Requiem for a Dummy

by David Stuart Davies

  Requiem for a Dummy

  A JOHNNY ONE EYE NOVEL

  David Stuart Davies

  To the Heaton Roaders

  (you know who you are)

  Cheers!

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  * * *

  I would like to thank Ray Alan, the doyen of British ventriloquists, for his advice and anecdotes regarding the wonderful and often crazy world of ventriloquism.

  As always, my love and gratitude are delivered in large measures to my wife Kathryn for her perceptive and constructive criticisms.

  PROLOGUE

  * * *

  1919

  The shadows closed in on her, their hard edges softening and blending with the growing darkness. She lay for a long while on the bed, allowing the gin and the sorrow to seep into her soul. Somewhere in another room there were sounds of voices raised in merriment and a gramophone was playing ragtime music. Happy people enjoying themselves – an ironic counterpoint to her own situation. As she contemplated her sad lot, a thin, dry, twisted smile crept on to her tear-stained face. She knew at heart that she had a tendency to over-dramatize situations very much in the manner of her favourite silver screen heroines, Gloria Swanson and Theda Bara, but that was partly because extreme situations and more particularly tragedy had been with her for most of her life, especially after meeting Frank. At the thought of his name, the fragile smile crumbled and faded. With sluggish movements, she pulled herself upright on the bed and reached out once again for the gin bottle. She held it close to her face. It was nearly empty but she could squeeze another double measure from the residue.

  As she gulped down the tepid alcohol, she knew that it would be the last she ever tasted. She just didn’t want to go on. Not even for Freddie’s sake. He’d be better off without her anyway. What chance in life would the poor blighter have tied to a mother like her? Suddenly it all became clear to her; the answer to all her woes. Strangely, as she drained the last of the gin, she seemed to sober up. The room did not appear so fuzzy anymore, nor her limbs as leaden. Perhaps it was because now her mind was more focused. Focused on her last act. Her sudden resolve had brought her a strange clarity of thought and energy. She took a deep breath and swung her legs off the bed and attempted to stand up. For a moment her body swayed uneasily, but she blinked hard, forcing her mind to take control of her limbs. She took another deep breath and things stabilized once more.

  She knew what she had to do and she wasn’t frightened. Now that it was inevitable – or so it seemed to her – it could be approached in a practical fashion and methodical manner.

  She could do it. She would do it.

  Moving slowly across the room, she made her way to the dressing-table and extracted a pair of nail scissors from her handbag. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of the snapshot she kept in there of Frank. She pulled it out and gazed at it. The face with the taut features, square chin and unruly wavy hair cascading on to the brow stared back at her, coldly defiantly, refusing to smile. Despite everything, she still loved him. How could she not? She had given her heart to him. The bastard.

  Carrying the scissors and photograph with her, she crossed to the little sink by the window. Suddenly there was a further burst of hysterical laughter from the adjoining room and the gramophone started up once again with another loud jazz tune. She placed the photograph between the two taps and then ran a basinful of hot water.

  Slipping her left wrist into the steaming liquid, she pierced the flesh with the sharp edge of the scissors and then dragged the blades along the flesh below her palm, along her wrist, scoring a thin red line. The blood squeezed its way through the fine rupture in the flesh and was soon creating bright crimson tendrils in the water, which floated gently to the surface. To some extent the alcohol and the warmth of the water dulled the pain a little but she still found herself gritting her teeth. She waited a few moments while her heartbeat steadied and then she repeated the process with her right wrist. This proved to be a more difficult manoeuvre to execute and the resultant cut was less precise than the first. In frustration, she scored the flesh viciously, creating a savage, ragged wound. She emitted a small yelp of pain and staggered backwards towards the bed.

  The jazz music seemed to pound into her head and her wrists throbbed violently. She threw herself on the counterpane and prayed for the darkness to come soon.

  On the sink the photograph had slipped into the water. The trails of blood embraced the little piece of cardboard, wrapping their scarlet fingers around the face of the man in the picture.

  1941

  ‘C’mon, Tommy, let’s get out of this dump. It’s starting to get on my nerves.’

  Raymond Carter leaned over and picked up the ventriloquist’s doll, automatically inserting his hand through the flap at the back, allowing him to make the eyes and mouth work, the lips parting noisily in a fierce rictal grin. Tommy’s face suddenly came alive, the gobstopper eyes swivelling left and right as though in furious excitement.

  ‘We didn’t do so well tonight, did we, boss?’ he said, in the eerie half-schoolboy, half-harpy voice that Carter had created for him.

  ‘You could say that,’ Carter said, carrying his dummy over to the large suitcase on the makeshift camp-bed in the corner of the dingy dressing-room. Gently removing his hand from Tommy’s innards, he placed the doll carefully face upwards in the case.

  ‘I would say that … because you did,’ responded the now inanimate dummy.

  ‘’Night, ’night, Tommy,’ said Carter, grinning at his own conceit.

  ‘’Night ’night,’ came the muffled reply, as Carter closed the case.

  With a sigh, he slipped on his jacket and drained what was left of the flat Guinness in the glass on the dressing-room table. Tommy had been right, he mused. They hadn’t done so well tonight. In fact they had walked off to half-hearted applause, peppered with a few cat calls. Soldiers, no doubt, drunk on leave. There were no Jerries around so they took a few pot shots at Ray Carter and partner instead. To be fair, it wasn’t the audience’s fault. He couldn’t blame them. The act was stale. He was still peddling the same old material that he’d been using long before the war. It was tired and past it – like him.

  ‘If you want my opinion,’ said a voice from the suitcase.

  ‘I don’t want your opinion,’ snapped Carter.

  ‘Well then, don’t give it to me to give to you.’

  ‘Shut up!’ There was a real spark of anger in his voice now.

  ‘It�
��s in your hands,’ came the defiant response.

  Carter kicked the case and this time it remained silent.

  He gazed at himself in the smeary dressing-room mirror, his face still bearing some traces of stage make-up. He looked tired, he thought. He looked like a no-hoper. A dead beat. Carter tried to manufacture a shrug in response to this self-analysis but he failed.

  There was a knock on the door. Carter groaned. This was no doubt the manager warning him to improve his act or he’d be out of the show. The burly bastard had intimated something of the sort earlier in the week. With another sigh, Carter opened the door. It wasn’t the manager; it was a tall, young man dressed in a sharp overcoat with a trilby hat perched on the back of his head. A pair of large tortoishell glasses was balanced precariously on the end of his nose. With an agile finger he pushed them back to the bridge.

  ‘Hi there,’ he said, smiling a pleasant smile. His voice had a mid-Atlantic ring.

  ‘Hi there,’ Carter responded in kind, but there was a sarcastic edge to his voice. He wasn’t in the mood for visitors, whatever they wanted.

  ‘Caught your show tonight.’

  Carter nodded non-committally. He didn’t know quite what to expect.

  ‘You are a mighty fine vent man.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But, if I may be frank – actually my name’s Al – but if I may be frank for a moment, your material … how should I put it? – it stinks.’

  Carter groaned inwardly. Oh no, he thought, not one of those. ‘Thank you for your comments. I’ll bear them in mind. Goodnight and goodbye,’ he said swiftly and moved to close the door, but the young man stood his ground.

  ‘Hey now, please, don’t cut up rough. I’m here to help you. Seriously. My card.’ The young man handed over an ivory calling card with a flourish like a magician completing a trick. It read:

  Al Warren

  Comedy Write

  Mermaid III

  Chiswick Reach

  London

  ‘I do quite a bit of stuff for the BBC,’ said the young man, surreptitiously slipping his way further into the room, causing Carter to retreat. ‘I’m the main writer on Forces Fanfare; maybe you’ve heard it.’

  Carter had. It was one of the top variety shows on the radio. He nodded. ‘What exactly do you want with me, Mr Warren?’

  ‘Al. Call me Al. Everyone does. I want to help you. I want to write for you. I think you are a great vent – well, I said that already – but what you need is a new angle and some fresh material and I think I can provide that for you. Let me tell you, Mr Carter, you have the potential to go places. And I mean big time, like your own radio show. You no doubt know how successful Edgar Bergen is in the States with his little fellow, Charlie McCarthy. I reckon you could be that successful here in Britain. Let me buy you a drink and we can discuss this further. What d’you say?’

  ONE

  * * *

  LONDON 1943

  Sometimes I dream that I have my full sight back again – two bright, clear blue eyes which stare out at the world with a balanced panoramic vision. I stare with the eagerness of an alcoholic in a brewery. I can see everything without turning my head. There is no blasted eye-patch to shade one corner of the window on my world. I walk into a room of strangers and no one does a double take, wondering what that black mark is on my face.

  In the best dream I am shaving. I look at myself in the mirror, chin fluffy white with lather like a hoodlum Father Christmas. I smile, gazing at my eyes, both my eyes, as they both gaze back at me. They shine with humour. I am happy because I’m normal. There is no facial blight, no raw flesh to conceal from the world – just a smooth unsullied countenance. As I smile, both eyes sparkle and ripple with pleasure.

  Then I wake up.

  In the gloomy half-light, with my damaged half-sight, my fingers automatically seek out the rough crater where my left eye used to be and I groan. For a fleeting moment I have been seduced by the dream. It had all been so real.

  Don’t you remember, I tell myself sharply, you are Johnny Hawke, Johnny One Eye, the Cyclops detective?

  I don’t let these moments linger. It would be dangerous to do so; I could easily spiral into a state of permanent despair if I let such dreams haunt me for long. And I’m not going to let that happen. With an energetic shrug I slough off the feelings of self-pity and thoughts of what might have been. Yes, so I lost an eye and thus failed to get in the army to fight for king and country, but at least I am alive and functioning – after a fashion – as a responsible patriot. Well, that’s what I tell myself. And it seems to work. A hot cup of strong Camp coffee and a cigarette and all thoughts of my dreams are usually banished – until the next time. I’ve trained myself in the procedure.

  On this particular morning in the November of 1943, I allowed myself the luxury of a second cigarette before I set about attending to my ablutions. Part of my procrastination was designed to delay the dash down the cold corridor to the even colder bathroom for a wash and shave. Scraping a dullish razor over a chin dotted with goose pimples, while shivering, naked to the waist is a very easy way to cut one’s throat.

  I pulled back the blackout curtains and gazed out over the higgledy-piggledy rooftops of London. A dull slate-grey sky loured over the city and fronds of frost decorated the roofs. Below me, although I could not see them from my vantage point, I knew that the streets would be bustling with Londoners on their way to work or returning from some night shift. We were now into the fourth year of the war and in this surreal situation the population of Britain had created new routines for themselves, a revised sense of ordinariness from the bleak and uncertain times in which we lived. To some extent it was, as I am sure patriotic historians will claim in years to come, part of the British indomitable spirit; but it was also the need to create some form of familiarity and routine out of the chaos that surrounds us. If we behave normally then perhaps normality will be resumed.

  I carried these thoughts with me down the corridor and into the ice box of the bathroom. It struck me as I dragged the reluctant razor over my stubble that in recent months I, too, have created some kind of normality out of my life, a sort of routine out of the crazy patchwork quilt of my existence. Since Peter, the young lad I had befriended, had returned from Devon to live in London he had become part of my life on a regular basis. I suppose I was his unofficial dad. He lived in the care of two delightful spinster ladies but, investigations permitting, I saw him most weekends usually in the company of Nurse Susan McAndrew who was another of his unofficial guardians. To see us out together, each holding one of Peter’s hands, we looked like a family. But of course we weren’t. There was no romance between Susan and me. I don’t really know why. She was a pretty woman, in her mid thirties, a few years older than I am, with a pleasant personality and a comely shape. But there was no romantic chemistry between us. I am sure she felt the same. We got on well together and we both were very fond of Peter but, although we had never discussed it, we knew there was no spark there to ignite any passion.

  However, Susan and I had taken it upon ourselves to assure the authorities that we would be responsible for Peter’s welfare. We both cared deeply for the lad. As Peter had run away from his foster home in Devon to come back to London to be with me, they were content to let us share the burden of care.

  Weekends now meant trips to the cinema, walks by the river, visits to the zoo and other such activities which entertained a twelve-year-old boy. He was a great one for comics was Peter and I don’t think he was ever happier than when he was sitting in Benny’s café with a lemonade, hunched over a pile of comics, caught in the magic of their cartoon world.

  I grinned back at myself in the shaving mirror at the thought.

  Although I fancied a breakfast fry up at Benny’s café, I had to steel myself against it this morning. Financially, I had been going through a bad patch and coins were a little on the scarce side. I knew if I explained this to Benny, he’d give me a free breakfast but I really di
dn’t want to lean on old friends like that and, besides, I’d never hear the end of it. He’d rib me till the cows came home about saving me from starvation through the kindness of his heart or something like that. So, dressed and ready for work, I settled for another coffee and another cigarette. They would help concentrate the mind; although to be honest I didn’t know why I needed to concentrate my mind. I had no case on hand. No devilish puzzle to challenge my intellect. Not even a bad debt to chase up. I had zilch.

  Still, I told myself, as I lit the cigarette, the last but one in my packet, I’ve been here before, clinging by my fingernails to the rock face of penury and then someone or something had always turned up in the nick of time to save me from the debtors’ prison. Fate had so often proffered me a helping hand to drag me back up on to the ledge. Then the thought struck me that maybe this was going to be the one time that the fateful hand failed to make an appearance.

  Just as this gloomy thought was making its unpleasant presence felt, a shadow appeared against the door of my office and the doorbell rang. With a taut grin, I called out, ‘Come in.’

  The door opened and instinctively my grin broadened. I reckoned that the hand of fate had yanked me up once more. Here, surely, was a client and from his appearance a well-heeled one, too.

  TWO

  * * *

  Raymond Carter gave a little chuckle and tossed the script on to the floor. He glanced over at the dummy on the chair opposite him.

  ‘It’s another good one, Charlie,’ he said, the smile still hovering about his lips.

  ‘It should be for the money you’re paying him,’ said the dummy, although none of its facial features, including the mouth, actually moved. The voice was almost identical to the one that Carter had used for Tommy, but that doll had long been consigned to the dustbin. Carter now had a sparkling new partner with a new name, Charlie Dokes, and a new personality to go with it, sharper and more cruel than Tommy. If Tommy had been a naughty schoolboy, Charlie was a sneering, sarcastic arrogant adolescent with a penchant for barbed put-downs and insults. But Charlie had become very popular and successful. And this was reflected in the décor and trappings of Carter’s newly acquired elegant mews cottage in Kensington. From playing third-rate music hall bills two years ago, he had risen to starring, with Charlie of course, in his own radio show, headlining in a revue at the Palladium theatre and now there was even talk of a Charlie Dokes movie.