Tin Read online

  A MESSAGE FROM CHICKEN HOUSE

  Strangely, it’s in fantastical stories about impossible creatures – Toy Story, E.T., or The Wizard of Oz – that I find the truest sense of what it is to be human. After all, I have never trusted that reality has all (or any) of the answers to life. In Tin, Pádraig has created a new reality in a completely unexpected and thrilling way. I dare you to imagine this world alongside him, a world populated by child mechanicals, determined to protect their friends and discover a meaningful life. What really matters is found here – heart and soul, rivets and steel, flesh and blood – and who’s to choose between them? Awesome, heart-warming and, well . . . real.

  BARRY CUNNINGHAM

  Publisher

  Chicken House

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  For Caroline, Lochlann, Sadbh,

  Tadhg and Teagan

  THE

  LAWS

  OF

  MECHANICS

  1.ONLY LICENSED AND REGISTERED ENGINEERS HAVE THE LEGAL RIGHT TO ANIMATE MECHANICALS.

  2.IT IS FORBIDDEN TO CONFER LIFE AND SENTIENCE UPON ANY RAW MATERIAL WHICH CONFORMS TO THE STANDARD AGREED DIMENSIONS OF AN ADULT OR ‘PROPER’ HUMAN BEING.

  3.ALL MECHANICAL DEVICES CONFERRED WITH ‘LIFE’ MUST BE SO CREATED USING THE PRINCIPLES OF BASIC PROPULSION AND THE MECHANISM OF GLYPHS.

  4.IT IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN TO CONFER LIFE UPON A MECHANICAL USING THE PRINCIPLES OF REFINED PROPULSION, OTHERWISE KNOWN AS ‘ENSOULMENT’.

  Snow was falling from the night sky, and all the world was cold and hushed except for the regular metallic squeaking of Jack’s joints. Christopher glanced at Jack, but the mechanical looked straight ahead, oblivious to the sound. Absalom was walking a few feet in front, his thin black coat billowing around him.

  Squeak squeak.

  Christopher willed the sound to stop.

  Squeak squeak.

  Absalom wheeled around, raising his tall spidery frame up to its full height.

  ‘I thought I told you to oil him before we left the yard,’ he said, glaring down at Christopher.

  ‘I did, Mr Absalom.’

  The truth was, in all the panic of their hurried departure, Christopher had completely forgotten to oil Jack’s joints.

  Absalom scowled at him.

  ‘He did. He even checked me for loose rivets,’ said Jack.

  ‘Fix your hair,’ said Absalom, flapping his hand at Jack, who pulled down the edges of his wig and grinned at Christopher. Christopher smiled weakly in response. Ever since Absalom had informed them that there might be the possibility of an actual sale in Aylesbury, he’d felt an awful, cold sinking sensation in his chest.

  Absalom hadn’t made a real sale in quite a long time, except for his scarecrows, which were frankly embarrassing concoctions. The most recent had walked out of its field and was found three months later, ten miles away, face down in a river.

  But this time, Absalom had told them, ‘the stars were aligning’. A sale was most definitely on the cards, and after a bit of gleeful capering around his office he told Jack to replace his regular red hair with a brown wig ‘because nobody buys gingers, awful sickly-looking things’. Jack didn’t mind. He was secretly delighted at the possibility of being sold, although Jack being Jack, he was too hard-headed to show it. Even so, Christopher had caught him grinning to himself on the way over in the truck.

  Christopher stole another anxious glance at Jack as they walked along the street. He was grinning to himself again, but this time he noticed Christopher watching. Christopher looked away quickly.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said Jack.

  ‘Nothing,’ Christopher replied.

  Absalom’s mood was improving. He looked up in amazement at the falling snow. ‘Beautiful. I couldn’t have planned it better if I’d arranged it myself.’

  He signalled them to stop halfway along a row of red-brick houses, clasped his hands together and grinned at the two boys.

  ‘Here we are so. Number ten is the abode we require. Remember what we practised, Jack.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Absalom.’

  ‘Christopher.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Absalom?’

  ‘Stand up straight, look smart. Remember, you’re assistant to the greatest engineer in all of Britain.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Absalom.’

  The door they faced was dark green with a dull brass knocker. Absalom straightened himself up, took the knocker and gave it three confident raps. He spoke to the boys without looking at them:

  ‘Smile, lads.’

  There were a few moments of silence broken only by the soft fizz of falling snow, then the sound of a bolt being thrown back. The door opened, and Absalom smiled his broadest smile.

  A man in his thirties with a curly mop of hair poked his head out.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  Absalom gave a small bow.

  ‘Mr Chapman, allow me to introduce myself. I am Mr Gregory Absalom, a creator of rudimentaries, mannequins, mechanicals and machines of varying sentience, variety and vivacity.’

  He snapped his wrist and a business card appeared in his hand. Before Mr Chapman knew what was happening, he’d taken the card and was looking at it with a dazed expression. He looked up, his head bobbing, eyes blinking, as if he’d just been punched.

  ‘I’m . . . I’m sorry, what’s this about?’

  Absalom clasped his hands together in a gesture of prayer, and took on a sombre cast.

  ‘Word has reached me, sir, of your personal tragedy. Please accept my sincerest condolences, late though they may be.’

  The man’s face whitened. ‘Who told you? How is that any of your . . . who told you?’ he demanded.

  Christopher felt suddenly nervous. He tried to catch Absalom’s eye, but the engineer was too busy fixing the man with a look that was both sympathetic and predatory.

  ‘I have friends in the village, Mr Chapman. They came to me out of the kindness of their hearts, and they told me of your predicament.’

  Mr Chapman looked at him with wide eyes, resting his hand on the frame of the door as if he was trying to steady himself.

  ‘How long has it been, Mr Chapman?’ asked Absalom, his head tilted, eyes soft and moist with well-practised compassion.

  Mr Chapman trembled for a moment. ‘Six weeks,’ he said, his voice suddenly hoarse with grief.

  ‘And he was your only child.’

  Mr Chapman nodded.

  Christopher felt blazing hot spots on his forehead and cheeks. He’d presumed that this was just a normal sale. He hadn’t realized what the circumstances were, and now he was furious with Absalom for trying to take advantage of this man. He was about to step forward and say something, but Absalom, without even looking at him, deftly raised his right hand and put just enough pressure on his chest to halt him in his tracks.

  ‘Ve
ry sad, very sad indeed,’ said Absalom, sighing and shaking his head – Christopher saw the sly glimmer in his eyes. ‘What would you say, sir, if I told you I could alleviate your pain and grief in some small measure?’

  Mr Chapman’s eyes grew wide and defenceless. Christopher knew the poor man was now right where Absalom wanted him.

  Absalom flourished theatrically in Jack’s direction.

  ‘May I present a top-of-the-range model. One of my finest creations, if I may be so bold.’

  Jack stepped forward and smiled at Mr Chapman. He tilted his head, just as Absalom had taught him, and gave Mr Chapman a hopeful, humble look. Christopher felt sick.

  ‘Jack, we call him, but of course his appellation is a movable feast, should you make the decision to purchase. He comes complete with all the attributes of a boy of his apparent age. A sense of fun . . .’

  Jack smiled and gave a little jig, while he rocked his elbows back and forth like a music hall comedian.

  ‘. . . an intelligence far beyond that of his contemporaries . . .’

  Jack put his hand to his chin and squinted sagely into the sky. ‘Three hundred and ninety-five times six hundred and seventy-two is two hundred and sixty-five thousand four hundred and forty.’

  ‘. . . along with splendid mobility and articulation.’

  Jack did a cartwheel followed by a handstand. His joints squeaked, and Absalom took the opportunity to give Christopher a sour look. Christopher glared back at him, and Absalom’s expression disappeared as he once again turned and smiled at a stunned Mr Chapman.

  ‘As you can see, sir, he is a most estimable model, a miracle of engineering, and I can assure you, a most affordable price should you make the decision to purchase.’

  ‘Thomas, who is that?’ A voice drifted from inside the house. ‘Who’s at the door?’

  There was a long wintry silence before a woman appeared from behind Mr Chapman, her hair straggly, her eyes vacant and shadowed with lines of sleeplessness.

  ‘Who is it, Thomas? What do they want?’

  Mr Chapman looked anxious. ‘Nothing, Ruth. Go back inside. It’s no one.’

  Absalom moved with the whiplash speed of a rattlesnake. ‘Mrs Chapman,’ he said, as he moved towards the threshold. ‘I was just offering your husband my most sincere condolences. From what I’ve heard from our mutual friends, your son William –’ Christopher saw Mr Chapman flinch; his wife’s hand went to her mouth – ‘was a most eminent and decent young man.’

  Absalom finished the sentence with a crack in his voice and dabbed at his eyes with his hanky before continuing.

  ‘I was just showing your husband our latest model, one that I hope might offer a suitable approximation of your son, one indeed that might give some small measure of emotional fulfilment and sense of family at this most auspicious time of year.’

  Jack was walking around on his hands. Mrs Chapman looked at him with a kind of nervous astonishment. She bent down to have a closer look.

  Jack flipped back on to his feet and looked at Mrs Chapman for the first time. He walked towards her, a look of genuine sincerity on his face.

  ‘This is Jack, Mrs Chapman,’ Absalom said gently. He ushered Jack forward by the shoulders.

  A great hush descended again. In the background, Christopher could hear the low murmur of a mournful wind.

  ‘Ruth . . .’ said Mr Chapman.

  His wife didn’t seem to hear him. Her head was quivering, and she bent even lower as Jack approached.

  ‘One of my finest creations, Mrs Chapman. A very subtle mechanical approximation of humanity both in form and content. Jack can be a worker, a friend, a companion . . .’

  Absalom paused as Mrs Chapman’s eyes widened.

  ‘. . . a son.’

  She gave the smallest of whimpers. Mr Chapman lowered his head and let out a plaintive, ‘Ruth, please . . .’

  Jack stepped closer, and Christopher’s heart lurched when he saw the look of agonized hope in her eyes. Absalom spread his arms wide:

  ‘As the snow falls, think on this; how good and proper and right it would be to have a family together at Christmas. The putting up of the tree, the smiles, the anticipation, the scent of orange and spices in the air, the melodious comfort of carols. And who better to share all of this with than one’s own progeny, to be together as a family unit, bound by love, by joy, and the anticipation of a visit from Father Christmas himself.’

  Absalom began to casually fire off his prices, outlining various options for renting or buying. Christopher tried to dampen the hot, sickening anger he felt. He looked at Mrs Chapman’s eyes brimming with tears and hope and pain. Mr Chapman had his head bowed, as if he’d already surrendered to the inevitable. Absalom’s voice was becoming more high-pitched, as if he couldn’t quite believe what was about to happen. His nostrils were flaring as if he could smell money about to change hands. The sight filled Christopher with disgust.

  It took one word to bring it all crashing down.

  Jack stepped forward and smiled hopefully.

  Just one word.

  ‘Mummy?’ he said.

  It was as if the snow around Mr Chapman had suddenly turned into a violent spinning vortex. Christopher had never seen rage like it.

  ‘No!’ Mr Chapman screamed.

  He kicked Jack full in the chest, and Jack hurtled backwards into the snow, hitting the ground with a metallic clatter.

  Mr Chapman pulled his wife inside and slammed the door in Absalom’s face. In the silence, the snow hissed down around them.

  Back in the truck, Jack took off the brown wig, reached under his seat, took his usual ginger hair out and fixed it back on his head. Once he was happy it was in place he wriggled a little, shoved his hand under one of his legs, and frowned.

  ‘I think I’ve dented my bum.’

  This made Christopher snort with laughter. Jack joined in. The two of them giggled while Absalom wrestled with the steering wheel as he violently pulled the truck on to the road. The two boys were still giggling. Absalom couldn’t take it any more.

  ‘And you!’ he snarled, turning to Christopher, who stopped giggling abruptly.

  ‘Me? What did I do?’

  ‘Nothing, that’s what you did. Nothing.’

  ‘What was I supposed to do?’

  ‘What I trained you to do. Assist me in making a sale, that’s what. Do some patter, add in observations, make grand claims for the merchandise.’

  ‘His name is Jack,’ said Christopher. He looked at Absalom. Their eyes locked. They would have continued that way if Jack hadn’t interrupted and pointed out something rather more pertinent.

  ‘Mr Absalom, the road.’

  Absalom whipped his head round just in time to turn the wheel and stop them careering into a ditch. He swore, and they continued their journey through the dark, the agonized swish and groan of the wipers counterpointed by Absalom’s muttering.

  The mounds of scrap in the junkyard were disappearing under layers of snow when they arrived back, and Round Rob was waiting for them just outside Absalom’s shed-cum-office. He still looked as frightened as when they’d left a couple of hours ago, but when he spied Jack in the passenger seat the look on his face turned to one of relief. Manda was also with Rob, holding his hand. Her teddy bear was hanging from her other hand.

  ‘He didn’t sell you,’ Round Rob said to Jack as he waddled towards them as fast as he could. It was more a statement of relief than an observation. Jack shook his head. Rob smiled and rested a hand on his ample chest. Rob was shorter than Christopher, and he was round and squat. The trunk of his body was made from an old cooking pot – the one advantage Absalom found in his construction was that Rob could be hired out for proper children to roll him down hills at festivals and fetes.

  Christopher spotted the strands of fraying blonde hair that spilt over Rob’s right eye, and he felt a strange pang of guilt.

  Manda ran to Christopher and hugged his leg. Christopher chuckled. ‘We weren’t gone that long
, Mand.’

  ‘We were worried,’ said Manda, looking up at him. Her grin was as crooked as ever, and the brown curls on her head didn’t sit quite right. Her left eye was also larger than the right, and her right leg was shorter than her left – a source of frustration for Christopher, who kept asking Absalom when he was going to get her a proper leg. Absalom would always fob him off with what he thought was a witty comment about it taking so long because he could never decide whether to get her a shorter left leg or a longer right leg. Then he’d deliver his trademark cackle, and Christopher would turn away in disgust.

  They all turned at the sound of Absalom slamming the truck door. He headed towards his shed, coat rippling in his wake.

  ‘What happened, Mr Absalom?’ Rob piped up.

  Absalom wheeled around. ‘Absolute and utter disaster, that’s what happened, Robert. And it’s all thanks to these two.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ shouted Christopher. ‘We didn’t even know what you were up to until we got there.’

  ‘And a good thing too,’ said Absalom, wagging a finger. ‘Otherwise you would have been moralizing, young Christopher. Moralizing as usual when the one thing you forget is that—’

  ‘Business is business,’ interrupted Christopher.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Absalom, still too angry to notice the sarcastic tone in Christopher’s voice.

  Their stand-off was interrupted by a great rhythmic clanking sound, and Gripper strode into view from behind a pile of junk.

  Absalom liked to refer to Gripper proudly as his ‘first born’. He was the oldest in the yard, even older than Manda. He was also the largest, standing over eight feet tall with a barrel chest that tapered to his waist. He had tree-trunk wide legs and great clodhopping feet. His huge arms were a muscled collage of wires and rivets and piping – they ended in gigantic clawed hands that served as both shovels and miniature crushers. His lower jaw was made from what looked like the triangular cow catcher of a steam locomotive, making his chin jut out and giving him a gormless look. It was illegal to create adult-sized mechanicals who were self-aware. Absalom had built Gripper to such extreme dimensions because he reckoned it meant that he fell outside the legal definition of what was adult-sized and ‘proper’. He reasoned that creating something as ‘exceptional’ as Gripper meant that he couldn’t be prosecuted for breaking the law.