Tin

by Padraig Kenny

  The spider thing whipped around and glared at him with beady eyes. Its multi-jointed legs started quivering.

  ‘I’m Round Rob. I’m a friend.’

  The spider thing regarded him suspiciously, and Round Rob counted its legs again and reminded himself that spiders have eight legs. Insects have six legs and spiders eat insects, so maybe this insect thing was afraid of being eaten. Round Rob looked over his right shoulder, as if expecting a large metallic spider to appear at any moment.

  When he was sure nothing was coming he turned back to the spider. Or the ‘not a spider’, as he reminded himself. He thought for a moment and decided he couldn’t call it ‘not a spider’. Also, it didn’t look like any insect he knew, so he made the most logical decision he could make and decided to call it George.

  ‘George, here boy,’ he said.

  George sat up and pawed the space between them delicately with his front two legs, as if testing the air. Round Rob took George’s response to his new name as a good sign, and he stepped forward and held out his forearm. George’s legs clicked and clacked and made slow circular motions in the air, then they tentatively rested on Rob’s arm.

  ‘That’s it, George,’ Rob smiled.

  George placed two legs on Rob’s arm, then four, then all six, and he sat there and looked up at Rob with his shiny eyes. Rob chuckled with glee, then, as if he couldn’t quite believe his luck, a seemingly delighted George skittered up Rob’s arm and nestled under his chin. Rob giggled.

  Rob turned around and left the room. ‘Let’s see what else we can find,’ he said to his new friend.

  It didn’t take him long to find something else. There was a door five feet down the hall to the right. It was slightly ajar, but Rob, being Rob, wasn’t perturbed by the prospect of what might be on the other side of the door – he just pushed it open and ambled in.

  The room was large and surprisingly neat. There was a big bed, a wardrobe and a dressing table. A wash basin and jug were balanced on a stool near the bed. Rob scanned the room, and his eyes drifted to his right.

  And that was when he found the most amazing thing of all.

  Estelle polished off her second bowl of porridge. She caught Jack’s eye as the spoon was halfway to her mouth. ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Jack, as he watched her lower her eyes to the bowl. ‘Well, just one thing.’

  ‘What?’ said Estelle warily.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry about earlier.’

  Estelle gave him a look of gratitude, and then she shrugged and gave a quick scowl, just in case Jack thought she might be getting too soft.

  Jack grinned at her, and then felt a sudden daring impulse, as if he knew now might be the only moment for what he was about to do next. The words were out of his mouth before he knew it.

  ‘Why did you leave home, Estelle?’

  Estelle’s head whipped up. She looked stunned by the question. Her lower lip moved, up down, up down, as if she’d forgotten how to speak, and then suddenly she rattled off an answer:

  ‘I wanted to see the world. I wanted to better myself.’

  Jack nodded. He tried to frown to give the impression of understanding, but secretly he was strangely delighted, and he pressed his advantage a little more.

  ‘What was your dad like?’

  ‘Mean,’ snapped Estelle, and just as soon as she’d said the word Jack could tell that she regretted it.

  ‘Mean? Like with money? Like Mr Absalom?’

  Estelle’s head shook involuntarily ever so slightly, and Jack knew she meant the other definition of the word. She lowered her eyes and fixed them on her spoon as she stirred the porridge in her bowl.

  ‘Dad taught me everything he knew,’ Estelle said with a wry smile. ‘Then I got better and better, and I began to teach him a thing or two. Most people would have been happy with the help. Most people would have had something nice to say about it once in a while, but not him.’

  Estelle jabbed her spoon into her porridge. Jack took it as a sign that the subject was now closed. She had raised her shoulders, as if she was trying to shield herself and was embarrassed by having said so much.

  After breakfast was finished, Egbert came in and announced: ‘Mr Cormier will see you now.’

  ‘What is he, royalty?’ Estelle muttered.

  He led them back along the hallway towards the room they’d first encountered Cormier in the day before. Manda held Jack’s hand as they walked down the hallway. ‘Where’s Rob?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jack.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry,’ said Estelle. ‘He’ll turn up. He always does.’

  They stepped into the room to find Cormier kneeling on the floor, viciously unscrewing something from an engine. He had a file clamped in his mouth and he was growling with the exertion. He gave them barely a glance, only nodding curtly at Egbert.

  ‘Wuh ijit Egber?’ he muttered through the file.

  ‘Our guests, Mr Cormier. You said you wanted to say goodbye to them before they left.’

  Cormier waved a dismissive hand at them and grumbled ‘Ubye’ before turning back to his work.

  ‘We’re not going anywhere,’ said Jack, taking a step further into the room.

  Cormier took the file from his mouth and glared at him. ‘What?’

  ‘I said we’re—’

  ‘I know what you said,’ replied Cormier, starting to file something on the surface of the engine.

  Jack gave a bitter smile. ‘You obviously don’t want to listen, but I’ll tell you anyway.’

  Cormier sighed and shook his head.

  ‘Our friend is one of your Originals. He might not even know it, but he has to be, and only you can claim him.’

  ‘All my Originals are accounted for. Like I said, I’ve just got my bits and bobs now,’ Cormier muttered.

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Jack.

  ‘Course I’m sure,’ Cormier growled. ‘Anyway, let’s just say this friend of yours is one of mine – how would you prove it? It’s not like he has a stamp.’

  Jack looked at Estelle, confused. ‘Some models are stamped,’ she explained.

  ‘I never stamped mine,’ said Cormier. ‘Stamping’s for egomaniacs.’

  ‘He didn’t have a stamp,’ said Estelle.

  ‘Well, that means nothing,’ shrugged Cormier. ‘And anyway, you still haven’t explained how you know he’s one of mine?’

  ‘He’s a very good model,’ said Estelle.

  Cormier grunted.

  ‘The craftsmanship is excellent,’ she added.

  Cormier considered this for a moment and nodded, as if both conceding the point to Estelle and taking the chance to appreciate his own genius – but then he went straight back to scowling.

  ‘Appearance, articulation, movement; everything is top grade,’ said Estelle.

  ‘Pah,’ said Cormier, concentrating on his filing.

  ‘No one else could have made a model like it. He’s one of yours,’ said Jack.

  Cormier rose slowly into a standing position and very deliberately wiped his oil-stained hands with a rag. He jabbed a finger in the direction of Jack and Estelle: ‘Now you listen, and you listen well. I, Philip Cormier, the greatest engineer of this age, indeed of any age, am certain of one thing, and that is that my few remaining Originals are all accounted for. I have names, dates, locations and ownership details. I would most certainly remember if there was one wandering about in a junkyard.’

  Cormier raised an eyebrow, challenging them to retort.

  ‘You have to help us,’ said Jack quietly.

  ‘I don’t have to help anyone,’ said Cormier.

  ‘You helped Manda and Rob when we first arrived here. You could have left us outside, but instead you called us in. Why did you do that?’

  ‘I was bored,’ said Cormier, looking slightly flustered.

  ‘I think you’re a good man, Mr Cormier. I think you care,’ said Jack.

  ‘Nonsense!’ roared Cormier.
>
  Jack took Manda’s hand and gently pushed her towards Cormier. ‘Well, then I’m wrong,’ he said. ‘You don’t care at all, Mr Cormier. That’s quite obvious,’ he said, looking pointedly at Manda.

  Cormier wrapped his hand around a spanner. His knuckles whitened. His arm was trembling with fury.

  ‘Get out,’ he hissed.

  ‘Mr Cormier—’ Jack began.

  ‘I said get out!’ Cormier roared, striking the engine so hard with the spanner that sparks flew upwards. ‘Your tinpot friend is no concern of mine. The Agency can tear him up for scrap for all I care. They have machines in London, crushers. They’ll pulp him right down into a cube no bigger than a fist.’

  Manda burst into tears.

  Cormier looked both frightened and guilty when he looked at Manda, but he roared on anyway. ‘Yes, that’s right. A tiny cube. That’s all he’s good for. He’s no more one of mine than the air. He can go and hang for all I care. Now get out!’

  Cormier stood there gasping, his chest heaving in and out with the effort he’d expended. Manda was still crying, and Gripper was holding his left forearm and looking forlornly at the ground. Even Egbert seemed shocked. Estelle glared at Cormier with contempt. She turned to look at Jack, who could see the flicker in her eyes that suggested she’d decided that this was now a lost cause. Jack felt an awful plummeting sensation. He nodded at Estelle, and they turned to leave.

  A panting, shamefaced Cormier watched them as they made their way towards the door.

  And that’s where it would have ended, if Round Rob hadn’t waddled in at that very moment, holding something aloft in his right hand.

  He fixed Cormier with what, for Round Rob, was a very stern look and said:

  ‘Why do you have a photograph of Christopher in your bedroom?’

  Christopher spent most of his first day in the Crag in the chair. Blake worked on him with the patches, always with an apologetic air, and with frequent interjections like: ‘This might sting a little’ or ‘Brace yourself’.

  Often Christopher would see something from the past, its colours incredibly vivid – so vibrant it almost hurt to look at them. He could see Mr Jenkins mopping the hall in the orphanage. The vinegar solution he was using was so strong that it stung Christopher’s eyes and made them weep. Jenkins’ dungarees, which were a faded blue, suddenly blazed with a brightness that made Christopher want to shield his eyes with his forearm. Jenkins looked up from what he was doing, and then suddenly, he, the shiny mahogany surfaces of the hallway, the sting of vinegar, everything was gone, as if it had all been sucked down a plughole with violent force.

  ‘What about that one?’ Blake asked.

  ‘What one?’ said Christopher.

  ‘The memory with the caretaker, Mr Jenkins.’

  Christopher frowned. ‘Who’s Mr Jenkins?’

  Blake exhaled and wiped a sweaty hand across his brow. ‘Another false one,’ he said. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. All he’d been doing was sorting through patches on Christopher’s skull, gingerly touching them with tweezers, removing them gently, and asking him to recall specific memories. At this stage, he’d worked through most of Christopher’s memories of the orphanage. Blake hummed as he worked and murmured, ‘These are good, I wonder where your friend Absalom got them.’

  ‘Mr Absalom wasn’t a friend,’ said Christopher. As he spoke, the orphanage garden blazed into light with yellows, whites, reds and oranges, and then was gone. Christopher felt a sudden sharp sting which seemed to vanish almost as soon as he felt it.

  ‘That was a good one,’ said Blake, holding the patch up to examine with his tweezers. ‘Smells, sounds, textures – everything.’

  He dropped it into a small kidney-shaped tray where it rattled with the others.

  ‘Absalom was a liar,’ said Christopher, feeling a quiver of anger run through him.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Blake. ‘There’s nothing worse than a liar.’ He narrowed his eyes and scanned Christopher’s skull. ‘What do you remember now?’

  Christopher swallowed. There was the sudden flash of a kitchen, warm sunlight through a window, the smell of baking. ‘I can see my mother.’

  ‘Good,’ said Blake. ‘I think—’

  ‘What?’ snapped Christopher. He immediately felt guilty about the tone he’d used when he saw the look of surprise in Blake’s eyes, but he couldn’t help it. The tension was too much, and he could feel a creeping panic as each memory was removed. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Quite all right,’ smiled Blake. ‘I was just about to say we might be getting closer to your real memories.’

  Christopher nodded, but turned his face away so that Blake couldn’t see the fear in his eyes. What if my mother isn’t real, he thought. What if she was just a patch-induced illusion too? Then what? The fear was a cold, sore thing that he could feel growing inside him. It felt like a stone lodged in his chest, making it hard to breathe.

  ‘Those tears too,’ said Blake, not noticing Christopher’s mood. ‘They’re quite the bit of workmanship. I could never do tears.’

  ‘And I eat,’ said Christopher. ‘And I drink too.’

  Blake gave a little grunt of effort, and prised away another patch which he held up in front of Christopher’s eyes. ‘Not any more you don’t.’

  Christopher blinked.

  ‘That’s a rather clever patch right there. It gives you false memories which are a bit more current. What you ate for breakfast and tea, that sort of thing. You’ve never had a bacon sandwich in your life. Which, when you think about it, is probably the cruellest mode of torture of all.’

  Blake smiled weakly at his own attempt at humour, and dropped the patch into the tray.

  ‘I’m a Cormier, aren’t I?’ said Christopher.

  There was a slight pause as if Blake was considering what he’d said. ‘Most likely.’

  ‘Then why did he abandon me? How did I get to Absalom’s?’

  ‘Well, that’s what we’re here to find out, isn’t it?’ Blake said cheerily.

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Who?’ Blake dropped another patch into the tray.

  ‘Cormier. Did you know him?’

  Blake didn’t reply. There was nothing but the gentle tap tap as he loosened the edges of another patch.

  Christopher bit his lip, and decided to press his advantage. ‘I heard he worked with your father.’

  Blake flung one of his tools into a tray, and it bounced off with a clang and hit the floor.

  He came around to where Christopher could see him, and wiped his hands and forehead on a towel.

  ‘We appear to be done for the day.’ He smiled, but it was forced and didn’t hide his anger. He pressed the lever on the chair with real venom, and Christopher was almost thrown out of it as he was brought up into a sitting position.

  Blake strode over to the doors and shouted down the hallway. ‘If you would be so kind, Mr Reeves.’

  He then went to a table and started writing in a notebook. Christopher realized he was attempting to ignore him. He thought about asking Blake about his father again, and could feel the squirming sense of animosity within himself, and the satisfaction he might gain from angering Blake some more. But the moment passed as Reeves and Dunlop strode through the double doors.

  Blake gestured towards Christopher with his pen without looking up. ‘You may take him.’

  ‘Very good, sir. May I enquire as to how things are proceeding?’

  ‘Barely scratching the first layer. We’ll know more tomorrow once we see if it’s affected in any way by the memory stripping.’

  Christopher felt a hot twinge of rage when he realized the ‘it’ being referred to was him.

  Reeves took him roughly by the arm and pushed him towards the hall.

  ‘Wait!’

  Reeves turned around with Christopher, and Blake picked something up from a table and walked towards the double doors.

  ‘This is for you,’ he said to Chri
stopher, as he held the marionette out towards him.

  Reeves was as surprised as Christopher was. Blake’s anger seemed to have faded, but Christopher couldn’t read his expression. Was that guilt he saw? He took the marionette from him.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Blake turned on his heel and walked back to his notes.

  Dunlop and Reeves escorted Christopher back to his cell. The sky outside was darkening to a deep blue. The clank of the door bolt made him start a little. Christopher placed the marionette on the floor and it stood there, looking up at him as if awaiting instruction.

  ‘Sit,’ Christopher said.

  The marionette sat on the floor.

  Christopher climbed into his bunk and stared at the wall until the cell had darkened, the marionette becoming just a grey outline in the gloom.

  Jack reckoned he had never seen anyone turn as white as Cormier did in the moment Round Rob produced the photo of Christopher. He stumbled backwards as if he’d been punched in the gut, and if it hadn’t been for the engine on the floor behind him, Jack reckoned he would have fallen. All eyes in the room were on him; his mouth opened and closed, but no sound was forthcoming, and it seemed like an eternity before he could utter anything that resembled actual words. When he finally did speak, all that he could manage seemed little more than spluttering nonsense.

  ‘How did . . . did you . . . Chris . . . he’s . . . but that’s . . . how did . . . that’s not . . .’

  He held the spanner in his hand and raised it in Rob’s direction and continued in this vein for some time. Rob turned and looked querulously at Jack.

  ‘Is he broken?’ he asked.

  Then Cormier cleared his throat, gave a growl, and was suddenly like an engine revving into life, cogs and wheels spinning with a mad fury. The colour came back into his face, and his eyes started to blaze.

  ‘Egbert, get everything ready,’ he bellowed.

  ‘Ready for what?’ asked Egbert mildly.

  ‘We’re going to London,’ Cormier spluttered, as if Egbert had just asked the stupidest question ever.

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Egbert, and he gave a little bow and exited the room.