Runaway Robot

by Frank Cottrell Boyce

  ‘Sit down,’ I said. ‘The truck will bring you out of there.’

  WOULD YOU LIKE A MORNING PAPER, SIR? I COULD IRON IT FOR YOU.

  ‘Iron a paper? What for?’

  I’M SORRY. I CAN’T ANSWER THAT QUESTION.

  ‘Why would anyone want an ironed newspaper?’ It seems that Eric was the robot of useless skills.

  I synched my phone with the SmartTruck, and it followed me with Eric into the kitchen.

  In the morning light, I could see patches of rust on his chest. I found a packet of oven-cleaning pads at the back of the kitchen cupboard. They foamed up like soap when I rubbed them on his rusty neck and back and elbows. When I scrubbed his back, he leaned forward helpfully. When I scrubbed under his arms, he held his arms up.

  ‘You are loving this, aren’t you, Eric?’ I said. ‘You love a good scrub.’

  He didn’t answer, but he did look as though he was loving it. He leaned way back on his chair as if he were wallowing in a warm bath.

  Good thing about being at the Limb Lab is that if you don’t turn up they just assume you’ve gone to school. And if you don’t go to school they assume you’re at the Limb Lab.

  So no one is looking for you.

  I could just keep going until Eric shone all over.

  I picked up a can of WD-40 Eric lifted up his arms, as if he wanted me to spray some of the oil into his armpits like deodorant.

  ‘There you go, Eric. Looking a bit smarter now.’

  SMARTER . . .

  Eric raised his hand and fanned his fingers out in front of me. They were glowing red-hot. Steam drifted from the gaps in his knuckles.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  It was not relaxing, feeling the heat from his fingers in my face. He reached over and pinched my sleeves.

  ‘Eric, you could burn me. Let go.’

  But he ran his fingers up and down, leaving the sleeves with a perfectly ironed crease.

  You may think that a robot that does the ironing is a boring idea. That’s because no one has ever ironed your clothes WHILE YOU WERE WEARING THEM.

  It’s not boring.

  It’s terrifying.

  He ironed my collar with my neck still inside it. When he started on my trousers, I was sure I was going to end up as the smoky bit of a buttock barbecue. But no. I just ended up as someone with very smart trousers.

  Eric didn’t think I looked sharp enough, though.

  A GENTLEMAN’S SOCKS, he said, SHOULD ALWAYS MATCH THE COLOUR OF HIS TROUSERS.

  ‘I admit they’re very red,’ I said. ‘But I love my LFC socks. They’re just so fleecy inside.’

  IT IS SOMETIMES PERMISSIBLE FOR A GENTLEMAN’S SOCKS TO MATCH HIS TIE INSTEAD OF HIS TROUSERS.

  ‘I’m not wearing a tie.’

  EXACTLY SO.

  ‘I’m not only not wearing a tie,’ I said. ‘I don’t even own one.’

  A GENTLEMAN SHOULD ALWAYS WEAR A TIE. ALLOW ME, SIR.

  He opened his emergency panel and pulled out a drawer. If you asked me what you might need in an emergency, I’d have said fire extinguisher and distress flare, but Eric’s emergency drawer was full of rolled-up old-fashioned ties, cufflinks, a toothbrush and a hairbrush. Apparently Eric thought the best thing to do in an emergency was smarten up.

  IF YOU’LL PERMIT ME, SIR, said Eric. He flipped up the collar of my shirt.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t permit you.’

  I don’t know if you’ve ever tried Not Permitting a six-foot-six man of steel to do something? It’s not easy. Eric put a red tie round my neck and waited while I tried to figure out how to tie it.

  VERY SATISFACTORY, SIR.

  I checked myself in the mirror, but Eric started brushing my hair with his emergency hairbrush.

  I said, ‘Get off! You’re supposed to be my obedient servant.’

  A GENTLEMAN LOOKS HIS BEST AT ALL TIMES, SIR. WHEN A GENTLEMAN IS WEARING A TIE, HE SHOULD ALSO WEAR A JACKET.

  ‘What? You MADE me wear the tie. I’ll take it off again.’

  NOT UNTIL AFTER DINNER, SIR. DO YOU HAVE A JACKET, SIR?

  ‘NO, I don’t have a jacket.’

  Eric didn’t say anything, but he started to rattle. If robots do have feelings, then that rattling is probably the sound of robot sadness. The nearest thing I have to a jacket is my old school blazer, so I went and got it.

  VERY SMART, SIR. His eyes glowed soft blue.

  After that, he wanted to polish my shoes. Except I was wearing trainers. I explained that you can’t polish trainers. After that, I had to explain what trainers were. Then he explained that trainers were not acceptable footwear. He explained this so loudly and for so long that, in the end, I got my school shoes and let him polish them. And – just to keep him off my case – I brought in a big basket of washing for him to iron. It was full – not just of T-shirts and trousers, but duvet covers, pillowcases . . . Stuff that takes ages to iron.

  He had the whole lot done and folded in minutes.

  I’d meant to smarten Eric up, but instead he’d smartened me up.

  The DustUrchin peeped out from behind the kitchen door. It snuffled up to Eric, stretched out its rubbery nose and touched Eric’s foot. ‘The outlook today,’ it said, ‘is mostly sunny with a fifteen per cent chance of rain. You have ONE message . . .’

  That robot version of Mum’s voice said, ‘Morning, sunshine. Have a good day.’ After that, it was the news update: ‘The authorities are still searching the Skyways estate for the unlicensed robot that caused damage to police property and disruption at the airport yesterday. Seen a large fugitive robot? Please take a photo and tag it with the words “Rogue Robot”.’

  Did Eric understand what the DustUrchin was saying?

  Was he worried that the authorities were after him?

  You might think robots can’t worry. You might be right. All I’m saying is that as soon as Eric heard the words ‘authorities are still searching’, he sat up really, really straight and said . . .

  WHEN DID THE SEA MONSTER EAT THE SHIP?

  WHEN IT WAS HUNGRY . . .

  Which sounded to me like a joke that had gone wrong.

  EXCUSE ME, THAT JOKE WAS INCORRECTLY SPOKEN.

  I said to him, ‘Eric, don’t worry. I’m not going to let the authorities get you. You’re possibly a lost Leonardo Da Vinci. You’re definitely a fine piece of machinery. You’re a mystery, and I’m going to keep you safely hidden away until you’re solved.’

  Then there was a draught, like the front door had opened, and the house said, ‘Welcome. Do come in.’

  Who was coming in? The house only lets people in if it recognizes them. Was it Mum back early from work?

  But then the house said the name of probably the worst person to come and visit you when you’re trying to hide a large robot.

  ‘Come in,’ it said. ‘Go through, Dr Shilling.’

  I dived out into the hall, parking myself in the doorway so that she wouldn’t be able to get past and discover Eric in the kitchen.

  Dr Shilling was standing with her hands behind her back. ‘Alfie Miles,’ she said with a smile. ‘I wondered if you needed a hand?’

  Before I could think of what to say, she took the Osprey Grip MM out from behind her back and held it out to me.

  ‘Oh! You found it!’ Not going to lie, I was more than slightly relieved to see it again. So relieved, in fact, that before I could stop myself, I said, ‘Where did you find it?’

  Considering I’d lost it at the airport, when I was supposed to be at the Limb Lab, posing a question like that was asking for trouble.

  ‘Interesting question,’ said Dr Shilling.

  If you didn’t know Dr Shilling, you’d probably think the phrase ‘interesting question’ meant that the question you’d asked was interesting. If you did know her, though, you’d realize that ‘interesting question’ really means, ‘I’m about to start talking, and I won’t be stopping any time soon.’

  ‘You left it in the airport,’ she said. �
�Yesterday. When you were supposed to be at the Limb Lab.’

  ‘Oh. Yes,’ I said. ‘The airport.’

  ‘Were you meeting someone?’

  ‘Yes. I met someone,’ I said. Which was true, because I’d met Eric.

  ‘Well, a lady picked it up there and brought it to the Limb Lab, so I thought I’d bring it straight over.’

  ‘Thank you VERY much,’ I said, hoping that she might take that to mean ‘goodbye’.

  But no. She looked me up and down and said, ‘You’re looking unusually smart today.’

  ‘Well, you know.’ I shrugged. ‘Going to the airport.’

  ‘I thought that was yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Anyway, thank you.’

  I said ‘thank you’ in a way that I hoped sounded like ‘goodbye’, but it didn’t work. She leaned into the doorway, which meant she was looking straight into the room where Eric was. If she saw Eric, well, things would get properly interesting. I couldn’t just shut the door in her face, could I? So I did the only thing I could think of. I dodged past her and stood outside on the pavement so that she had to turn her back on Eric to carry on talking to me. It probably made it look like I had lost my mind.

  ‘I was telling you about this lady,’ said Dr Shilling, following me to the kerb. ‘She got into her car, threw your hand on the back seat, and her satnav brought her straight to the Limb Lab. The short-range homing device in your hand overrode everything the lady tried to do. So interesting! Your hand was backseat driving.’

  GOD SAVE OUR GRACIOUS KING!

  Inside the house, Eric’s voice was cranking out the national anthem. Blue light from his eyes flickered across the blinds.

  ‘Well . . . it’s back now. Thanks very much.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to put your hand back on?’

  I tried to go back indoors. But then a little red van pulled up.

  Mum was home for lunch. I must have been cleaning Eric all morning.

  ‘Dr Shilling! Nice to see you.’ Mum spotted my hand. ‘Alfie did say you’d been working on his hand.’

  ‘Yes, and now Alfie and his hand have been successfully reunited.’

  ‘Reunited?’

  ‘Dr Shilling was just explaining,’ I said, ‘my hand’s amazing short-range homing device.’

  ‘It’s called HandShake,’ said Dr Shilling.

  I said, ‘Can we show Mum how it works? How about I go inside the house, and let’s see if it can find me.’

  Honestly, from the expression on Dr Shilling’s face, you would think I’d said, ‘Guess what? It’s Christmas morning!’ She glowed like fairy lights she was so happy.

  ‘Are you sure you’ve got enough battery?’ she asked, as if she couldn’t believe her luck.

  I glanced at my phone. ‘Two fingers,’ I said, running to the front door while she put my hand down on the pavement.

  ‘I love this,’ she said to Mum. ‘Count to ten, Alfie! Like in hide-and-seek!’

  ‘Oh, great idea!’

  I didn’t look back, but I almost felt Mum’s eyes narrowing as she tried to figure out what I was up to. OK, she was bound to find out about the airport at some point, but hopefully not until I’d got Eric safely out of the back door.

  I crashed into the kitchen where Eric was sitting up in the SmartTruck, still singing the national anthem.

  Outside, a too-excited Dr Shilling yelled, ‘He’s coming – ready or not!’

  I dashed through the house and shoved Eric into the yard. ‘Eric,’ I said, ‘if you’re going to live life on the run, you’re going to need a new leg.’

  Back inside, the Osprey hand was on the doorstep. The way HandShake works is that the hand picks up your phone’s location, then – well, this is creepy – it crawls towards you. It spreads its fingers on the floor, then bunches them up again so that it shuffles forward. Within seconds, it was clambering over the doorstep and spider crawling down the hallway towards me.

  Not going to lie, watching your own hand crawl towards you across the carpet is an unusual experience. I was mesmerized.

  ‘You’ve got to admit,’ said Dr Shilling from the doorway, ‘it’s pretty handy.’

  I remembered to laugh at this joke.

  ‘Thank you for bringing it back home, Doctor,’ said Mum.

  ‘No trouble.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  I bent down to pick up my hand. I really thought I’d got away with it. Then Mum said, ‘Oh, Dr Shilling . . . where was Alfie’s hand found exactly?’

  Slowly Mum closed the front door, never taking her eyes off me.

  ‘The airport,’ she said.

  It was the last thing she said in a normal voice for a long time. After Dr Shilling left, everything was in capitals . . .

  ‘THE AIRPORT! HOW DID YOUR HAND END UP AT THE AIRPORT?’

  ‘It just fell off. Sort of.’

  ‘AND YOU DIDN’T NOTICE? HOW COULD YOU POSSIBLY NOT NOTICE THAT YOUR HAND HAD COME OFF?’

  That was actually an interesting question.

  ‘I SPEND ALL MY TIME WORRYING ABOUT YOU. AND WORKING ALL HOURS SO THAT WE CAN BE COMFORTABLE, AND IT TURNS OUT YOU ARE JETTING OFF ON HOLIDAY WHILE MY BACK IS TURNED.’

  ‘I didn’t get on a plane.’

  ‘OH, WELL – THANK YOU. THANK YOU FOR NOT GOING TO CARACAS. YOU’RE NOT READY TO GO BACK TO SCHOOL, BUT YOU’RE COMPLETELY HAPPY TO CONSIDER INTERNATIONAL TRAVEL.’

  ‘I was just a bit lonely.’

  ‘LONELY! SO YOU WENT TO AN AIRPORT. ANYONE ELSE WOULD GO TO THE LIBRARY. OR THE SHOPS. BUT NO – YOU HAD TO GO TO THE AIRPORT! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO GO TO THE LIMB LAB!’

  ‘I know, but . . .’

  ‘GIVE ME A HUG!’

  What?

  This is the thing with people. They are so unpredictable. Not like robots. One minute, Mum was yelling at me furiously. The next, she was giving me a hug.

  ‘I know you’ve been lonely,’ she said. Then she stepped back and looked me up and down. ‘You’re in your school uniform,’ she said. ‘Were you thinking of going to school instead of the Limb Lab?’

  ‘I was just, you know, seeing if it still fitted.’

  ‘You look very smart.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’ve even got a tie on. And it’s not a tie I recognize. Where did you get that tie?’

  ‘Oh. I was tidying up, and I just found it, so I thought . . .’

  When I said ‘tidying up’ she stopped listening and sniffed. ‘I wondered what that smell was. It’s the smell of clean.’ She spotted the basket of neatly folded ironing. ‘You’ve done all the ironing,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  She stood way back and nodded her head. ‘My brave boy,’ she said. ‘You know, I think you are ready.’

  ‘NO! No, I’m really not! I really was just checking.’

  ‘Well, it’s good that you’re thinking about it. Good that you’re trying. Keep trying, Alfie, and we’ll get there. But no more airports, eh?’

  ‘No. Sorry about that.’

  ‘And you make sure you go to Limb Lab tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s Dexterity Workshop again tomorrow.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Dexterity is so embarrassing.’

  ‘It won’t be. Once you get a bit of dexterity.’

  On the way to bed that night, I tried to go back into the room where I’d hidden Eric the night before. I wanted to know what I’d almost remembered in there. I put my hand on the handle, but my brain couldn’t seem to make my fingers close round it. I was still trying when Mum came out of the bathroom, brushing her teeth.

  She didn’t ask me what I was doing, just asked if I was OK. I said, ‘Yeah.’ She kept staring at me as if she was waiting for me to open the door. So I just said ‘Goodnight’ and went to bed.

  You probably don’t know what Dexterity Workshop is. It’s the lessons they give us in the Limb Lab on how to deal with the practical and emotional difficulties of having hi-tech body parts.

  In other wo
rds, Dexterity Workshop is The Worst.

  Because everyone else is bursting with dexterity, and I don’t have any.

  But if I wanted to stay out of trouble in the short term, I needed to go to Dexterity. I also needed to find a way to fix Eric.

  The most obvious way to find his missing leg was to get him to try to think where it could be. So, that morning, as I moved him out of the shed, I said to him, ‘Eric, your leg – where did you last have it?’

  I CANNOT ANSWER THAT QUESTION.

  ‘Try to remember when you first noticed your leg was missing.’

  I AM YOUR OBEDIENT SERVANT.

  ‘Exactly. So, obediently, tell me where you were when your leg fell off.’

  I WAS LOST.

  ‘Come on. Try. How can anyone not remember what they did with their own left leg?’

  Did he glance down at my right hand when I said that? Something made me look at it.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. It just would be so useful to find your leg.’

  WHY DID THE SEA MONSTER EAT THE FISH?

  ‘We don’t need jokes. We need your leg.’

  I AM SORRY. THAT JOKE WAS INCORRECT.

  I know I’d promised Mum I wouldn’t go to the airport again, but surely the best place to look for Eric’s leg was the place where I’d found the rest of him: Lost Property.

  I caught the early bus to the airport. Since my run-in with Happy to Help, I wasn’t as casual about blending in as I used to be. I waited for a school group to come through, then tagged along behind it. I stuffed my Osprey hand in my coat pocket as that was the most recognizable thing about me.

  Lost Property reception is on the main concourse. You can just see the acres of shadowy shelving through the door at the back. Happy to Help was there again. She wasn’t Happy to Help.

  ‘A leg?’ she said. ‘Weren’t you here last week for a hand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And now you want a leg?’

  ‘It’s not for me. It’s for a friend.’

  ‘Can’t your friend come and get their own leg?’

  ‘No – because they’ve lost their leg. So they can’t walk.’ ‘OK, I’ll go and see. You don’t mind waiting here?’ She smiled.

  It was not the smile of someone who smiles because they’re happy. It was the smile of someone who has practised smiling in front of the mirror. For suspicious reasons. The smile of someone who wants you to stand there while she goes to tell security that that troublemaking kid is back.