The Transfiguration of Mister Punch (24 page)

“Why don’t I rot?”

“Shush.”

At last a reply; sounded like Rasputin.

“Help me out.”

“Are you shitting me?” Rasputin said. “You know I’m rolling about here. Anyway, shush, shush, shush.”

Footsteps replaced his voice. Someone was in the basement with them and it sounded as though they wore heels. Joan’s fingers trembled, afraid of shaking the box. So much for wanting out, but now she didn’t know what monster awaited her.

The woman answered Joan’s question. Lips pressed to the box. “Because you’re made of River Styx magic.”

The lid creaked open. Joan wished she could make herself small, break apart into sawdust. Although the voice was familiar, she couldn’t place it. Its timbre pulsed against Joan’s forehead and despite the heat that blew from the woman’s mouth, Joan shivered. Colder than her grave.

Disembowel. Punch thought that a magnificent word.

He wanted to disembowel Stijn and maybe he would when he returned to the theatre. For now, disembowelling a tramp and dragging his remains to the hole above Hell sufficed. The corpse rested there, blood dripping, tears drying, and still Hell remained closed. He picked up the tramp’s remains and disposed of him in an industrial sized bin.

He’d hoped to find the girl-player, the puppet Joan, in the weave of streets and alleys surrounding the theatre. Alice, she’d called herself. The name echoed from a time almost forgotten, from the days pre-Hell. He’d been unable to settle since she’d first uttered it. Where had she gone? He should have questioned the puppeteer’s head more. Scratching dry flakes of blood from his suit, Punch headed back onto Brook Street. Joan-Alice couldn’t hide forever.

Punch stopped to admire his reflection in a department store window. “Sometimes I don’t feel wicked at all,” he said, addressing the mannequins. “I believe I’m quite the gentleman when I’m not tearing apart people.”

The mannequins offered blank stares. He rapped on the window. If anyone could make mannequins walk and talk, it should be a man from Hell. Admittedly, that man would be Stijn. Runt of a man. Punch flexed his fingers. He’d strangle the magic out of the man. No way they were getting back to Hell anyway. Either that or Hell had spilled and this was the end of days. At times, it was more chaotic than expected, but then Hell had proved almost empty and lonely.

Needn’t suffer loneliness here if he could find Joan-Alice and persuade her to spend eternity with him. He’d bring her offerings of hearts and lungs. He’d wooed Judy in a similar way all those decades ago. They’d trampled across these very streets, before they were streets, dismantling men and women, burying them in the grounds behind his cottage until the ground had caved in and they’d all tumbled to Hell.

He’d thought he deserved Hell, but not for the countless they had murdered and buried, but because he’d buried her.

Alice.

He remembered now. How could he have forgotten? She looked different swinging from the flies, but her face had still engaged. Back then, her body had been trim and her breasts firm. She used to pick apples from the trees that rested beside the brook. He’d loved her.

Judy murdered her.

His fault, with his sly glances and his want to sit and watch her. He’d hated Judy from the moment she’d pierced Alice’s heart. God! Her beautiful body had lain amongst the wasteland of body parts all those years. He should have dug into them, found her legs, her arms, her torso, then he could have reattached them to her head. If only he’d met Alice before Judy—he may have proved a different man.

His romance with Judy had begun when he found her slicing up a servant she’d tied to a tree. It didn’t matter that she also worked in the same kitchen. Punch had helped her cut off the man’s wrists, feet and tongue and then they’d left him there to die. If Punch had met Alice first, maybe he’d have taken to bottling jam and making cider.

Or persuaded her to murder. Punch licked his lips. Time for that yet.

The woman who had rescued Joan from the box seemed familiar. Joan couldn’t determine if it was the woman’s steel-grey eyes or the sharp jut of her chin, perhaps it was the fact she handled Joan like a rag doll. They considered each other.

“Why do I feel as if I’ve disposed of you before? I mean rescued,” the woman said, smiling. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. More of an, I’ve sharpened my teeth and your meat looks tender. “I get my words muddled. A little like how your puppeteer gets his body parts all mixed up. He has made such a hash of you. You’re not pretty at all. Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. Here...”

The woman straightened Joan’s weakened limbs, helped her to stand. Joan remembered where she’d seen her—last seen dragging a body along the alleyway. Her left eye twitched.
Don’t run.

“Judy. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Judy held out her hand.

Judy appeared affable if you ignored her rotten breath and false smile. Joan shook Judy’s hand—a limp wet affair from them both. The niceties less sharpened than Judy’s fingernails. Joan resisted wiping her hand down her dress. For the first time, she was grateful her hands belonged to someone else. She walked towards the workshop steps. A quick hop and skip through the neighbouring room and then she could race up the stairs and disappear. Slow steps.

In the neighbouring room, Joan found Stijn strapped to a worktable wearing one of Sir Neville’s legs. Joan hoped it kicked him for the rest of his days.
Keep walking.
Judy grabbed Joan’s hand.

“No need to run,” Judy said. “He can’t catch you now. Would you like to play with him? We could shave the flesh from his bones. Sound good?”

The Toby dogs bounded down the stairs. They barked and snapped at the air itself. With a deft kick from Judy, one of the dogs squealed and flew into a middle shelf. Jars tumbled and eyes rolled about the floor, two of them belonging to Sir Neville. The other dog began to eat an eye. On the table, Stijn struggled against his binds.

“Poor little freak,” Judy said.

Joan decided she’d rather be a freak than a monster. Although, Stijn was both.

“Let’s give the freak a doggy tail,” Judy said, picking up the dog she’d thrown at the shelf.

“Or I could do a simple head swap. Maybe I don’t even have to mismatch your parts to make you work for me. Just remove your brain from its skull.”

Stijn mumbled behind his gag.

“What’s that? I can’t hear you.”

Joan stepped forward. “If you remove his brain then his arms and legs and other functions won’t work. We are our brains. Remove it and you’ll be left with empty shells suitable only for playing a ventriloquist’s puppet.”

“Aren’t you a clever one? Well, if you wish to remain clever you’ll work for me and help me build more like you.”

Stijn tried to spit out his gag.

“Excuse me,” Judy said, holding up a finger. She removed Stijn’s gag. “I already know what you’re going to say. You’re the only one who can build me an army. You know, it sucks. I think I’ll remove your legs. I don’t see why you wouldn’t be able to work without them. You’re going to build me an army. I’ve come to tolerate this world and no one is dragging me back to Hell.”

“Go to...” Stijn started. Judy replaced the gag.

“I think it’s a good plan,” Joan said.

“Really. Now I’m suspicious.”

“He turned me into a toy. I hate him.”

Although, she hated Stijn, of course she did, she didn’t want to remove his parts or trap him in a box. All she wanted was to forget about him and for him to forget about her. She needed to have a normal life, to be a real girl and not a patchwork freak. It seemed an impossible dream. If only she could recall who she’d been. She ached to be that girl again. Where her real legs and arms here somewhere? Her heart?

Joan added, “Where else do I have to go? What else can I do?”

“Exactly.”

Trust was the only way to escape. However, Joan knew that Judy would never trust her, Judy would never trust anyone. Even if she didn’t end up dangling from chains and dancing for an audience, she’d still be a puppet of sorts. She should have run from the theatre when she stood at the stage door. After all, she’d ended up in the monster’s claws anyway.

“I wouldn’t remove Stijn’s legs,” Joan said. “You may need him to be portable.”

On the table, Stijn nodded his agreement.

“They kept me on the stage by means of chains. I left them on the stage. You could keep him chained, then he won’t be able to run.”

Judy smiled. “There is room for evil within you. Let’s get the chains.”

The theatre had emptied. Joan looked at back of the auditorium where Sir Neville had collected tickets. Her heart ached. She’d never thought she’d hanker after her old life.

Judy stood at the edge of the stage. Taking in a deep breath, gathering her air, Judy began to sing. Or rather, wail. In the orchestra pit, the Adams Group gathered their instruments and ran.

Joan gathered the chains. They were heavier than she recalled, and colder. She crept towards the edge of the stage, dragging them with her, trying to lessen their clink. Lost within her performance, Judy didn’t seem to note. Either that, or she intended to whip the chains around Joan’s neck and hang her. After all, there was only one monster here. Dropping to her knees, Joan first attached the chains to the lights at the front of the stage and then to Judy’s ankles.

“What the...?” Judy said, toppling forward. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Joan rushed at Judy and pushed her over the edge, leaving Judy dangling upside down from the stage. Joan skidded to the edge of the stage, almost fell off. Now she could escape.

Metal creaked. The chains wouldn’t hold Judy for long, but hopefully they would secure her for long enough. Joan ran from the stage and up through the auditorium. Judy bellowed for her to come back so that she could tear her apart. Joan rejected the offer. The theatre began to shake beneath the strength of Judy’s roar. The chains may not hold her for long at all. As Joan pushed through the auditorium doors, she thought of Sir Neville broken into pieces.

Poor, Sir Neville.

She couldn’t do anything for him.
Keep going.
The promise of an open door and daylight waited. Almost free. Then, a man stepped through the doorway. Joan hesitated. From the auditorium, Judy’s scream intensified.

“Punch. I know you’re out there, Punch.”

Punch slapped his cane against his leg. “Going somewhere, Alice.”

The name resonated. She recalled giving herself that This Foolish & Harmful Delight name days or weeks before. On his lips, it sounded like apples, flowers and fresh air.

“I remember you,” Punch said, reaching out to touch her face.

Joan stepped back. He’d mean he remembered her from the stage, from the show. Just as she remembered that he was a monster.

“Catch the bitch, Punch,” Judy shouted. “I’m going to tear her apart.”

Joan flinched. Could she get by him?

“Don’t worry. I never listen to my wife.”

His hand clasped her upper arm. “We can be together once I’ve disposed of my wife.”

Punch began to drag her back to the auditorium. Sometimes you have to realise that you’re not meant to escape.

Joan refused to accept that.

“Well hello,” Punch said, entering the auditorium.

Judy swung back and forth from the stage like a pendulum. Her upturned skirt revealed tree-trunk thighs.

“If you would untie me, Punch.”

“Funny word ‘if.’”

His grip tightened around Joan’s hand, threatening to crack fingers. He led her to the stage and then behind it. Seemed she was fated to never leave here. God, she hated this place.

“Punch,” Judy bellowed.

A beam dropped from the flies, sending clouds of dust chasing after Joan and Punch. The stage door remained open. Joan blinked back tears and turned from its false escape. They were going back to the workshop with its macabre jars and boxes full of dead and waiting things.

Still secured to the table, Stijn fought against his restraints. Punch laughed and removed the gag. Stijn drew in several breaths as if he’d been in danger of suffocation. In truth, he didn’t need to breathe any more than she did. Joan filled her lungs with sawdust. They were both freaks. Both monsters. The ceiling creaked. Judy’s cries were tearing the theatre apart.

“I won’t rip off your head because you returned my Alice to me.”

“Alice?” Stijn asked.

His Alice.
If she was Alice, she wasn’t his. She’d never been his.

An eye squished beneath Punch’s boot. Not Sir Neville’s. Joan searched the floor and when she found Sir Neville’s eyes, she picked them up and cradled them in her palm.

“Besides,” Punch said to Stijn. “When we return to Hell you can build new monsters out of all the bits that fall into my cavern. We’ll take over Hell. If Beelzebub exists he’s going to scurry to the dankest corner of Hell. He’ll be a rat, a nothing, a cockroach.”

“If you’ll untie me.”

“Don’t trust him.”

“You’re a funny little thing, Alice. Stijn can’t escape me. Stijn has never been able to escape me. Sure, he led me a pretty dance.” Punch grabbed Stijn’s collar and pulled him up. Ropes snapped. “But, if he does so again. If you do so again, Stijn, I’ll feed you to Judy. As you can hear she’s pissed. That’s Alice’s fault.”