A Dog Called Demolition

by Robert Rankin

  And those astute enough to reason this out would conclude that before returning to Danny, another ‘seemingly unrelated’ short story was probably on the cards.

  And they would be correct.

  THE DOG-FACED BOY

  Having been told to ‘expect a letter in the post’, Alan left his fourteenth interview in two weeks in something of a huff. He now had little faith in the promises of youth employment officers and began to realize that he should make the best of a bad job (which was no job at all) and start to get used to a lot of spare time.

  He didn’t bother to go back to the agency, instead he caught a 65 at the Broadway and rode back on it to Brentford and The Plume Café.

  A pleasant cuppa, he thought, and somewhere to sit that is out of the rain.

  The waitress, with the come-to-bed eyes and the do-it-and-you-die husband, brought a cup to Alan’s table.

  ‘Do you have any money today?’ she asked.

  Alan fumbled in his trouser pockets. ‘I have some string, a penknife, a couple of cigarette cards and my front door key. And a three-penny bit and that’s it.’

  The waitress had just read her horoscope - “a kind gesture will be returned”

  ‘Keep your threepence,’ she said, ‘it’s on the house.’

  ‘Why thank you,’ said Alan, who managed a smile.

  The waitress smiled back and returned to the counter.

  Alan sat a-sipping of the thin grey liquid and a-peering through the fly-specked window at the rain-danced street beyond. A figure was hurrying towards the café, Sporting Life held over his head, tweed collar turned against the inclemency of the weather.

  This figure was Naylor and Alan knew Naylor well enough.

  Thomas Henry Naylor, owner of a handbag which he claimed had been given him by a Venusian. Also owner of two pairs of winkle-pickers and a snooker cue, a snooker cue which he had won from Lenny Hall for staying an entire night alone in St Mary’s churchyard. A snooker cue which he had snatched from the grasp of Lenny Hall when Lenny Hall had refused to hand it over. A snooker cue with which he had laid Lenny Hall low. Thomas Henry Naylor. Dodgy, dishonest, violent.

  Alan hoped he would hurry by.

  He did not.

  Thomas Henry Naylor pushed open the shattered glass door of the Plume Café and sighted its only customer.

  ‘Al baby,’ said he.

  I hate that, thought Alan. ‘Hello, Tommy,’ he said.

  ‘Al baby, are you in luck.’

  Alan considered this to be a statement, rather than a question, so he said nothing.

  ‘Oh yes you are,’ said Naylor. ‘You’re in lots of luck.’

  ‘I am?’ asked Alan, who could not imagine just how he might be.

  ‘You are,’ said Naylor. ‘And I will tell you why.’

  Tommy Naylor sat down at Alan’s table. He hailed the waitress with the come-to-bed eyes and ordered two cups of coffee. When these arrived he pushed one across the table to Alan. ‘Drink up,’ he said. ‘We have to get moving.’

  ‘We do?’ Alan said, as he pushed his now-cold tea aside.

  ‘We do, my boy, we do.’

  Alan hated the ‘my boy’ almost as much as he hated the ‘Al baby’. In fact, Alan cared little or nothing for Tommy Naylor and really, really wished that he would go away and leave him in peace.

  Tommy Naylor grinned at Alan, indifferent to thoughts he could neither hear nor read upon his face. ‘I have shares in a sideshow,’ he said. And then he paused, hoping for a reaction. He didn’t get one though.

  ‘A sideshow,’ he said once more. ‘I am going to become the proprietor of a fairground attraction.’

  Alan was mildly intrigued and managed to sniff out a brief, ‘What kind?’

  ‘A freak show,’ said Naylor, in a voice so loud as to make the come-to-bed eyes of the waitress grow wide.

  A freak show?

  It is strange how a short phrase, or even a fragment of a phrase, is capable of conjuring up memories, sometimes memories of something you had hoped forever to forget.

  No sooner had the words ‘a freak show’ left Naylor’s mouth, than terrible memories returned to Alan. Memories of a small, hairy face with eyes so sad, which peeped at him from a tiny roped-off enclosure.

  As a child, Alan’s father had taken him to see THE DOG-FACED BOY. His father had paid the sixpences for admission, and the proprietor, a tall gaunt man with a black handlebar moustache, had led the two of them through the gaily painted canvas hoarding, along a dingy corridor and into a tiny back room which had been painted a garish yellow.

  A crowd of people was pushing and shoving and the air was rank with the stench of cheap cigar smoke and perspiring flesh.

  Alan’s father had edged the boy to the front and as the gaunt proprietor yanked back a length of ragged cloth which served as a curtain, Alan found himself almost face to face with the main attraction.

  Seated upon an ancient highchair in the corner of that yellow room was a little boy. He wore a strangely old-fashioned knickerbocker suit of blue velvet, with white lace collar and cuffs. He could have been no older than Alan was himself. But he had the face of a dog. Lank hair sprouted from forehead, nose and cheeks and chin.

  Beneath matted eyebrows two clear brown eyes, two oh-so-sad brown eyes, peeped out at Alan, and a small silly mouth chewed upon nothing, again and again and again.

  Alan drew back in horror, but the crowd was thick behind him, and the crowd was laughing. Mocking barks and howls. Alan pressed his face against his father’s hand and wept frightened tears.

  ‘How would you like a job?’ asked Naylor.

  ‘Job?’ The images retreated, a dull ache remained. ‘What job?’

  ‘Huckster,’ said Naylor. ‘You know, roll up, roll up. That kind of thing.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t.’ Alan rose to take his leave. Naylor rose with him.

  ‘Of course you would. You’re unemployed, aren’t you? A bit of easy money wouldn’t go amiss, would it?’

  ‘I’ll have to think about it.’ Alan edged towards the door.

  ‘No, you won’t. Come on, I’ll show it to you. It’s a bit ancient and knackered and needs a lick of paint.’

  Alan had a sick premonition. ‘I don’t want to see it,’ he said.

  ‘Of course you do.’ Naylor took him by the arm.

  The rain hadn’t let up. If anything it fell more heavily. It rattled upon the corrugated iron roof of the old warehouse. Naylor fumbled a key into an enormous padlock. ‘It must have been here for years. Stored away. A friend put me on to it. He used to be in the business. You just wait until you see it.’

  Alan didn’t want to.

  The padlock swung away and Naylor pressed open the door.

  The hinges groaned dramatically and the damp light fell across an expanse of concrete, exposing green canvas dustsheets which sheltered something large. Alan felt cold and ill.

  ‘I’ll wait here,’ he said.

  ‘Of course you won’t.’ Naylor steered him inside, closed the door, switched on a light. Neon flickered, flared and glared.

  ‘Now,’ said Naylor. ‘Just wait until you see this.’ He stalked towards the mysterious something that lurked beneath the canvas dustsheets. ‘Just you wait.’

  Alan watched as Naylor took up a canvas corner. He shrank back against the door, dreading what he knew he must surely see. He shut his eyes, that he should not. But there was no safety there. There was only the image. That hairy face, those tragic eyes. The mouth that chewed and chewed.

  ‘Behold!’ cried Naylor, flinging back the dust-sheet.

  Alan peeped.

  JOHNNY GULL, read the Victorian script (in capital letters), THE FATTEST MAN IN THE WORLD.

  Below was a lurid representation of a huge swollen giant munching upon a cream cake and smiling the way a dead animal does.

  Alan began to laugh. Tears ran down his face. He staggered to and fro, pointing at the image, rocking with laughter. He clutched at his stomach.

  He l
aughed and he laughed and he laughed.

  And then he blacked out.

  When Alan awoke, he found himself in bed. He tried to lift his head, but he could not.

  To move his hands. No, they were strapped at his sides.

  He blinked. The light was too bright. It shone into his eyes. He tried to speak. But he could not.

  A face loomed at him. It was the face of Naylor.

  ‘He’s coming round,’ said this face.

  ‘Give him some air then.’

  Naylor’s face drew back. The light rose.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked Naylor. ‘You’ve been out of it for quite a long time.’ He leaned forward and twisted something at Alan’s head.

  Alan moved his head stiffly and glanced all around.

  He was in a tiny room. Paint flaked from its walls. Yellow paint.

  There was a dull, medical smell in this room. And other smells also. Naylor stood with a smile on his face, he puffed upon a cheap cigar. Another man stood by him. A tall, gaunt man with a grey handlebar moustache. He wore a surgeon’s gown and rubber gloves.

  ‘About that huckster’s job,’ said Naylor. ‘There’s been a slight change of plan. My pal Mr Henderson here,’ Naylor gestured to the gaunt fellow who was now peeling off his gloves, ‘says that fat men won’t really pull a crowd any more. But that, as we had the booth and everything, all we needed to do was make a few alterations.’

  Naylor displayed a small hand mirror and what appeared to be an old-fashioned blue velvet suit with a white lace collar and cuffs. ‘Of course, we needed a really good freak.’

  He held the mirror towards Alan’s face.

  Alan did not want to look.

  10

  Antipericatametaparhengedamphicribationes.

  TITLE OF A BOOK BY RABELAIS.

  I have nothing, I owe much, the rest I leave to the poor.

  THE WILL OF RABELAIS

  A DOG IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING

  Certainly some of the blame for what happened to Danny must lie with his mother. But not all.

  Ever since the days of Edward Gein, ‘The Butcher of Plainfield’, criminal psychologists have been flogging us the notion that the deviant behaviour of the son is all down to the influence of a dominating mother.

  But are we really buying that? During the summer of ‘57, when old Eddie was prancing about on his moonlit lawn, dressed to the nines in a suit of tanned human skin, there must have been a million dominating mothers in America.

  There was just, however, the one Edward Gein.

  At his trial in 1886 for the violation of graves, the necrophile Henri Blot was asked by the magistrate whether he could explain just what had driven him to commit his abominable crimes. Blot shrugged and then replied with an off-hand remark which sent shivers racing around the courtroom.

  ‘Everyone to his taste,’ said Henri Blot. ‘Mine is for corpses.’

  And there perhaps you have a piece of it. A matter of personal taste?

  Agreed the personal tastes of Blot and Gein were somewhat extreme, but tastes they were none the less. Where the unholy two slipped up was in not finding careers for themselves where they could have indulged their personal tastes without upsetting people.

  As do so many many others.

  It has long been recognized that necrophiles are somewhat over-represented in the undertaking trade. That foot fetishists work in shoe shops. Masochists become traffic wardens, and rampant heterosexuals, Tory politicians. And while we admire the man (or woman) who chooses medicine for a profession, do we ever think to question the motives of the dentist or the haemorrhoid specialist?

  Why should a man (or woman) wish to spend his (or her) working life with his (or her) hands inside the mouths of almost total strangers, or worse still up their… ?

  Which brings us to country vets. We’ve all seen those James Herriot programmes. We all know what those lads get off on!

  ‘Everyone to his taste.’

  It makes you think.

  But, of course, it would be ludicrous to suggest that this applies to every profession. Naturally there are many where public service and a selfless dedication to duty are uppermost in the hearts and minds of the workers. Where the unsavoury taint of ulterior motive could never be applied.

  Like the police force, for instance.

  To even hint that the police force is a natural haven for bullies who like dressing up in uniform and hitting people with sticks would be to overstep all bounds of reason.

  Something you’d never catch me doing!

  And anyway, I personally know several librarians who spend much of their leisure time dressing up in uniforms and hitting each other with sticks. And what’s wrong with that, eh?

  Nothing!

  But where does this leave us?

  Good question. Firstly it leaves us not blaming our dear little white-haired old mothers every time we’re caught in an open grave adding to our nipple collections. And secondly, it teaches us to think very carefully before committing ourselves to a career in computer programming, if our abiding passion is for the decerebration of chickens, or teaching beagles to smoke.

  But then...

  But then there just might be another factor involved, an outside factor. One which no criminal psychologist or self-styled expert has touched upon. An outside factor which involves neither nature nor nurture. An invasive force, capable of entering an individual and driving him to the very extremes of human behaviour. Possibly one which the church has already come up against.

  ‘In my name shall they cast out devils’

  Mark 16:17 Oh yes.

  And so with all that said (and most eloquently too), let us turn our attention once more to Danny. Three months have passed since his nocturnal visit to the house of the late Sam Sprout. Three months, during which he has been going through changes.

  You would hardly have recognized him. His friends sometimes didn’t. His ex-friends, for as often as not he would pass them right by in the street without even acknowledging their existence. It was almost as if they just weren’t there.

  He didn’t socialize. But he was very polite. In the off-licence, where he now worked, he was renowned for his politeness. Especially to the older ladies. The ones who would phone up for that extra bottle of gin to be delivered. He would pop round during his lunch hour or half-day closing and drop it off.

  MrDoveston, the off-licence manager, had nothing but praise for him. Danny was charming and eager to please. He was punctual, he was proper, he was neat and he was nice. Mr Doveston could find no fault in this young man.

  ‘I hesitate to say this,’ he told his chums at a Rotary Club get-together, ‘but I truly believe the lad to be a living saint.’

  ‘Does he still live with his Aunt May?’ asked a chum in an inflated rubber suit with neck harness and crotch spurs.

  ‘No,’ said Mr Doveston. ‘He moved out. He now has his own place. It’s only a rented room, but I understand he’s done it up very nicely, although I’ve never seen it myself. It’s in Moby Dick Terrace.’

  ‘Ah there.’ The chum adjusted the torque on his latex insertion piece. ‘That’s where the, you-know occurred.’

  ‘What you-know?’

  ‘You know what you-know. The murder. The bloodbath, walls daubed, human body parts.’

  MrDoveston said, ‘Hmph!’ And well did he say it. ‘That was nothing more than an elaborate hoax. Inspector Westlake, who I might add is a very close friend of mine, told me that the blood was not human and neither was the hand. That’s why there has been no murder enquiry.’

  ‘It’s probably a cover up,’ said Mr Doveston’s waterproof chum. ‘A conspiracy.’

  MrDoveston shook his hood and adjusted his nipple clamps. ‘Ask the inspector yourself, if you don’t believe me. He’s over in the corner chatting with Long Jean Silver.’

  ‘Not Long Jean Silver, the amputee porno queen?’

  ‘She’s this month’s guest speaker.’

  ‘But that woman’s a liv
ing leg-end.’

  ‘She certainly is.’

  And she certainly is.

  As it was Mr Doveston’s evening off, Danny stood all alone behind the off-licence counter. And for the first time ever it was actually possible to get a close look at him.

  He was tall, but scholar-stooped. And the hair upon his head, which had been greying at the temples, was now quite white. For a man of twenty-three this was unusual, but it suited him and added some distinction, something special. It gave him a certain dignity. His face was lean and spare, the eyes, grey, had a sparkle to them. Almost as if always bathed in a film of water. The nose was long and finely drawn. The wide mouth crayoned in with red. Precise cheek-bones cleanly shaven. A pervading air of soap-scrubbed. The hands were delicate, the fingernails polished. Grey suit. White shirt. Company tie. Shoes shined black, Biro in the top pocket.

  A personable young man. And one who, if your daughter were to bring him home, would not have you reaching for your knobkerrie. Very nice.

  The off-licence door swung open to the push of a customer who stepped onto the farting doormat.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ said Danny. ‘And how may I help you?’

  The customer, an aimless youth in a holey sweater and greasy black jeans, said, ‘I’m just looking around.’

  ‘Keep an eye on that bogtrotter,’ said the voice in Danny’s head.

  ‘I will,’ said Danny.

  ‘What was that?’ asked the youth.

  ‘I said, I will...be glad to help you, if you need any help.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  Another push. Another fart.

  ‘Good-evening, Danny,’ said Mrs Roeg, widowed in her forty-fifth year and now in her

  forty-seventh. A fine-looker with a taste for Jim Beam and menthol cigarettes.

  ‘Good-evening, Mrs Roeg,’ said Danny. ‘And how may I help you?’