Dial M for Monkey (2 page)

‘I’ll be right over as soon as I - aha!’

I waited, not daring to breath, to move or even blink. I stared at the crack in the door.

‘Yes. Oui. Oui. C’est ça ma petite lapin.’

The light went out, the door shut and I exhaled.

‘Where the hell have you been?’

I waved the new spade at him and he waved his wine at me in return.

‘I decided to stop.’

‘What?’ I shouted. ‘We haven’t got time for you to stop!’

‘Calm down. I had to stop for two reasons. Firstly because I needed a piss.’

‘Oh you didn’t,’ I asked, scared of the response but knowing it all the same. ‘Please tell me you didn’t…’

‘I did,’ he grinned. ‘I pissed on Edith Piaf’s grave!’

‘Jamie! Do you have any idea how disrespectful that is?’

‘And secondly, cos I think we’re nearly there.’

‘Shit! Are you serious?’

I scrambled into the grave, shovel in hand and started digging. Within a matter of minutes my spade met with wooden resistance.

‘This is it,’ I whispered to Jamie who was hovering over the grave-mouth.

Soon we had cleared the top of the casket and the plaque, although tarnished, bore the Lizard King’s name.

The crowbar slid easily into my hands as I braced myself against the grave’s sides and began levering at the head of the coffin. My hands felt clammy as the wood cracked and splintered, giving way easily to the pressure.

‘This is it! This really is it!’

‘Open the bloody coffin already and let’s get out of here,’ said Jamie. ‘Someone’s bound to come along eventually you know.’

The lid crackled open, gasses hissing out as the seal that had been made decades earlier was broken.

‘Well? Have you got it?’

I hoisted the lid to one side.

‘Jamie,’ I said. ‘I think we have a problem.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, it seems he’s escaped.’

‘Shit, you mean someone has beaten us to it?’ Jamie passed me a torch and I shone it into the vacant coffin.

‘No, I mean that I don’t think he was ever…’

I trailed off as the torch glanced upon a small white piece of paper lying halfway down the length of the coffin. Reaching out, I picked it up. It was a business card. On it was printed an address in Paris and three words.

James Douglas Morrison.

It was over and I knew it. The flashlight performed a brief diminuendo over the empty casket as I gathered together what little evidence was left. I put the business card in my pocket and as the pair of us walked away I took out the harmonica, staring at its rust-encrusted reeds in the pre-dawn light.

I wiped it on my sleeve and then, after a moment put it to my lips and exhaled, inhaled, exhaled. It sounded awful but it reminded me of a Bob Dylan song I couldn’t remember the name of.

‘Sounds like Chas and Dave that,’ said Jamie. ‘I miss Chas and Dave.’

I Almost Spanked A Monkey

T
he Metro ground to a halt, brakes screaming at a station so far underground it could be the dead-centre of the earth. The doors sighed open and in stepped a man. I had seen him before. Or I thought I had.

He billowed through the doors, his long black coat a full two seconds behind him then stepped into the carriage and stopped, giving his coat an opportunity to catch up. His red waistcoat, his yellow and red striped trousers, his moustachioed face, the teeth like a burnt fence… somehow it rang a bell. It was only when two small monkeys darted out of the folds of his coat that I realised I had seen him before.

A buzzer sounded and the doors slid shut.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said with a voice as booming as I expected. ‘I have a rare treat for you today – without a net my monkey here will perform something never before seen on any underground transport system in the world.’

People were staring.
I
was staring. The monkey stood upright staring back with only a tiny red waistcoat to cover his modesty.

‘Not even the subway in New York has seen such a performance,’ he said. ‘My little friend here will sing the “Superstition” by the genius that is Stevie Wonder. In G sharp.’

People were walking up the carriages, eager to see what the lunatic in fancy dress was shouting about. I was no different and I stumbled forward as the Metro pulled away.

‘Take it away, Terry.’

We all stared at the monkey. He had drawn itself up onto its back legs, his hairy palms outstretched and opened his mouth. The Metro jolted all of the passengers forward but he remained, baring his fangs and emitting a howl.

So Terry burst into ‘Superstition’. Apparently in G sharp. It was then I noticed the other monkey.

He was on his way to the front of the carriage but skittered to a stop too soon. I watched helplessly as he reached a furry fist into a handbag. Out came the purse then he scampered back, stealth-style to his master. A quick pit-stop in his master’s coat and he was off again, back down the carriage. The paw flashed out again, this time into a skater’s low riders. He tugged at the contents and the jeans slid down slightly.

I could see he had a problem and as I leaned forward I saw the wallet attached to the jeans by a chain. It wasn’t enough, the monkey was wily and released the catch before taking the booty and bolting. Whilst all this was happening, Terry hadn’t missed a beat and was keeping a good tune in spite of the fact that it was in G sharp.

His friend, meanwhile, changed direction. Our eyes met and I could feel his panic. I wasn’t supposed to be watching him. I was supposed to be marvelling at his mate Terry’s singing, everyone else was. He eyed me suspiciously for a moment and then charged across the carriage towards his next target: me.

I wasn’t sure how to react to a monkey ambush. My breathing was heavy. I seemed to be squinting, focussing, trying to keep that evil little shit in my sights. For a moment he was gone and then
pop
– there he was, just out of reach. I knew then I had to kick that monkey’s arse.

Slowly, he stood upright, his miniscule monkey mind processing some long-held instinct. He lifted his right arm. The paw was limp but began to make a fist as it climbed. He froze, fist aloft and stared deep into my eyes as I waited for his move.

The door sighed open.

He stared. I stared.

A buzzer sounded. The door slid shut.

We moved forward and so did his hand, shooting down and cupping his fucking monkey nuts. He yanked at them with one paw whilst frantically beating his chest with the other. And then,
whoosh
, he vanishes.

And I was checking my pockets, on my hands and knees, emptying them onto the floor. I hadn’t taken the opportunity and kicked his skinny arse when I had the chance. And I had paid the price; the gypsy, Terry, the light-fingered marmoset and my wallet. All gone.

A buzzer sounded and the door slid shut.

The Holy Face of Gary Barlow

H
e was working a normal job, in his late twenties, name of Thomas. It was delivery day and he was going through the motions of unloading the hardware supplies from the truck. Mundane is a word you could have used to describe the job but that probably wouldn’t have done it justice. Mindless would definitely have been a better one so we’ll use that.

It was a mindless job and as a result Thomas’ imagination was prone to wander. Not in a ‘boy who cried wolf’ way. This is not that kind of story. Thomas’ imaginings were things he kept to himself to ward off the lure of insanity. Sex with the receptionist. Training an orang-utan to slap every third person who walked through the door. Wondering if cushions were stuffed with foam or whether it was actually specially dried jellyfish. That sort of thing.

So when he was unloading slices of sheet metal and he saw a face that wasn’t a distorted version of his own staring back at him, he was fairly taken aback. Thomas, however, was not the sort of person to let this go easily and so parted with ten pounds and took the sheet of metal home citing a leaky roof in his toilet as the reason.

Over beers and cigarettes with his flatmate Simon it was decided that unfortunately they did not have a likeness of the Christ. Neither did they have a likeness of the dark one Beelzebub. This piece of sacred sheet metal had been adorned with a likeness of his holiness Gary Barlow from nineties pop-combo Take That.

At first it seemed highly unlikely but upon serious Googling they even managed to track down a photograph where Gary was posing in very similar way. Six cans of Stella and twice as many phone calls later the pair were convinced that this could be their meal ticket for the foreseeable future.

And then the pilgrimages started. First female friends, then friends’ girlfriends, fiancées, wives. Three days on and the doorbell was ringing every twenty minutes. It was, as Thomas soon commented to Simon, unprecedented.

Thomas had never been a fan of Take That and had actively put them down to both of the girlfriends he had been with during the group’s birth right through to their ascension into pop heaven. Indeed, the latter relationship had ended as much for his unwillingness to accept ‘Could It Be Magic’ as
their song
as anything else.

Charging visitors to see the Holy face of Gary Barlow seemed to be the logical next step and so that was exactly what they did. Local press had picked it up, then national, it was all over the internet. Gary Barlow had appeared in sheet metal and where there was a holy image there was money to be made.

And then the phone calls started.

Warnings, followed by hang-ups. A man who was softly spoken giving Thomas instructions to close down his little money maker. The two friends stiffened their resolve. They discussed it at length in the pub and came to the conclusion that if either of them discovered their own girlfriends were paying money to catch a glimpse of a pop effigy then they would probably be pissed off enough to make the same sort of phone calls.  That is always presuming they had girlfriends which, at the present time, they did not.

They were happy with their decision and on the way home bought a kebab each in celebration.  As they left the kebab shop, however, they became aware of a figure following them. At first they couldn’t be sure, the figure followed the shadows, didn’t reveal itself and they were pretty pissed up but within a few hundred yards they knew the figure was in steady pursuit of them. Foolishly they split up safe in the knowledge that they knew the streets better than their stalker and that he could not follow them both.

Of course he was standing in the doorway when they arrived home. Spoke to them in no uncertain terms. Gave them an ultimatum; hand over the likeness or face the consequences. What were the consequences?

‘You give me the metal or I’ll slice off your face and smear it on the window. We’ll see how many people pay to come and see that.’

The words dripped out carefully, methodically and were punctuated by the removal of a hunting knife from the depths of the figure’s coat. The blade, some seven inches long caught the orange street lights and threw them towards Thomas and Simon.

They nodded in agreement and the figure stepped aside, allowing them access to their house, losing the knife in the folds of his coat and replacing it with a mobile phone into which he uttered just one word. By the time Thomas and Simon had arrived with the sheet of metal a Transit van stood in the road.

The figure stared momentarily at the image in the metal and his eyebrow flickered in recognition.

‘You boys be good now,’ said the figure as it slipped into the passenger door of the Transit.

And like that -

- The Barlow was gone.

‘It looked nothing like him in reality did it?’ asked Thomas.

‘Nah, not really,’ replied Simon. ‘But I never realised what a vicious fucker he was.’

The Beginning

T
he date was going very well as far as Rich was concerned. He had made jokes and Madeline had genuinely laughed. The waiter had a thick Italian accent that matched the thick Italian soup they had for starters and was just this side of patronising. Rich was happy with the progress and, in spite of the fact that he hadn’t had a successful date for over six months had decided to order something without garlic. Rich had never considered himself someone who expected anything on a first date but he had a gut feeling that a snog wasn’t out of the question. This hadn’t gone unnoticed as they ordered Madeline had made a mental note that Rich was avoiding her garlic-laden suggestions. Once they had finished the soup she knew she couldn’t bear it any longer. The calculated hope or unknown desperation hung in the air in a way that she couldn’t ignore. She made a minor excuse and went to the toilet, grabbing her coat on the way.

 Madeline had refused to acknowledge this in Rich despite the fact that she had also completely failed to have a successful date in even longer. She reflected upon this in some detail as she waited for rescue, trapped as she was half-in and half-out of the toilet window. She knew that Rich would probably see her pulling pants when he eventually came looking for her as they hung in the air in a much more tangible way than his desperation.

Sherry For Breakfast

T
ramps make great friends.

They do not, however, make great pets. Sometimes, if they are raised from puppies they can be house trained but unfortunately this is seldom the case.

Because if they were house trained they just wouldn’t be tramps. A house trained tramp is no more than an ill-smelling room-mate.

But they do make great friends.

They are the philosophers of the street. Have you ever tried, for example, having a conversation with a tramp. I’m not talking about the usual:

‘Big Issue?’

‘I’ve already got it this week.’

Blah, blah, etc.

No, I mean really taken the time out of your hectic life (and believe me I’ve seen your schedule – it is
busy
). To get in there – in depth and ask the questions that matter.

‘How is it possible,’ you may use as your starter for ten. ‘To surpass boredom?’