Snuff Fiction

23

I didn’t panic.

I could have, but I didn’t.

I was far too angry this time. I’d had sufficient. I mean to say, one cold-blooded murder at your party is bad enough. But two! That’s really taking the piss.

I glanced about in search of the assassin. But none was to be found standing conveniently by holding a blow-pipe in one hand whilst waving to me with the other.

Folk were gaily dancing now to the music of the mariachi band upon the minstrels’ gallery. Everyone seemed to be having a jolly good time.

Everyone but me.

But I didn’t panic. No. I was angry, but I was cool. I was so cool. Do you know what I did? Well, I’ll tell you what I did. I dragged Danbury to his feet. Danced him over to the invisible suit of armour. And then rammed his body into the back of it. Pretty damn cool, eh?

And if you’ve ever tried to ram a corpse into the back of an invisible suit of armour, you’ll know that it can be pretty tricky.

Especially if the corpse is sporting an erection.

Then I went searching for Norman.

I was angry with Norman.

The shopkeeper wasn’t hard to find. He was doing the Twist. All on his own. But being cheered on by a circle of adoring females. I thrust my way through this circle, much to their annoyance.

‘Norman! You twat!’ I shouted at him.

Norman flapped his fingers at me. ‘Go away,’ he shouted back. I ye got these women eating out of my hand. Look at Tear-apartmy-two-limbs-son’

‘Who?’

‘Tara Palmer—Tomkinson’

It wasn’t bad, but I wasn’t in the mood. ‘Norman!’ I shouted. ‘It’s happened again!’ Then put some more iodine on it.’

I made fists at Norman. Much to the horror of the womenfolk ‘Stop dancing,’ I shouted. ‘There’s been another murder.’

‘Oh,’ and Norman stopped dancing.

‘Aaaaaaaaaaw,’ went the womenfolk. ‘Dance some more for us, Norman.’

‘Switch your bloody suit off,’ I told him. Norman did so, grudgingly.

The womenfolk lost interest in Norman. They sort of coughed politely and drifted away and I stopped hating Norman quite so much.

‘Another murder, you say?’ he said.

‘Danbury Collins.’

‘Danbury Collins?’

‘Danbury Collins.’

Norman lifted his trilby and scratched at his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t get that one. Do you want to give me a clue?’

I shook Norman by his smart lapels. ‘It’s not one of your stupid name-pun things. It’s the victim’s real name. Danbury Collins.’

‘Not the Danbury Collins?’

‘The very same.’

‘Not the one who’s always...’ Norman mimed the appropriate wrist actions.

‘He was doing it when he died.’

‘It’s how he would have wanted to go.’ I couldn’t disagree with that.

‘But dip my dick in Duckham’s,’ said Norman. ‘Lazlo Woodbine and Danbury Collins on the same night. If P. P. Penrose were alive today, he’d be turning in his grave.’

‘Listen,’ I yelled at Norman, ‘we can’t waste any more time. We have to find this murdering—’

And the music of the mariachis ended.

‘—bitch!’

It was quite amazing, the way my voice carried right around the momentarily silent hall. And as for the way that all heads turned in my direction.

That was quite amazing too.

It was the second major embarrassment of the evening. And it was early yet.

‘Nice one,’ whispered Norman. ‘Very l990s. Very PC.’

And then clash went some cymbals, sparing Norman a walloping.

‘Boom shanka,’ came a voice from on high, the voice of Professor Merlin. Heads turned and tilted. The ancient showman stood upon the balcony rail of the minstrels’ gallery, arms flung wide and long fingers wiggling.

‘Boom shanka boom boom boom,’ cried the oldster. ‘I am Professor Merlin and I welcome you to the Great Millennial Ball.’

The crowd, well-fuelled on drink and drugs and all loved-up by the Hartnell Home Happyfier, roared approval and clap-clap-clapped.

‘I hate that old bugger,’ said Norman.

I displayed my fist. ‘As soon as he’s finished, we search for the murdering you-know-what’

‘Dearly beloved,’ said Professor Merlin, folding his hands as in prayer. ‘We are gathered here tonight in the presence of this recherché décor...’ He gestured towards Lawrence’s dangling dog-dragon thing and the crowd guffawed aplenty. ‘We are here’, the professor continued, ‘to celebrate the birth of a new millennium. But also to celebrate the life of a most remarkable man. You knew him as the King of the Corona. The Grandee of the golden leaf. The Caesar of the ciggie. The Rajah of the roll-up. He was the

Saxe-Coburg-Gotha of the small cigar. He was the Sheik of snout. I speak to you, of course, of Mr Doveston.’

Clap, clap and whistle went the crowd. And cheer, also.

‘You’ — Professor Merlin raised a forefinger and swung it about to encompass all — ‘you folk are the great folk. The rulers and makers of men. The lords of high office. The grand muck-a-mucks. The captains of industry. The fair maidens of fashion.’ Professor Merlin bowed gallantly. ‘You are the stars of the silvery screen. You are the thespians. You are the musicians. You, my dear friends, are the business.’

More cheenng and clapping and whistling too.

‘And so you are deserving of an entertainment.’ Professor Merlin snapped his fingers and a glittering yo-yo appeared in his hand.

‘OOOooooooooooooh,’ went the crowd, most impressed. ‘Easy trick,’ muttered Norman. ‘I could do that.’ Professor Merlin twinkle-eyed the mosaic of faces beneath him and then sent the yo-yo skimming above. It sparkled like a gemstone as he whisked it in mighty arcs out to the left and the right.

‘Piece of piss,’ muttered Norman.

‘On this night of nights,’ called the professor, ‘on this final moment of our age, I shall present a special entertainment. An amusement. A frippery. A bit of fol de rol—

‘To bewitch and bewilder, beguile and bemuse.

To instruct and construct and perhaps to bemuse.

Will you see what you’re seeing?

Or hear what you hear?

Will you say to yourself

This is all rather queer?

Does it mean what it says?

Does it say what it means?

Is he bashing the bishop

Or straining the greens?’

And he danced his yo-yo through a dazzling series of tricks which naturally included the ever-popular ‘stuffing the stoat’. As well as porking the penguin’, ‘furtling the flounder’ and ‘giving the gibbon a gobble’.

‘You can’t do that,’ I said to Norman.

‘I’m not altogether sure I’d want to.’

‘Now be mindful, my friends,’ said Professor Merlin, ‘because the swiftness of the hand deceives the eye.’ And he flung his yo-yo once more over the crowd. And lo and behold, it just wasn’t there. ‘The more you see,’ the old man said, ‘the more you think you know.’

And then he clapped his hands. ‘Come, carpets, cushions and kilims,’ he called. ‘Come cosset and comfy our cool congregation.’

From all sides of the great hall came serving folk, members of the catering staff, baldy-headed lady dwarves and those littlest-said-about-them-the-better human ashtrays. They carried carpets and cushions and kilims and they walked about amongst the guests, setting these down on the flagstoned floor.

‘Please be seated,’ called the showman. ‘Sit ye down, oh yes indeedy do.’

With general hilarity all round, and with much trouser-knee-adjustment from the men and tight-skirt-bottom-wriggling from the women, the party guests set to settling down on the out-spread rugs and comfy cushions.

‘I think I’ll just nip off to the bog now,’ said Norman.

‘No you bloody won’t. Just sit down here until he’s finished.’ Norman sat.

And I sat. Sit sit sit.

‘Now,’ cried Professor Merlin. ‘As you watch and marvel at our show, why not tuck a little tucker into your laughing gear? Dine upon delicacies, Nirvana to the nasal parts and positively paradisical to the palate. Vivacious viandes. Magical morsels. Tantalizing titbits. Knock-out nosebag. Johnny B. Goode, by golly.’

And once more he clapped his hands.

There came a fanfare from the mariachi men and beneath the minstrels’ gallery, to the rear of the invisible pillars, the door that led to the kitchens opened and out strode the famous chef.

He clapped together hands of his own,

And swung on a polished heel.

And he called to his waiting waiters,

To bring on the marvellous meal.

‘Get a move on, you fuckwits,’ he called.

And out from the kitchen marched the waiters, looking every bit the way that waiters should. They had crisp white shirts and smart dickie-bows and sleek tail-coats and slicked-back hair with killer sideburns. And they were all gym-trained and Club-Med-tanned and they all had those ‘rose-for-the-lovely-lady?’ eyes.

‘Fuckwits to a man,’ whispered Norman.

Oh, but what they carried on their burnished silver trays. What toothsome taste-bud ticklers. What choice and chewsome chomperies. As the waiters moved amongst the party guests, bowing with their trays to offer up their bounty, the professor called down from on high and pointed to the platters as each passed beneath him.

‘Lo and behold,’ he called. ‘A beano, a beanfeast, a banquet. A Saranapalian swallow-me-down. An Epicurean eat-’em-up. Lo and behold and look you there,’ and he pointed. ‘Fillet mignon of Alytes obstreticans, lightly fried in Ranidae miluh and served upon a bed of Taraxacum.’

‘Sounds delicious,’ I said.

Norman made a face. ‘If you happen to like midwife toad, cooked in frog’s milk and bunged on a bunch of dandelion leaves.’

‘Some of these foreign dishes do lose a bit in the translation, don’t they?’

‘Hmmph,’ went Norman, waving a waiter away.

The professor continued to point and proclaim, naming each dish that passed beneath him and loudly extolling its virtues.

To which Norman added his clever-Dick-I-did-languages-at-Grammar-school translations.

I passed on the lungs and the livers and lights. The bollocks of boar and the wildebeest’s whangers. The monkey’s brains, although fresh and piping hot (and Bubbles’s looked particularly tasty in the fresh Crad sauce) didn’t thrill me at all.

Not that I wasn’t hungry.

Actually, I was starving.

But, well...

When you have so many wonderful things to choose from, you hardly know where to start. Eventually I did make up my mind. I decided to keep it simple. Nothing rich, that might be likely to ‘repeat’. Good, wholesome, plain old down-home cooking.

‘Beans on toast, sir?’ the waiter asked.

‘No thanks, mush,’ I told him. ‘I’ll have the Rocky Mountain oysters, the belly-cut of long pig and the sheep’s vagina, stewed in its own special juices. Oh and a pint of Château-Lafite 1822 and put it in my personal pewter tankard.’

Class act, or what?

I do have to say that I got quite a kick out of watching the party guests tuck in. It was a real joy to see top-notch gourmets trenchering it down. I perused them as they picked prettily at penis pasties and pork-sword pilaffs and popped portions of their preferred provender onto proffered plates.

Pretty much all Ps there again, by my reckoning.

‘What are you having, Norman?’ I asked.

‘Just the beans on toast for me.

‘Something wrong with the other stuff?’

‘Heavens no,’ said Norman, ‘perish the thought. It’s just that I’m not very hungry. I think I ate too much elephant’s dongler for tea.

Now, whilst all the face-filling was in progress, things had been happening beneath the minstrels’ gallery. A small stage had been erected, with a row of footlights and painted background scenery.

We were somewhere into the sixth or seventh course when the cymbals clashed and the voice of Professor Merlin was once more to be heard.

‘Boom shanka boom boom boom,’ it went. ‘You dine and you sup. Let sweet champagne be danced around and let the lights be dimmed a tad and soft the music play.’

Then every damn light in the hall went out and we were left in the dark.

But not for long. The footlights glowed; the stage shone bright. Professor Merlin strode onto it. He struck up a noble splay-legged pose, his hands upon his hips. The mariachis played a sweet refrain and the professor said simply, ‘Let our show begin.’

And then there was a flash, a puff of smoke and he was gone. ‘I could do that too,’ whispered Norman.

Now, what followed next was undoubtedly the most extraordinary piece of theatre that I have ever witnessed. It was ludicrous, though laudable. Absurd, yet absolutist. It was wacky, but wise. It was zany, but Zen. It was monstrous strange, and I fear that we will not see the likes of it ever again.

‘Om,’ called the voice of Professor Merlin. ‘Om,’ it called once more. ‘Om, which is the sacred syllable of the Most High. Typifying the triumvirate of Gods. Brahma, Vishnu and Siva. Birth, life and death. For our playlet comes to you in these three vital parts. The stuff of which we all are made. We’re born. We live. We’re cast away. Behold the Boy.’

We beheld the Boy. He rose up in the midst of us from beneath a rug, where he’d lain in wait. We applauded the Boy’s appearance. We applauded loud and long.

For this boy was undoubtedly a Principal Boy. This boy was played by a girl. A beautiful girl, as it happened. Young and tender-limbed and slender. Wide of mouth and eye. Some toffs amongst the crowd wolf-whisded and did their Terry-Thomas ‘well, helllooooos’.

The Boy moved slowly through the crowd. Slowly on shuffling feet. Wearily he climbed onto the stage. Turned to face the audience, offered up a sigh, suggestive of a day’s hard labours done. Then gave a long languid yawn.

Which set Norman off. I mimed a fist to the face.

The Boy settled down upon the stage. He wore rags and had nothing to cover him. He seemed pretty down upon his luck.

However, no sooner was he asleep than he began to dream and we were treated to a lavishly presented dream sequence with sparkly fairy folk flittering round and a big fat angel in a liberty bodice and wellington boots, who took a shine to the Boy and showered him with shimmering dust.

‘Would this be the ludicrous yet laudable bit?’ Norman asked.

The voice of Professor Merlin spoke. ‘A gift is given. A gift is received,’ is what I think it said.

Now, as far as I can make out, the basic story went like this. There is this little boy and he’s given something special by an angel in a dream. We don’t know what this special something is, but it must be really special, because everyone he meets wants to snatch it away from him.

First up is this sort of wicked uncle chap. He wears a black turban and has a painted-on beard and bad breath. The bad breath business got a lot of laughs, as did the posturing of this wicked uncle chap, who tries and tries again to bully the special something away from the Boy.

We jeer and catcall and roundly boo this uncle.

Then there is this group of good-time Charlies. They pretend to be chums of the Boy. But we all know what they’re after. They get the Boy drunk, but he won’t part with his special something and the good-time Charlies caper about and bump into the invisible pillars and fall down a lot. And we laugh.

Then we get to the real baddy. The Evil Prince. The Evil Prince has a stonking great palace, with handmaidens and his own full-size indoor crazy golf course and everything.

His approach to the Boy is more subtle.

He invites the Boy into his palace. Lets him play a round of crazy golf for free. And gives the Boy presents and makes a big fuss of him and pats his head a lot.

The harem scene made the show for me. I thought I knew of every inconceivable permutation of man and beast and fowl and fish that there was to know. And, after all, I had seen all those video tapes of cabinet ministers doing what comes so naturally to them, within the walls of Castle Doveston.

I was impressed.

And just a little horny.

I won’t recount the details here, because they’re not really relevant to the plot of the play. But trust me on this, it was

INCREDIBLE

So, anyhow. The Boy, having given his all in the harem orgy, and got a fair bit in return, offers the special something (which he has somehow managed to hang on to even whilst doing that weird thing with the trout) to the Evil Prince. He gives it to him as a present for being so kind.

And, without a by-your-leave, or even a kiss-my-elbow, the Boy is seized by the palace guards, dragged beyond the walls, given a sound duffing up and left for dead.

We all boo a lot at this. Although we do agree that the Boy has been a trifle foolish in trusting that Evil Prince.

The Boy then falls into a bit of a coma and the fat angel comes back and puts the wellington boot in. But then the fat angel forgives the Boy and bungs him what seems to be a bag of magic dust.

In the final scene, the Boy returns to the palace. The Evil Prince is enjoying a right royal blow-out and laughing himself stupid, because he now owns the special something.

But the Boy springs up from under the table and flings the magic dust from his bag onto a candle flame. There is a bloody big bang, a good deal of smoke and when this finally clears, we see that everyone in the palace is dead. Except for the Boy, who has somehow miraculously survived.

He takes a big bow, receives a bunch of flowers and the show is over.

Apart, of course, from the rest of the bowing. We all boo the wicked uncle and the good-time Charlies and the Evil Prince and we cheer the fat angel and the flittering fairies and again the Boy.

And that’s that.

Well, almost that.

Professor Merlin appears to great applause. He climbs onto the stage and he bows. He makes a very brief speech of thanks and then he takes out his snuffbox. It’s the slim silver number, shaped like a coffin. He taps three times upon the lid, for Father, Son and Holy Ghost, then he takes up snuff and pinches it to his nostrils.

And then he lets fly with a very big aaah-choo! The cymbals clash a final time. There is a flash and a puff of smoke.

And there he is, gone.

Vanished.