Love and Robotics

by Eyre, Rachael

“You’re not wearing anything under that dressing gown, are you?”

  “You’re not uncomfortable?”

  “When I had thoughts of you - us - I thought you’d be shy. I never dreamt -”

  “You’re not disappointed?”

  “Of course not.” Alfred trailed his fingers along Josh’s thigh.“We should make the most of the time we have.”

  “How long do you think it’ll be?”

  “Maybe a week?”

  Josh gave him a chain of kisses, starting by his ear and ending at his collarbone. “How can this be wrong?” He reached inside Alfred’s shirt and caressed his back. “Or this?” He undid the buttons and sucked his nipples.

  “I’m sure the ... Forum ... would find your arguments... persuasive.”

  “We should show them.”

  Josh wound his legs around Alfred, undressing him. Naked he was magnificent: a hard muscular chest, powerful shoulders and thighs. He was hairier than he’d expected, but it felt wonderful against bare skin. Josh explored with his fingers and lips. He drank in the hot wild scent of him, followed the scars with his tongue.

  “Does my body disgust you?” Alfred asked.

  “Would I be doing this if it did?”

  “It’s just - you’re so lovely. I can’t think why you’d want to sleep with a wreck like me.”

  “It’s your body. I want it. Besides, your scars are old friends. It’s like a map.” As Alfred snorted, “I’m serious. Here -” tracing his chest, his rib cage - “are mountain ranges. Here -” his stomach to his abdomen - “are oceans.” Zig zagging down his navel, fingers tight in the gold curls - “Rain forests.”

  “What about here?” Alfred asked, guiding his hand lower. “Here be monsters?”

  Josh giggled. It was still a source of amazement to him that the lightest touch made it stand up. He longed to take it inside him but Alfred said they mustn’t rush. “The Pole,” he teased. He was rewarded with a nip on the corresponding part of his anatomy.

  They kissed and slid against each other. Josh nudged himself between Alfred’s thighs and began to thrust.

  “I never used to like this chair,” Alfred said. “Now I see the appeal.”

  “Why were you sitting in it, then?”

  “Because - keep doing that - it made me feel close to you when you were away. I know it’s soppy.”

  “No, it’s not. I used to sleep with - bite there - a cushion and pretend it was you.”

  “Must’ve been a big cushion.”

  “Not nearly big enough.”

  As Josh dipped his head into his lap, Alfred asked, “How did you get to be so good at this?”

  “I borrowed a book from the library. They made such a fuss, demanding, ‘Why do you want a book about gay sex?’ I lost patience and said, ‘I want to have it.’” Rubbish, of course. He wondered if Alfred bought it.

  “Married robot takes out dodgy books. Hmm.”

  As Josh raised his head he unwittingly looked at the desk. Alfred followed his gaze and sagged. “I can’t imagine what you think of me.”

  “It gave me tips. Dean and Ravi have similar stuff - girls, of course -”

  “After Ken died I lost confidence. I doubt I spent a third of ’51 sober. Nanny got me that catalogue in the end, it was safer. Gwyn’s brother ran into a lad coming out of my room once. I’ve disgusted you, haven’t I?”

  “You don’t do it now. That’s what matters.”

  Josh dropped to his knees, moving lips and teeth against his lover. He concentrated on sucking hard, tasting him. A hand caressed his hair, a voice murmured, “Don’t stop.” When he paused to get his breath back, Alfred touched his face with the sweetest smile he’d seen. Hands on his shoulders, coaxing him back into place. He was twitching - it wouldn’t be long.

  Josh watched as he came. The moment of realisation, how he arched involuntarily. A cry between a shout and a sob, tears shining in the blue eyes.

  He pulled down a throw and covered them. “What’s on tomorrow’s agenda?”

  Alfred wrinkled his forehead. “I’ve a carnivorous plant to sort out -”

  “That’s not very romantic!”

  “- but otherwise, no plans.”

  “Are you worried?”

  “It’d be daft not to be. I promised I’d look after you.”

  “Listen.” Josh took his head in his hands. “We might have four days, might have fourteen. I don’t care. You’re worth hell.”

  They fell asleep in each other’s arms, not stirring until morning.

  Finally

  Josh woke to hear something rattling. They were still on the wing chair in the library, legs tangled. He patted Alfred to wake up.

  Alfred yawned and stretched. “That’s the best sleep I’ve had in years -”

  “Somebody’s trying to come in.”

  “Nanny, I expect.”

  “Shouldn’t we do something?”

  A push and the door swung open. “Morning, Alfie! Are you in the mood for somethin’ nice and hot?” She stopped as she saw them in the chair, Josh in his lap. The puddle of clothes told its own story. “Looks like that’s taken care of.”

  “Nanny!” Alfred protested.

  “I always find cocoa’s best post coital. Good to see you’ve grasped the nettle, Josh.” She disappeared down the hall, singing the kind of song that only appears in print if every other word is censored.

  “That couldn’t have been any more embarrassing,” Josh muttered.

  “It’s good to get it out of the way. Expect a nonstop stream of innuendo for the next week.”

  “No different then.”

  “She wouldn’t be Nanny otherwise. Right, you rapscallion. What do you want to do?”

  “Could we have a picnic?”

  “They’re still camped around the gates. Are you sure you want to?”

  “I’m going cog crazy.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll have a look at that plant, then see what we can rustle up.” He got up and went towards the door.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  Alfred looked down. “Ah, yes. Trousers. I’ve always thought they were overrated.”

  Josh laughed. “What about Nanny’s cocoa?”

  “She can bring it to the conservatory. Come on, it’ll never win prizes if we don’t take care of it.”

  Domesticity takes many forms. Chimera’s was a brew of female butlers, poltergeists, zero tolerance of boredom and personal grooming. When it came to man eating repulsive plants -

  “What do you think? I call it Bella.”

  The plant gurned, revealing a row of bloody, needle sharp teeth. It wasn’t just that it looked like an angry boil that needed to be lanced. It seethed.

  “Reminds me of Fisk.”

  “Granted, she’s no oil painting, but - are you alright?”

  Josh had sunk to his knees, right eye twitching. “It’s nothing. It’s the smell -”

  Tell him, a voice buzzed in his ear. But it wasn’t the same as the man in Mir or even Ken. This was so shameful, made him feel so weak. Alfred helped him to one of the garden chairs, his eyes never leaving his face.

  “I’m fine,” Josh insisted. “Don’t worry.”

  The plant shot out a long black tongue and throttled a mouse creeping over the tiles. They both shuddered as it slid between its fangs.

  “What kind of contest has plants like this?” the artificial asked.

  “I got it from Harry Bailey. He wants me to show it as the Jaws of Impending Death, but I think that’s tacky.”

  By asking careful questions, Josh steered Alfred onto gardening. By the time the plant hiccupped and regurgitated the mouse, he could have given a master class in evasion.

  Nanny nearly dropped the cocoa. “I told you not to feed that brute kidneys. Why don’t you grow somethin’ nice, like night stock?” Her beehive waggled. “Josh, talk sense into him.”

  “I’m with you. That thing’s horrendous.”

  Alfred held up his hands. “No need to
gang up on me. Talk about abusing your spousal prerogative.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’re his husband, ninny,” Nanny retorted.

  “Oh.” It sounded nice. No. It sounded wonderful.

  Cleaning up the conservatory was a horrible mucky job. The plant seemed to have an eating disorder: no sooner had they achieved a spotless floor than another gory fountain splashed. They had to have another bath and wash their hair.

  “It’s going back to Harry tomorrow,” Alfred said, drying Josh’s hair. “They’ve rebuilt the pub; this way they won’t need a bouncer.”

  “What will it do, eat people?”

  “No, puke on them. Though you never know. Derkins ran this experiment in third year. Apparently more men score after being sick.”

  “Girls are weird.”

  “Or spew’s a potent aphrodisiac.”

  They found a basket in the laundry room and loaded it with everything they could find: plover’s eggs, rock cakes, quiche, beef sandwiches, wine. Puss met them on the lawn, an offering in her mouth.

  “Nice dead fox. Put it down,” Alfred said.

  If she’d been human she would have shrugged.

  “C’mon, love. He looks mangy. You don’t want to drag that over Nanny’s clean floor.”

  Golden eyes appealed to blue ones. He wasn’t moved. “You take the hamper. I’ll dispose of this poor sod.”

  Alfred picked it up by one paw and took it to the outhouse bins. Puss looked so crestfallen, Josh couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. “There she is, bringing you a present -”

  “Do you want it?”

  “No.”

  “Well then. Back in a mo.”

  Josh glanced at the gates. Someone had scrawled ‘Widget Fucker’ in yellow letters twenty feet high. No wonder Gwyn had kicked the bucket over.

  This is my fault. If I’d kept my feelings to myself -

  Of course the world would cast Alfred as the aggressor, see this as something that had been done to him. If only they knew.

  Alfred put his arms around him. “Sticks and stones.”

  “I can put up with being called a widget, but hateful things about you -”

  “Ssh, love.” As Alfred kissed Josh, he brushed something from his face. “Are you crying?”

  They stared at the evidence, glistening on his fingertips.

  “It’s so isolating, not being able to cry. It’s like everyone else is on one side of a pane of glass, you’re on the other. You see them but they can’t see you.”

  “I see you, you gloomy baggage. Come on. There’s some grand stuff in this hamper and I’m starving.”

  They spread the picnic on the motte. Puss joined them, making begging noises. They lay on the blanket and gazed up at the clouds.

  “At CER you can never see the sky,” Josh said. “I was always painting views but it wasn’t the same.”

  “Maybe we should pass a law at the next summit. Everyone should look at the sky for twenty minutes a day.” Alfred bit his lip. “There’s no sky where I’m going.”

  Josh took Alfred’s hand. It was inadequate - it did nothing more than remind him he was there - but he raised it to his lips.

  A whirring sound. At first he thought it was a craft but it wasn’t loud enough. It sounded like somebody winding a clock: metallic, hectoring. A shadow fell over their faces.

  “They wouldn’t!” Alfred stormed. “They bloody have. Well -”

  He reached inside the basket, whipped something out and fired. Josh landed on Puss and she howled. Bilious smoke filled the air.

  “Who brings a bazooka to a picnic?” Josh shrieked.

  Alfred blew off a plume of smoke. “I thought there’d be shenanigans and I was right.”

  “What is wrong with you?”

  Now the clouds had cleared, Josh saw where something had fallen out of the sky. It was deplorably ugly: scorched purple metal, slanted yellow eyes, black mottled wings.

  “What is it?”

  “Papbats. The media sends them to spy on people.”

  Puss swatted it with her paw, growling as it twitched.

  “Are they that desperate for a scoop?”

  “Transgressions are big news.”

  “We weren’t doing anything.”

  “You don’t get it, do you? They don’t care. They’re leeches.”

  “Maybe I’m paranoid -” Josh lowered his voice - “but do you think we’re being stitched up?”

  “Why else do you think they stole my diary?”

  “But - we only made love once -”

  “They’ll spice it up. Nobody would know.”

  “You know.”

  “Who cares what I think? I’m only the sad, sorry Deviant who wrote it.”

  “Who’d you think’s behind it? CER?”

  “No. It may be full of moral bankrupts and emotional cripples, but they wouldn’t risk their reputation.”

  Josh looked up. “Deluge heading this way.”

  It was the worst rain either had seen. A mixture of ice and something unrecognisable, stinging their faces. Puss picked up the basket in her mouth and pelted towards the house. “She’s got the right idea,” Josh said.

  “No point getting soaked.” Alfred ran down the motte as though it was a spiral staircase and prodded a tree stump. An arch opened up.

  “One of yours?”

  “It’s been here since the fifteen hundreds. It goes under the grounds and into the house. We played hide and seek in it when we were kids.”

  Josh followed him down crooked steps into mossy corridors. “Weren’t you scared?”

  “Terrified. I wasn’t going to tell my cousins, though. They already thought I was a wuss.”

  “Now that I can’t believe.”

  “It’s true. Ralph was a stinker - he wouldn’t leave me alone. One day Dad took me aside and said, ‘Son, you’re overgrown and sensitive. That’ll give people an excuse to beat the crap out of you.’ He taught me a few moves.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Next time Ralph started, I beat the crap out of him.” He beamed. “I was grounded for a month but it was worth it.”

  Josh traced the walls with his fingers. Now he looked closely he saw they were studded with shells, pebbles and feathers. He turned up the nearest lamp and saw it stretched as far as the eye could see.

  “Flowers, panes of glass ... They were brave, spending hours down here. I couldn’t.” He peered at Alfred. “Do you know who did?”

  “Uh - huh. It’s a sad story, though.”

  “You have to tell me.”

  “Way back, before the family curse took hold -”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in curses.”

  “This was its starting point.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “Remember King Dunstan?”

  Josh searched his memory banks. “Big ugly brute, lots of wives?”

  “The year was 1539. He’d gobbled through two wars and three wives. He divorced one, one died in mysterious circumstances, another took one look and hopped back on the boat home. Sensible lass.

  For all his swagger, Dunstan couldn’t get it up. He hadn’t had a kid and he wasn’t young any more. Since he refused to accept this might be his fault, he scoured the land for a pretty young wife. After he’d been searching a year, he stopped overnight at an inn. His eye fell on the girl pulling pints behind the bar and, well, I wouldn’t say he fell in love, he was incapable, but definitely lust. ‘This is the woman who’ll carry my seed!’ he said. Classy.

  Her name was Rosaline Brandon. She was a lovely little thing. Real Lila flower looks: pale skin, fair wavy hair, big eyes. That makes her sound insipid, but she had a quick brain and a tongue to match. Her father was poor and dodgy. When Dunstan made his proposal he was all for it.

  ‘I cannot and will not marry him,’ she said. Dunstan was flabbergasted; no one had refused him before. It made him want her even more. She decided that since she couldn’t do anything about the situatio
n, she’d manage it her own way. They say the day of her wedding she cried for three hours then emerged, resolute and astonishingly beautiful.

  A year went by. It must’ve been hell, married to a man like that, but you’d never have known. She knew not to meddle in politics, that had been number two’s downfall, so poured her energy into court life. Half her courtiers were in love with her but an affair would be too dangerous. Dunstan rutted about - the royal prerogative - but the penalty for an unfaithful consort was death.

  The second year a stranger came to court. Daniel de Selincourt. Have you seen a portrait? Fuck, yes. He was everything Dunstan wasn’t: handsome, witty, musical. I don’t think they had a fling, though I wouldn’t blame her. It was the emotional component that drove Dunstan crazy. He’d see them whispering and giggling, the best of friends. A jealous husband is bad enough, but one with power ...

  One night they were singing together; he’d written a special song for her birthday. Dunstan charged in with his guards, claiming he’d seen them kissing. At his command they hacked Daniel to bits.”

  “Poor Rosaline!”

  “She was devastated. He’d been the one good thing in her life and Dunstan had stolen even that. She asked if she could have a moment to say goodbye. When he came back to gloat she was gone. He went berserk and ordered for the palace to be searched, but she’d vanished. Dunstan’s pride wouldn’t allow him to be outwitted. Any tender feelings turned to bitter hate. If he saw her again she would die.

  This is where Chimera comes in. The Earls of Langton were some two hundred years away; they were merely a bunch of well to dos. Even in those days there was a weirdo who loved tinkering: the dad, Guillame de Wilding. He’s the one who thought it was a great idea to build tunnels underneath the house. This story isn’t about him. It’s about his middle son, Rollo de Wilding.”

  “Funny name.”

  “All names are funny when you think about them. Rollo was the sort of person you’d never cast as a romantic hero: sweet and gangly, not too bright. Perhaps if he’d been sharper the story might’ve ended differently.

  Since the de Wildings kept to themselves, he’d no idea the country was looking for a runaway queen. He was on a moonlit stroll, minding his own biz, when he fell over a young woman. She was lying in the middle of the road, half dead. He picked her up, brought her to the tunnels and fetched things from the house. He did all that before he had a look at her face.