Contents
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
1 Underdog
2 Silence
3 Gaffer Tape
4 Premium
5 Pedantry
6 Room Service
7 Glass
8 Born to be Wild
9 All God’s Creatures
10 Museum Piece
11 Diesel
12 Security
13 Highs and Lows
14 Official Secrets
15 Moving On
16 The Last Resort
17 Fish
18 James
19 Champagne
20 Fault
21 Going Nowhere?
22 Homecoming
23 Christmas
24 Civic Duty
25 Scramble
26 Ultrasound
27 Playing Ball
28 Messy
29 Déjà Vu
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in Great Britain by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Deborah Install 2015
Deborah Install has asserted her right under the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473510845
ISBN 9780857523020
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For Stef and Toby, my inspiration
‘THERE’S A ROBOT in the garden,’ my wife informed me.
I heard her footsteps a few seconds later, then her head appeared round the bedroom door. I glanced up from the newspaper I was reading in bed to see that look of hers – the one that says ‘you are a continual source of frustration to me’.
I looked blank.
‘I said, there’s a robot in the garden.’
With a little sigh, I threw back the duvet and went over to the window that overlooked our unruly back garden.
‘Why would there be a robot in the garden? Have you left that bloody gate open again, Amy?’
‘If you fixed it, as I keep asking you to,’ she replied, ‘then it wouldn’t be a problem. Old houses need maintenance, Ben, and so do gardens. If we could just get someone in …’
I ignored this.
Drawing the curtain back properly, I stared out of the window. Sure enough, there was a robot in the garden.
It was half past seven in the morning when the robot entered our lives. I didn’t need to be up at that time, but since my parents died six years ago – just before I met Amy – I had found it difficult to sleep in in the morning. My house had been their house, my childhood home, and in my head my mother’s voice called me from downstairs to ‘get up and make use of the day’ the second I woke up.
I stumbled downstairs after Amy, eyes half-closed and still hoping for a gentle introduction to the day by way of reading the paper. In the kitchen, I found Amy had already staked her claim to it by setting a mug of tea and a cream-cheese bagel down upon the society pages. She was wearing her most severe work clothes – a navy pinstripe trouser suit and bright-white, wide-lapelled shirt paired with vicious heels. Her naturally blonde hair was scraped into a perfect roll at the back of her head, and she was wearing full make-up – all of which indicated she had a serious day in court ahead of her. She didn’t seem in the mood to converse, so I made myself a strong black coffee and retreated to my study. Not my study … my father’s, I suppose. I had no need for a study as such, but when Amy worked from home in the evenings she preferred to be in the sitting room, and it suited her if I was out of the way.
As I sipped my coffee, I could hear her stacking the dishwasher from the night before, while I turned aimlessly around on my old desk chair – my father’s old desk chair – which creaked and protested with every spin. I saw my father’s books that lined the study walls rotate around me, the early-morning sun highlighting the dust that lived on top of their pages and which emerged every day for a wander around.
I put the radio on to listen to the breakfast show. The sound of hi-ball glasses and dinnerware clinking carried over the top of it and across the hallway, every so often punctuated by the click of high heels stalking across the kitchen, then followed by a short silence as Amy ate and drank her breakfast. It was all done briskly, and I frowned as I tried to remember what she’d told me about today – whether she was expecting a difficult court case to close or another to open.
After a long pause, she called to me, and when I didn’t reply she sought me out.
‘I said, there’s a robot in the garden …’
The robot was about four feet and two inches tall, by my reckoning, and about half of that wide, with a boxy metal head and body, and rivets that seemed like shoddy workmanship, not that I knew what they should look like. He had squat little legs that looked like spray-painted tumble-dryer venting tubes and arms to match, with flat plates for feet and hands that were like the ends of those grabber things that old people have. All in all, he looked the very picture of a school project.
‘Do you think it’s alive?’ Amy asked, as we stood peering through the kitchen window.
‘Alive? You mean as in sentient? Or alive as in functioning?’
‘Just go and have a look.’
I told her she should go first, as she had been the first to see it. My suggestion drew from my wife the same look she gives me when I propose she buy herself some flowers if she wants some.
‘I haven’t time for this, Ben. You go.’ She strode into the sitting room to gather up her papers and briefcase from the coffee table. I went round to the back door, and as I turned the handle I heard the front door slam.
The robot was sitting under the willow with his back to our window and his legs sticking straight out in front of him. There were droplets of water on his metal casing from the autumn dew, and he looked a fusion of some sort of Japanese fine art and materials from a scrapyard. He did not seem to be moving, but as I drew closer I saw he was looking towards a field of horses beyond our garden. It became clear from the slight side-to-side turns of his head that he was watching them.
I stopped a little way from him and paused. I was unsure how to begin a conversation with a robot. Though we’d never had one in the house while we were growing up, I’d known friends who did, and it was generally reckoned that they weren’t too bothered about things like greetings as long as they had a job to do. They were mostly domestic servants – shiny chrome and white-plastic artists’ dummies who pottered round your house doing the vacuuming and making breakfast, and now and then maybe picking up your children from school. My sister had one and my wife wanted one, but I’d never seen the need with only the two of us in the house. Cheaper ones were available, too, which were not as shiny and had less functionality. These might only iron your shirts and take your recycling out. But I’d never seen one like this. Even the cheap robots weren’t this shabby.
‘Er … hello?’
The robot gave a jolt, startled. He squealed and tried to scramble to his feet but fell with a thud on to his side, exposing a flattened square of grass. As he lay there, soles of his feet towards me, his legs kicked wildly like an upset ladybird. I felt compelled to help him.
‘Are you OK?’ I asked, pushing him back up into his former sitting position. He swivelled his head towards me and blinked a few times, his domed metal eyelids whirring. Under his eyelids, two shiny spheres flicked up and down as the robot studied me, pupils like camera shutters widening and narrowing according to what he was looking at. Below his eyes sat a nose the size and shape of a Lego brick, which seemed to me to serve no purpose other than aesthetics. His mouth was a dark rectangular gap that looked to be an old CD drive; the maker had obviously had one spare and gathering dust somewhere, and so put it to good use.
There were little dinks and dents all over him, and if he moved suddenly, his rattling chest-panel swung open to reveal a mixture of brass clockwork and intricate computer chips bound up together in a way I couldn’t begin to understand. Evidently his creator was an artisan of both the high-tech and the old school. At the centre of this mechanical mess radiated a light that pulsed rhythmically and which I assumed must be his robot heart. I peered more closely and saw that next to it was a glass cylinder containing a yellow liquid, the function of which was not apparent. On closer examination, I saw a tiny crack in the glass, but I thought no more of it.
As I stood contemplating him in the breeze, I saw just how filthy his bodywork was. From the detritus that was sticking to him, it appeared as though the journey he’d been through to get here had included crossing a desert, a farmyard and then a city. Since I had no idea where he came from, this could very well have been the case.
I crouched down next to him on the grass.
‘What’s your name?’
He made no response, so I pointed a finger at my chest. ‘Ben. You are?’ Then I pointed to him.
‘Tang.’ His voice was jangly and electronic.
‘Tang?’
‘Tang. Tang. Ac-rid Tang. Tang!’
‘OK, OK … I get it. Why are you in my garden, Tang?’
‘August.’
‘It’s not August, Tang,’ I said gently. ‘It’s the middle of September.’
‘August.’
‘September.’
‘August! August! August!’
I paused for a moment and then tried a different line of enquiry. ‘Where do you come from, Tang?’
He blinked at me but said nothing.
‘Is there anyone I can call to come and get you?’
‘No.’
‘Excellent, we’re getting somewhere. How long are you planning to stay in my garden, Tang?’
‘Acrid Tang … Tang … Tang … Tang …’
I repeated my questions gently.
‘Tang! Acrid Tang … August … no … no … no!’
I folded my arms with a sigh.
When Amy arrived home from work twelve hours later, she opened the back door and waved me in.
‘Stay here,’ I told Tang, though there seemed to be no need. For most of the morning I’d sat in my study and ignored him in case he went away of his own accord, but he hadn’t budged. The rest of the day I’d spent going back and forth between the house and the robot, trying to think of ways to get through to him. By the time Amy got back, his obstinacy alone had piqued my interest.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked, then raised an eyebrow as she noted my bottle-green pyjama bottoms and old blue dressing gown – the same clothes I’d been wearing when she left the house that morning. She hated that dressing gown; it always smelled musty no matter how many times it was washed.
‘Well, it’s a boy robot,’ I said, ‘or at least it sounds like one, anyway.’
‘Do they have a gender?’
‘Generally, I’m not sure. This one does, though. He’s a bit different.’
‘It certainly is. It’s not even a basic model.’
‘No, I mean he’s different as in special.’
Amy wrinkled her nose at this and said, ‘How do you know?’
‘I don’t know. I just think he is.’
‘Has it said anything?’
‘He said his name was “Acrid Tang” and something about it being August.’
‘But it’s not August, it’s the middle of September.’
‘I know that. He’s really beaten up – he’s covered in dents and he’s got a cylinder on his insides with a crack in it.’
‘Oh great, so it’s a broken robot, too. That’s just perfect.’
I didn’t react.
Amy softened slightly. ‘What else did it say?’
‘Not much.’
‘Well, why is it here?’
‘I don’t know; he wouldn’t say.’
‘Well, how long is it—’
‘Look, I don’t know that either, all right? We didn’t get that far.’
Amy narrowed her eyes.
‘We can’t just let it sit in the garden for ever, until it rusts. Go and talk to it again.’
‘I’ve been trying to get through to him all day. You talk to him if you think you can do better.’
That look again – like a slapped kitten. I hated it when she ordered me around, but I also valued a quiet life, so finally, despite my frustration, I muttered, ‘OK’ and opened the back door.
After a week of this, Amy decided that having a second-rate robot in the garden was unsightly, and that she didn’t want to see him every time she looked out of the kitchen window. I’d managed to get him to talk to me a little, but I hadn’t managed to get him to move. Nor had I got very far in finding out where he came from.
‘Can’t you get rid of it?’
‘Why me?’
‘Because you’re the one who’s been talking to it.’
‘But I can’t get anything out of him …’
‘Well, it can’t stay in the garden.’
‘How many times are we going to have this argument? If you want to get rid of him, then you find a way.’
‘I think you like it. I think it’s something else to concentrate on rather than finding a job.’
‘Seriously, Amy, why does every single argument have to be about me being unemployed?’
‘If you had a job, then we’d never have to have this argument …’
‘We don’t have to have it at all. I don’t need a job, you know that.’
‘Yes, yes, your parents left us plenty enough to live on in their will, but a job isn’t just about the money, don’t you see?’
‘No, I don’t. And Tang’s a “him”, anyway, not an “it”.’
Amy changed tack. ‘The point is I’m not having a robot in the garden any more. Especially one like that.’
‘What do you mean “one like that”?’
She gestured at him with her bare, goose-pimpled arm. ‘You know … one like that. An old one. A broken one.’
‘Oh, I see. It would be OK if it were a shiny, top-of-the-range robot, with fingers and toes and a proper face.’
‘It might be.’
At least she was honest.
‘Look, you’ve been insisting we get a robot for ages, and now we’ve got one. I don’t see what the problem is.’
‘That’s like buying an old wreck of a car and asking what the problem is. I wanted an android. What can it do? It doesn’t want to do anything but sit and stare at horses. What’s all that about? What good is a robot if it’s not useful? And if it’s broken, then it’ll need fixing. Why should we do it?’
‘He’s not that broken. Don’t be so dramatic. And if he does need fixing, then we’ll get him fixed.’
‘By whom?’
I told her I didn’t know but that I was sure someone out there could do the repair.
Amy threw up her hands in despair, turning away from me to clean the kitchen worktops with extra force. There was silence for a moment, then she mumbled, ‘Anyway, like I say, I’ve been asking that we get an android, not a robot.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘There’s a world of difference! Like you say: fingers and toes and a proper face, for a start. I want a new one like Bryony’s. She showed me the article about it in What ’Bot? It has the latest technology and everything.’
Bryony is my sister. She and Amy have been best friends for about five and a half years. Amy and I have been together for five and a quarter years.
‘What could it do that this one can’t?’
‘Well, it could do some work around here, like clean and dust and do the gardening and things. If it could cook, too, that would be nice. I can’t see this short little box being able to reach the cooker, let alone make a meal.’
‘But you do the cooking.’
‘Yes, exactly! I spend all day at work, trying to untangle some really difficult legal problems for some very difficult people. The last thing I want when I come home is to have to cook.’
‘But I’ve offered to cook for you and you say you don’t like anything I make – that it’s experimental and unappetizing.’
‘OK, the second to last thing I want when I come home is to cook. The very last thing I want is to face a plate of your partially cooked bacon.’
‘I thought you liked bacon.’
‘I do, but, Ben, you’re missing the point! If we had an android, then I wouldn’t have to prepare an evening meal and neither would you. I’ve seen them at friends’ houses. You give them a recipe and point them in the direction of the fridge. Reliably good food every time.’
‘You sound like an advert.’
‘Oh, don’t be so childish.’
Her words riled me, and I felt a prickle of irritation up the back of my neck. I knew I should leave the argument alone, but I couldn’t.
‘Just because all your friends have got one you want to have one. I suppose you want one of those bloody Cybervalet things, too.’
‘Of course I don’t. Just a normal house android.’
‘Where would we put it anyway?’ I persisted. ‘They need to go somewhere when they’re not working. Don’t they need to charge up or something?’
‘Yes, and we’ve got space.’
‘Where? The dock for Bryony’s android takes up a huge amount of space in her utility room, and ours is tiny by comparison. And it needs an expert to plumb it in, or whatever it is they do with it. I just don’t see the point.’
‘No, you don’t … and that in itself is the point. I would like an android not because all my friends have one but because it means I wouldn’t have to do everything around the house as well as working in a full-time job.’
I just couldn’t let this argument go.
‘But I don’t understand why we need an android for the house. I could do those other things.’
‘Yes, yes, you could. But you don’t, do you?’
‘That’s not fair, Amy, I do stuff around the house.’
‘Like what?’
‘I take the bins out.’
‘You took the bins out two weeks ago.’
‘Yes, when the rubbish collection was due.’
‘Ben, the bins need taking out every few days.’
‘That’s ridiculous; they don’t fill up that quickly.’
‘That’s because I take them out!’
‘Do you?’
Amy gave me a long, hard stare. This squabble, like so many others we’d had, was a closed circuit, and the only way to end it was to break out. I returned to the original issue.
‘Anyway, what do you suggest I do with this robot … the one that isn’t good enough for you?’
Amy puckered her mouth then looked slightly uncomfortable. I wasn’t going to like her suggestion, and she knew it, but I’d riled her so she didn’t really care.
‘Well, it’s no good for anything, is it? So maybe just take it … take it to the tip?’
I paused for a moment at the horror of this suggestion. Admittedly, I was fascinated by our new visitor, and I wanted to find out more about him. I told Amy so.
‘Besides, it’s exciting, isn’t it? A robot turning up out of nowhere?’
Hands on hips, Amy looked unconvinced, so, unusually, I decided to put my foot down before she had a chance to reply. ‘This is my house, and I say he can stay as long as he wants.’
Amy glared at me, her eyebrows drawn together with stitches of fury. But she knew I was right. It was my house.
‘It’s my house, too, Ben,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m your wife. Don’t I get a say?’
I bit my lip. ‘Of course you do. But don’t make me send him to the tip. At least let me find out where he comes from. Someone might be missing him.’
Amy agreed but asked me to at least move it into the garage and clean it up a bit.
‘I can’t invite anyone round at the moment with it sitting there.’
This was the point. Amy wanted everything to look perfect if any of her friends came to visit.
I made to put my arm around her, but before I could touch her she gave a little cough and turned away, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
THE NEXT MORNING, I sat opposite the robot on the step just inside our integral garage; it was the only place to sit unless you counted the floor or the bonnet of the Honda Civic my parents had also bequeathed me. Amy insisted upon the old car staying in the garage, while her gleaming Audi stood proudly on the driveway.
Tang stared straight back at me, as if waiting for me to make some sort of breakthrough, but without his help I didn’t see how I could. It was by now apparent that he didn’t intend to go anywhere, and I decided that Amy was right: I should at least clean him.
I fetched a bowl of warm soapy water and our de facto car-cleaning sponge, but as I brought it dripping up to Tang’s body he didn’t seem keen. He stamped from foot to foot, looking agitated, until I put the sponge down. He looked at me like I was a fool.
‘I guess you’re worried about the water?’
He blinked.
‘OK, how about if I use something smaller? Something that holds less water?’
I cast around and found a small rag, and though the robot still wasn’t keen, at least he allowed me to get the worst of the dirt off. As I wiped him down gently, he wobbled from foot to foot, making it difficult to see where I’d wiped and what was left to do. Also, it seemed the rivets that joined panel to panel just weren’t coming clean with a rag, and I was still only on his front. It was going to be a long task. It might take days. This pleased me. I knew, though, that it would not please Amy. She probably thought I’d throw a bucket of water over him and that would be that. Or perhaps she thought I’d take him to a carwash.
I left the garage to find more suitable cleaning tools.
‘Amy? Amy? Where are you?’
‘Upstairs. What do you want?’
‘Have we got an old toothbrush?’
‘An old toothbrush?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why do you want an old toothbrush?’
I didn’t answer her straight away, because I’d had an idea. We had old battery-operated toothbrushes that we kept in our suitcases. They had been relegated for holiday use when we bought new electrosonic plaqueblaster ones, but Amy and I hadn’t been away together for a while and so I didn’t think they’d be missed.
‘Er … never mind.’
I went to the spare room where we kept our suitcases and that sort of thing, and fished around for the toothbrushes. As I left the room, it occurred to me that one of the suitcases had recently been placed on the sofabed, not stacked beside it with the others.
There was something strange about cleaning a robot with an electric toothbrush. Maybe it was the hum of the brush as it worked away at the dirt on Tang’s metal body or the look on the robot’s face as he watched it uncover surfaces he’d clearly forgotten existed. Or maybe it was that the vibration of the brush kept popping his flap open, making the whole process longer, because I had to stop to shut it every few minutes. Eventually, I moved on to his underside. I got Tang to lie on his back while I carried out this uncomfortable part of the task. It was then that I made the discovery.
Sitting equidistant from each corner of Tang’s undercarriage was a plate. Secured by four more slapdash rivets, it was battered and scratched, but clearly at one time some words had been inscribed. The light from the single overhead bulb was dim and it was too late in the day, and indeed the year, to sit with the door up, so I used the light from my phone to help me read the plate. There was barely anything left that was legible, save for a few half-words – ‘PAL—’ and ‘Micron—’. A little way above these was an entire half-sentence: ‘Property of B—’.
‘Tang, who’s “B”?’
Tang lifted his head as best he could and looked unblinkingly at me but made no answer.
Just then the door leading from the garage to the house opened, and I heard Amy’s voice.
‘So, why do you need a tooth … what the HELL are you doing?’
I can understand why she was alarmed. When she came downstairs, she probably didn’t expect to see Tang lying flat on his back while I peered at his gusset like a gynaecologist, with a camera phone and an electric toothbrush in full oscillation.
‘Amy, I know this looks bad, but I promise you I’m just cleaning him, as you asked.’
She looked unsure.
‘Look, I found a clue about him.’ I gestured to the plate, but she did not move.
‘Ben, listen to yourself! You’re asking me to look for clues UP A ROBOT’S ARSE.’
‘But if you’d just look I can explain …’
‘I’m going out.’
I winced as the door slammed. Tang started, too, making his flap jump.
I pulled him to his feet and asked again, ‘Tang, who is “B”?’
He cast his eyes downward and didn’t respond. I thought he must miss this B, whoever he was, and it didn’t look as though he was coming to find Tang. I felt sorry for the little broken box.
Amy came back for dinner that night a lot calmer and in the mood to talk to me, unusually. I sat on a high stool in the kitchen as she cooked, and listened to her talk about her barrister work, keeping half an eye on Tang as he sat in the garden watching the horses. Amy had by now given up the fight to keep him concealed in the garage. We found we couldn’t keep Tang anywhere he didn’t want to be. At least he was clean, though.
As I watched her chop shallots, I decided she was amenable to hearing about the plate.
‘So, Tang’s plate … it says “Property of B—”’
Amy stiffened but tried to feign interest. ‘Who’s “B”?’
‘I don’t know. I asked Tang, but he wouldn’t tell me.’
‘Quelle surprise.’
It was almost a joke. I was pleased.
‘The rest of the word has been scratched off over time. There were two other half-words on there as well: “Micron—” and “PAL—”.’
Amy stopped chopping to consider this for a few moments. ‘Maybe “Micron-something” is the name of the company that made him?’
‘I thought so, too. I thought maybe they’d be able to fix him. I had a look online and narrowed the search down based on how old he must be. He doesn’t have a serial number, so I think he’s a one-off. I found only one company: “Micronsystems”. It’s in San Francisco, California.’ I paused for a moment and then continued, ‘It’s supposed to be nice over there at this time of year.’
Amy put down her knife again. ‘Ben, don’t you dare.’
‘What? It’s just a simple statement about California, somewhere I’ve never been.’
‘Yes, exactly – somewhere you’ve never been, somewhere you’d like to go. Somewhere you’d have a bloody good excuse to go to if you thought they’d have a magic robot crack-fixing device. I know you. You’re already spending far too much time with that thing; it’s not a sensible way for a grown man to behave.’
I ignored the last accusation and dealt with the first.
‘It’s worth a try, though, isn’t it? I want to keep him, and if I could get him fixed, then … well, then maybe I could teach him to do some of the stuff that an android can do. Besides, he looks pretty sad and bashed-up. It’d be a nice thing to do.’
Amy curled her lip. ‘Ben, it’s a robot, it doesn’t have feelings. It doesn’t care where it is or how broken it is. And this talk about you teaching it … you can’t even get it to talk properly. Wouldn’t you be better off doing something more productive?’
‘What’s not productive about taking a broken robot to California and bringing home a fixed one? Amy, think about it – it would be an achievement.’
‘You said yourself it’s not even that broken, so why bother?’
‘There’s more to him than meets the eye, I just know it.’
‘So, rather than taking a damaged robot to be recycled and buying a brand-new android, you’d rather go halfway across the world on a hunch that this one company in America just might be able to repair it? Then you’re going to work out if it’s any use?’
I paused before replying, ‘It’s not such a bad idea, is it?’
Amy ate dinner in silence and then went out. She didn’t tell me where she was going or when she’d be back. When I awoke on my own in the early hours of the morning, I felt angry that she always made me feel like I’d caused yet another argument, so I didn’t have any inclination to message and ask where she was. Besides, it was highly likely she’d be at Bryony’s – her usual bolthole when she wanted to be away from me.
When she came back the next morning, she still wasn’t speaking to me.
‘Where did you get to last night?’
She looked at me pointedly for a moment, and I knew she was hiding something, but she said nothing. Instead, she went upstairs, showered, changed and went back out again for work.
‘Oh, well done, Amy, very mature,’ I shouted at the closed front door. Then, ‘Tang? Where are you? Let’s go and look at the horses.’
Amy didn’t speak to me for a whole week. It stung, but it wasn’t the first time. Then, one night, after going to bed, she turned to me.
‘Ben?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m sorry I’ve been angry with you. I don’t want things between us to be awkward. Do you want to … how about we …?’
Stunned as I was, I was prepared to be the bigger man and pretend that nothing had happened.
‘Erm … yes, of course I want to. Always.’
Sex had become like that between Amy and me: a Question, the Agreement, the Act. Afterwards, she lay looking at the ceiling. Then, out of nowhere …
‘Ben, did you take the bins out?’
I looked blank.
‘The bins – did you take them out?’
‘Yes, of course I did. For the second time in as many days.’
She looked over at me and ignored my last comment.
‘Did you lock the back door?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where’s the robot?’
‘In my study.’
Amy still wasn’t happy about Tang being in the house, but she didn’t protest.
‘Is the door shut?’
‘Yes. Unless he works out how to turn the handle, he’s safely stowed away. He’s not going to jump out on you in the middle of the night.’ This was childish, I’ll admit. Twenty minutes after we’d started speaking to each other again, we’d both already managed to irritate each other.
Amy glared at me, rolled over and went to sleep.
Three hours later, we were woken by a clanking sound.
‘What’s that?’ Amy sounded frightened. ‘Go and have a look.’
I swung my legs out of bed, but as it turned out I didn’t need to. From the bottom of the stairs came the unmistakable sound of a robot’s voice.
‘Ben … Ben … Ben … Ben … Ben …’
There was a pause.
‘BEN … BEN … BEN … BEN …’
I didn’t even glance at Amy as I left the bedroom. I didn’t need to.
A week later and things between me and Amy were no better. Nor did I push the notion of a visit to California. Wherever I went, Tang followed. I didn’t seem to be able to shake him off, but I didn’t mind. It became more of a problem when he followed Amy, which he also did, though not as often. She usually scared him off by calling for me to come and take him away. I began to spend more and more time with Tang in my study, trying to get him to talk, and to be fair to him he did learn a few new words, ‘No’ being an example.
‘Tang, how about you go outside and look at the horses while I have some lunch?’
‘No.’
‘It wasn’t really a question, Tang, it was a suggestion.’
‘No.’
‘But I need to do some stuff. I need you to go outside for a bit, OK?’
‘No.’
And so it continued.
One afternoon, after a particularly long and frustrating vocabulary lesson for Tang, I left him in front of the window in my study from where he could see the horses. As I made my way to the kitchen for a large drink, I heard Amy talking on the phone. Not wishing to intrude, I paused, wondering if I should step back into my study. Then I caught part of the conversation.
‘When it first came, I thought, “Great, Ben’s finally taking some responsibility for something,” but the longer it’s stayed here the more I’ve realized he’s just not going to change. He spends all his time with the bloody thing … it follows him around, and me too; it’s nauseating. And the other week it woke us up at four in the morning shouting, “Ben … Ben … Ben … Ben …” over and over in that stupid little monotone voice, until Ben got out of bed and went downstairs. Next thing I knew it was in our bedroom. It’ll be in our bed next! And Ben’s talking about flying off to California to get it fixed. It’s a robot gap year, that’s what it is, but he’s thirty-four years old. He shouldn’t be backpacking, he should be getting a career and having a child, surely?’
There was a pause while the person at the end of the line gave their verdict. Whatever they said, Amy both agreed and disagreed.
‘Well, yeah, I get that it’s exactly the sort of crazy idea your parents would have had, but the difference is they’d have actually done it, wouldn’t they?’ Pause. ‘I don’t know if I’m more angry with him for even thinking of going or because that’s all he is going to do about it.’ Pause. ‘But that’s not the point. The point is, why couldn’t Ben have lavished some attention on a baby? Why a robot? It’s not even useful.’
I heard Amy’s voice crack, then there was another pause.
‘Yes, of course he knows. I’ve talked about it hundreds of times.’ Pause. ‘Well, no, I don’t think I’ve ever actually said to him, “Ben, I want a baby now, how about it?” but I’ve dropped enough hints.’ Pause. ‘I suppose you’re right. Perhaps I should have spelt it out.’ Pause. ‘No, Bryony, it’s too late now. There are too many other problems, the amount of time he’s sinking into the robot is just the last straw.’ Pause. ‘Well, like the fact that he’s never actually achieved anything. When I met him, I thought, “He’s training to be a vet, he must be clever and kind,” but what happened to that? Nothing. And he still hasn’t fixed the gate. This stupid idea of taking the robot to the States will fall by the wayside, just like everything else he does.’ Pause. ‘Yes, I know, but I’ve been cutting him slack for that since I met him. At some point he’s got to move on … You’ve moved on, haven’t you? Why can’t he?’
Amy was laying out my flaws to my sister and dissecting them. I felt ashamed and inadequate, but also confused. Since when did Amy want a baby? When we met, she was only concerned with her career … she’d just got a promotion and joked that she had no time for children ‘ever’. I thought she meant it. I didn’t even know if I wanted children; it just wasn’t on my radar. Supposing I was a terrible father?
But one thing she had said hurt more than anything else: ‘He’s never actually achieved anything.’ She was right. I hadn’t. It was about time I did.
AMY LEFT ME on a Saturday morning. I was in my study, unusually without Tang, when the phone rang. Minutes later, Amy appeared in the doorway.
‘Bryony rang,’ she said.
‘Oh, yes, what did she say?’
‘She said any time was fine to come over as long as it’s after eleven, because she and Annabel won’t be back from the stables before then. Georgie’s at his tennis lesson and Dave’s flight doesn’t land till three.’
My sister Bryony is an overachiever. A barrister like Amy, the two of them seem to enjoy discussing my shortcomings. I am a failed veterinary surgeon. I have been working to qualify for twelve years and was sacked from my last placement over a problem involving dog anaesthetic and rabbit antibiotics. Bryony also rides horses for Berkshire, has two children – a boy and a girl, of course – and has been happily married to an airline pilot for years. Bryony is the son my parents never had.
‘I didn’t realize we were going over today,’ I replied eventually.
‘We’re not. I am.’
‘Good, well, give her my love.’
‘She also asked if you’d got a job yet. I said you were too wrapped up in trying to be a robot whisperer.’
There was silence for a moment.
‘There’s something else …’ she began.
I raised my eyebrows.
‘Bryony and I both think you should keep the house. Your parents left it to you, after all, and it’s not like she or I really need it. Not like you do.’
‘What do you mean, “keep the house”? I’ve got the house. We’ve got the house!’
‘In the divorce, Ben. It would be unfair of me to take it. I could, but I won’t.’
‘The divorce? Whose divorce? I don’t understand.’
‘Ours,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m leaving you, Ben. I’m going to stay with Bryony for a while until I find a place to buy.’
I breathed out slowly. ‘Of course you are.’
At that point her pity and calm demeanour vanished, and her face clouded over.
‘See? That’s exactly why this is happening. You don’t take anything seriously. Nothing’s important to you except that damn robot.’
‘It’s not Tang’s fault we don’t know where he comes from or what to do with him.’
Amy left the room, slamming the door behind her. As I got up to follow, I heard her swearing. Out in the hallway, Tang was sitting on the parquet floor with Amy’s smart luggage beside him. At his feet was a puddle of oil.
‘And now Tang’s upset,’ I informed her.
With a wordless scream, Amy flung her raincoat round her shoulders and wheeled her suitcase out of the door. It slammed behind her, too. So that was it. She was gone.
That night I sat at the breakfast bar in the dark, drinking my way through the fanciest bottle of champagne in our drinks cabinet from Amy’s favourite mug. The bottle had been a fourth anniversary present from Bryony and Dave. They’d bought us one every anniversary. We’d drunk the others, but this one had been gathering dust for over a year.
‘If she ever comes back,’ I said to Tang, ‘she’s going to be furious about this.’ I lifted the mug into the moonlight coming through the window and took another swig.
Tang sat at the end of the bar, slumped forward with his head resting on it. He looked downcast again, his arms hanging pathetically by his sides. Mine were stretched in front of me on the bar, though I too was resting my head. I wondered if Tang understood what was happening. Did he understand anything at all?
After a while, he drew himself up and pointed one of his grabbers at himself. The movement made his flap swing open, and he closed it again before asking, ‘Me?’
‘You?’
‘Amy … me?’ He pointed to himself again.
‘Oh no, Tang, don’t worry, it’s not you at all. Things have been wrong for a long time. It’s all my fault.’
Tang offered no opinion but looked reassured, as much as he could do.
‘Actually, no, it’s not all my fault. It can’t be. It’s not my fault I’m a crap vet. It is my fault I haven’t applied myself properly, but I can’t help being crap.
‘It all comes so bloody easily to Amy. She never had to deal with being useless at anything. I’d always just been the second child who’d never live up to the first. Then, when they died in the accident, it was too late to prove them wrong … so now what am I supposed to do?
‘Maybe I could’ve been a better husband. Maybe she could’ve been a better wife – did she ever think of that? I bet she’ll be all like, “Oh, Ben, I still love you, let’s be friends.” Well, fuck that. I don’t need her. Or Bryony, or the rest of them. I’ve got you, haven’t I?’
Tang blinked at me more rapidly than usual, then reached up and enclosed my sleeve in his little grabber fist.
‘You know what, Tang? Fuck it!’ I said, getting unsteadily to my feet. The bar stool toppled over behind me, landing with a clatter on the oak floor. I stared at my left hand for a second or two, then cried out ‘Fuck it’ once more and threw my wedding ring into the cutlery drawer.
‘You know what else, Tang? Let’s go to California. Let’s go tomorrow.’
Whilst drunk on a vintage bottle of champagne, I decided to show them all and go on a road trip with a broken robot.
It was a couple of days before I got round to packing. One day was lost to a hangover, the next staring at guidebooks in my father’s study, trying to decide if I should take any with me. I confess I was probably a little reluctant to fly, too. I had been ever since my parents’ accident. In general, I avoided it if I could.
Tang spent most of the interlude going in and out of the garden, looking at the horses.
I stood in our … my … bedroom looking at the exploded suitcase laid out on the bed, and it occurred to me that a suitcase was a stupid idea for the kind of trip I had in mind. I might be in my thirties, but there was nothing wrong at all in backpacking, I decided. The problem was I didn’t have a backpack, and I ended up with a bad case of onlineshopping time slippage as I tried to choose and order one. More hours passed in this venture than I intended, and Tang was so bored with me pushing him away while I scrolled through image after image of rucksacks that he took himself off to look at the horses again.
While I waited for my new backpack to arrive, I decided to work out a daily budget and an itinerary. The former fell by the wayside because it felt tedious, and the latter … well, the latter was a gamble since I had no proof that Micronsystems was the place we were looking for. I decided to have another go at getting some information out of Tang. I was going to have to start from the very beginning.
‘Tang, are you listening to me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. How did you come to be in my garden?’
Tang gave me an Amy-ish look and shrugged.
‘Yes, I know I’ve asked this before, dozens of times, but this time I mean it literally.’
We were in our sitting room. I got up, grabbed an old grey cardigan from the back of the sofa and opened the French windows that led to the garden, stepping out on to the terrace that Amy had insisted on having built – ‘for entertaining’. Tang clanked out to join me, and I crouched down next to him, placing my hands on his little metal shoulders. ‘You were right over there by the willow tree, not five weeks ago. Do you remember?’
Tang bobbed his boxy head up and down.
‘How did you get there?’
He still didn’t seem to understand the question, so I strode towards the side gate. ‘Did you come through this gate?’
He nodded again.
‘So, did you open the gate or was it open already?’
‘O-pen?’ He turned the word over … It seemed to be a new one to him, though it shouldn’t have been. I knew he knew the word. I was starting to wonder whether he was deliberately obtuse at times.
I opened the gate by way of demonstration, its hinges creaking and groaning with the effort of moving in the chilly October air. ‘Like this?’
‘Yes.’
So it was Amy’s fault after all.