained grey panelling. It was the strangest hallway he’d ever been in – it seemed to zigzag one way then another, with the ceiling dipping and rising at odd intervals. Rob heard scuttling in the murk up ahead. He started forward, feeling another tickle of excitement. He wasn’t frightened. It was rare that Round Rob became frightened – as he saw it the world was a reasonable place. If you had difficulties, there was usually a simple solution of some sort.

  Like how Christopher had been taken from them – to Rob, it was all just a simple matter of getting him back.

  He missed Christopher, and he could feel it somewhere in his being. It was a different feeling to the scratchy curiosity he felt as he followed the noise. This was a cold lonely feeling, as if some part of him had been cut out – he knew he had to find that part again and put it back in.

  Rob came to an open door on his left, and heard a pattering sound from within. The room was small, no more than a glorified cupboard with a tiny grubby window on the far wall. There were batteries and bits of scrap metal piled on top of each other. Rob looked around and frowned. He waited for a few moments but heard nothing, and was about to leave when something moved on the window ledge.

  A small sheet of tin was edging forward bit by bit as if something was pushing it from behind. Rob watched it in fascination as it kept coming, until finally gravity took hold and it crashed off the window and down on to a pile of nuts and bolts below.

  The thing that had pushed the sheet of tin looked like it was trying to get out the window. It was grey, discshaped and as big as a man’s fist. It had six legs and tiny, shiny black eyes. It scrabbled the needle-sharp points of its legs against the window, and they made a screeching, scraping sound. Rob stepped forward and wiggled his fingers in greeting.

  ‘Hullo,’ he said.