Scoundrels

by Victor Cornwall

  __________

  Over the following days our relationship deteriorated further and the animosity between us grew. Even when I miraculously found another tube of sun cream, along with a wide-brimmed hat hidden in the bottom of my knapsack, he seemed incapable of seeing the funny side.

  Regrettably it was too late to use the sun cream on him. Any contact would have made things worse, so I adopted a matronly sternness and told him I would have to be cruel to be kind. He would have to wait until we received proper medical attention.

  That was becoming increasingly unlikely. We’d long run out of food, water and wine; we were lost and had no idea how far away we were from civilisation. And so it was, some time in the second week, that we came to the terrible conclusion that we should stop walking. There was no village, no settlement, no dwelling. We were missing. Beyond hope. We simply looked at each other for a moment and then, resigned to fate, collapsed in the sand. The sun was going to roast us to death.

  As I lay there, awaiting my demise, I had a moment to reflect on my life. So this was it then, I thought. This was how it would end for Major Victor Montgomery Cornwall. Not how I imagined, but by now I hardly cared. I turned onto my side and my fingers brushed against the watch that was a gift from the Sultan. It had slipped from my breast pocket, and now dangled on its chain and into the palm of my hand.

  I loved that watch. I felt its solid shape. I imagined it would be the prize possession of whoever found my dessicated corpse. They’d have to break my fingers open from around it and then pocket it before anybody else saw. The thieving sod.

  And so in one last desperate act I unclasped the lid and faced the polished silver surface up towards the sun.

  __________

  When I woke up I was lying on a hospital bed in a tent in the desert. St. John was lying on another bed next to me. We were alive! How? I looked across the room and saw Majestic Death perched on the back of a chair.

  I was groggy. I knew that feeling. I’d been under anaesthetic and I could tell immediately that something wasn’t right. My ringpiece was killing me. I remembered that the rhino had butted me, but this felt different. I let out a small, exploratory fart and somewhere in the room a glass shattered.

  “Ah, you’re awake.” A doctor walked into the tent smiling. My mind was still piecing together what had happened and I had questions that needed answering. “Who won the race? And can I have some morphine please?”

  The doctor stood over me. “The race was won by a woman, her name is Summerville I think, and no, you can’t have any more morphine. You’re dosed up to the eyeballs right now.”

  “Stephanie Summerville,” I repeated back to him. “Well, well, well. That woman really is a marvel.”

  The doctor nodded. “She won the race and then went back into the desert to look for you. She saw your distress signals. Very clever, bouncing sunlight from your mirror.”

  “It was my watch.”

  “Well it saved both of your lives.”

  I made a mental note to repay her. Then the doctor changed his tone. “Listen, about the operation. I’m sorry, there was nothing else we could do.”

  “What do you mean? What’s happened?” I replied.

  “We needed to carry out some corrective surgery – to save your life,” he said bluntly.

  “What kind of corrective surgery?”

  “You’re a man of the world, Major Cornwall, so I won’t mince my words here. Your anus was sagging like a windsock on a still day so we… ”

  “Steady on! I’ve just woken up.” His bedside manner was somewhat lacking.

  Behind him a nurse in surgical scrubs opened a pedal bin and dropped in the dead body of Chup Chunder.

  “What’s happened to him?” I said.

  “We had to put him down,” replied the doctor, wincing slightly as he spoke.

  “Why?”

  The doctor cleared his throat and looked at the floor. “We needed an anus donor.”

  Now I was the one who was wincing. St. John, who had been listening, sat up in bed and began to laugh. “You mean to thay that you gave him the anuth of a pine marten?” he said.

  “We had to. We had no choice. He would have died otherwise.”

  St. John continued to laugh, and began applauding. This had cheered him up no end.

  I was devastated. “I want you to remove it immediately,” I ordered. “Put me back under and take it off. I don’t care if my old anus can’t be repaired. I want it back.”

  “We can’t do that I’m afraid,” the doctor said. St. John was still laughing. He’d made a remarkable recovery considering how much he’d suffered in the desert.

  “I said I want it back,” I started to lose my temper. “Now you listen to me, boy. Go and get my anus and stitch it back on!” Again the doctor shook his head, “I can’t do that I’m afraid.”

  “You took it off – you can put it back on.”

  “We can’t put it back on.” The doctor cleared his throat again. “I’m afraid that your anus was slack and stretchy. It had lost its structural integrity. The pine marten was the only donor we could find… and… and…”

  The doctor paused. He looked at St. John, “…your friend was also in big trouble.”

  St. John’s eyes narrowed. He cocked his head slightly to hear. He’d stopped laughing. The doctor continued. “His lips were so badly dried out and burnt we had to remove them.”

  St. John swallowed hard.

  “We needed something pliable to replace his lips, otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to talk.”

  I turned my head and looked over to St. John who had raised his hand to his face and was gingerly touching his lips. A single tear rolled down his cheek. I barely heard the doctor’s next sentence. “I’m not even a surgeon, so considering…”

  Oh the horror! The horror!

  They’d grafted my anus to his face.

  __________

  An hour or so later I needed some fresh air and got up to leave the tent. I opened the tent flap and the hot sun warmed my skin. Day had followed night once again. The world still turned. I had the anus of a pine marten. But I was alive and that was all that mattered.

  I turned to look once more at St. John who was sitting on the edge of the bed learning to use his new lips. They looked ridiculous. I saw the doctor approach Trevelyan. I hoped he could offer some comfort. “You’re going to need this,” he said, handing him a tube of haemorrhoid cream.

  It was said that Trevelyan’s howls of anguish could be heard from as far away as Paris.

  __________

  Shit Lips. (1950)

  We went to race.

  But they stitched,

  My anus,

  To your face.

  As you can see my narrative style is uncompromising and I’ve decided to hold nothing back. I’m sorry if reading that has brought back painful memories for you. It did for me. And if some of the stories paint me as a flawed hero then so be it.

  I’ve learnt to live with the consequences of that day but I do wish they could have found a more suitable donor. The pine marten is a wonderful little animal, but it simply wasn’t designed to process a diet rich in red meat, alcohol and saturated fats. Despite years of physiotherapy, stretching gels and training shafts, it still sometimes takes me up to three hours of labour just to take a crap. In the early days I would have to bite down on a stick, such was the pain. Baxter would occasionally find me passed out on the marble floor of the bathroom, drenched in sweat.

  You should know that I’ve already decided on a provisional title and the photograph for the dust cover. I’m calling it ‘Scoundrel’ and the front cover is from my time in Rhodesia: me standing on a dead elephant. I believe you took the photo. Can I assume that there will be no copyright issues?

  Respectfully yours,


  Major Victor Montgomery Cornwall

  Nimbu Towers

  Pullen-under-Lyme

  Gloucestershire

  18th August 2016

  Dear Major,

  There certainly will be copyright issues. There will also be writs and court orders, and all manner of legal discourse if you do not cease and desist from this memoir.

  I am incandescent. I have just spent ten minutes attacking a 16th Century suit of armour with a mace in the hope it would make me feel better. It did nothing for my mood at all. If you are trying to antagonise a peaceful man into a furious rage then consider your mission accomplished.

  And, for your information, that was the first time I’d seen those poems. I found them crashingly vulgar.

  It confirms my suspicions that we remember our adventures very differently.

  Stop this immediately. This is your last warning.

  Yours,

  Major Arthur St. John Trevelyan

  P.S. I was rummaging around my study yesterday afternoon, and it seems I do have the pocket watch the Sultan gave you. I am returning it to you in good faith on the understanding that you put a stop to this ludicrous autobiography.

  Hellcat Manor

  Great Trundleford

  Devon

  20th August 2016

  Dear Major,

  I’m sorry you feel that way, although I have more pressing matters to attend to right now, as I am dictating this to Baxter from the back of an ambulance. We are currently hurtling through the Devonshire countryside in an attempt to save my life.

  If my prose lacks its usual lustre then forgive me. Highly toxic venom is making its way towards my heart. I’m shaking violently and foaming at the mouth. I am also experiencing horrific hallucinations and angrily lashing out at the ambulance crewmen who are restraining me.

  I received your parcel. Many thanks. The watch is in superb condition considering. Unfortunately the box also contained a king cobra, which struck me several times in the face and throat. Presumably this was an oversight on your part.

  For the record, I will not be silenced. Only death will silence me, or possibly vocal paralysis brought on by cobra toxin.

  If that was your intention, bravo.

  However, I wouldn’t begin writing my obituary just yet as I have faced worse and survived.

  Best wishes,

  Major Victor Montgomery Cornwall

  Nimbu Towers

  Pullen-under-Lyme

  Gloucestershire

  23rd August 2016

  Dear Major,

  Sorry about the cobra, I can’t imagine how she got into the watch parcel. Assuming you survive the sepsis, I would be grateful if you would return her at your convenience, as she is part of a breeding pair.

  For the record, I was recently nipped by a much larger cobra from the same litter and suffered some mild, flu-like symptoms that I shrugged off by simply getting some fresh air.

  I think you should concentrate on getting well and forget about writing your memoirs. I’d like to live out my life in peace without you dredging up past events.

  Yours sincerely,

  Major Arthur St. John Trevelyan

  Hellcat Manor

  Great Trundleford

  Devon

  28th August 2016

  Dear Major,

  Apologies for the delay but I’ve been rather ill. Obviously I survived the cobra bite but I must say that I didn’t feel like my usual self for a few days. There was some diagnostic confusion about my aggression and convulsions, but it turned out these were because the nurses wouldn’t let me have my morning scotch.

  Nevertheless, I used my time in hospital well, and made comprehensive notes for my next chapter. I’m afraid I have no intention of discontinuing my writing. I’ve found it a liberating experience and am more resolved than ever to press on.

  For the next chapter, I thought I’d write about my exploits in the Far East, shortly after our little desert escapade. Do you remember my brilliant one-man show Big Black-White Bear? It made me the darling of the Chinese theatre world. I was playing to packed auditoriums every night. Heady days.

  Yours sincerely,

  Major Victor Montgomery Cornwall

  P.S. I’m sorry to tell you this, but your cobra is dead. Regrettably, she got tangled up in the wheels of my quad bike and I had to put her down.

  Nimbu Towers

  Pullen-under-Lyme

  Gloucestershire

  2nd September 2016

  Dear Major,

  I’m glad to hear you survived the cobra bite. However I have been so appalled at the thought of another chapter full of ill-remembered tosh that I have been compelled to take matters into my own hands.

  I remember our time in the Far East like it happened yesterday. And your suggestion that it was you who was the darling of the Chinese theatre world rang immediate alarm bells. And so it is with a heavy heart, that I ask you to look this over. Please find my account of our time in the East.

  __________

  CHAPTER 2

  Panda Hunting

  Taking part in the inaugural Paris-Dakar rally was a mistake on many levels. We were underprepared and overconfident. But to apportion blame all these years later would be a waste of time and won’t change a thing. Nevertheless, I would like to make it clear that it was Cornwall who was in charge of transport, clothing, survival equipment, mapping and emergency communications. He failed to deliver on all these counts, although the booze and nosh he laid on was absolutely first class, while it lasted.

  No matter. What happened, happened. He made his peace with his failures, but it is I who shall forever carry the psychological and physical scars of his poor planning.

  The thing about surgery in the field is that you have to play the cards you are dealt. And not for a moment do I question Dr Fontaine’s decisions. I’d have done the same – if I’d had his horrific car-crash of an imagination.

  Waking up that day with new lips was the first day of the rest of my life. My senses were heightened, especially taste. And smell. It took me years to see that I’m a lucky man to have inherited such a quality anal sphincter. Thanks to the skill of the doctor they are almost indistinguishable from normal lips. Better yet, the leftover hair follicles have enabled me to grow sensational, prize-winning moustaches; and as time has gone on I have found them to be wonderfully pliable things with more design features than a Swiss Army knife. I soon discovered I could distend my lips and bare all of my teeth like a baboon, which was useful when facing down unruly wild animals. I could get my lips to encircle and consume an entire breast up to and including 38DD. This, I’m told, has given my lovemaking a quixotic frisson that has driven many women wild.

  I thank Major Cornwall again for his kind gift.

  But in early 1951, adjusting to life with my new butt-kissers wasn’t easy. My new lips had some of their original owner’s muscle-memory to contend with. Of their own accord, they would smatter together to make loud raspberry noises: one moment a high-pitched treble and the next a deep basso profundo. I found relief in a cocktail of my own invention: equal parts vermouth, brandy and Preparation H. For a time I fear I relied on it too much.

  I suffered the stigma people have to deal with every day if they’ve had someone else’s arsehole grafted onto their mouth. It was open season once the chaps at Scoundrels found out about it and I suppose I let my silly pride get the better of me.

  Mahatma Blaze lost an earlobe to my short temper and my cigar cutter, when he remarked that “his bottie is on your face”. I am not proud of the incident with Cunningham’s wheelchair. I should not have pushed a newly legless man down the Grand Staircase, just because he greeted me with a farting noise.

  Incidents like these helped me see I was too much in the shade. I needed a break from London to find
myself again, so I caught the first tramp steamer from Southampton. Only a decade after my return from Wan Booli Camp, I found myself heading back to the Orient.

  Sod’s law that Major Cornwall was on that same tramp steamer. He was embarking on a cultural tour of the Far East on the orders of Tiberius Lunk, who wanted him out of London for a while. Cornwall has always had a knack of popping up inconveniently, like a chapel erection. He was an absolute liability, but I am glad I was able to bring him home safely after a very testing period.

  Beijing, July 1951.

  The smell of the greasepaint! The hubbub of the excited audience! The flare from the bulbs of my dressing room mirror! Tonight was going to be a great night. A sell-out! Again!

  The recently deposed Chinese Emperor, Henry Pu-Yi, was rumoured to be in the audience and the theatre manager had begged me for an additional late performance, saying he could have sold the tickets ten times over. I’d refused.

  “Five minutes until curtain Major Sin-Jon!” My stage manager, Lao-Ping, poked his head around the door. He looked more excited than I’d ever seen him.

  I squeezed lubricant onto my lips, wincing at the agonising pain that dogged me. The lubricant was worse than useless, chemically speaking, but it gave me the push I needed to warm my lips up. I started my gruelling mouth exercises:

  “Gottle of geer… gottle of beer.”

  God! Such pain! Such terrible pain. But I would never let my adoring public down.

  “Gottle of beer… Bottle of Beer…”

  Keep on it, St. John, I told myself. I did one hundred obicularis oris stretches, and then spent a full minute contracting my buccinator. Soon I could feel the old vigour returning to my risorius and mentalis muscles.