“Sit on his legs woman,” he shouted. “Squash the smelly blighter. Hurry!”

Will’s mum hurried and did as she was bid.

“Phone for the DOCS, lad,” Will’s dad told Will. “Tell them we’ve captured a murderer.”

Will’s mouth hung open.

“I’ll do it,” said Tim, and he did.

“Come in here, polluting the air and menacing my family,” cried Will’s dad, his beefy buttocks pressing down upon the back of the fallen figure. “I’ll teach you to mess with the Starlings.”

The fallen figure struggled, but was quite unable to rise.

“My dad,” whispered Will. “My dad did that.”

“They’re on their way,” said Tim, replacing the receiver. “They’re just up two floors. They’re coming right down.”

The fallen figure lurched, all but up-ending Will’s dad.

“More weight needed,” called that man. “Tim, Will, help us keep this stinker down.”

Will climbed onto his father’s shoulders. Tim sat down in Will’s mum’s lap.

“Well, isn’t this cosy?” said Will’s mum. “Like one big happy family. That’s another thing I like about living in these times. Although the supper is growing cold and I’m—”

And through the doorway came the gallant lads and token ladette of the DOCS, weapons at the ready and looks of some surprise upon their faces, faces which they now took to fanning.

“The smell is him.” Will’s dad bounced up and down, eliciting moans from the foul-smelling figure beneath. “The murderer, we have him here.”

“Let him up,” said Chief Inspector Sam Maggott. “We’ll take him in for questioning.”

“Better just to pass sentence here,” said Officer John.

“Rather too many unanswered questions,” said Sam. “I’d like to find out more about this unfragrant character before we remove him permanently from society.”

“He’s still frisky.” Will’s dad came near to another upending. “Shooting him in the head while we’re still sitting on him would probably be for the best.”

“I’ll do things my way, if you don’t mind,” said Sam. “I am the law, you know.”

“Quite so, sir,” said Will’s dad. “So we should let him up, should we? He’s all covered in guns. One or two quite uncomfortable beneath my behind, as it happens.”

“Let him up,” said Sam. “We have him covered.”

And Sam’s team most definitely did. They all had their guns out and were pointing them mostly in the right direction.

“As you wish,” said Will’s dad. “Everybody up.”

And he did try. And so did Will’s mum.

“I’m a bit stuck,” she said. “Could someone give me a hand?”

“I’m at a bit of a disadvantage too,” said Will’s dad. “Can’t seem to ease myself up from this position.”

“Help them up,” Sam told his team.

Sam’s team holstered their weapons and set to the task of dragging Will’s parents into the vertical plane.

“Thanks very much,” said Will’s dad. “This has all been most exciting.”

“Aaaagh!” went the foul-smelling fallen figure, leaping now to his feet.

“That’s quite enough of that, chummy,” said Sam. “Up with your hands and come along quietly.”

“And drop your weapons,” added Officer Denton. “And do that before you put up your hands.”

“Good idea,” said Sam. “Do as the nice lady tells you. Or there will be trouble.”

It must be noted that it had now become very crowded in the Starling breakfasting-cum-suppering area which, although spacious enough to accommodate at least four well-fed adults, now found itself playing host to rather more than that. There were the mountainous Maggot, Officers Denton, Higgins, and Tudor; there was Tim McGregor, Will’s mum, Will’s dad, and Will. And there was also the terrific figure which was now towering over all of them and snatching up one of his weapons.

“Fire upon the murderer,” Sam ordered. “And try not to kill too many civilians.”

“Hit the deck,” shouted Will’s dad.

“Aaaagh!” went you-know-who once again.

And then the carnage began.

The DOCS weaponry was, in its manner, awesome. It was the state of the art, and this was the twenty-third century. And although it did take Sam’s team a moment or two to get their guns out of their holsters, and a few moments more to get them actually working, they were soon blasting away with a vengeance, spraying chunks of the murderer to the four cardinal points of the compass and all those in between.

There was so much flesh and gore – and all those other pieces.

And when the smoke had finally cleared, which took a bit of a while as the air-conditioning system was now broken, there was very little of the murderer left to be seen, other than a great deal of metal cogwheels and a lot of broken springs.

“Damn me,” said Chief Inspector Sam Maggott. “It was a robot.” Officer Denton shook her head. “It was,” she agreed, “but I don’t see how it could have been, sir. I mean, we don’t actually have any robots like that, yet. There’s no such thing as robots like that. They only exist in science fiction.”

“The exception that proves the rule?” Sam suggested.

“No sir, I don’t think so.”

“Well, bag up the bits; we’ll take them back to the department.”

Sam glanced about at the cowering civilians. The cowering civilians were covered in all sorts of vilely-smelling guts and gore. The outer covering of the impossible robot.

“Thank you very much for your cooperation, citizens,” said Sam.

With his mouth still open, and his mind somewhat numb, Will watched as Sam’s team did what they could to scoop all the bits and bobs into pink plastic bin liners[4].

“I’ll help you,” he said when he could find his voice.

“We’ll send in a clean-up team to wipe away all the splatterings,” said Sam, once the bagging up had been completed. “And so, farewell. And thank you once again for your cooperation.”

And he took his leave, the words “one hundred per cent clean-up rate”, being the last the Starling family heard from him as he and his team departed.

“Well,” said Will’s dad. “That was exciting, wasn’t it?”

“The supper’s stone cold,” said Will’s mum. “I’ll have to reheat it.”

“I think I’ll leave you to it,” said Tim. “I think I’ll go home now and take a shower.”

“Yes,” said Will. “Okay, yes.”

“Robot, eh?” said Tim. “Reminds you of that old movie, doesn’t it? You know the one I mean?”

“Of course I do,” said Will. “Everyone knows that movie.”

“Sent from the future,” said Tim. “Amazing. Whatever next?” And walking upon wobbly legs, Tim too took his leave.

Which left just Will and his mum and dad: just Will and his mum and dad and all the terrible smelly splatterings.

And there was one thing more than this: one thing that Will held tightly in his hand; one thing that he had picked up from the floor when he’d helped the team from the Department of Correctional Science to bag the pieces of the impossible robot.

Will opened his hand and gazed down upon it. It was a small brass nameplate, a maker’s nameplate, with certain words printed upon it.

They were:

BABBAGE & CO.

MAKERS OF

AUTOMATA TO

HER MAJESTY

QUEEN VICTORIA

PATENT NO. – 3610592

MADE IN ENGLAND, 1895.