by Will Self
Simon sniffed, simiously. A clutch of large hairs on Sarah’s teat was actually pushed up his nostril, in amongst the crapulent deposits. A clutch of large hairs that smelt indefinably – for Simon – of chimpanzee. Chimpanzee, warm, cuddly furriness. Chimpanzee post-coital smell of sweat infused through fur. In its way a lovely smell – and all the more erotic for being braided with Cacharel, the perfume that Sarah always wore. A clutch of large hairs on Sarah’s teat … Simon lifted his head and looked full into the open, guileless, heart-shaped countenance of the beast he was in bed with.
And then he was on his feet, perhaps screaming – he could not have said because the whole world was roaring around him now. Roaring as he backed away from the bed where the beast lay, on its back, its initially brute, dull eyes now on him with awful interest, the white clearly visible, right the way round the greenest of pupils slit by hot jet irises.
He backed and tripped on an edge of rug, fell heavily against the windowsill feeling the hard shock of bone and wood that affirmed this was so – Sarah was gone and he had woken up in a bed with this beast, or ape, or something that was so fucking big that its limbs were arranged in a human attitude, the knees akimbo, the heels touching, the arms behind the torso now pushing up on the elbows to lift that animal mask towards him, the mouth opening, gaping to reveal teeth so large, canines so long –
“Wraaa!” Sarah shrieked, and then signed to the shaking figure slammed against the window, ‘Simon, what the fuck are you doing, stop screaming like that! “H’hoooo”!’ Which Simon simply saw as the beast flexing and fiddling its hands towards him, to grasp him, with sickening speed, while it screeched, its breath whistling into carnivorous yowls. So loud! The cries whined off the glass of the window, jarring his spine and back. So loud!
“Wraar-ah! Wraar-ah! Wraar-ah!” he cried, and then with deafening unoriginality, “Hooo! H’hooo – Help!” He wanted to turn from the beast, turn from its mouth so large, its teeth, dripping with saliva, so long. He wanted to turn and see if he could get the sash up, if he could get down into the garden. Here he was thinking so inconsequentially – yet so pragmatically – that he considered the depth of the drop to the patio; and when it moved again he was caught off a guard he never had anyway.
It moved so fast – the beast. It reared up, then using its arms to effect springy leverage leapt bipedal. “Aaaaaa!” Sarah vocalised, truly scared now; Simon’s muzzle was so pale and although not horripilating his fur was drenched with sweat. It hung in sopping hanks from those long, lovable arms, which a moment ago had been embracing her with infinite tenderness, and that now beat against the window, insensate with fear.
‘Simon! “Hoooo”! Point out to me, my love, what’s the matter with you “huuu”?’
There was no thought of the window now, and the door had never been in the frame. The instant he had become aware of the beast in the bed Simon had gone fully, irretrievably into shock. Like a silent sitter transfixed by a harsh flutter of wings, then the “rap-rap-rap” of beak scratching wall, scratching floor, Simon had a flying bird now in the utter confinement of his head. It was the very embodiment of the thing that he simply couldn’t stand. The very alien embodiment of it. The animal was upon him.
Sarah’s only thought, only instinct, was to reassure, and that meant to hold, to pluck and tweak, at that sad, lank fur, to smooth her consort’s disordered limbs that knocked and shook, to steady his grappling hands which were hardly making any comprehensible signs. She moved forward to the edge of the nest, intending to hug him preparatory to an emergency grooming. “Get away! Getaway! Geddaway! G’way!” Simon sank down behind his knees, in the corner – the beast was rearing above him. He still couldn’t take in much of its appearance, only its full odour which filled his nostrils, obliterating the sweat-stench of his own terror.
Why was he vocalising like that? Sarah made stunned speculations. Christ! He’s had some kind of awful seizure. She thought immediately – even in the throes of this incident – could it be those fucking drugs? The ecstasy? The crap cocaine? The furlongs of Glenmorangie drunk in the depths of the Sealink Club? She hesitated, and feeling her swelling awkwardly lodged between her upper thighs, like a balloon carried by an infant in some party game, moved reflexively to shield it with one arm.
Which was just as well, for her deranged consort chose that moment to attack. “Fuuuuckoooffl” he screeched, lurching up from beneath the window and slashing at her with claws-for-hands. Sarah recoiled, bracing herself for an impact that never came. For there was something awfully wrong with the way Simon was moving – as if his very limbs were unfamiliar to him. He had even misjudged the distance from where he was slumped to where she stood on the nest’s edge. Now his hands uselessly combed the air either side of her head. She caught hold of one arm and felt at once the lack of tensility. She caught the other easily enough as well. The consorts muzzled one another across a divide that was at once two feet of gaily patterned rug, and insurmountably strange.
He was still making the guttural vocalisations that Sarah couldn’t understand. She brought his flapping hands back until they were between them, and stepped down gingerly off the edge of the nest. ‘Simon, my love, Simon,’ she signed on the backs of his hands, in his dear, distressed fur. ‘What is it “gru-nn”, my love “huu”? What is frightening “grnn” you so much? It’s only me, me, Sarah.’
He was whimpering and keening, but in an oddly animal way, very low-pitched, growly. His pupils were rolled back exposing the whites of his eyes. His lack of horripilation disturbed her – and his febrility. His legs were concertinaing beneath him. Then, just for a moment, she felt his fingers move with something like import, and she could mark out a few signs, shaped with spiky terror. ‘Beast,’ Simon signed, ‘fucking beast. ’ Then he sprayed her.
Even the greatest of shocks can be negotiated by the mind, which is, after all, a homoeostatic device, constantly labouring towards equalisation – a steady state. So it was that Simon Dykes, the artist, in a suitable pose: recumbent, covered in his own shit, slowly came round, slowly admitted the fact of where he was and what had happened, just in time for it to happen again.
The crash team’s ambulance drew up in the elbow of Margravine Road and disgorged five chimps in the bright blue jackets of paramedics. Paul, the doctor, vaulted the iron gate and nonchalantly knuckle-walked up the tiled path. He noted the careful arrangement of pot plants – herbs to the right, flowers to the left – and the tattered Greenpeace sticker in the front window. Saving the whale while smoking comfrey, he mused – looks like it could well be a drug thing.
Before he had rung the bell the front door swung open, smearing the features of the young female behind it across the panes of toughened glass. Paul consulted the call sheet in his hand. ‘ “Huuu” Sarah Peasenhulme?’ he signed.
‘ “U-h’-u-h’-u-h’-u-h”’ that’s right. ’ Her fingers shook as she replied. She was, Paul not so much noted as boggled, in full oestrus, her swelling a beautiful nacreous pink, the folds of moist flesh delightfully defined, scraggy at the perineum in just the way he liked.
‘Where’s the consort then “huu”?’
‘ “U-h’-u-h’-u-h”’ He’s in the bedroom.’
‘And what’s his name “huu”?’
‘Simon “u-h’-u-h’-u-h’” Simon Dykes.’
Paul moved to push by her, and she cowered in the awkward vestibule. Cowered and half presented her swelling to him, but in such a way that it was apparent that she was doing it involuntarily. Paul hesitated; while not strictly against the regulations to mate when on an emergency call-out, it was felt at the department – and in particular by Dr Whatley – to be somewhat at variance with the image the crash team was seeking to promote.
This went through Paul’s mind as he shouldered his way past the submissive female, bestowing a reassuring pat and kiss on the top of her blonde head. A rather old shire lap pony was trotting up and down the corridor behind the inner door to the flat. The poor beast was whi
nnying pathetically and drooling. In his scut Paul heard the female patting it, reassuring it, while making gentle lip smacks and soothing pants.
On the brink of the bedroom he stopped, cocking an ear. All he could see through the half-open door was one of the wooden poles supporting the tipping mirror on top of the dressing table. This was festooned with strings of beads and silk scarves. The table itself was covered with a dusty collection of porcelain figurines, ornamental boxes and other feminine knick-knacks. In the noonday heat the temporary quiet of the flat was oppressive, as were its odours of pony, excrement, perfume and mating. He paused, hearing a whimper from behind the door. The dispatcher had said the chimp was weak – did that mean not dangerous? Best not to take any chances.
Belinda had come up behind Paul, and he turned to see that she was accompanied by the hard chimp of the outfit, Al, who was carrying a set of restraints. ‘Have you got the tranks “huu”?’ Paul inparted softly on Belinda’s forearm.
‘Yes,’ she replied. Paul pushed the door gently open.
‘ “Huuu”? Simon, my name is –’
“Wraaaaa!” The chimp’s scream ripped through Paul’s soft vocalisation and gentle signing. Simon was bipedal on the heap of disordered covers mantling the nest. His fur wasn’t erect, but his shoulders hunched aggressively and all his teeth were showing as he continued to scream, “Wraaa!Wraaa!Wraaa!” He grabbed hold of a sheet in one hand and a pillow in the other and waved them in Paul’s direction. The psychiatrist took a step back so that he was partly hidden by the door. He’d handled enough psychotic chimps to know that this display could turn violent if he breached the invisible forcefield surrounding Simon Dykes.
‘ “Hooo” Jesus Christ!’ Al inparted on Paul’s back. ‘I thought this one was meant to be harmless – do you want the tranks “huu”?’
“HooGrnnn,” Paul vocalised, then gestured to Simon, ‘Now, Simon, we’re not going to hurt you –’
‘ “Wraaa”! Keep away from me, you fucking ape! Keep away, keep away, keep away!’ He threw his soft missiles at Paul – they fell short, doubly harmless. Simon advanced to the brink of the nest. Paul came out from behind the door, hoping that this would push the maddened male back again, but instead Simon attacked, using the bounce of the bed to leap feet-first at the dead centre of the psychiatrist’s chest. Paul took a step backwards, but too late to prevent the chimp crashing into him, knocking him and Al to the floor. Simon’s hands were on Paul’s throat, the nails clawing deep in his fur, signing nothing but panicide. The hands were – Paul realised with a shock – like an infant’s hands. Or rather, they had only the strength of an infant’s.
Paul recovered himself instantly and aimed a short jab to his attacker’s belly. With a harsh clack of his teeth, Simon rolled off Paul retching and coughing. ‘ “Waaa”! What the fuck are you playing at!’ Paul had the ape by his scruff and delivered a couple of sharp cuffs to his muzzle. Simon began to whimper with fear and pain. ‘What’s up with you, chimp “h’huuu”? Been at the cocaine, have we “huu”?’ Paul gave the scruff, which was on the long side, a few more tugs before registering that there was no resistance at all. The chimp’s head was lolling against the psychiatrist’s belly. The eyes were rolled back in their sockets, showing only the whites. The clenched hands didn’t so much drum as pat at Paul’s belly fur, where his tunic had bunched up.
‘Tranks “huu”?’ signed Al, who was standing right at Paul’s shoulder, and Belinda shook the restraining garment she was holding, making both her meaning apparent and the buckles of the thing softly jingle.
‘I don’t think either will be “euch-euch” necessary, Simon,’ he signed to the chimp whose head he was now almost cradling. ‘Are you all right “huu”? Poor darling “chup-chupp”, did I hurt you? Are you OK? Don’t worry “huh-huh”, everything will be OK … “Huu” Simon? Simon? “Euch-euch” we’ve lost him. ’ This last flourish was to his team, for the artist’s head had fallen forward, and his lanky body, the fur shampooed with perspiration, now collapsed in a frothy brown bundle at Paul’s feet.
‘He’s gone catatonic,’ Paul gestured to the rest of the team ranged behind him. ‘His mind has restrained his body for us. Although there was no strength in that attack at all. None at all.’
“Climb on my back.”
“What’s that?”
“Climb on my back – like spoons in a draw.” The soft sounds of limb and sheet smoothly rubbing. Cool hands between the shoulder blades. Then lips there. A warm arm snakes around Simon’s belly, another smooths the hairs at his nape, “Mmmf.”
“Mmmf,” they grunt-sigh in unison. They hunker down to sleep.
Herbs to the right, flowers to the left. Herbs to the right, flowers to the left. Simon’s prone head banged against the metal rim of the chair’s headrest as the crash team’s orderlies carried him down the path, past the gawping old female from next door. He stirred – went under again.
“Can I go on your he-ead?” An infant’s cry, reedy but with a twang of his own sarcasm. He does not reply. Again: “Can I go on your he-ead?” It’s Magnus, or Henry, or Simon – they want to be lifted, they want to be held. They need to be held. “Can I –”
“All right.” The slim hips between big hands. Like holding a lover’s waist. But no lover was ever so light. As he lifts the infant Simon feels the lack-of-resistance, the way its body is but poorly attached to this earth, and imagines that he could push him – Henry or Magnus or Simon, he knows not which – up and up and up, into the sky. Then small bare legs are clamped around the back of his neck. Small hands entwine in his hair, grasp, unfeeling – or at any rate uninhibited about this touch. The hands seem to speak in Simon’s hair: ‘My body – your body. Where’s the difference? Where’s the join?’
‘ “Hoo” dear, “hoo” dear, “hoo” dear, “hooo’” signed the old female who was watching the team chimphandle the unconscious Simon and distressed Sarah into the ambulance. ‘What has happened to them “huuu”?’
‘Do you know her at all well “huuu”?’ asked Belinda, who was bringing up the anal scrag, leading the lap pony by its bridle.
‘ “Hoo” yes,’ came the reply. The female’s fingers went to one of the curlers in her fraying head fur. ‘She’s a lovely young female, always ready with a kind sign. We often have a flutter … I’ve never taken to him though, I must sign.’
‘Must you,’ snapped Belinda, who already had the measure of the female. ‘Why’s that “huu”?’
‘Well, they’ve been consorting now for well over a year, and in my opinion that’s not right for a young female. And as for him, he’s been fissioned from his group for some time now. I know because she showed me.’
‘Is that so “huu”? Do you know anything else about him “huu”?’
‘Only that he’s some kind of an artist– whatever that means. As I sign, I never really took to him. But her … “hoo”, she’s a lovely young thing, lovely. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s got her mixed up in some awful drug th – ‘ Belinda flagged her down. ‘Watch. You don’t have spare keys for her flat by any chance “huu”?’
“‘Hoo” yes, yes I do.’
‘Well, in that case “euch-euch”,’ Belinda picked the old lap pony up bodily by its bridle and plonked it down on the other side of the fence, ‘you’ll oblige me if you look after this old nag while she’s away, “huuu”?’
The old female – who hadn’t been mated in going on twenty years – watched Belinda bound off down the path and swing into the back of the ambulance with ill-concealed contempt. Young hussy, she thought to herself as she ran her gnarled toes through Grade’s mane, look at her parading her swelling like that, even though she’s days off oestrus, I don’t know, what is the world coming to. Then she led Gracie inside her own, furniture-polish-scented house and began looking for her mac; she’d have to go down the shops and get the poor beast some hay for its dinner.
It was impossible to separate the two distraught chimps on the short drive to Charing
Cross Hospital and on arrival Sarah refused to leave Simon’s side. Paul put them in the small cubicle used for assessing patients and busied himself with the necessary paperwork for Simon’s admission. ‘Let them cool off a little,’ he signed to Belinda, ‘see if she wants a cup of tea, but don’t attempt to rouse him, he may not be quite so ineffectual next time. And see if you can find a gown – being naked can’t be helping him to feel simian “huuu”?’
Belinda found a gown and then Sarah helped her to push Simon’s stiff arms through the wide sleeves. He lay on the examination couch in a foetal position; his lanky body resisted them, tightly curled as it was. He was breathing quickly and shallowly, but apart from that there was no sign of physical trauma.
‘Would you like a cup of tea “huuu”?’ Belinda gestured when they’d got the thing on.
‘Yes, please,’ Sarah countersigned. ‘I think I would.’
‘Would you like to inpart a little about what happened “huuu”?’ Belinda resigned tentatively, gently teasing some more of Simon’s dried semen out of the blonde hairs surrounding Sarah’s sexual swelling.
‘I … I … “hoo”, I don’t know …’
‘Not if you don’t want to – but you may find it easier fiddling with me first …’
‘It’s just “hooo”, well, you probably know already, we’re consorts …’
‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t take him away from his group – if that’s what you’re thinking. It fissioned some time ago. It’s just, well, he’s a very brilliant chimp, you know, some people think of him as a great ape, and I don’t want any of this to affect his career. He’s an artist, you know – he has a show opening next week.’
‘Is that right “huu”?’ Belinda was noncommittal. She found this posh, pretty female’s animation regarding her consort distinctly unnerving.