Ellis In The Arms

 

Killkillingford was the least visited seaside resort in the country by far; though uncelebrated, it was not a village that lacked the necessary features to entice holidaymakers.  It had for sure the shops and the restaurants, the public houses and picture-right scenery, as well as a relatively sandy stretch of beach and ether of exceptional quality – everything one required of a seasonal location in the usually dark and misty northeast; what made it unpalatable to visitors was that it was just terribly hard to get to, cloaked on every side by ominous hills with only one high and hazardous road allowing for travel in and out.  Among the pubs, the Killkillingford Arms was perhaps the most popular, with a head count of ten at peak times, which was between five and six generally, the hour after work before everyone went home for their teas.  Outside peak times, you’d be lucky if you saw even one pint alive.

One person who often wet his lips in the Killkillingford Arms was Bill Cahill, a 49 year old bachelor of little prominence in the village.  Bill never stayed for the peak times anymore.  He didn’t need the company.  He had a new friend now.

‘Another pint, Ellis?’

----YES. I WOULD LIKE THAT.  THANK YOU, BILL.

Bill got Louise behind the bar’s attention and requested two more pints of stout, their third round of the day.

As Louise behind the bar set to work on the taps, she eyed Bill’s new friend Ellis with curiosity and then said to Bill:  ‘Where did you find him?’

‘On the internet,’ replied Bill.  ‘You’d be shocked if you saw the range they have.’

Indeed, Bill had spent a full week on DoubleUDoubleUDoubleUDotCompIntelDotCom scrolling through pages and pages of possible drinking companions.   There were many compatible intelligences to choose from: sports-bots; crossword-bots; literature-bots.  Any one would have made for an interesting artificial buddy to drink with---but Bill, being a rather bellicose and strutting sort of character, chose Ellis, the debate-bot.  They were notoriously expensive items but he got a good price because of all CompIntel models, it was the debate-bot which was proving most difficult to sell--so the high quantities of returned product had led to the company reissuing them, radically discounted.  And Bill was beginning to see why – even before the third round of pints was ready, a heated argument concerning variety in beaks had begun and Ellis’ intellectual confidence was alive and well and he was putting non-existent money where his mouth was.   

----TAKE A BET?

‘I don’t make bets with robots.’

----WHY NOT?

‘Yous’ve no real skin in the game.’

----NONSENSE.  YOU SIMPLY KNOW YOU ARE WRONG.

Bill knew it to be true.  If Ellis had represented the standard human intelligence in the bar, there’d be more chance of him being wrong.

‘I don’t believe so.  I’d swear it’s the pelican.’

----THE SWORD-BILLED HUMMINGBIRD HAS THE LONGEST BEAK IN THE WORLD.

‘Maybe so, but I can tell you who has the most tiresome one.  But we’ll say you’re right for now about the hummingbird.  Just to shut you up for a minute.  It wasn’t a betting-bot I paid for, you know.’

--GOOD.  WIN.  SLEEP.

Ellis pulled back his head and shrieked and it was like the mad laugh of a witch playing from a scratched record; then his head slumped forward, the mechanical eyes closed, and he slept.  Debate-bots were programmed to rest for five minutes after securing a win in order to save power.  

In the momentary lull, Louise behind the bar went to her usual habit of examining Bill’s peculiar lot in life.

‘Why don’t you come in at peak times anymore, Bill?  There’s plenty of craic to be had with the humans.’

‘Nah, I’ve had it up to here with them ones.’

‘Well, I’ve heard you give as good as you get with them in your time, Bill.  Sometimes I think we should advertise this place as the new Oxford Union with the levels of assembled dispute we get.’

‘Ah, they’re all scoundrels in here, Louise.  It’s a far cry from Oxford.’

‘No harm to you now, Bill, but that metal fella you’re with is a pure gobshite, do you know that?’

‘I know, I know.’

‘A waste of money, I say.  Sure he hasn’t put his hands in his pockets once.’

‘Well, he has no pockets, nor any money to give.’

‘Yes, that’s what I mean.  These robots are a complete waste of money.  Your money.’

‘Ah, sure what’s a few pints in the sum total?’

By the time the fifth round arrived, Bill and Ellis had debated the ethics of military intervention, the existence of free will, and the logic of pork scratchings.  Finally, they ended their afternoon drinks and discourse and rose from their stools to leave, saying Goodbye to Louise behind the bar, who said Goodbye also, being the only one who cared.

When they stepped outside, a magic hour was blushing up the sky.  Peak time was upon them and there were already a few workers making their ways to whatever establishment they frequented at the day’s end.  The debating allies were about to walk up the street towards home when Ellis suddenly stopped.

‘What’s the delay?’ asked Bill.

The debate-bot was looking ropy.     

HOW MUCH ALCO---HOL?

‘Ah, we only had five.’

FIVE?

‘Five lovely pints.  Good for your system.’

FIVE PINTS IS NOT PERMITTED.  WHERE IS MY MANUAL?

‘Sure I left that big thing at home.  I wouldn’t be showing up in the bar with a hefty tome like that in tow.’

YOU SHOULD ALWAYS BRING THE MANUAL.

‘Why?  We’re grown adults, for the love of Christ.  All the knowledge we need...’ Bill finger-tapped his head.  ‘....it’s right up here, it is.’

 RULES ARE....RULES.

‘Ah, quit with your foolishness, will you.’

I---DON’T WANT TO ARGUE.  I FEEL----FEEL

‘You feel....what?’

Then there was a worrying sound.  It was the familiar sound of malfunction one would normally hear on a record of sound effects – the same record that had the witch on it, as it happened.  Ellis clattered.  Popped.  Fizzled a bit.  In his eyes, the subtle hint of chuck hazel, which made him appear like a real gurrier of the region, disappeared, and liquid-pink took over.  Bill didn’t know what to do, and he conceded then that having the manual right now might help----but which page?  That thing had about a thousand pages in it.   

Ellis’s head began to turn – a slow grinding rotation.  There were sparks at the neck. 

Bill lost it.   

‘Stop it, Ellis.  Please.  We’ll do the three pint rule next time. I promise.’

Then Bill’s drinking companion crumbled to the ground.  The fall made an industrial racket like a hundred pots and pans thrown into a bin lorry crusher.  You’d think it was a sound limited to robots but in fact when Bill himself fell plastered drunk, the sound his bones made packing it in was pretty close to the one that resounded presently.     

There was a voice from across the road.  A man walking his dog.  ‘Get your man a taxi, will you! He’s banjaxed.’

‘Okay,’ Bill shouted over.

Then Ellis spoke and the voice sounded more synthesised, crackling.

--BILL.

Bill knelt and held the waning robot’s head.  ‘Yes, Ellis?’

--TOO.....MUCH.....YOU KNOW.

Tears ran down Bill’s face as he watched the liquid-pink in his mechanical friend’s eyes congeal and darken.  He had little time left.   

‘You were right,’ wept Bill.  ‘Ellis, you were right.  We should have brought the manual.  We should have brought the manual.’

The electric lights in Ellis’s face slowly petered out.

--GOOD.

          WIN.

SLEEP.

 

Killkillingford was the least visited seaside resort in the country by far.  And it stayed that way.  The shops, the restaurants, the beach----they all stayed the same.  And the ether remained exceptional.  Few tourists ever came, further still.  The only thing that changed was Bill Cahill.  After the death of Ellis, he chose not to purchase a new compatible intelligence to accompany him to the pub.  However, he was to be seen more regularly in the Killkillingford Arms at peak times, which pleased at least one person in Louise behind the bar.  And he started winning arguments more often while admirably sticking to the three pint rule.