Snuff Fiction

24

T he riotous applause and cheering died away. The footlights dimmed, the hall’s lights glowed again. On cue came the waiters, bearing trays of sweetmeats. Cheesy things and chocolates. Cognac and cheroots. Strawberries in crack and schooners of absinthe and mescal.

The mariachi band struck up once more and folk jigged and wriggled, but few made the effort to climb to their feet and dance. They were all bloated and not a little stoned.

‘Well, that was a load of old toot,’ said Norman.

‘Come off it,’ I said. ‘It was brilliant.’

‘So what did it all mean, then?’

I made expansive gestures.

‘You haven’t the foggiest,’ said Norman. ‘I did like the donkey, though.’

‘Well, I’m going to say thanks a lot to Professor Merlin. I wonder where he went.’

‘Gone,’ said Norman. ‘Off’d it. A big aaah-choo and goodbye to everyone.’

‘What’s the time?’ I asked.

Norman tugged a fob watch from his pocket. It had more than the hint of Meccano about it. ‘A quarter to twelve,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t time just fly when you’re enjoying yourself?’

‘OK.’ I stood up and squared my shoulders and then I did that breathing in deeply through the nose and out again through the mouth thing that people do before they take on something big.

A bungee jump, perhaps. Or a leap through a ring of fire on a motorbike.

Or even a daring dive from the top of a waterfall. Or a sabre charge on horseback into the mouths of the Russian guns at Sebastopol.

Or— ‘What are you doing?’ asked Norman.

‘Preparing myself for the big one.’

‘I’ve no wish to hear about your bowel movements.’

I showed Norman my fist again and mimed repeated violent blows. ‘Biff biff biff,’ I said. ‘And Norman’s out for the count.’

Norman rolled his eyes and got to his feet. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I know what we have to do. Find the woman with the green lipstick. If she has any green lipstick left. She’s probably smeared it all off, pushing porcupine’s peckers down her gob.’

‘I never knew there were porcupine’s peckers.’

‘Yeah, well, there were only a few left. I had most of them at lunchtime.’

‘Come on,’ I said to Norman. ‘Crank up your peacock suit and let’s get this done. I’ll feel a lot better about ringing in the New Year once we’ve grabbed this woman, tied her up and bunged her in the cellar.’

‘Fair enough.’ Norman tinkered with his remote control. ‘This lad’s on the blink,’ he said, shaking it about. ‘I think some of the circuits have come unstuck.’ He gave the delicate piece of equipment several hearty thumps. ‘That’s got it,’ he said.

‘Right then.’ I explained to Norman the cunning strategy that I felt we should employ. It was simple, but it would prove effective. All we had to do, I told him, was to shuffle nonchalandy amongst the lolling guests in a manner that would arouse no hint of suspicion, and bid each of the womenfolk a casual how-d’you-do whilst having a furtive peer at their lipstick. Then whichever one of us found her would simply shout across to the other: ‘Here’s the murdering bitch,’ and together we’d make the citizen’s arrest.

Whatever could go wrong with a strategy like that?

Nothing.

Also, I felt that doing it this way would give me the opportunity to chat up some of the top notch totty and perhaps see myself all right for a bunk-up to bring in the New Year.

It was only fair. It was my party.

‘Go on,’ I said to Norman. ‘Off you go.’

Norman went off, going how-d’you-do, and I went off, doing likewise.

‘How-d’you-do,’ I went, ‘enjoying the party?

‘Hope everything’s OK.

‘Please don’t stub your cigar butts on the floor. Kindly use the human ashtrays provided.

‘A little more Charlie with your strawberries, your Royal Highness?’

And so on and so forth and suchlike.

I thought we were doing rather well, actually. We were quartering the hall, moving in almost orchestrated shufffing zig-zag parallels not altogether unlike a combination of Rommell’s now legendary pincer movement and the ever-popular ‘Hokey Cokey’.

I rather hoped we’d be doing that later. Along with ‘Knees Up Mother Brown’ and the ‘Birdy Song’. They really make the party go with a whizz in my opinion.

I suppose I must have how-d’you-do’d my way through at least fifty women before I chanced to glance across to see how Norman was doing. He appeared to be doing rather well, by all accounts. For where all my how-d’you-dos had ended with me shuffling on alone, Norman’s hadn’t. It seemed that all the women Norman had howd’you-do’d to were now following him.

They trailed along behind in a giggling all-girl conga line.

I sighed and shook my head and did some more how-d’you-dos. I was getting rather fed up with how-d’you-dos, as it happened. So

I thought I’d switch to hi-hello-theres, just to liven things up.

Mind you, I don’t know why I even bothered with any pleasantries at all. None of the well-heeled, well-fed, well-sloshed, well-stoned women even showed the faintest interest in me.

I was well pissed off, I can tell you.

I mean to say, this was my party and they were scoffing my grub and getting pissed on my booze and spacing themselves out on my dope. The least that one of these stuck-up tarts could have done was to offer me a blow-job.

But did any of them?

Did they bugger!

I thought I’d slip into Irish mode. Women always go for Irish blokes. It’s in their charm and the melody of their language. Or it’s the hint of danger about them. Or it’s something else about them. But I reckon it’s the accent.

Well, I thought it was worth a try.

‘Top of the morning to you,’ I said to Ma’ll-yell-if-you-thrust-it-up.[10]

She looked strangely unimpressed.

But her boyfriend looked rather upset.

‘Bugger off, you bog-trotting loon,’ was what he had to say.

I leaned low in his direction. I recognized him immediately. He was that honourable literary chap, Old-Hairy-fat-prick.[11]

‘Off about your business,’ he drawled. ‘Or I’ll know the reason why.’

I stared the fellow eye to eye and then I head-butted him straight in the face. Well, it had been a long and trying day.

Old Hairy fell back in a crumpled heap and I smiled over to Ma’llyell. ‘Fainted,’ I said. ‘Too much brown ale. You know what he’s like.’

I shuffled off some more.

And then, do you know what, out of the blue it just hit me. I suddenly paused and thought, What am I doing here? I mean, what am I doing here? (Not what am I doing here?)

I thought, bloody Hell, I know what I’m doing here.

I’m shuffling!

Shuffling. I hadn’t shuffled for years. But here I was doing it now. I was shuffling about amongst all these rich folk. These really really famous folk. A complete stranger. Someone who didn’t belong here at all.

I was a shuffler, me. Always had been, always would be. All the wealth I’d been left by the Doveston couldn’t change what was really inside. I was just a shuffler. I was shuffling in the way that long ago the Doveston had shuffled. The way that the Principal Boy in the play had shuffled. It was the very same shuffle.

The very same shuffle.

And then, of course it hit me. I realized exactly what the professor’s play meant.[12]

It was the life of the Doveston. The whole bit. Birth, life and death. As in ‘Om’. Brahma, Vishnu and Siva. And how had the play ended? With the downfall of the palace and the Evil Prince. And how had the professor concluded the entire performance?

With a big aaah-choo!

And what was it Danbury Collins had said?

Assemble all the members of the Secret Government in one big room and then blow the lot of them to kingdom come.

With dynamite, perhaps?

The Big Aaah-Choo!

‘Oh shit!’ I went. ‘Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!’

‘You have me fair and square,’ said a voice. An Irish voice as it happened. A fellow stood up, a fellow in a frock. A fellow wearing green lipstick and brandishing a blow-pipe. ‘O’Shit’s the name,’ he said. ‘Cross-dressing Secret Government hit man. How did I give myself away? Should I have shaved off me beard?’

‘Forget it,’ I told him. ‘Don’t you realize what’s going to happen?’

‘Well,’ said O’Shit. ‘My guess would be that you’ll try to take me in. But I’m thinking you won’t get as far as the door, before me mate O’Bastard over there takes the head right off you with his Uzi.’

‘No,’ I said, shaking him by the sequinned shoulders. ‘We’re all gonna die.’

‘You before the rest of us, I’m thinking.’

‘Get out of my way. Get out of my way.’ I pushed O’Shit from his feet and shouted over to Norman. ‘Norman,’ I shouted. ‘Come here quick, we’re in trouble.’

‘All right,’ called Norman. ‘I’m coming.’

Down, but not out, O’Shit was struggling. He had fallen amongst toffs. Which can prove tricky if you’re a man and you happen to be wearing a dress.

‘Well, hemooooo,’ went the toffs.

‘Get your fecking hands off me bum,’ went O’Shit.

‘Norman. Get over here.’

‘I’m coming. I’m coming.’ Norman shuffled over.

Shuffled. That’s what he did.

‘Have you found her then?’ Norman asked as he shuffled. ‘Oh sorry, did I tread on you?’ he continued as his foolish platform shoe came down on some poor blighter’s fingers.

‘Norman. Hurry up.’

Behind Norman came his all-girl conga line. And behind this now came men of the mightily miffed persuasion.

I did some more of those big breaths up the nose and out of the mouth and grabbed at Norman as he stepped upon O’Shit.

‘Norman,’ I puffed and panted. ‘Norman, I’ve worked it out. I’ve worked it out.’

‘I told you I didn’t want to hear about your bowel movements.’ I punched Norman right on the nose. I’m sorry, but I did. Heat of the moment.

‘Oooooooooooooooh,’ went Norman’s female followers. ‘Leave our lovely boy alone.’

‘Stay out of this,’ I told them. I had Norman by the lapels; I didn’t let him fall. ‘The time?’ I gasped. ‘What is the time?’

Norman clutched at his nose. ‘You hit me. You punched my hooter.’

‘Tell me the time. Quickly, or—’

‘OK. OK.’ Norman fumbled out his watch. The women were gathering round us now, stepping on the sitters and getting in a state. Their boyfriends, lovers, husbands or whatevers were tugging at them and telling them to come away.

‘It’s five to twelve,’ said Norman, dabbing at his conk with his sleeve. ‘All this fuss just because you wanted to know the time. But hang about. Shouldn’t we be organizing the “Auld Lang Syne” business?’

‘Norman.’ I shook him all about. ‘I’ve worked it out. There’s not going to be any “Auld Lang Syne”. I know what’s going to happen.’

‘You always say that when you’ve had a few.’

‘Norman, you shithead, just listen to me.’

‘You leave Norman alone,’ said some woman, welting me one with her handbag.

‘Don’t worry, love,’ said Norman. ‘I can handle him, he’s just a bit pissed.’ And then Norman became aware for the very first time of just how many women now surrounded us. ‘Well, heloooooo, ladies,’ said Norman.

‘Listen, listen.’ I flapped my hands about. ‘Listen to what I’m saying. The professor’s play, right? It was all about the Doveston.’

‘Well, I’d worked that out,’ said Norman. ‘But then I did go to grammar school.’

‘Yes, all right. But the bit at the end, where the boy in the play blows everybody up. And the professor. The Big Aaah-Choo! Don’t you understand what I’m saying?’

Norman nodded thoughtfully. ‘No,’ he said.

‘Everybody here,’ I said. ‘Everybody here,’ and I had to speak up quite a bit, because the mob about us was pushing and stepping on people. ‘Everybody here, all these people. This is them. This lot. The Secret Government. The rulers and makers of men, the grand mucka-mucks, like the professor said. The Doveston invited all these people here, and they all came, even though he was dead. Because they knew they’d get the bash of the century. But don’t you see, that’s what they really are going to get. The big bash. The Big Aaah-Choo!’

‘What exactly are you trying to say?’

I kicked at O’Shit, who was biting my ankle. ‘I’m saying, Norman, that this place is going to blow. The professor warned us. He never sneezes when he takes snuff. He warned us, you and me, so we could get out in time. Don’t you see? The Doveston is going to get his revenge from beyond the grave. I’ll bet this place is packed with dynamite. And I’ll bet, I’ll just bet, it’s timed to go off at midnight. Come on, Norman, you knew the Doveston as well as I did. Isn’t it exactly what he’d do?’

‘There has to be a flaw in this logic,’ said Norman. ‘But for the life of me, I can’t see what it is.’

I looked at Norman.

And Norman looked at me.

‘Fire!’ shouted Norman. ‘Everybody out! Everybody out!’

‘What are you doing?’ I clapped my hand across his mouth.

‘Just leave him alone,’ said some other woman, welting me with her handbag.

‘Keep out of this,’ and I pushed her.

‘How dare you push my wife, sir,’ and some twat took a swing at me. I ducked out of the way, but O’Shit had a hold on my ankle and I fell forwards, bringing Norman with me. We went down amongst the toffs, who were floundering about and trying to stand up, whilst being kneed this way and that by Norman’s female fan club and the men of mighty miffedness.

‘Get off me,’ cried Norman. ‘We’ve got to warn everyone.’

‘Why?’ I gasped. ‘Why? This lot are the Secret Government. They’re the enemy. This bunch murdered the Doveston.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Norman. ‘You’re right there.’ He dodged a foot that swung in his direction. ‘Stuff ‘em,’ said Norman. ‘Stuff ‘em.’

Now, it does have to be said that Norman and I were up the minstrels’ gallery end of the great hall. Which was not the end we wished to be at. The end we wished to be at was the other end. The end with the big entrance doors. The struggling and pushing and kicking and general bad behaviour that was going on around us was an isolated sort of chaos. The majority of the party guests weren’t involved. They were showing considerable interest by now, but they were mostly just lolling about. And there were an awful lot of them and they were packed pretty densely and if Norman and I were to make our escape we were going to have to get through them.

‘Come on.’ I hauled Norman up. ‘Act casual. Make for the door.’ We fought our way out of the scrum in as casual a way as we could. Which was not, perhaps, quite as casual as it might have been, but time was ticking away.

‘I think we should forget “act casual”,’ said Norman. ‘I think we should go for “run for our lives”.’

‘I think you’re right.’

We ran for our lives.

But could we run?

Could we bugger!

We were reduced to doing a lot of leaping about, trying not to step on people’s faces. It was a bit like that ludicrous hop, skip and jump thing they do in the Olympics.

I had hoped for a clean getaway, but Norman’s fans weren’t having that. They came in hot pursuit.

‘Switch off your bloody suit,’ I shouted at him.

Norman fumbled once more in his pocket. But this isn’t easy to do when you’re hop, skip and jumping.

What happened next had an elegant, almost slow-motion quality about it. The remote control slipped from Norman’s fingers. It arced through the air. It fell towards the floor. It struck the floor and Norman’s big left platform shoe came crunching down upon it. And then there was a sort of sparkler fizzing. It came from Norman’s suit. The suit began to throb, to pulsate. It began to glow.

There was a sort of ear-splitting whine that turned every head in the place.

And what happened next wasn’t elegant.

What happened next was pure chaos.