Moby Jack & Other Tall Tales

by Garry Kilworth

  Cynthia nodded. ‘You’ve got it.’

  ‘That’s it then,’ breathed Harry. ‘I prayed for a guardian angel and I got one. Why doesn’t that sword thing set light to my curtains?’

  ‘It’s probably holy fire,’ explained Cynthia, practically. ‘Not ordinary fire.’

  ‘Oh,’ replied Harry, still just as confused. ‘You mean it’s sort of different.’

  ‘It probably burns demons and evil things, but not ordinary mundane stuff.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Harry again.

  He went up as close as he dared to the cherub and stared at it in wonder. It stared back at him, many many times over, and its beak opened a fraction, its hundreds of small wings fluttered, its feet moved a fraction. Even though it continued to twirl its sword, Harry believed it had responded in some way, had acknowledged Harry’s presence.

  ‘This is my angel,’ he murmured. ‘I was sort of expecting the traditional type—you know, Cynth, the ones with feathery wings and white shifts? I thought if one came it would protect me against bullets and stuff, stepping in and snatching them out of the air, that sort of thing. But this,’ he paused again to look the cherub up and down, as it twirled its roaring sword like a juggler, ‘this will probably eat the Butcher whole.’

  ‘What about taking me to breakfast somewhere?’ said Cynthia. ‘After all, you got me up early.’

  ‘Right,’ said Harry. ‘Let’s go.’ He took her arm and steered her towards the door. The cherub lumbered after them, filling the hallway, still swishing its sword around, knocking lamp shades and chipping a hat rack.

  ‘Be careful with that thing,’ warned Harry, half-turning, ‘the landlady will have my guts if you damage anything.’

  They all stepped outside the front door, one after another. The cherub stretched to its full height and looked extremely formidable. Dogs ran on sight of it. Cats arched and spat. Birds looked as if they felt inadequate.

  It was now eight o’clock in the morning. They wandered along the grey street, Harry and Cynthia holding hands and the cherub walking massively three steps behind them, slicing bits off the overhanging branches of trees. People on their way to work stopped and stared, and pointed. Children on their way to school shrieked and pointed. A police car stopped alongside. The cop in the passenger seat wound down his window carefully, first staring fixedly at the cherub, and then at Harry and Cynthia. He pointed.

  ‘You can’t bring your friend along here, squire,’ said the copper. ‘Not while he’s waving that thing.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me,’ lied Harry, uncomfortably.

  ‘Why’s he following you two then?’ asked the other policeman at the wheel of the car.

  ‘We weren’t aware that he was,’ said Cynthia. ‘I—I think it’s someone dressed up for an advertisement—like the Burger Turkey. You know, advertising fast food.’

  Harry walked on quickly, with Cynthia trotting at his side, the cherub keeping pace with them. The two policemen tried to have a word with the cherub but were ignored. They barked into their radio mike and started the siren.

  Harry and Cynthia ducked down a tube station. The cherub was right behind them. It crashed through the turnstile after them and onto the crowded platform. People made a space for them. When the train arrived there was a crush inside. Harry and Cynthia managed to squeeze in, making two more. The cherub miraculously made it three. People were instantly squashed into unfriendly packs, cheek to jowl, lip to shoulder.

  The whirling sword was given flailing space, ignored only by the skinhead buried in the tabloid, whose knees were spread wide and whose elbows demanded both seat rests. Not one person spoke or made eye contact, except for the carriage’s one token schizoid, who glowered and muttered defiantly at the cherub and everyone else, daring someone to meet his glare. The majority of the passengers suffered as always in silence, a story under their belts for when they reached the sanctity of the office.

  ‘You’ll never guess what some bloke brought on the tube this morning— bloody great thing with a flaming sword yea long...’

  Harry and Cynthia left the tube, went up to street level, and found a restaurant serving breakfast. The cherub stumped after them, ducking to get through the door. Its myriad wings fluttered, its manifold eyes took in every nook and cranny of the room. Harry had to give the cherub its due: it was more effective than a gross of secret service agents when it came to protecting its charge.

  Fresh coffee aroma had a calming effect on Harry’s nerves.

  When they sat at a corner table, the cherub stood nearby, as if ready to assist the chef with any flambé dishes. A waiter’s eyes bulged and he called the manager. The room began to get warm and people left, right in the middle of their breakfasts. The manager came and remonstrated with Harry.

  ‘A restaurant is not the place for circus freaks,’ said the manager.

  ‘We could have you up for that,’ replied Cynthia. ‘That’s prejudice, that is, and it’s not politically correct.’

  ‘I don’t care whether it’s politically insane—you’re ruining my trade,’ hissed the manager.

  ‘I don’t think you can refuse to serve us, just because our—our companion is vertically disadvantaged.’

  ‘He’s not just too tall,’ growled the manager, ‘he’s a bloody mutant—get him out of here.’

  The two of them left the restaurant with the guardian angel in tow, but it was the same everywhere. People scattered and screamed, left in dread, or stared curiously with open mouths. No restaurant would serve the couple with the monstrous figure trailing them like a nightmarish fire wielder. The managers began ringing each other up, warning of an approach.

  In the street, no one would come near the trio, except for a lone drunk who staggered up to the cherub and asked for a light for his cigarette.

  The police eventually caught up with them, but could do nothing with the creature. When one of the cops tried to arrest Harry, the cherub leapt forward with alarming alacrity and seemed about to take off the policeman’s head, so the law decided to call in the army. An anti-terrorist squad eventually arrived, while the police kept the trio ringed on a bench in a private park belonging to London University. The squad commander assessed the situation then told the police if they wanted someone killed, his men would do it cleanly and efficiently, but the case did not seem to warrant such drastic action.

  The police eventually agreed and all the officials left after giving Harry a severe warning.

  ‘If that thing starts wandering about the streets again,’ said a police chief, ‘I’m holding you responsible...’

  ‘I’m off home,’ said Cynthia. ‘I’m starving. I’ll be back later, Harry. Would you like a picnic?’

  ‘Yes, that would be nice,’ Harry said, distantly.

  Harry was left sitting on the park bench with the cherub standing by, entertaining a crowd of spectators on the other side of the fence with its flaming sword. Eventually this showy but rather repetitive exhibition began to bore the crowd who yelled for ‘some more tricks’ which were never forthcoming.

  They too finally drifted away.

  Harry remained alone amongst the trees of the park. The day wore on and Harry began to get really hungry. Also there was a horse running in the 3.30 at Epsom, which he was certain would solve all his financial problems. Still, he stayed where he was because if he started walking, the whole business would erupt again, with the police and the army. If he remained in the park there seemed to be an unspoken agreement that the law would leave him alone. He hoped Cynthia would return later with a sandwich and a flask of tea, and maybe the Racing Times.

  While he was sitting there, John-the-Butcher arrived with two heavies, one at each shoulder.

  ‘A little bird told me you was here. You’ve been a naughty boy, Harry,’ said Butcher John, hunching his shoulders inside his overcoat. ‘You better tell your mate here to scarper, while we talk business.’ The Butcher stared at the cherub for a minute, then shivered. ‘Ugly looking bastard, ain’t he? Get
rid of ’im, before Dave and Phil have to sort him out.’

  ‘No,’ said Harry, defiantly, staring at Dave and Phil, the Butcher’s two henchmen. ‘My guardian stays where it is.’

  Dave and Phil flexed inside their windcheaters, then came forward, their fists bunched. The cherub stepped in front of Harry and seemed prepared to protect him. The two men stopped in their tracks. Phil ran his hand over his shaven scalp. Dave sniffed noisily.

  ‘Like that is it?’ said Phil, raising his right-wing eyebrows. An iron rod slipped down out of his coat sleeve neatly into his right hand.

  Dave sniggered and reached inside his jacket, producing a butcher’s knife.

  ‘Wanna change your mind, Harry?’ asked Butcher John.

  ‘No,’ said Harry.

  Dave and Phil came forward again, Dave slicing the air with the knife, Phil whirling the iron bar round his head. They seemed to be competing with the cherub. The cherub skipped forward, as agile as a Thai dancer, and, with a spectacular flourish which would have delighted its erstwhile audience, ran Dave through the chest with the flaming sword. Dave dropped to the ground with a little sigh, dead as Smithfield pork.

  Phil cried, ‘You done for my mate, you bastard...’

  Then he too was impaled on the flaming sword with no less impressive a swish and thrust of the weapon. The blade went through him like a hot skewer through lard. Phil gave a surprised little shudder and fell beside his mate.

  On the cherub the multitudinous wings fluttered with each killing stroke. The cherub’s ten-thousand eyes seemed to close simultaneously in a half smile. This was obviously its raison d’etre. All its training had been channelled towards these needle-point moments when the ever-turning sword was put to efficient and piercing use.

  Harry pondered on the fact that if JFK’s bodyguards had been just one tenth as well-trained as the cherub, the great President would probably be alive and still fornicating today.

  Despite his horror, Harry was interested to see sort of neat little burn holes, still flaming, in the middle of the hoodlums’ chests. Then the bodies swiftly shrivelled into crisp burned wads that flaked off and blew away on the breeze. Soon there was nothing left but a stain on the grass.

  John-the-Butcher’s eyes were starting out of his head.

  ‘You sod,’ he whispered. ‘Why couldn’t you have done that to Chas McFey and his Mrs?’

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ said Harry. ‘It was my guardian angel. Dave and Phil attacked him. It was only defending itself.’

  ‘I thought angels had wings and stuff like that?’

  ‘It’s got wings,’ protested Harry. ‘Lots of them.’

  ‘Not little sparrow jobs—two big ones in the proper place on its back.’

  ‘Not this kind. This is a cherub—I know you thought cherubs were sweet little babes...’

  ‘Not a bit of it, pal. The wife calls her nephews “cherubs” and they’re nasty little bastards. They’d destroy a Churchill tank if you took your eyes off ’em for a second.’

  John-the-Butcher moved cautiously forward, peering hard at the cherub.

  ‘Be careful,’ said Harry.

  ‘I ain’t goin’ to do you, I’m just getting a closer look at this thing. Where did you get it from? What did you say it was? A cherub?’

  ‘That’s right,’ replied Harry.

  The Butcher said, ‘Do they all look like him?’

  Harry thought about the books he had seen earlier.

  ‘Well, the next biggest size up is a seraph. They’ve only got six wings but they’re quite a lot meatier. They don’t have flaming swords, but they do have these terrible feet...’

  ‘A seraph sounds more my mark,’ said John-the-Butcher, moving even closer to peer at the cherub’s muscles. ‘I’m not stuck on the flaming sword stuff. It’s a bit conspicuous and what’s more bloody unnecessary with a bloke this size, ain’t it? I mean, all that ruddy twirlin’...’

  ‘Don’t get too close!’ warned Harry. ‘That’s holy fire. You’re an evil bugger, John. You’ll go up in...’

  But it was too late. The sword touched John-the-Butcher’s hair and he immediately exploded in a ball of flame with a loud whumph. The heat from the burning Butcher singed Harry’s eyebrows. In two seconds flat there was nothing but ashes on the ground. The ashes blew away on the wind. Harry wondered whether the police would arrest him, as an accomplice to murder, but he subsequently realised no one had seen, and there was nothing left of the three crooks to prove they had been there at all. Certainly they would not be missed.

  A short time later Cynthia came to the park with a flask of coffee and some roast chicken sandwiches.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘It’s still with you then?’

  The cherub was doing a deft underarm pass with its sword at that moment.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Harry, a little gloomily.

  Cynthia said, ‘Why so glum? At least it’s protecting you from John-the-Butcher.’

  ‘Erm, I don’t think I need a guardian angel any more—the Butcher’s gone away.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Cynthia surprised. ‘Where?’

  ‘Somewhere warm—look, how am I going to get rid of this thing, Cynth? I’ve tried praying. That doesn’t work.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that. The trouble is, you’re basically a good person, Harry. Guardian angels look after good people. You’ve got to become wicked if you want it to go.’

  ‘What sort of wicked?’

  ‘Well let’s take the Ten Commandments—you need to break some of the rules.’

  ‘Thou shalt not kill? That sort of thing? Well I’m not killing anyone, so that’s out. I’m not married and I don’t know any married women, so adultery’s out too. I certainly don’t wish to dishonour my father and my mother, so what else is there? I don’t want to steal anything either, that’s not just one of the Ten Commandments, it’s also a crime. No point in getting rid of the cherub if I’m just going to end up in jail.’

  ‘Um, Graven images? No, bit old fashioned. Thou shalt not bear false witness?’

  ‘I dunno what that means, really. Sounds a bit like fixing a gee-gee and then telling everyone else to bet on it, to make the odds on the second favourite go up. I can’t do that. It’s against my professional ethics.’

  ‘What about coveting?’

  Harry shrugged. ‘I thought that had to do with wanting next door’s wife. She’s 75, and frankly Cynth, even the thought turns my stomach. I couldn’t even fake it.’

  The whirling flaming sword was distracting him, flaring through the evening air above his head. The cherub was a liability and with all those eyes it didn’t miss a trick. Harry couldn’t even touch Cynthia, without it blinked and stared with at least a few hundred of them. It was most disconcerting and certainly not conducive to a good sex life.

  ‘Well, there’s also menservants, oxen, asses, anything that’s your neighbour’s.’

  ‘Don’t really want any of those either,’ said Harry, feeling depressed. ‘I wouldn’t mind his red Porsche, but that’s not the same thing, is it?’

  ‘Do you really, really, really, envy him his car?’

  ‘Of course I do—who wouldn’t? I sometime imagine it’s mine and...and...’

  ‘And what, Harry?’ asked Cynthia, huskily.

  ‘And—you know, I told you—you and me, on the back seat—it’s leather upholstery you know.’

  Harry went all hot as he thought about it, and when he looked up, the cherub had gone.

  ‘Blimey,’ he said, surprised. ‘Is it that easy?’

  ‘It is for you,’ smiled Cynthia. ‘You’re such a nice man, Harry. It doesn’t take much for you to be wicked. Here, I’ve brought you the racing times. There ’s a horse running in the two o’clock tomorrow at Haymarket called Guardian Angel.’

  ‘Really?’ Harry took the paper eagerly.

  ‘But Harry...’

  He looked up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t bet more than you can afford and stick to the tote.’

/>   Harry sighed and nodded. ‘Right, Cynth.’

  Later, as they boarded the tube train, a man got in after them with a seven-foot demon at his heels. He was a small, mild-looking man, with round glasses and a little wispy moustache. He looked very miserable. They all travelled in silence for a while, the demon seemingly happy to study a group of skinheads who had suddenly gone very quiet.

  Harry glanced at the ferocious-looking demon, then at the mild little man, and said, ‘Boy, are you in trouble.’

  ‘I know,’ sighed the little man.

  ‘It’s much harder to keep the Ten Commandments, than break them.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ sighed the little man.

  The demon just grinned and held his peace.

  THE COUNCIL OF BEASTS

  The Cornelis Saftleven painting, mentioned in the story, is where this idea came from. It is one of those paintings which, when first glance at it, looks rather humorous. Then on subsequent inspections grows darker and more chilling with every study.

  The dog gestured to me from across the tavern and finally I got up and went to his table. Dressed in a tweed suit, a plain shirt and tasteful tie, he was some kind of terrier. He opened his jaws in the semblance of a human grin, but rather than put me at my ease it chilled me to the marrow. I had never seen anything so terrifying. I tried to smile back.

  ‘Pull up a stool,’ he said. What made it worse was, he didn’t growl. He spoke with clear diction. ‘Sit down. You look as if you need a friend.’

  I didn’t ask the dog its name. I’d already made that mistake once and been beaten for it. They told me that in this city the animals had no given names. It was humans who gave creatures personal names and to the animals here having a name was a symbol of slavery.

  It was three weeks since I had arrived in the City of the Beasts. I was weary with walking, ragged of mind. Naked and filthy, I’d slept in cobbled alleys, eaten rubbish from the gutter, tried to beg from passing sedan chairs containing arrogant creatures of all kinds: beasts wearing silk coats and dresses. Goats, cats, dogs and foxes mostly.

  The larger animals, like horses, could not of course be carried. They tended to live on the pale of the city in hovels with stable doors. I once saw a donkey sitting on the town hall steps smoking a pipe, but that was an unusual sight.