MASQUES OF SATAN (11 page)

III

I am writing this now because I have been told to, by my wife and the others. Not that I have any complaint against her. We have been married for more than twenty years. We have no children: that inestimable privilege had been denied us, and adoption would have been impossible. I could not have taken an alien being into my house. But we have plenty of occupation, my wife and I. We are great collectors; in fact, I am a dealer in antiques and am recognised as something of an expert on Lalique glass.

One afternoon, about three months ago — I think it was three months; it may have been two, or perhaps even less — we were in Bath. Naturally we did our rounds of the antique shops. There is a little place in Circus Mews, not far from the Royal Crescent, which we often visit, rather shabbier than the rest; at least not tarted up in some awful way. I won’t say we pick up bargains there, because the owner knows his stuff, but he has a way of discovering rare and unusual items which I find enviable.

It was a bright summer day and shafts of sun were penetrating the windows of his normally rather gloomy establishment. That is how I believe I had a sense of what was ahead of me even before we opened the door to the shop, and as soon as I was inside I saw it.

It was one of Mrs de Walter’s glass cases of stuffed animals, the second one of the series I had called in my mind ‘The Rodent’s Rake’s Progress’, and it was exactly as I had remembered it. In fact, it surprised me that it did not seem smaller to me, now that I was myself older and larger.

The scene, as you remember, is set outside the Inn with the sign of the Skull and Trumpet. There are the brawling mice and rats in the foreground, and — yes! — the Puritan moles in steeple hats are peering out of a diamond leaded casement on the first floor to the right of the inn sign. There are windows to the left but these are not open. And yet — this is something I cannot remember seeing before — there is something behind those windows, and it is not another rodent. It is the pale head and shoulders of a boy in a white flannel shirt, a boy no more than six inches high. I cannot see him too clearly through the little leaded panes of glass, but I think I know him.

I swear that the head moved and turned its black eyes upon me. They tell me of course this is rubbish, and turned its black eyes upon me. They tell me of course this is rubbish, and I want to believe them.

Mr Poo-Poo

ACROSS THE RUGGED, dusty surface of Io, the inhabited satellite of Jupiter, a delegation of creatures was approaching. They were strange beings, two-legged, but short and squat, clad in some sort of iridescent material; their heads sprouted tentacles of a vaguely octopoid kind and their eyes were large, lidless, and saucer-like.

‘Who are these folk, Zarkon?’ I asked.

‘They are the Minikoits, Captain Lysander,’ said Zarkon, ‘and they have lived on Io longer than any of us. Whence or how they came here, none knows, not even they.’

‘They are strange beings indeed. I have seen none like them. And what are their intentions?’ I asked.

‘Their ways are dark, Captain. Who knows whether they mean well or ill? I say to you only this: beware, for they have strange powers.’

The little group halted a few yards from us and two of them stepped forward.

‘Greetings,’ said the first Minikoit in a curious, metallic voice.

‘Greetings, O stranger men,’ said the second, in a similar tone but with a perceptible South London accent.

‘All right, cut!’ said the Assistant Floor Manager. She listened hard to her cans, then she said: ‘Right. Keep V.T. running. We’re going again straight away.’

That was in the days when most television drama was shot in the studio. The director would be up in the control box and the Assistant Floor Manager would relay his instructions conveyed to her through ‘cans’ (earphones). The programme in question was the long-running BBC Science Fiction series
Jupiter 5
. Believe it or not, it still has a cult following, it sells well on DVD, and I am frequently asked to attend conventions of
Jupiter 5
  fans.

‘Okay,’ said the A.F.M. ‘We’re going again. First positions, please! And, Second Minikoit, you got your line slightly wrong. It’s ‘Greetings, O strangers,’ not ‘Greetings, O stranger men.’ Okay?’

The second Minikoit took off his tentacled head. Underneath he was glistening with sweat. ‘Sorry,’ he said in his normal voice. ‘Sorry, everyone.’

‘And can you please not take your head off! It holds things up. We’re running late as it is. Make-up, can you please come and help — sorry — er——’

‘Nicky,’ said the man who had taken his head off.

‘Nicky! Right. Make-up, if you could please help Nicky put his head back on. The rest of you, first positions, please!’

‘Sorry,’ said Nicky. ‘Sorry, everyone!’

‘Okay!’ said the A.F.M. ‘Can we move it, please! We’re running behind time!’ In those days we were always behind time.

In the recording break I was approached by Nicky, his Minikoit head tucked tidily under his arm. He was small and stocky, with blunt, swarthy features and a wide mouth that cut his flat head almost in half when he grinned. He looked as if he would have to shave twice a day. I thought in my snobbish way that he might be rather shy about addressing one of the ‘stars’ of
Jupiter 5
, but this was not the case. There was a touch of obsequiousness about him, but he was not shy at all.

‘You take your part very well,’ he said. I thanked him with what I hoped was distant, if uncondescending, cordiality, but he was one of those people on whom such nuances are lost. I am now rather ashamed of the airs I gave myself in those days, in spite of the fact that, in light of what happened later, I wish I had been a good deal frostier towards him.

His idea of a conversation was to ask me a question, listen to the answer without apparently taking much of it in, then, on the strength of this continued familiarity, ask me another, slightly more personal, one. He managed to extract from me the information that I was thirty-five, lived in a small house in Queen’s Park, was married to a stage designer called Anne, and had two daughters, Isobel and Kitty, aged seven and five respectively. In self-defence I asked him some questions about himself in return. Nicky was in his mid-thirties, unmarried, and lived in a flat in Stoke Newington. His chief occupation, he told me, was as an ‘entertainer’, but he supplemented his earnings from this by doing extra work and ‘small parts’ on television. ‘Small parts’ could be taken in two ways, because it was fairly obvious that he had landed the role of ‘2nd Minikoit’ more because of his height — which was barely five foot three — than his acting ability.

Throughout the recording break he stuck to me so that I longed for some relief: for the director to need to have a word with me, or for the make-up girl to come and fuss with the unbecoming silver eye shadow that I wore as Captain Lysander of the Third Star Fleet. Just before the resumption of recording ended our conversation, he requested permission to ask me ‘a personal question’. I shrugged my shoulders and braced myself for the ordeal.

He said: ‘Have you been born again through the Blood of Jesus?’

I am no good at smart replies, and anyway this sort of question always reduces me to near idiocy. I cannot remember what I said in answer to him; I only know that it was sheer babble, and that I was at last delivered from him by Make-up, who never feel they have done their job until they have powdered your nose with a soft brush before every scene. Max Factor never smelled sweeter.

At the end of the day’s shooting I decided to get away quickly, rather than hobnob in the BBC bar, as I usually did in the vain hope of enhancing my career. I wanted to avoid Nicky at all costs. I had made good time and was just leaving the foyer of Television Centre when I heard the scamper of feet behind me. It was Nicky. He asked if I had time for a drink and a chat, and I said that I had to get back to my wife and children. It was one of those lies which turn into the truth as you speak it. My eyes moistened at the prospect: I needed them.

Nicky did not seem particularly downcast by my rebuff. He said he understood, and that I was ‘very lucky to have a wife and kids’. Then he handed me a card, saying: ‘I forgot to give you this.’

By this time we were on the road outside Television Centre, facing the White City tube station. I thanked him hurriedly and, in a reckless moment, hailed a taxi to take me home to Queen’s Park. In the taxi I read the card. On it was his name, Nicky Beale, his address and telephone number, and, in bold red lettering, the following:

Mr POO-POO

ALL ROUND CHILDREN’S ENTERTAINER

FOR THAT SPECIAL KIDS’ PARTY —

‘IT’S GOT TO BE Mr POO-POO!’

* * * * *

Two months passed and my memories of Nicky faded. Then my daughter Isobel’s eighth birthday arrived. Like most men, I always allow myself to be surprised by these events, but my wife Anne was prepared. She had consulted Isobel, who insisted that a full scale children’s party for all her friends was necessary — complete with an entertainer. Anne told me that she was organising the food, the invitations, and the presents for the other children, and she was deputising me to find the children’s entertainer. It was not a task I relished, but it was little enough compared with what she had taken on.

As usual I put it off till almost the last moment, despite constant reminders from Anne and Isobel. When finally I had absolutely no excuses for further delay I found that I had no idea how to begin to find a children’s entertainer. It was then that I remembered the card that Nicky Beale had given me, so, taking the line of least resistance, I rang his number.

He seemed quite unsurprised to hear from me, and I was pleased to find that he was brisk and businesslike on the phone. He promised a magic act, some organised games — prizes extra — and a cartoon show to wind up. The price he named was well within the budget prescribed by Anne.

I began to feel rather proud of myself, but when I announced to Anne that I had secured the services of Mr Poo-Poo for Isobel’s party she seemed disappointed.

‘Couldn’t you get hold of
Kidzexperience
?’

‘What on earth is
Kidzexperience
?’

‘Oh, darling, I told you all about her. You never listen, do you? It’s this amazing young children’s entertainer. She does a fantastic mime act dressed as a clown; then she gets the children doing all these weird creative things with bits of cut-out coloured paper.’

‘Sounds rather dreary to me.’

‘Oh, no! She’s absolutely
the
latest thing. Everybody is having her for their kids’ parties. She’s done Royalty and everything.’ If my wife has a fault it is that she is a dedicated follower of fashion.

‘Well, we’ve got Mr Poo-Poo instead.’

I don’t think she was entirely reconciled to Mr Poo-Poo, but she seemed mollified when I told her how little he was charging for his services.

* * * * *

If children knew how much their parents suffer to create and run their parties, would they grant them a dispensation? I doubt it. The tradition, reinforced by their peers, had somehow acquired the iron inevitability of Christmas and funerals. Much as I disliked the whole business, I have to concede that it could have been worse. Anne is a gifted organiser, and, besides having me to assist her, she had an able and willing subordinate in Magda, our Romanian au pair. 

Magda was small, round, and dark. Looking at her, friends of ours invariably concluded that she came ‘of peasant stock’ because that was what their preconceptions told them she looked like, but, as a matter of fact, she was the daughter of a minor civil servant and quite well educated. She had a decent command of English, which she was rapidly burnishing at night school. In the performance of her duties she was efficient, and the children seemed to like her. Despite Magda’s being obviously very capable, my wife’s attitude to her was vaguely pitying. She invariably referred to her, though of course never in her presence, as ‘poor Magda’ because, like all beautiful women, Anne looked on physical inadequacies as an insuperable disadvantage in life. Magda, though not exactly ugly, was squat, full-breasted, and her upper lip was adorned with the whisper of an incipient moustache. Her best feature was a pair of large dark brown eyes, which in unguarded moments had a mournful expression, as if brooding on centuries of tragic Balkan history.