Great Apes

by Will Self

  The stall was high enough for the seven of them to squeeze inside. Steve put the seat down and squatted atop it chopping lines out on the cistern lid. Simon squatted below together with Tony, and Sarah, while the Braithwaites and Tabitha dangled happily from the ceiling, occasionally feetling the head fur of those below and provoking much lip-smacking. Simon took the rolled-up note he was offered and thrust it into his nostril. He snuffled up the line and immediately tasted the chemical bitterness at the top of his throat; turning to muzzle Steve he signed, ‘Where did this stuff come from, Steve “huu”?’

  ‘I got it off that chimp Tarquin who hangs out at the club,’ the bonobo countersigned. ‘It’s basically crap – although it delivers quite a boot up the scrag.’

  Simon sniffed copiously and felt the stream of crap cocaine and mucus trickle down his larynx. ‘You’ve put your finger on it there, Steve,’ he signed. ‘This stuff is certainly crap. Thank God some things really don’t change “h’hooo”!’

  But the peculiar warm cheer that the crap cocaine inparted didn’t last that long – and just as in his deluded recollections of being human, cocaine had always tipped Simon on to the brink of acute anxiety, so it did this time. Back in the gallery, when he lit his umpteenth Bactrian of the day. Julius, knuckle-walking beside him waved, “‘Hooo” I shouldn’t smoke if I were you, Simon – not after a line.’

  ‘What on earth are you gesturing about, Julius …’ Simon countersigned, but when he tried to vocalise the interrogative he began spluttering, “Huuueurh –” then coughing, “Eurgh-euch-euch!” for, of course, the poor madchimp’s somatic delusion had kicked in, and he no longer knew that chimpanzees cannot breathe and vocalise at the same time. The crap cocaine had anaesthetised Simon in more ways than one.

  Now, bipedal against the unwall of the gallery, Simon Dykes’s heart rate accelerated and his protuberant green eyes darted about, taking in the nightmare vision of a world gone bestial. All around him the chimpanzees scampered and scuttled, bristling, bewhiskered, horripilating. And when he looked into their slit irises Simon could see nothing but alien intelligence. Even the glossy happy chimps were becoming strange to him as the crap cocaine infused his disordered mind. The set of the Saatchi Gallery, with its cast of half-dressed chimps holding rented champagne glasses aloft as they moved about on some-threes, reminded Simon of a gigantic circus act, put on for the benefit of human infants.

  Simon laughed and cried as memories and impressions were cut, then shuffled before his eyes. The glossy happy chimps did their best to administer an emergency grooming, but Simon’s giggling and coughing soon became hysterical and he commenced pant-screaming.

  Busner swaggered over at this point. The clique fissioned from around Simon and Busner administered some calming blows to the former artist’s muzzle. Then, without bothering to pick over the detail of what had happened, he gave a valedictory pant-hoot to the assembled chimps: “Hooo-Graaa!”, drummed on the base of a plinth – suitably enough, the one occupied by the mulish human infant – and led Simon away.

  As he turned the last thing that Simon saw through his tears was Sarah’s darling muzzle. On it was an expression of almost insane bewilderment, but despite that she was taking comfort – as apes do – by mating again with Ken Braithwaite.

  Busner managed to pant-hoot a cab in the street and they were back at Redington Road within minutes. He took Simon straight up to his room, and administered the customary intravenous shot of Valium. Simon goggled woozily at Busner as the former anti-psychiatrist searched for a vein beneath his elbow fur. ‘ “Huu” what it is, Simon?’ the old ape asked.

  ‘ “Hooo” I don’t know, Zack, I don’t know …’ Busner had found the vein and, releasing the tourniquet, was easing home the plunger. Jane Bowen had insisted on Simon’s medication being administered this way because of Simon’s extreme febrility and Busner considered it wise to continue. The intravenous method allowed the dosage to be effectively titrated.

  Simon’s eyes rolled back in their sockets; Busner sensed the muscles in the arm he was grasping relax. The fingers of Simon’s hand sketched the air, ‘When you give me these shots … When I look at my arm when you’re giving me these shots … I almost see it as a chimpanzee arm – really, I do. I see it with fur, really I do …’ and with this further revelation of his burgeoning chimpness, Simon Dykes fell back into the nest, curled up foetally and slept. Busner hauled himself up with difficulty – it was a damp night, always bad for the arthritis – and peered down at his patient.

  Professional dispassion had never been at the core of Busner’s therapeutic philosophy. Looking now at Simon’s muzzle, drugged into provisional repose, and at the chimp’s sorry chest fur, pitted with Bactrian burns, Busner allowed himself to accept that their relationship had gone beyond the bounds of treatment. That they were – in some sense – allies now, united against a hostile world, whether of apes or men. Busner shivered in the stuffy spare room, then checked his ischial pleat for winnets, before going in search of a third supper.

  As he slept Simon dreamed. In the dreams he was human again. He was walking upright, easefully, feeling the long length of his back support a forward-pointing cone of quintessential human extroception. In and out of this cone there skipped his infants, his three little males. They were all laughing, they all had tow heads and cuddlesome pink skin. But the most cuddlesome of all, the apple of his father’s eye, was Simon junior. Simon ran to him, lifted him up, felt little Simon’s knees grasp his trunk. He sank his muzzle in the soft flesh of his infant’s scruff and whimpered, inhaling the human essence of him, the beautiful sensuality of him.

  Later that night Simon passed from this Erewhon into one more nightmarish, one in which he and Sarah were mating as humans mate. He lay on top of her feeling her bald body gyrate beneath him. Her hairlessness was nauseating, rubbing against his own. They were like two shaven muzzles, slippery with sweat, slicking and slopping. Sarah’s eyes were also disturbing, blue, feral, they stabbed up at Simon; and her horrible little mouth with its miniature teeth, opened to emit low-pitched grunts and garbled vocalisations, “Gru-nnnfuckme! Gru-nnnfuckme!” Simon thrust into her as best he could, but he could feel nothing in the region of his groin, no home-coming mush of sexual swelling, merely an absence, a local void. “Gru-nnnfuckme! Gru-nnnfuckme!” Still she vocalised and still he laboured, but neither of them could come, it was taking ages, this mating – minutes. It was – Simon realised with an access of dream logic – some awful presaging of impotence, of old age, of death.

  In sleep the sometime artist’s muzzle creased with anxieties. His mouth opened and from behind his big teeth came yawps and keening noises.

  Busner was up early the following morning, well in time for a first breakfast with the infants who were heading off to school, and the sub-adults who were going out on patrol. He played with the former and mock-fought with the latter. He petted the ubiquitous Busner lap ponies and covered a couple of his younger daughters who were within weeks of their first oestrus. All in all it was a happy, very group morning. Into this innocent arcadia came a missive that was a missile; a bombshell of a brown envelope.

  Mary, the Busner iota female, came in from the hall on some-threes, bearing the envelope aloft to where Zack squatted at the kitchen table, reading the Guardian, while Dr Kenzaburo Yamuta, the distal-zeta male, groomed his back fur. Looking at the envelope was enough – and getting bipedal on his chair, the old alpha addressed his group. ‘ “HoooGraa!” There’s something important I need to gesticulate about. I want group adults – both male and female – beta through to epsilon, in my study in three minutes. The rest of you are to keep the noise down. Colin’ – he waved at the theta male – ‘in a while, check and see if Simon’s all right. We had quite a night and he may need something for a hangover “h’hooo”.’

  By the time the chimps he had summoned swung into the study, Busner had read the letter and absorbed its contents. “HoooH’Graa,” he welcomed them, and gesturing to the letter
which lay on the desk signed, ‘I gesticulated with Charlotte concerning this business when we were in nest some weeks ago, shortly after poor Simon came to stay with us …’ He paused, and looked up at nine pairs of intent green eyes. ‘At that time I suspected that our quondam gamma male – and my former research assistant Gambol – was fomenting an alliance against me –’

  This revelation provoked a flurry of disconcerted signing and an eruption of distressed whimpering from the assembled Busner chimps. “‘Gru-nnn” now calm down, all of you! As I sign, this was not unexpected. You all know that I’ve had more than my fair share of enemies in the medical and psychiatric hierarchies “chup-chupp”. Furthermore, you are also aware that I’ve never knuckle-walked out of my way to present to these individuals, or show the requisite deference, I’ve simply done what I’ve thought necessary to assist those chimpunity chooses to denote “euch-euch” mentally ill.

  ‘ “Hooo” now all of these pigeons have come home to roost. Gambol – I don’t know how – has obtained information that compromises me severely. Information concerning a rather inadvisable trial for a new anxiolytic drug I stupidly got entwined with. I won’t “euch-euch” burden you with the details, but suffice to sign, my putative misconduct in this matter also involves Simon Dykes. Gambol has seen fit to show all of this to the ethical committee of the General Medical Council. There is to be a probe “euch-euch” and this letter,’ he waved the hateful thing aloft, ‘informs me that my licence to practise medicine is temporarily suspended pending that probe “waaaa”!’

  For some seconds there was pandemonium in the study. The Busner chimps all leapt about bouncing off the walls, horripilating and waa-barking furiously. Busner braced himself behind his desk – if there was going to be a coup against his reign as alpha – now was the time. But no fusion was emerging, nor was the fur whirl resolving into any spontaneous alliances, so after a minute or so he beat on the desk and vocalised to regain their attention. “Hoooo-Graaa!” Signless fell and novocal filled the study.

  ‘Now, I’m not inclined to kowtow to these chimps, indeed I’ve resolved not to challenge the investigation in any way –’ Another chorus of distressed hoooing from the assembled chimps. ‘ “Euch-euch” I feel it would compromise the whole of my career to do so. No, I am climbing down from the professional tree. I will continue to care for Simon Dykes, who I’ve come to respect as a chimp and an ally. I already have a vision of how I might continue to treat him.

  ‘I should like to stay on here in the group home, but I “hooo” appreciate that my reign as group alpha may well be over as we –’

  Pandemonium again. They all leapt up, they all yammered, they all drummed on the available surfaces, horizontal and vertical. There was some scrapping between Henry, the stolid Busner beta male, and David, the rather more excitable delta male, but it didn’t amount to a fight and fusion quickly emerged, the chimps gesturing to Dr Kenzaburo Yamuta that he should sign on their behalf.

  The distal-zeta chimp got bipedal. “HoooGraa!” he vocalised, then signed, ‘Zack, I wring my hands for all of us when I sign that the picture of us no longer bowing low before your radiant and effulgent arsehole is a very sad picture indeed. Zack, we adore your ischial pleat, we wish only to reverently caress your scrag, your maverick position on mental health issues is a fundament of great pride to us all “h’hooo”. We wish you to continue as our alpha, and to be assured that whatever manipulations you choose to undertake, we will keep our fingers in the pie alongside yours.’

  During this conducting Busner, despite himself, felt his eye sockets brimming over with tears. He had known that his home group respected him, but never been entirely certain how much this rested on fear and how much on love. Openly weeping, he now leapt over the desk and squatting at Kenzaburo’s neat little feet began grooming his groin fur, making soft grunts and lip-smacks. The other Busners joined in and there was a spontaneous and deeply satisfying group groom.

  After a decent interval Zack got bipedal, administered a final tweak of encouragement to Kenzaburo and a kiss on his flat muzzle. “HoooGraaa!” Busner recalled, then signed to the company, ‘Well, that’s settled then. Kenzaburo, take down those useless bits of paper’ – he gestured to the framed medical degrees, his certificate of fellowship of the Royal College of Psychiatrists, his certificate of membership of the Institute of Psychoanalysis, his BAFTA award, and his Variety Club of Great Britain honorarium – ‘while I check up on Simon. His ex-group and his infants will be at the house for first lunch. I have high hopes of their grooming session.’

  Simon was hung over, and worse, haunted by the night’s clandestine commerce of visions. But despite this he was delighted to learn that members of his ex-group were coming to the house. Busner squatted on his nest and gently inparted the news. ‘I pant-hooted your ex yesterday and she agreed to bring the infants along today “gru-nnn”. Obviously she’ll have some other group members with her, do you think you’ll be able to “chup-chupp” handle them “huu”?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ Simon countersigned. ‘After all “grnn” I handled that opening last night, up until I was fool enough to light-up.’

  ‘And fool enough to “euch-euch” take that cocaine –’

  ‘The cocaine was crap “hooo”!’ Simon chopped in. ‘Total crap!’

  ‘That’s as may be, Simon – and far be it from me to be censorious about using drugs … ‘ Busner’s fingers, usually so adroit, faltered and he realised that he would have to sign something to Simon of his own predicament. This he did, although he made a significant omission – there was no representation of the débâcle surrounding the Inclusion trial. Rather, Busner concentrated on those sections of the letter from the GMC that were critical of his unusual therapeutic methods.

  ‘You mean to sign,’ Simon gestured when he had taken this in, ‘that you may well be struck off because of the way you’ve tried to help me “huuu”?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it. ’ Busner countersigned ingenuously.

  ‘But that’s “euch-euch” preposterous! You’ve saved my sanity – perhaps even my life!’

  Busner twisted the appropriate expression of humility on to his muzzle, but he was thinking to himself – and placed your sanity in peril to begin with, possibly even damaged your brain.

  ‘Look, Simon,’ Busner resumed gesturing, ‘the fact of the matter is that we aren’t through yet. There’s this business of your missing infant to resolve. You’re still convinced that there is one, aren’t you “huu?’ Simon mutely nodded. ‘And with this missing infant come all the rest of the disturbing human fantasies, am I right “huu”?’

  ‘ “Hooo” yes. ’ Simon’s muzzle blanched as he remembered the night before, the dreams of bestial mating, human copulation. For, from the perspective of the waking world, with its lap ponies, Bactrians and Planet of the Humans video cases, the dreams were no longer nightmarish, but erotically charged.

  ‘ “Gru-nn” Simon, until we’ve picked apart this negative cathexis surrounding the human, it won’t be possible for you to resume ordinary life. Therefore it’s necessary for us to gain some sort of funding in order to continue with our work –’

  ‘I’ll pay you, Zack,’ Simon flourished, ‘if that’s what you need – or want “huu”?’

  ‘No, Simon “grnn”. ’ Busner was gentle but firm. ‘I don’t see that as being the right way to proceed. What I’d like to outline is more of a proper alliance …’ And he waved on, showing Simon about his meeting with Knight, the television producer.

  “Gru-nnn” Simon vocalised after a while – he manifestly wasn’t disgruntled. ‘Are you proposing that we cooperate in making a documentary with this chimp “huu”?’

  ‘That’s right. I have it on good authority that he can be trusted and I’ve seen his work before – it’s good. I can only envision that Gambol’s betrayal and the investigation by the GMC will add spice to the cake as far as the television chimps are concerned “chup-chupp”. Simon, I know it se
ems odd, but just think, these chimps have so much money, if we should need to range far afield in order to continue our work – they’ll pay for it.’

  After an hour or so of careful, considered mutual grooming and accompanying gesticulation, Busner left Simon to prepare for the session with his ex-group. They parted with a clear understanding between them. Busner would pant-hoot Knight and show him the basis on which they were prepared to do the documentary. Knight could have absolute freedom to film as he saw fit, and would shoulder all expenses incurred, but the Busner–Dykes alliance would retain an absolute veto over the material.

  Busner duly placed the pant-hoot. Knight was more than willing to accede to the demands. He was an ambitious young male, making his way up the hierarchy at speed, and because he worked with a pared-down unit – one assistant and a sound recordist, while he operated the camera himself – he was willing to take the risk. ‘If you agree with what I’m suggesturing,’ Busner signed, ‘then it might be an idea for you to come to my group home in Hampstead around second-lunch time – I have a hump there will may be imminent developments in Mr Dykes’s condition. Bring the requisite paperwork as well – if you can get it drafted in such a short time “huu”?’

  Knight gestured that this was easily done, and after taking down directions, they finished the pant-hoot with some satisfaction on both sides.

  Busner’s hump was well rounded.

  Chapter Twenty

  The dykes group – they still retailed the old ascription – arrived at Redington Road in good time. This despite the fact that Jean Dykes, although nearing thirty, still flaunted the long-lasting swellings that had attracted Simon to her in the first place. These went on for weeks and Jean liked to make the best of them – being a devout Catholic – by indulging in as much mating as possible. She had allowed herself to be covered several times in the train on the way from Thame, twice on the tube ride from Marylebone to Hampstead, and there had been four more couplings as the patrol knuckle-walked to Redington Road, only one of which was endogamous.