Could it possibly be true? Perry was a figure of my imagination? Why, when I already had two voices in my head, would I invent yet a third that this time manifests itself as a real person? I’d had many a night out with Perry, was I the guy that stands at the bar talking to an imaginary friend? No way. Someone would have said something by now, surely. Was I like a permanent joke to have around? Come see my crazy pal. He has an imaginary friend. It didn’t feel right, but then when did a schizophrenic know that his voices and ‘friends’ weren’t real? Why would I make up a British imaginary friend, with all that stupid cockney rhyming slang? I had no knowledge of it before him, how would I know that? Was my hallucinogenic friend making it up? Jesus, just my luck, I can’t even have a normal imaginary friend. Mine has to speak in a made-up British language.
My voices had been with me all my life, ever since I can remember, and as an infant, everyone I knew had imaginary friends. Parents would actively encourage it. I remember attending a ‘tea party’ where we all took our imaginary friends, drank imaginary tea, and ate imaginary food. The only difference was that the others grew out of it, I didn’t. My imaginary friends stayed. After teasing at kindergarten I soon learned to keep them secret. My parents took me to doctors, specialists, then eventually child psychologists, and I thought my life would be easier all round if I pretended the voices had stopped. And that’s the way it stayed. The odd person that was close to me might have the rare fright as I started to talk to Elvis, or Sheldon. I tried to keep our conversations internal, but living on my own, as I do, sometimes and especially under the influence of alcohol, I would discuss things with them aloud. One girlfriend videoed me and left the recording along with a Post-it note attached saying to play it and see the reason why she had dumped me. It was hard to watch: I was having proper discussions – well, arguments more like. Elvis was an unpleasant drunk and I was pausing, waiting for an answer, my voice getting louder as the argument developed, then I would turn and address Sheldon and verbally abuse him, too. It was a strange phenomenon and not unlike movie versions of mediums contacting the dead. I didn’t blame her for leaving. If the shoe was on the other foot, I would’ve been off like a shot and I wouldn’t have bothered with an explanation. I’d once left a date halfway through a meal in a Chinese restaurant when she told me she was in constant contact with Kurt Cobain from Nirvana and that they spoke in a special language that only they understood. I excused myself, said I was going to the bathroom and left. I paid the check first; I’m still a gentleman after all. However, what I had seen on the recording had shocked me to the core. I tried to go on the wagon or at least keep to a sensible level of drinking so that I wouldn’t let my guard down again.
I’d known Perry a few years now, around the time of my depression and my half-hearted attempt at suicide. I was on a low, for sure, so perhaps I could have manifested him. I knew that traumatic events caused all sorts of mental and sometimes physical conditions, but wouldn’t I have conjured up a superhero for a best pal, not an untrustworthy cockney reprobate? It didn’t sound right. Could Doctor Clay be playing mind games with me, for making him lose his cool. Was this payback? That sounded more rational. I scouted around the pub and the courtyard at the front, but he wasn’t there either. That only left one place, the Dog and Duck, the low-class pub he loved, a proper spit-and-sawdust, old-fashioned pub, with the emphasis on the spit. I made a mental note to insist to Perry that he got himself a cellphone. That would stop my racing around trying to find him, but he would not use one insisting they gave you cancer, which wasn’t true and that the government can trace you through them, which probably was. I suddenly wondered what he was up to that he did not want the government to know about, then decided I didn’t want to know either.
I went over the doctor as a suspect again. I thought a quick scan of the departments records should be able to dismiss us all as being either at work or in court, or somewhere on legitimate business which would make it impossible for us to have committed one, if not all of the murders, though the use of a time clock muddled the waters somewhat. I liked the doctor more and more for the killer: he had a short fuse and his temper flared uncontrollably, and he acted inappropriately to say the least. He had knowledge of medieval torture devices, probably had some sense of right and wrong, maybe unpopular at high school, another reason given by serial killers and spree killers for that matter. He was thin and weedy and it was hard to imagine that he was popular. He was no jock and had no discernible personality to help him through. His superior intellect would have annoyed more people than it impressed. Nope, I couldn’t help thinking that our doc would have had a hard time at school, maybe seething ever since at all the girls that knocked him back, those who gave it freely to all comers would have drawn the line at Doctor Clay. He would have the mental capacity to look at a long-term plan, an audacious plan, one that would show his superiority over his fellow man. Vanity was another marker in the serial killer arsenal and he had it in spades. The self-loathing had turned into a superiority complex. Yah, this case had all the hallmarks of a highly skilled serial killer, who got his kicks not only from slaughtering those that may have mocked him in his youth, but also from showing up those tasked with capturing him. It had a logic to it. I realized I had him on the ropes earlier: he had wriggled and squirmed when I accused him of being the Hangman, although I hadn’t been serious at the time. Yet he had quickly deflected the accusation back onto me and astonished me with the information that I was considered a suspect in some quarters.
The Dog & Duck Bar & Restaurant, 555 Pico Boulevard, CA 90410 – 20:30.
I found Perry drinking a pint of what looked like frothy black coffee. He nodded hello and I socked him one on the jaw and to say he was surprised was an understatement. The people around him were not so, as if Perry being attacked in the pub was a regular occurrence. Perry fell backward off the stool and I stood over him. Well, the pain in my hand told me that he was real and I felt much better, better, that is, until he swiftly kicked me in the balls and I went down like a collapsing building. I was on my knees clutching my throbbing genitalia when he swung a punch as he got up onto his knees. I tried to dodge the punch and it caught me behind the ear. I responded automatically with a jab to his chin, that connected, but it had little effect. He responded with a roundhouse that he telegraphed, so I was able to dodge most of it. I elbowed him in the temple and brought my fist up into his nose in one fluid motion: again my actions appeared to lack power and Perry withstood them without any outward sign of pain, it was more of a mere inconvenience. Perry stood up brushed himself down and held out his hand to help me up, I took his hand and as I got level, he headbutted me, knocking me back into a table full of diners. They seemed unperturbed, and other than holding onto their beers, so they would not spill, continued their conversation. He came at me and I managed to move, just in time, and left him to sprawl across the table and into the diners’ food. That did annoy them and they ‘tutted’ their dissatisfaction. I grabbed him and pulled him back up into the air, as he hit me in the face with a bowl of soup – tomato – I happened to notice. I staggered backward, he followed after me and slipped in the spilled soup and went down on his knees. One of the diners helpfully handed me his bowl and I whacked Perry over the head with it. Again it had no effect, other than to annoy him even more. He stood up and raised a bar stool above his head. I cringed and waited for the impact when the chair was snatched from his hands by the overhead ceiling fan and thrown the length of the bar. This startled Perry and I lunged in and thought I’d try one of his famous headbutts and used my forehead to make contact with the bridge of his nose. Somehow, I mucked it up and smashed my nose into his forehead, causing me immense pain. Perry fell backward and the momentum of the maneuver sent me to the floor as well. He went to hit me, then stopped. “What’s this in aid of?”
“I was just checking ya were real.” It sounded stupid even to me as it left my lips. “There was only the one way to tell.”
“Yer could have
asked me?”
“Okay, two ways.”
“Oh,” he said and dabbed his nose, which was bleeding profusely. “Fair enough, squire.” He stood and helped me up again, without the headbutt this time. “What do yer fancy to drink?”
“I’ll, er, have the same as you,” I said.
“And a round of drinks for me mates on the table over there.” He pointed to where he’d lain in the diners’ food, yet the news of free drinks appealed to them and they cheered.
Brits, ya gotta love ’em.
I regretted ordering the same as the porcine bartender brought over a pint of what looked like liquid blacktop. “What the hell is this?” I asked.
“Guinness, you’ll love it. Trust me.”
That was usually my first mistake. I took a sip and choked: it was thick and bitter and I wasn’t sure if it was some sort of trick. It could be like the curry, that you drink it for a bet, it couldn’t be for the taste. He downed his pint in one gulp as those around him counted and he managed in an impressive three seconds. He laughed at me just as I could have predicted, punched me viciously in the arm, as I could have predicted, then smashed me around the back of the head with the glass, which I couldn’t.
I always thought you were meant to see Tweety Pie spinning around your head. Instead, I saw a blinding white flash and felt liquid dripping down my neck as I slumped forward onto the bar. I hoped it was the dregs of the Guinness and not blood as I passed out.
CHAPTER 30
When I awoke, I noticed that the pub was now full. People either side of me waved dollar bills to catch the overworked bartender’s attention. They ignored me as if a body slumped on the bar was a usual sight in a pub in the UK. They couldn’t tell if I was in a drunken stupor or dead, and none of them seemed to care either way. Perry saw me awake and put out his hand. “No hard feelings?”
“Er, no, none,” I said, shaking his hand.
“Yer owe me thirty bucks.”
I handed him three tens. “What for?” I asked.
“Your half of the table we broke.”
I shrugged, that seemed fair. Turned out this was normal for a fight in a pub: as long as you paid and made good the damage, no need to call the cops.
“Oh, and fifty cents for the Band-Aid.”
“What Band-Aid?”
“The one on the back of yer nut.”
I felt my scalp and found that not only was there a Band-Aid, I had a sore lump, too. I flipped him a coin to cover it.
“I won’t charge yer for the glass I walloped yer around the head with.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said sarcastically.
It was lost on him. “It’s funny, y’know, most of the pubs I frequented back in London had stopped servin’ drinks in glasses. They’d switched to plastic for that very reason. Too easy to use as a weapon and jug-handled mugs were even worse.”
I pointed out a row of Toby jugs hanging from hooks above the bar: they were mostly pewter, but some were dimpled and glass.
“They’re for decoration only,” he said. “Do yer know why glass jugs were made in the first place?”
I shook my head, then instantly regretted it as my head throbbed. I took a sip of Guinness and instantly regretted that, too, as my throat gagged.
“It was glass bottoms only at first. It was due to the can-can girls,” Perry said. “The bar owners realized that all the blokes stopped drinkin’ while the girls were dancing and showing their you-know-what, so made the drinkin’ vessels with glass bottoms and bosh! Instant success the blokes could still see the birds’ doodahs while they supped their beer. Happy days.”
I kinda hoped that wasn’t true, it was sorta depressing. The pint of Guinness stared at me and I tried again. I couldn’t let it defeat me, it was going to be a challenge like the curry had been.
“Here,” said Perry, “what’s on yer mind? What was the fisticuffs about?”
“I hope ya didn’t mind.”
“Me? Nah, I love a bundle.” He grinned broadly.
I took that to mean he enjoyed it. “I was checking that ya ain’t a figment of my imagination.”
“Why didn’t yer just ask?”
“Well, if ya are a figment of my imagination ya hardly likely to admit it.”
“Oh yeah, fair enough.” He glugged at his next pint of the foul-tasting black liquid. “Did I pass the test, am I real?”
“I guess the Band-Aid on the back of my head proves it.”
“Why did yer think I wasn’t?”
“Oh, someone had me thinking I was in Fight Club, or something.”
“Come again?”
“Ain’t ya seen that movie? Turns out that the main character had been fighting himself and the other person never existed.”
“Sounds like a load of bollocks.”
“Dog’s bollocks?” I asked.
“Nah, just regular bollocks.”
“Not good?”
“No.”
“So, bollocks means ‘bad’, but dog’s bollocks means ‘good’?”
“That’s it. It ain’t difficult.”
“To you maybe.”
“Here, Tara Mansion?” he said changing the subject.
“Where Bruce Matherson lives?”
“Yeah, it used to be owned by Jimmy-the-Fish, a big-time mobster. It has a secret room, where they used to hide alcohol and other contraband.”
“How do ya know this?”
“Don’t ask.”
“I don’t suppose your contact knew where this secret room is?”
He smiled into his pint. “It’s off the master bedroom.”
I slapped him on the back and I explained to Perry what had been happening with the Hangman case and he said, “It’s perplexing and no mistake.”
“Where does that leave us?”
“Perplexed,” he deadpanned.
“Ya ain’t kidding.”
“The torture adds a new dimension.”
“I think it narrows the field. I mean, who’d know about the medieval stuff?”
He scoffed. “Everyone in here for starters.”
“What do you mean?”
“British kids are brought up on that sort of crap. No school trip to a castle was complete without a tour around the dungeons and torture equipment. The iron maiden, the rack and my favorite, the scold’s bridle, for when a bird talks too much.” He stared into space wistfully. “I wished they’d bring that one back.”
“And the heretic’s fork and not forgetting the ducking-stool,” said the piggy-eyed bartender joining in as he polished a glass. “Oh, and the Judas cradle and thumb screws.”
“Not just Brits, though, don’t forget the Pope sanctioned the Spanish Inquisition. And the frogs with their brilliant guillotine. At least the French knew how to treat their royalty.” He laughed. “That was so swift that the person was still alive while their head rolled into the basket.”
“Seriously?” I asked.
“Oh yeah, one aristocrat arranged to give a signal to show he was still alive. His mate had calculated that the guillotine was so swift that sufficient blood would still be pumpin’ into yer brain for a moment or two, you’d actually feel the blade and see yer head roll into the basket.”
I pulled a face, but even the bartender was nodding as if this was common knowledge. Maybe it was in Europe. Like we know the ins and outs of an electric chair, or gas chamber, they know about hangings and beheadings.
“So,” continued Perry, “when the blade came down,” he slapped the edge of his hand onto the counter to demonstrate, “his mate yanked his head out of the basket by the hair and the aristocrat blinked twice at him.”
“Aw, maaan,” I said, “that’s horrible.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why it was worth payin’ the executioner for a swift beheadin’. Imagine if yer could feel it as they hack away at your neck.”
I knew that the victim paid the executor for a swift beheading, but it seemed pointless to me: if he didn’t do a good job, you were hardly in a
position to demand a refund.
“A bloke called Major-General Thomas Harrison came around after the hangin’ stage of being hanged, drawn and quartered and punched his executioner! Ha!” Perry laughed, imagining the scene. “Mind you, the Duke of Monmouth’s executioner was useless,” said Perry. “The Duke was heard to sigh really loudly after the third botched attempt at his beheadin’: can you imagine how the executioner felt after that.” He chuckled. “That’d put the willies up yer, no mistake.” Perry dabbed at his nose with a napkin; it had stopped bleeding.
On that ghoulish note I decided to leave. I finished my Guinness and tried not to pull a face as the bitter liquid trickled down my throat, but it still made Perry smirk. I stood and threw down some notes to cover the bill and a tip. I pointed at Perry’s bruised face and said, “Sorry about the . . .”
“No problem, anytime,” he said genially and I was pretty sure he meant it, “Here, yer might want to check out the Camelot Medieval Festival Fayre.”
“The what?”
“The Camelot Medieval Festival. They regularly hold a fayre, they do battle re-enactments and joustin’, that sort of thing. Some of the experts up there sell weaponry, mostly replicas, but sometimes they have the real deal, at a price of course.”
“How’d ya know about this place?”
“That’s where I got my flail.”
“What’s a flail?” I asked.
On The Edge Page 27