Then I heard a faint whirring sound overhead. The lamp post’s CCTV camera was focusing in on us. If you’re going to keep a secret on the Skyways Estate, you have to hide it from lamp posts as well as people.
Then people turned up.
A driverless bus stopped just across the road, and people got out. Lots of people. Kids. In uniform. The uniform of Skyways High (‘Aiming Higher’). My school.
Someone spotted me. ‘Look! It’s Alfie Miles!’
They all flocked across the road towards me. As they got closer, names popped into my head one after the other, like something was being uploaded into my brain.
Dr Shilling had given us special lessons on how to cope when your old friends meet your new limb.
‘Some of them will be freaked out,’ she’d said. ‘They might be rude or cruel. Mostly that just means they’re scared or uncomfortable. Which means you’re in control. It’s up to you to put them at ease. Tell them a joke. For instance, say, “Do you need a hand?” Then take your hand off and offer it to them. Works every time. Ha ha.’
Freaking people out seemed like the best tactic for me at that moment. At least it distracted them from the massive illegal robot on the pavement.
As they got nearer, I could hear them talking.
‘I thought Alfie Miles was killed in a tragic accident?’
‘Not killed, just hideously mangled.’
I lifted my Osprey hand. For one second, it was like I’d pressed the mute button on life. Everyone stared. The next second, it was noisier than ever. They were yelling and squashing and clambering over each other to try to get a better view.
‘Is that yours?’
‘Is that real?’
‘Does it come off?’
Literally no one was looking at Eric. Only at me. In fact, some people were standing on him so that they could see me better.
When everyone is staring at you, you’ve got options.
You can run and hide.
You can curl up like a hedgehog.
Or you can give them something to stare at.
So, I wrenched my own hand off, and I held it out for them to see. First, they screamed and backed off. Then they gasped and leaned forward.
‘Can I hold it?’
That was a girl I used to sit next to in Padre Pio Primary. She had the reddest hair on the planet, but I couldn’t remember her name. And she couldn’t wait for a reply. She just grabbed my hand and held it away from her like she was holding a tarantula. She prodded it with her fingernail.
‘Can you feel that?’
‘No. Of course not. It’s not even connected to my arm.’
‘If I bend the finger back, will it hurt?’ She bent the middle finger backwards until the tip touched the wrist. ‘Ohmygoditgoesrightback! What’s his name? Has he got a name?’
It was really rattling me now that I couldn’t remember this girl’s name, so I said, ‘Tell him your name, and maybe he’ll tell you his.’
‘You mean he can talk? Like if you talk to the hand, the hand talks back! That’s so amusing. And it’s a he. Is it a he?’
‘Well, I’m a boy, so, yeah, I’m going to have boy hands.’
‘Hello, Hand. My name’s Maria-Jaoa. What’s yours?’
Maria-Jaoa! Now I remembered. She was always saying, ‘Ohmygodsocute!’ about various people and things.
I said, ‘He doesn’t have a name. Why should he have a name? Does your hand have a name?’
When she let go of it, the hand opened up like a flower.
‘Ohmygodsocute! I’m going to call him Lefty.’
I did try pointing out that it was my right hand, but she said that was the joke. I could have tried pointing out that it really wasn’t down to her to think of names for parts of me, but it was already too late. Everyone loved the name Lefty.
At the Limb Lab, they told us that giving a name to your new state-of-the-art limb made it easier for people to relate to it. But they never explained that it would be THIS easy. Within about ten seconds of being given the name, Lefty had a crowd of admirers. If you check now, you’ll see he’s got his own Facebook group: ‘Friends of Lefty’. If I call into Skyways High now, more people know Lefty’s name than know mine. I’m not Alfie Miles there; I’m just Lefty’s human appendage.
Not going to lie – I actually was having a good time at that point. I forgot that Eric was in danger. I gave a kind of demonstration on How Lefty Works. I showed them how you could press the fingers back into the hand or lock them into different positions: hanger, shovel, fist, palm, pointer.
I didn’t say, ‘The hand doesn’t really need me to move its fingers. It could do all these things with a thought. If I could just think the right thought.’
Instead I said, ‘So who wants to shake hands with Lefty?’
Oh, they loved that. They formed a queue.
Most of them weren’t satisfied with just a handshake. Most people wanted a selfie.
When I got bored, I pulled the middle finger clean off. A beam of light shot out from the inbuilt torch, and I said, ‘Sorry, sorry – that’s the laser! Better get back, everyone!’
And everyone backed off, laughing.
Then, behind my back, Eric began to shake. He was almost recharged. He was trying to stand up. I had to get rid of them.
Easy.
I put my hand down on the floor and said, ‘Everyone! Watch Lefty!’ So even I was calling my hand Lefty now.
I ran up to the corner of Stealth Street and turned my phone on. I couldn’t actually see Lefty from there, but I could hear the pretend screams and laughs as he began to spider crawl along the pavement towards me.
They followed him all the way to me. They all said it was the coolest thing ever and asked me when I was going to come back to school.
‘Soon,’ I said.
‘We weren’t talking to you,’ said one of the girls. ‘We were talking to Lefty!’
Everyone laughed and went home.
Maria-Jaoa lived on Spitfire Street so she walked back with me, which was awkward. Because we had to pass Eric.
‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘It’s that killer robot. The one that’s been rampaging around killing kids.’ She was one of those people who thought the news always understated things so you had to exaggerate to get the truth.
‘Oh no,’ I assured her. ‘That’s not a robot. That’s a project.’
‘What kind of project?’
‘From the Limb Lab school. We have to make stuff, so I’m making a suit of armour.’
‘It’s got a scooter instead of a leg.’
I said, ‘Yeah. So?’ and looked meaningfully at Lefty.
‘Oh.’ Maria-Jaoa blushed. ‘I get it. It’s a suit of armour for someone with no leg. Awkward. Sorry. I bet loads of knights only had one leg. I bet the best ones only had one leg because they lost the other one in battle.’
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Well, see you soon.’
‘See you, Alfie. See you, Lefty.’
I let Lefty wave to her.
A few minutes later, Eric was upright so I unplugged him, and we scooted back home. As soon as we were back in the shed, he said:
WATER LEVEL IS LOW.
‘You need water?’
He opened his mouth really wide and tipped his head back.
I rushed into the house, got a jug of water and poured it down his throat. Then I started to worry. Surely water and electricity are a fatal combination? Steam began to come out of Eric’s ears. There was a banging in his chest. I backed away to the shed door, ready to dive for cover if he exploded. Then a panel in his chest popped open. He reached inside and pulled out . . . a camping kettle.
FOUR O’CLOCK, he said. TIME FOR TEA.
He held the kettle on his open hand, and his palm began to heat up. Soon the kettle was singing like a bird. With his other hand, he pulled out of his chest a china teapot decorated with flowers, two china cups and saucers, and a milk jug.
LEAVE TO BREW FOR FIVE MINUTES.
; Obviously there was no tea in the pot and no milk in the jug.
SHALL I BE MOTHER?
He poured some hot water into the tea cups. I sipped it politely and chatted to him about the day. He kept nodding his head. Maybe making tea was his way of saying thanks for fixing his leg.
Not going to lie, when I decided to fix up a massive illegal robot, I thought I might need to find lasers or weaponry for him. Instead, I ended up promising to get him some fresh milk and tea and sugar from the Co-op.
When Mum came home that night, she rushed right at me, saying, ‘Are you all right? Are you all right?’
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘I heard that a bunch of Skyways High kids had you surrounded at the bus stop. Were they bullying you?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘To be honest,’ I said, ‘I sort of gave them the impression that my new hand had laser capabilities.’
She laughed, and I said, ‘Nice cup of tea?’
She said, ‘Ta.’
A few minutes later, Mum was in the kitchen, wondering why her tea wasn’t ready. ‘I only wanted a mug of tea, Alfie – a mug with a tea bag and some hot water in it. Not a dress rehearsal for the queen’s garden party.’
I looked down at the tray. It’s true; we usually made tea in a mug with a tea bag. Maybe hanging out with Eric had made me a bit more – I don’t know – formal. I’d made tea in the teapot and put it on a tray with proper cups and saucers, napkins, a china sugar bowl and milk in a jug. The sugar bowl was probably a bit much, especially as neither of us take sugar.
‘Sorry. It’s ready now.’
‘I’m only teasing. I think it’s lovely.’
‘You know,’ I said, ‘the kids from school were really nice. They even gave my hand a name. Lefty.’
‘But it’s a right hand.’
‘I know. That’s the joke.’
‘Oh, I see.’ She laughed again. ‘Maybe that will help. Giving it a name. If you think of your hand as a pet rather than a hand, maybe that will help give it some, you know, life. Like I do with Ollie.’
Ollie is what she calls the DustUrchin. Ollie the Omnivore. To demonstrate, she dropped a pinch of sugar on the lino and said, ‘Come on, Ollie. Come on, little fella . . .’
The Dust Urchin came scuttling over and sucked up the sugar.
‘See? The more you talk to a thing, the more alive it gets. You have to put some of yourself in there.’
‘The kids in school,’ I said, ‘were actually nicer than the kids in the Limb Lab. Maybe I should go back to school instead of the Limb Lab.’
‘Definitely,’ said Mum. ‘The moment you bring Lefty to life. The day you make his fingers move, you can go back to school and all your old friends. That’s what we agreed.’
‘Right.’
‘All you need is a little imagination.’
Next morning, when I got to Limb Lab, Tyler and D’Arcy were waiting for me.
‘Shatila is going to beat you up,’ said Tyler.
‘I know.’
‘She’s annoyed that you pushed her.’
‘I know.’
In fact, the whole of Limb Lab seemed to know. When I was walking over to my workstation, people kept patting me on the back, wishing me luck and saying things like, ‘It was nice knowing you.’
Shatter kept away from me all day. I started to hope that she’d forgotten all about it. Maybe she’d moved on to some other fight. But at home time there she was – waiting at the gates.
I took my coat off as I strode towards her. I was hoping that if I made it obvious there was going to be a scrap a grown-up would interfere. I even gave Shatter a little shove when I got to her. She put her hands up.
‘If I get. Into a. Fight on Limb Lab property,’ she said, ‘I get. Excluded.’
Apparently she’d been excluded from ten schools before she even came to Limb Lab.
‘I’ve made other. Arrangements,’ she said, ‘for the. Fight.’
D’Arcy wheeled Shatter’s bike towards Concorde Circus. There was a bit of plastic she had taped to the mudguard, which clicked against the spokes as the wheel turned. Tick tick tick, like a bomb waiting to go off.
Shatter tried to spark up a conversation. ‘Best place for. A fight,’ she explained. ‘Under the. Tree. We can really batter. Each. Other. It’s in the. Middle of a traffic. Island, so if any. One tries to stop. Us they’ll have to. Wait for traffic to. Clear before they. Can get to us. So we’ll have. Time to. Scatter. Plus. Loads of people can come and. Watch us. There’s no point having a. Massive fight if no one. Is watching.’
‘So this is going to be a massive fight?’
‘It’s me versus you. Human versus. Robot. Alien. Versus Predator. There is a LOT of. Interest in this fight.’
We were on the traffic island by this point. I looked over my shoulder. Remember the bit in The Lion King where all the wildebeest come pouring over the hill? That’s how many people were crossing the road to watch this fight. Kids from the Limb Lab. Kids from Skyways High (Aiming Higher). Kids I’d never seen in my life. There were going to be a lot of witnesses to my final destruction.
I held my hand up. ‘Just need a bit of a warm-up.’
‘Don’t be. Long,’ said Shatter. ‘I’ve got. Ballet.’
‘You do ballet?’
‘Why shouldn’t I. Do ballet?’
‘No reason.’
I clamped Lefty’s fingers together, folded them over, clambered up and hooked them over the lowest branch of the tree. I grabbed on with my other hand and started doing chin-ups.
‘Good idea,’ said Shatter. ‘I’ll do. The same.’
Except it wasn’t the same. When Shatter did chin-ups, all her weight was going to her muscles. When I did chin-ups, all my weight was going to Lefty’s steel and resin joints. Steel and resin don’t get tired. Muscles do.
After ten chin-ups, Shatter was looking a bit sweaty.
After fifteen, she was starting to wince a bit with the pain.
Lefty didn’t sweat. Lefty didn’t feel pain. I carried on chinning up.
By the time I got to twenty, I knew I could do this all night.
By the time SHE got to twenty, Shatter was losing her grip.
Maria-Jaoa was in the crowd. She started chanting ‘Lef-ty! Lef-ty! Lef-ty!’
Other people joined in. ‘Lef-ty! Lef-ty! Lef-ty!’
Shatter grunted. Her legs were flailing.
I decided to speed things up. If I could turn this whole thing into a chin-ups contest instead of a fight, I’d dodge the battering.
If Shatter has one world-class skill, however, it is making sure that people do not dodge a battering. She dropped from the branch like an angry ripe apple. She put her hands on her hips and said, ‘I’m warmed. Up. You’re warmed. Up. Let’s. Fight, Robot Boy.’
I was expecting the crowd to cheer. Or boo. Or grunt.
But nothing.
They just stood there, mouths open, eyes staring.
Not staring at me.
Not staring at Shatter.
Staring at something behind us.
I didn’t have to turn round to see what it was. I could hear the grinding gears, the creaking metal.
WE WANT A GOOD, CLEAN FIGHT . . .
‘What is. THAT?’ Shatter was scrambling backwards.
‘She wants to know what that is,’ said Tyler, staring at Eric, his eyes bulging out of his head.
I AM ERIC, THE WORLD’S MOST POLITE ROBOT. HOW DO YOU DO, AND WHO ARE YOU?
Steam came out of Eric’s nostrils, and a terrible gurgling started up in his throat. I glanced at my phone. Four o’clock. Eric had come to find me for tea.
I understand that if you don’t know that Eric is only making tea, then Eric’s tea-making style – steam billowing from his nose, his insides gurgling hungrily – can look a bit intimidating.
Shatter almost knocked me over trying to run away.
NO PUSHING, SHOVING OR WRESTLING! boomed Eric.
‘I wasn’t. Pushing, shoving or. Wrestling!’ protested Shatter. ‘I was trying to run away.’
‘She’s trying to run away,’ explained Tyler, running away.
WE WANT A GOOD, CLEAN FIGHT, ACCORDING TO THE RULES LAID DOWN BY THE MARQUESS OF QUEENSBERRY IN 1867.
‘Actually, I don’t want a good, clean fight,’ said D’Arcy. ‘I want to get out of here.’
NO KICKING OR BITING. EACH BOUT WILL LAST THREE MINUTES. NO SHOES ARE TO BE WORN. KINDLY REMOVE YOUR SHOES . . .
‘I’m not taking my shoes off. I’m going home.’
IF ONE CONTESTANT IS KNOCKED DOWN, THAT CONTESTANT MUST GET UP AGAIN WITHIN TEN SECONDS OR BE CONSIDERED KNOCKED OUT. NOW, GENTLEMEN, FISTS UP.
Shatter pointed out that she wasn’t a gentleman. Eric didn’t seem to mind. His voice was so loud and so certain that you just had to do what he said. We both put our fists up like boxers in an old painting.
WE WILL ALL NOW STAND FOR THE NATIONAL ANTHEM. GOD SAVE OUR GRACIOUS KING . . . !
People covered their ears. Leaves fell from the tree, blown off by the sheer racket.
CONTESTANTS MUST STAY IN THEIR CORNERS UNTIL THE BELL.
From somewhere deep inside Eric’s head, a bell rang – louder than any bell you’ve ever heard. Shatter tried to dodge around the roots of the tree, but Eric reached down and hoisted her into the air. She squirmed. She yelped.
Normally, when you pass Shatter in the Limb Lab corridor, she looks like a tractor in a hoodie. Now, dangling from Eric’s mighty hand, she looked more like a little worried kitten.
‘Let me. Go!’ she screeched.
‘Oh. Don’t say that!’ I warned. ‘Eric takes things quite literally.’
‘She wants you to let go!’ said Tyler.
I AM YOUR OBEDIENT SERVANT.
He let go.
Shatter fell.
She pancaked into the crowd. She jumped to her feet, snarling and staring. ‘Oh. My. God,’ she steamed. ‘His dad really is a robot.’
And then it was Lion King wildebeest time again. Every kid stampeded off over the road and out of sight.
I said, ‘Thanks, Eric.’
THE WINNER!
Runaway Robot Page 8