My daughter greeted me in the hall as though nothing was at all amiss. Indeed, she announced brightly that "Mummy is feeling better and is up, out of bed."
I walked through to the kitchen where the dark-haired woman was preparing dinner. My other daughter walked out with a cheery "hallo" as I walked in, and the woman saw me with a smile. She walked over to me and took my hands in hers.
"You watched that film last night, didn't you?" she asked.
I agreed that I had.
"I understand," she said. "We were meant to watch it together, but after all these years you couldn't wait to see if it was the same as you'd remembered it. I hope you don't mind, but when I got out of bed this afternoon I wasn't up to anything other than sitting in front of the television. I decided that I might as well watch the film as well. And you were right; it's a wonderful film, but you didn't remember the end properly, did you?"
I shook my head.
"But you were right about Yvonne… she is just like me."
And she hugged me, and although I could not see her face I knew that she was crying. I should have felt love for her, but all that I could think of was the dark garage, and the rage that was growing within me…
Girl in Pieces by Graham Edwards
I was changing the filter on the coffee machine when two tons of wet clay crashed through my office door. The clay was wearing a yellow municipal jacket and dragging a garbage can. The clay was eight feet tall and bright like a Satsuma. The clay was a golem.
"I thought you apes took the garbage out," I said, clipping the coffee filter back.
"You a private detective?" said the golem.
"That's what it says on the door."
"You gotta help me." The golem held up the hand that wasn't holding the garbage can. It was holding a blood-streaked axe.
Rain gusted in, driving flecks of orange clay off the golem's legs. The carpet round his feet went dark.
"Don't they give you waterproofs?" I said.
"There ain't enough to go round. You gotta fight for them. Little guys like me-we don't stand a chance."
I started backing up: I don't like golems. "I'll take your word for it. Now, say your piece and get out."
"But you gotta help me."
"No, I don't."
"But I got no place else to go."
I'd backed up to the filing cabinet. I reached round and pulled open the second drawer. Rummaging blind, I found what I was looking for. I yanked it out and aimed it at the golem.
"What's that?" said the golem. The clay of his brow sagged to make a frown.
"Water pistol," I said.
"You what?"
"Don't be fooled by the size. The cops use these for crowd control. The clip's got a wormhole feed from the Styx. I pull this trigger, it unloads sixteen tons of river water in about three seconds."
"Won't that make a mess on your carpet?"
"That mess will be you, pal. Now get out of my office before I turn you in."
The golem stood there, still frowning. The rain poured through the door.
I heard police sirens.
The golem brought the axe handle down on the garbage can lid. The can rang like a gong. "They found me!"
I flipped the safety off the water pistol.
The golem's gigantic head swung from side to side as he searched for an escape route. The cop cars rounded the intersection, sirens screaming.
My finger tightened on the trigger.
And that's when the golem dropped to his knees.
"Please, mister! I ain't done nothing wrong. I know what you people think of us golems. But I ain't like the others. You gotta believe me. You're my last chance. Someone done a terrible wrong and the cops think it's me, but it ain't. And if they take me away, whoever done it… they'll get clean away. And that ain't right. That ain't right at all. So, you see, you gotta help. You gotta find out who done it. You gotta put it right. And if you won't do it for me, you gotta do it for her!"
The golem stood up again. He flicked the lid off the garbage can. It crossed the room like a frisbee. Then the golem picked up the can and emptied its contents on the floor.
A girl came out. She was in pieces: sliced arms and diced legs, chunks of muscle and slops of gore that might have been lungs or liver or lights; spears of white bone like blank signposts poking out of the whole hideous mess. Handfuls of soft pale flesh slimed with crimson. Worst of alclass="underline" a pretty face, unmarked except around its ragged edge, floating in a lake of blood.
I put my hand to my mouth. I'm no pussy when it comes to dead bodies, but this was messier than autopsy school.
Outside, six cop cars pulled up with screeching tyres.
The golem looked down at the girl's remains. At first I thought his face was melting. Then I saw he was crying.
Each cop car pumped four armed officers into the rain.
And, so help me, I put the water pistol down.
"Shut the door," I said.
"What?"
"You heard me."
The cops had drawn their weapons. They looked a lot nastier than my water pistol. The golem kicked the door shut with a heel the size of a labrador.
"Deadlocks!" I said.
The door obeyed. The room shook as the singularity bolts engaged.
"Will that keep them out?" said the golem.
"Not for ever," I replied. "Just long enough."
"Long enough for what?"
"For you to put down that axe and tell me what the hell is going on."
"I guess you don't like golems. Not many folks do. But we ain't all the same. There's different moulds."
The golem rocked from one foot to the other, twisting his muddy hands like a schoolgirl. His vast bulk obscured the mess on the carpet. That was no bad thing.
"Last time I ran into a golem," I said, "he grabbed my ankles and held me upside down over a cloud of toxic gas. Any wonder I'm cagey?"
"Lots of golems are like that. Bad clay. I should know-I have to work with them every day."
It figured. The yellow jacket and the garbage can were a giveaway: this golem was a municipal refuse collector. Garbage golems are dangerous like unstable cliffs: they're fine if you keep clear; get too close-they'll bury you. Literally.
"So what's different about you?"
"I got a name."
"A name?"
"It's Byron."
"Golems don't have names. They have numbers."
"I got something else too."
"What?"
"I got a soul."
A word about golems.
First, golems aren't born-they're manufactured, like crockery. Most anyone can knock up a golem: you just take a couple of tons of river silt and compress it into a mould. Then you scribble out a chunk of Hebrew binary code on a square of parchment and bury it in the golem's chest. Bingo: instant walking mountain. Golems are grumpy, slow-witted, and obedient. They have phenomenal memories and no conscience at all. They're ultra-loyal and ultra-violent in equal measure. They make great bodyguards and even better tax collectors.
But underneath they're just machines. Wet machines, but machines all the same.
So when a golem tells you he's got a soul, it's kind of hard to take.
Now, you ask a hundred different folk what a soul is, you get a hundred different answers. But there's one thing everyone agrees on: whatever a soul is, it's what a golem ain't got.