The Transfiguration of Mister Punch (19 page)

Punch twisted the man’s hand behind his back, pushed him against the wall and its smeared handprints. “A man, about your height, which way did he go?”

The man offered an, “Ugh!”

Did no one speak in whatever time this was? Did cavemen wander a jungle of buildings? Punch had devoured the books that had dropped along with the dead. They’d been literate and told of things both wonderful and horrific. Some told of a world similar to this but with men and women who communicated with words rather than grunts. Was this the end of the world? Had Hell spilled all its dead? Was the world now Hell?

Punch slammed the man’s head against the wall until the man’s nose broke. Then he let go of the man’s collar and stepped over him. For a moment, the man’s hand shot out and he grabbed Punch’s trouser leg, then, thinking better of it, he withdrew his hand.

At the end of the alley, in the opposite direction to which Punch suspected Judy had gone, Punch sniffed the air. A cough hacked up his throat. People walked by the alleyway and vehicles (of which he had only read before) sped by in all their splendour. This new world was chaos. At least, he noted, people spoke words and not prehistoric grunts. Having read of the changes to the world, this did not all come as a surprise. Little Frankie though, it must have terrified him. He’d had no such education.

They’d found little Frankie sitting on the theatre steps, hand out begging for pennies. Judy had offered him a warm meal and he’d followed them like a dog. Followed them to his death.

Tapping his finger against his chin, Punch wondered where he would hide if he hadn’t any knowledge of this new world, if everything was alien. What would he do? He’d form the world into what he expected of it. For him, that would be an isolated cottage and the freedom to murder. Now he had to discover where little Frankie would hide.

Some days Stijn feared that the theatre boards would split open and Hell would reclaim and dismantle him. Each morning he’d test the stage. If it felt pliable, he’d spend the day in bed and leave Rasputin to run things. Today the stage creaked but the only thing threatening to break was Joan. She dangled above him, a puppet swaying from chains.

Ah, Joan.
How she teased him with the high-kick of her legs (usually aimed at his head) and her presents of spit balls. He’d bottled a few. Today, she played dead. She’d forgotten that without him she would be a disembodied head chewing and rolling along the boards to the amusement of the audience. He had given her a body. He had given her limbs. Without him, she would be sludge dripping back to Hell. He flipped the bird (fabulous expression) at her. Joan stopped mid-dangle and offered him the same gesture.

“A-ha, it lives,” Stijn said and limped down the steps and into the auditorium. From the back row, he shouted, “If you would love me, my Joan, I would free you of your chains. Lie to me and you may escape yet.”

She wouldn’t do that. She’d never done that in the eight months they’d resided at the Theatre of Foolish & Harmful Delight (or Fool’s Theatre as he thought of it). No wonder he admired her. He crossed the lobby, paused in the theatre doorway where traffic both human and vehicular passed.

For seven months, they’d hidden from Punch and Judy, until one Saturday Punch had sauntered into the theatre swinging his cane. He’d offered Stijn a whack to the legs, severing the left at the knee and requiring Stijn to crawl to his workshop and find a suitable replacement. Now the left leg was a couple of centimetres shorter than the right. Somehow this had convinced Punch (
Mr Punch, remember that
) that Stijn wouldn’t be running away with an anonymous circus or hiding beneath the boards of a distant theatre. If Punch, Mr Punch, knew where Stijn was then he pretty much left him alone.

Pretty much. Stijn hoped never to see him again. Unfortunately, as Mr Punch crossed the road, looking very much the gentleman out for a jaunt, Stijn knew there was no escaping him today.
Now they were both monsters.
Stijn tried to stand straight but his left leg resisted the move and left his stance sloped. His fingers curved around the door. Stijn wanted to slam it and hang a closed sign. That wouldn’t stop Punch. Mr Punch. Instead, Stijn backed into the lobby and allowed the concession stand to level his balance.

Mr Punch strode into the lobby, shutting the door behind him. “The way into Hell remains closed and your debt is not yet paid.”

Stijn would never be able to pay his supposed debt. They both knew that.

In the auditorium, the orchestra section offered a metallic roar. Their arrangements were always interesting. He’d gathered the orchestra from a collection of tramps and mismatched their limbs so that they were part of each other and all one person (although there were five in all). Once the music started, Rasputin would make Joan rehearse her dance. He couldn’t allow Mr Punch to see Joan’s ballet, to see her.

“I keep meaning to catch a show,” Mr Punch said.

“It’s just a rehearsal. A clumsy affair.”

“Another time, perhaps.”

He’d dissuaded Mr Punch too easily. Punch’s cane began to thwack the air between them. Yes, far too easy. Mr. Punch licked his lips. The cane ripped through the air and cut Stijn’s ear. It would need several stitches. That’s if he could save it. He hoped he’d be able to reaffix it, it was a good ear. The screech of the orchestra tore through Stijn’s shattered eardrum. Blood dripped.

Punch (yes Punch now) whispered into Stijn’s torn ear. “If Hell doesn’t re-open soon, I will cut your skin, bones and muscle into chunks and deposit your pieces. You’ve seen the alley. Hell is waiting for you.”

“And what if you feed me to Hell and I am the answer. Hell will be forever lost to you.”

Punch paused, considered Stijn. “That line won’t work in your favour for much longer.”

The auditorium doors opened. Sir Neville scooted into the lobby pushing a cart full of programmes (their content always the same, never any new shows). He wheeled the cart into the back of Punch’s legs. Now Punch’s anger turned and directed itself at Sir Neville who received a wallop from the cane right to his mechanical heart. Springs and coils groaned but the heart that hung from a chain and rested on Sir Neville’s chest continued to beat. Stijn bit his lip; tasted blood.

Stijn had made Sir Neville of things other than flesh and bone. He’d wanted to see how deep his magic ran.

Despite his loyalty to the theatre, Sir Neville hadn’t run the trolley into Punch on purpose. He owned no such malice. However, malice ran through Punch. The walking stick thwacked Sir Neville, this time hitting the back of his metal neck, denting it.

“Ow! Ouch! I say, that hurt. Do stop.”

The cane sliced through the air again, this time catching Sir Neville’s wrist, which had lifted to protect his face. Metal twanged.

“He meant no harm,” Stijn said, then backed up to avoid the slice of the cane. He was made of something more fragile than metal.

Punch stilled his temper. “What is this monstrosity?”

“A man made of things other than bone, muscle and skin. My question is, does he have a soul? Can he have a soul?”

Sir Neville straightened his back and began to pick up the programmes that had spilled from his trolley. He did not cower beneath Punch’s shadow. Nor did he encourage Punch’s attention. If only Stijn could learn from him. Instead, he all but waved his hands and directed Punch’s attention to him.

“I could fill Hell with such men. We could... I mean, you could take over.”

In truth, he’d meant he could take over. That’s if he had to return to Hell. Inevitable, Stijn supposed. He’d return with Joan and she would play his Judy. If she didn’t cooperate and return his devotion, he would dismantle her and form another Joan, there were plenty of spare parts in the basement. When Punch left, Stijn intended to scurry to his workshop. Yes, he would rebuild a new Joan. The current one was too much trouble. He’d only stuck with her because her teeth had clung to him so lovingly when they lifted from Hell.

Joan didn’t believe her name was Joan.

As Rasputin manipulated her limbs and forced her to bow to a cackling audience, she thought if only she could discover her real name then she’d be free. No one could keep someone who knew who they were, who had achieved a sense of self.

Maria. Jane. Delilah.

If her true name didn’t free her, it may bring her family to her. She would shout it to the audience and word of who she was would spread.

Phyllis. Barbara. Catherine.

For now, the theatre folk were her family. Dysfunctional as they were.

Frances. Mabel.

The Adams Group, a rag tag collection of disenfranchised men who lived in the orchestra pit and somehow managed to create a tune from an assortment of rusted and busted instruments.

Caroline.

Sir Neville, a man made of metal and wood with a mechanical heart that ticked to a beautiful rhythm. Sir Neville collected tickets, sold programmes and when the house lights were low, his heart winked at her.

Anne. Annabel.

Rasputin scurried across the boards above the stage, the flies, and worked her chains to make her dance. Joan kicked forward and leaned back against her chains to look up into the shadows above the stage. Rasputin didn’t like her to see his face. Yes, he should be ashamed, but they were all puppets here. All Stijn’s puppets.

Stijn stalked the theatre, barking orders and threatening to dismember them. The others were afraid of Stijn, but when Joan escaped her chains, she would dismember
him.
She swung back and forth, rattling her chains like a ghost. That’s how she felt sometimes—a spectre seen only under certain conditions, when the light shone just right and caught her diaphanous form.

Alice.

The twin Toby dogs, Jack Russell terriers with sharpened bite, snapped at her heels.

Alice.

Sometimes Joan recalled another place. More smell than vision. Rotting flesh, dried blood and damp. Said damp must have seeped into the bones of her left leg for it ached and she had no bed to lie in so she couldn’t hug it to her belly. No respite for a body that continually hung from the flies, that never seemed to need food or to pee. She fought against the worry that accompanied such thoughts.

The theatre was nightmare enough.

Alice.

The last of the audience trailed from the auditorium. Several stopped to have photographs taken with Sir Neville before they left. They thought him a curiosity, a robot at most; Joan knew him to be a man. Whatever his construction, Sir Neville thought and lived and loved as much as she did. Although...

... neither of them had found love.

Once upon a time, a boy kissed a girl named Alice. She could almost recall the salty taste of his lips. The remainder of him had evaporated along with her name.

Sir Neville slumped. His vibrant smile wavered and threatened to turn to frown. They called him a funny man.

She didn’t think him funny at all. Joan thought Sir Neville magnificent. If only he thought of her in the same way.

He called her ‘the dancing freak’. If she could recall her real name and tell him it, he may learn to forget she was a freak. He wasn’t wrong about that. Her limbs were wrong. They didn’t match. They weren’t even the same shade. In frustration, Joan tugged at her chains, almost causing Rasputin to tumble from the shadows. If he fell, into how many pieces would Rasputin shatter?

If she fell, how would her parts divide?

Whatever her true name, of one thing Joan was certain she was made of stolen parts.

Must be a freak then.

Whatever her true name.

In his workshop, Stijn ran his finger along the jars of eyes located on the third shelf down in a cabinet of seven shelves all containing various bits—noses, ears, toes, fingers—that had fallen off and would roll around the floor and thus remind him of Hell. In all his time in the pit, he’d never considered it home.

Stijn’s eyes had served him well, and were, as far as he knew, original, but with Punch lurking about he’d need eyes in the back of his head as well as the front. Assuming he could just attach random eyes there and expect them to see. Foolish idea. Still, he tried. First he attempted to sucker them onto his hair by means of wetting his finger. This didn’t work and the first set went plop on the floor. Then he chose an attractive hazel set. Looping thread through the back of the eye, he tied the thread above his eyebrows. For a moment, he detected a hint of light. He thought it had worked, but then the eyeballs dribbled and drooped and diluted to a squashy mess at the back of his head. His fist smashed against the shelf, causing a jar to topple and smash.

If he wasn’t careful, Punch would carry him, this theatre and all he’d amassed back to Hell. That’s if they didn’t already perch on a rocky outcrop of the place.

One of the Toby dogs bounded into the basement and proceeded to sniff Stijn’s ankles. Stijn grabbed the scruff of its neck and inspected its eyes. His bulbous finger poked an eyeball. The dog yelped. A second poke caused the dog to buckle and snap out, its teeth grazing Stijn’s nose. That wouldn’t do. None of the noses in his collection were hooked and he liked to hang or perch things from his nose when he was working. Given time and the correct tools (wire, superglue and spare bits of skin), maybe he could fashion a nose as adaptable.

Punch would never allow him that time. Not even if he bowed, scraped and reattached the Mr to his name. Stijn refused to refer to him as Mr anymore.

Judy scratched her fingernail down the flock wallpaper, gouging a line next to another six lines—the number of days she’d slept (or rather not been able to sleep) in this mouse-dropping infested, blood spattered motel room. Officially, the motel was still open, but no staff remained to populate it. Time to move on. Besides, the Flea Bitten Motel’s location had offered a faint whiff of Punch but no signs he’d stayed there or remained in the vicinity. She doubted he’d left town. However distant this world was to the one they’d lived and murdered in hundreds of years ago (even the skies were different with their grey smoky tinge and the constant flight of transport), to Punch it would be the closest thing to home. He wouldn’t catch a plane to some distant or exotic place. Instead, he’d tear apart buildings and attempt to build a new graveyard.