Only Human (39 page)

‘Must've cost you a fortune in rubber gloves, that.'

‘Money isn't everything. And then,' the man went on, ‘I'd say what a great fan I was of their early work.'

‘I see.'

‘And wasn't it a pity they didn't write 'em like they used to.'

‘Ah.'

‘And how I'd borrowed their latest from the library, but it wasn't a patch on their first book.'

‘Gosh.'

‘I know,' the man replied sadly. ‘Shouldn't have done it. Ah well, if you'll excuse me.' He opened his book. ‘I've just got to the bit where the tourist meets the wizard. I like that bit.' He frowned. ‘Or at least, I used to. The seventy-five millionth time, maybe it's starting to lose a bit of its sparkle.'

Len eased the stick back, and the machine carried on into the red shadows. ‘Robot,' he asked after a while, ‘what was all that about?'

‘Tell you later. Ah, this looks like the place.'

Ahead of them, a vast mouth gawped up at them out of the fire. Fighting back an urge to stop and look around for a little mirror on a stick, Len directed the machine at the middle of the opening and closed his eyes.

 

Dermot Fraud huddled down inside his own fur, and whimpered.

How long it had been since he'd been snatched from the lemming parliament and brought to this cold, dark place, he had no idea. All he knew was that he didn't like it much. There was barely enough room to lie down, and nothing to lie down on except damp, musty sawdust. Three sides and the ceiling of the prison were sheer plywood; the fourth side was a wire mesh, on which he'd already broken a tooth in a vain attempt to gnaw his way to freedom. In one corner of the cage was a bottle-top containing a little brackish water; in the other a large, hateful-looking treadmill, the sort of thing prisoners and slaves get condemned to walk round inside for the rest of their lives. Without wanting to be unduly pessimistic, he couldn't really see any good side to this situation. It was worse than being appointed Secretary of State for Northern Ireland.

‘Cheer up,' said a voice in the darkness to his left.

It wasn't a comfortable voice; it was high and scratchy, with a sinister whine that put Fraud in mind of grand viziers and wicked uncles. He backed away until he was close up against the treadmill.

‘Hello?' he quavered.

‘I said cheer up,' said the voice. ‘No point letting it get to you.'

‘Isn't there?' There was another sound now beside the voice, a disturbing kind of scuttling. Never before, not even the time long ago when he was interviewed by Robin Day, had Fraud felt so helpless and claustrophobic. He peered into the dark, but there was nothing to see.

‘No.'The voice was right on top of him now; he lifted his head and felt a strand of something light and sticky catch in his fur. He squealed.

‘Something wrong?'

A voice above his head. Something light and sticky trailing in the air.

Aaaagh!

‘Are you a spider?' he whimpered.

‘Not just
a
spider,' the spider replied. ‘
The
spider. It's taken me ever such a long time to find you.'

Fraud tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. ‘Find me?'

‘That's right. Been all over the place. Now then, are you ready?'

‘Eeek.'

‘I'll take that as a yes. Here goes, then.'

There was a reprise of the grisly scuttling noise; followed by a muffled oath and a thump. Then more scuttling, and another thump. Then more scuttling—

‘Excuse me,' Fraud asked timidly, ‘but what exactly are you doing?'

‘Inspiring you, of course.'

‘Inspiring me?'

‘I damn well hope so. If it isn't working I shall be very annoyed. This floor's hard, you know.'

Thump. Scuttle.

All his life, ever since he'd been a small child with no agenda longer term than a fair and equitable redistribution of the contents of the chocky biscuit jar, Dermot Fraud had been terrified of spiders. He'd always hated the speed of their movement, the length of their legs, the presumed baleful malevolence of their eye-clusters. The fact that sheer curiosity drove this ancient fear out of his mind at a time when by rights he should be on the point of melting from sheer terror says a great deal about the forcefulness of his enquiring mind.

‘Sorry to be a nuisance,' he said, ‘but why are you doing that?'

‘I told you,' the spider panted, trying to catch its breath after a particularly noisy thump, ‘I'm inspiring you. It's my job.'

‘Ah.'

‘Well,' the spider corrected, ‘when I say job, it's more of a hereditary duty. Hadn't you realised?'

‘To be perfectly honest with you—'

‘You mean to say I've been doing all this climbing and falling down for nothing?'

‘Depends on what you're trying to achieve, really.'

The spider sighed. ‘How shall I put it? Seven centuries ago my remote ancestor went through all this palaver for the benefit of Robert the Bruce. It worked so well in his case that we've been doing it ever since.'

‘I see.'

‘What we do is,' the spider went on, ‘we find a statesman or other similar man of destiny who's going through a bd patch, and then we buck him up by giving him a truly inspirational display of perseverance and sheer gritty pluck.'

‘Yes?'

‘Right.'

‘And you do this by climbing up a cobweb and then falling off again?'

‘You got it.'

‘Fine. But you needn't put yourself to the trouble, really.'

‘Like I said, it's a family—'

‘Because,' Fraud went on, ‘I know all about this climbing up-and-falling-down business. I'm a lemming, remember?'

‘So?'

‘So that's what lemmings do. I don't need extra tuition, thanks very much. It just sort of comes with the territory.'

‘I see. Don't you think there's a difference, though? Between your approach and mine, I mean.'

‘Not really.'

‘That's interesting,' the spider said. ‘So you reckon that if Robert the Bruce had spent his life studying lemmings instead of spiders, he'd still have been motivated to sling the English out of Scotland?'

Fraud thought for a moment. ‘Undoubtedly,' he replied. ‘Think about it. For a start, the English are still there, resolutely unslung. Face it, refusing to learn by your mistakes and carrying on doing something you know perfectly well is stupid is an integral part of what being a great national leader's all about.' Fraud hesitated, thinking over what he'd just said. ‘Because,' he added, ‘sometimes there are things you just have to do, and the hell with the logic and the common sense.'

‘Ah,' said the spider. ‘Because it's a matter of honour and principle?'

‘Because it wins you elections.'

‘I see. And that's important, is it?'

‘Important? That's what great statesmen
do
.'

Halfway through the scuttle part of its manoeuvre, the spider paused. ‘Is it? I thought it was something to do with solving problems and making life better for ordinary people.'

‘Well, of course.'

‘Sorry?'

‘That's how we do it. Solving problems and, um, the other thing you just said—'

‘Making life better for people?'

‘That's the one. We do that by winning elections. Getting rid of the other lot. Gaining power.'

‘Ah.'

‘And then keeping it, of course,' Fraud added. ‘It goes in cycles, you see.'

‘Indeed I do. Like lemmings. Ah well, I can see you don't need my help. Sorry if I disturbed your concentration or anything.'

‘No, that's fine,' Fraud replied absently. ‘Any time you're passing, feel free to pop in and fall down at me. In fact, you've just done me a big favour.'

The spider waggled its eyestalks hopefully. ‘Inspired you, have I?'

‘Definitely,' Fraud said. ‘In fact, you might say that because of you I've just had a searing revelation.'

‘Golly!'

‘A turning point. An event horizon. A road-to-Damascus experience.'

‘I see,' the spider said. ‘You mean you've just run out of petrol? Lost your exhaust in a pothole? Set off a landmine?'

‘Had my destiny revealed to me,' Fraud corrected dreamily. ‘You've shown me what I've got to do in order to solve problems and make life better for people.'

‘Ah,' said the spider happily. ‘That old climbing up and falling off, it works every time.'

‘The only drawback is,' Fraud went on, ‘that in order to do it, I've got to get my human body back. Any suggestions?'

The spider shook its head, so that its eyes swayed like Wordsworth's daffodils in a hurricane. ‘Moral support only, I'm afraid,' it said. ‘Brilliantly innovative thinking's not up our web. Still,' it added, ‘you'll find a way, I'm sure.'

Fraud nodded. A strange brilliance glowed inside his mind, like the lights people leave on to scare away burglars when they're out. ‘Yes,' he said, ‘I think so too.'

‘A
aaagh!'

With a crash, the machine thumped into the wall and went through it, leaving a machine-shaped hole in it of the kind you generally only see in cartoons. The internal fittings of the staff lavatory on Level 36 of the Sixth Circle of Hell slowed it down gradually, and by the time it reached the row of cubicles where the rogue demons and their captives were gathered, it had come to a graceful halt.

‘There you are,' said the female. ‘We were starting to wonder where you'd got to.'

Len opened his eyes and saw white. A little existential reasoning produced a rational explanation of why this should be. He reached up, and lifted the lavatory bowl off his head.

‘I want a word with you lot,' he said.

‘Do you?' The female looked at him, puzzled. ‘How very odd. Sorry, but we're running late as it is. Tell you what, if you ever get reincarnated, look me up and we can have a cup of tea and a nice chat. Guards!'

She waited. After a moment, her fingers started to drum on the wall. She clicked her tongue.

‘Guards,' she repeated. ‘Hello?'

The prisoners and her fellow conspirators looked round, expecting a sudden influx of hideously spectral warriors. Nothing happened.

‘No guards,' said the female, her voice rich with elegant disgust. ‘How extremely tiresome. Where can they all have got to, I wonder?'

Artofel grinned. ‘This is Hell, remember? And this is the executive loo, senior admin grades only. They wouldn't dare come in here. Not allowed.'

‘Oh.' The female bit her lip. ‘That's a nuisance.' She smiled winningly. ‘Would it be all right if we sort of took the presence of guards for granted?'

‘No.'

‘You're going to be awkward and insist on actual physically present guards, aren't you?'

‘Yes.'

‘And there aren't any, are there?'

Artofel shook his head. ‘No,' he said.

‘Bother.' The female sat down and sighed. ‘In that case,' she said, ‘how would you feel about a plea for clemency?'

Artofel made a rude noise as he selected the heaviest chunk of broken cage he could find for use as a club. ‘Amused,' he said. ‘Now, this may hurt a little, because I'm going to bash your head in. Ready?'

‘Just a moment,' said a voice. It seemed to be coming from directly underneath the machine. ‘Could I make a suggestion, please?'

‘Bumble,' the female muttered, ‘please don't interrupt when I'm trying to negotiate. Can't you see I'm busy?'

‘Actually,' replied her colleague, his voice a trifle muffled by the two and a half tons of cast iron he was underneath, ‘you might rather like to hear this. I think it's quite clever.'

Artofel tightened his grip on his makeshift bludgeon; but even as he did so, he felt his initial surge of anger beginning to wane, like air escaping from a slow puncture. Now, after all, he had the conspirators more or less at his mercy—

Something rang a bell. Mercy? To forgive, divine?

‘You've got ninety seconds,' he said. ‘And I'm only letting you speak because it's aggravating your boss here.'

‘So kind,' Bumble said. ‘Actually, could I be really cheeky and ask you to lift this thing off me?'

Len nodded to the robot, who picked the machine up and put it neatly aside.The squashed demon slowly got up, brushing dust off himself.