Milrose Munce and the Den of Professional Help

by Douglas Anthony Cooper

  At the end of the hall, a young woman with a shock of shockingly red hair was seated in the centre of the floor. As Milrose approached, he noted that she had, pinned on her lapel, a huge white flower of some truly unusual species, and it was this that Milrose Munce had been able to smell half a football field away.

  He came closer, and the scent of the flower grew almost overwhelming, in a pleasant if disorienting way.

  “Nice flower,” said Milrose to the girl, as it was the only thing he could think of to say.

  “Thank you,” she said. “It’s the last member of a dying species.”

  “Unfortunate.”

  “It thinks so too. Which is why it’s trying so hard. To be a flower.”

  “Hence the, um, smell.”

  “Yes. It’s trying to be the most florid thing that ever floresced.”

  “Good for it. And what’s your name?”

  “I never give out my name. Milrose.”

  It was, of course, the girl with the long velvet dress, who had indeed been a quenched redhead, and was now returned to full and glorious flame. He decided that he would skip Our Natural World and study this girl instead.

  “Ah yes,” said Milrose. “Nameless you. I should have realized. It’s just that you’re wearing something different.”

  After this clever remark, Milrose chose to investigate what she was in fact wearing. No, it was not a violet velvet dress. Nothing of the sort. A little bit velvet, yes, but neither a dress nor violet. She had on a red plush smoking jacket, a white tuxedo shirt, black tailored silk trousers with buttoned cuffs, and the same dyed ballet slippers.

  “The slippers, though. Should have tipped me off.”

  “I’m always prepared.”

  “For?”

  “An audition. You never know when they’ll suddenly need a prima ballerina.”

  “Ah. So you dance.”

  “No.”

  The girl stroked the huge florid flower, and in response it doubled its scent, adding a high note of almond.

  “Cyanide, you know,” said Milrose Munce.

  “Yes?”

  “Cyanide smells like almonds.”

  “Are you suggesting that my sweet flower might be trying to poison us?”

  “No. Just an observation. Although maybe, as the last member of a species, it’s trying to, you know, take us down with it.”

  “Stop being so suspicious. It’s just a flower.”

  “Right. So, um, what are you doing in the middle of the floor?”

  “Visiting.”

  “Who?”

  “Whom.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Why?”

  “Just wanted to know,” said Milrose. “I don’t see anyone here.”

  “They’re not here. At the moment. And when they come by, I suspect you won’t be able to see them.”

  Just then, Poisoned Percy floated down the hall, so involved with self that for a moment he did not notice this conversation. Then he stopped. “Munce! Arabella! I did not know you were … acquainted.”

  “Your name’s Arabella?”

  “Excuse me. Your name is Milrose.”

  “Not being critical. Just, well, noting this.”

  “Noted.” Arabella did not look happy. Clearly, it upset her that Milrose now knew her name, thereby depriving her of the upper hand. Also, Milrose sensed, it annoyed her that he was capable of seeing these floating souls.

  Milrose, on the other hand, was merely confused. He too was not used to encountering a fellow student with one foot in the grave. While seeing ghosts was something he took for granted, personally, he was comfortable being unique in this way. Milrose decided, however, that if his streak of uniqueness had to be interrupted, he was glad it was this girl who had done so. If it had been, say, the odious harelipped bully, Boorden Grundhunch, he would have been less pleased with the company.

  “So we both know Percy.”

  “In centuries to come, everyone will know me. And the name’s Parsifal.”

  “Sure you want that, Poisson, buddy? That’s a lot of Christmas cards to send out.”

  “Poets do not send Christmas cards to their fawning readers.”

  “Oh. How about to those readers who think you’re an excruciating hack?”

  “Arabella. I did not think you were of the same … temperament as Munce.”

  “I’m not.”

  “He does not have a … poetic soul.”

  “Cut me some slack, Percy. You haven’t heard my limericks. ‘There was a ridiculous ghoul / Who swanned down the halls of the school …’”

  “That will do, Munce.”

  “Sometimes I enjoy crass, distasteful company,” Arabella explained.

  “Wait a moment.”

  “I was just playing with you, Milrose. I find you refreshing. In a crass, distasteful sort of way.”

  “That’s better.”

  “So, Munce, to what do we owe the unusual pleasure of your company?”

  “Uh … well, I like to make a beeline for class when on this floor—not that I don’t love you guys and all, but I’m a bit sensitive, and the sight of poetry makes me weep. So, I was kind of in mid-beeline when I encountered Arabella here. Stopped to chat. Please don’t show me any poetry.”

  Percy chose to let this vulgar comment slide.

  “Hey, Arabella—wonder if you know any of my buddies on the third floor. Cryogenic Kelvin? Deeply Damaged Dave?”

  “I do not think Arabella would mix well with that company,” said Percy with great hauteur.

  “Yeah, well, I doubt you’d mix all that well up there either. Come to think of it, they’d probably be inclined to set you on fire.”

  “I have never been on the third floor,” said Arabella. “I have an allergy to most of the elements in the periodic table and have been excused from Chemistry.”

  “That’s a shame. Some of those elements are an awful lot of fun.”

  “Also, I am quite happy with society here on the second floor.”

  “What—you hang here a lot?”

  “I find it congenial.”

  “You find this joker congenial?”

  “Please, Munce.”

  “Do not be offended by Milrose. I’m sure he is magnificently polite, in general. He is simply depressed,” said Arabella. “Milrose has been condemned to receive … Professional Help.”

  Poisoned Percy looked genuinely concerned. “Awfully sorry, Munce. That’s terrible.”

  “Um, Arabella? Is this sort of like everyone’s name? You know every lousy thing that’s happening to people?”

  “No …” said Arabella. She stroked her flower. “I too have been designated. As one in need. Of Professional Help.”

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  ARABELLA AND MILROSE SAT TOGETHER ON THE LAWN IN FRONT OF THE SCHOOL. MILROSE HAD SUGGESTED THEY GET COFFEE, BUT ARABELLA HAD INSISTED UPON JUNGERBERRIES AND THICK CREAM, WHICH THEY WERE NOW CONSUMING—SHE WITH DELIGHT AND HE WITH GREAT SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS.

  “You really are ridiculously pretentious,” said Milrose Munce.

  “Thank you,” said Arabella. “Pass the cream?”

  “I didn’t know they had wild jungerberries at the corner store.”

  “I’ll bet you never asked.”

  “True.”

  “Imagination, Milrose.”

  “Imagination is for people with no imagination.”

  “I shall remember that. Please pass the jungerberries.”

  “So. Arabella. What did you do, to …”

  “Be considered a candidate? For PH?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t precisely do anything.”

  “Then why?”

  “I simply was.”

  “Er … we all are.”

  “I mean, I was thought to simply be the sort of person who needs this kind of thing.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “Yes. I’m used to it. My father’s in customer service, you see. And my mother’s in
departmental relations. And I’m … well, neither. They’ve never been able to understand how the two of them, together, could have produced me. In fact, they refuse to accept that I am their daughter until it is confirmed through DNA testing.”

  “That’s sick.”

  “You’re kind.” She stared off into the distance, where nothing much was worth looking at. “The test results won’t be in for a long time. Meanwhile, they’ve decided that perhaps, with some Help, I might become more like what their daughter was meant to be.”

  Arabella’s until now utterly composed lower lip trembled, a single time. And a single tear, which she refused to acknowledge, made its way from the corner of her eye, down the left side of her nose and around the edge of her mouth, to lodge trembling against her lower lip, which refused to tremble again. Milrose pretended not to notice.

  “Yeah, well, who needs them. I hope they get fired for deviant behaviour.”

  “Thank you.” Arabella concentrated fiercely on the jungerberries.

  “My parents are quite sweet, actually,” said Milrose.

  “So why have you been chosen?”

  “Well, it seems that I’ve been noticed talking to people who do not exist.”

  Arabella’s voice betrayed a hint of uncharacteristic urgency. “They saw you talking to our friends?”

  “Well, clearly they assumed I was talking to myself. Or worse: someone I saw, who wasn’t there.”

  “But that means that I …” Arabella frowned. “Maybe I’m not being sentenced for who I am. Maybe they’ve seen me talking as well.”

  “That would make sense, wouldn’t it.”

  “It would be nice. Except … well, it’s not good, is it.”

  “No. Professional Help strikes me as, in fact, tending towards badness.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I mean it’s not good that both of us have been seen conversing with them. I don’t know why, but I’m quite sure this is not … helpful. To our friends.”

  “Why? These bozos think we’re talking to thin air. They’re clearly bent on torturing us, not the air we’re yacking with.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” said Milrose, who was not sure at all.

  “What if … I don’t know why I’m thinking this, but what if they know about our dead friends? What if they know that we’re talking to them?”

  “And … you mean, they don’t like it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which would mean that, maybe, they don’t like our friends.”

  Arabella nodded slowly.

  They sat in silence, contemplating this vague yet disturbing thought. If this were true, then things were much more complicated, and for some reason considerably more menacing.

  “Pass the jungerberries?”

  This request, Milrose immediately noticed, was voiced in a voice considerably lower and even more poised than Arabella’s. It also emanated from the place over his shoulder, which is not where Arabella sat.

  Beside them, having arrived in a way so discreet as to seem almost impossible, lounged an unnervingly well appointed man, whose tie and immaculate suit were especially out of place against the scrawny grass.

  Without thinking to pause or question, Milrose passed the jungerberries.

  “May I introduce myself?” said the finely tailored man. The question did not seem to permit a response: he was going to introduce himself whether it were desired or not. Which it was not. “My name is Massimo Natica. A pleasure.”

  It was not.

  Massimo—or was it Mr. Natica?—did not partake of the jungerberries he had been passed. He simply held the bowl, cradled in one hand, as he smiled toothfully. Milrose noted that his pupils were unnaturally large, and not precisely circular. He was so closely shaven as to look almost plastic.

  “I’m, uh, Milrose.”

  Arabella did not smile. Her eyes went opaque and inscrutable, as they had when Milrose had first encountered her. “I do not give out my name.”

  “That’s okay, Arabella. I understand.”

  Arabella was incensed. “You do not know my name. Therefore I forbid you to use it.”

  “Of course, Arabella. These things are fully understandable.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Massimo Natica, I do not think I wish to share our jungerberries with you.”

  “Understood.” And yet he did not pass the berries back to them.

  “Who are you? And why are you lounging beside us, uninvited?” inquired Arabella.

  “I am Massimo Natica.”

  “Yes. And?”

  “I understand your suspicion.”

  “Not suspicion. Antipathy.”

  “Such a perfect day,” said Massimo Natica, admiring the weather. “It is a perfect day to commence.”

  Milrose and Arabella were now silent. This was ominous. They had no desire to commence anything, much less with this slick and vexatious man.

  “Do not be concerned. I am not here to hinder you. I am here to Help.”

  Milrose stood, prepared to run. He felt the urge to sprint, athletically, in a direction away from this Massimo Natica. Since almost every direction pointed that way, he froze, briefly, trying to decide which one. But this brief freeze could not be unfrozen, and he simply stood there.

  “Do sit down, Milrose. You and Arabella are enjoying your jungerberries, and you do not wish to interrupt the exquisite perfection of this moment.”

  “Uh, Natica? You’re still holding the jungerberries, so it’s kind of hard to enjoy them, isn’t it.”

  “Sit down.”

  This was not a command; it was not uttered in a different tone from what Massimo Natica had been employing all along; and yet it somehow caused Milrose to sit down on the grass.

  “We shall repose here and luxuriate in this moment, for a moment, and then we shall repair to my office.”

  “Where you intend to repair us, no doubt,” said Arabella, not without a hint of fear in her voice.

  “And now that we’ve enjoyed our introductory moment, I think it is time to remove ourselves from nature and transplant ourselves into the comfort of my little den.”

  Why did it hardly surprise Milrose Munce that the Den of Professional Help was situated on the first floor? The repugnant first floor, friendless and ghost-bereft?

  Massimo Natica led them, somehow—for it was against their will—down the hallway of the first floor.

  When they arrived at the library, they turned left.

  This would not seem such a momentous act, except that it was impossible to turn left at the library. Milrose had never attempted this, for the simple reason that there was a solid wall to the left, and turning would involve, at the very least, a broken nose.

  And yet they turned left. It was amazingly easy to do. The hallway itself turned that way, and all they had to do was follow it. Milrose did not like this at all. He glanced at Arabella, and she too was displeased: the hallway really ought not to go in this direction.

  “My little den is a comfortable place. You’ll like it very much. We’ll spend a great deal of enjoyable time together, in my cozy den. This should make you happy.”

  The door to this den did not promise as much. It was painted a glossy white, and seemed—simply by its aura—to be heavy and metallic. Set into this ominous door was an unusually small window, which was also unusually high: certainly no ordinary human being was of a height sufficient to put nose to that glass. And set into the glass was a screen of thick wire. The sea-green glass was of a colour to indicate great thickness, as if this glass were made to withstand not simply bullets but shoulder-launched rockets and perhaps even heat-seeking missiles. Milrose sensed, however, that there was not much heat to seek behind this daunting door.

  That this was the door to the den was indicated by Massimo Natica’s proud stance before it. He turned to Milrose and Arabella, and his expression was one of profound appreciation; an expression that beckoned them to join in his exaltation of this lovely door.
>
  They did not.

  He produced from his pocket a gruesome modern key—the sort that would drive any would-be burglar to despair—and fitted it into what must have been, internally, a gruesome modern lock. The sound this lock made as it opened was itself complex: a series of clicks and whirs, punctuated by what seemed—could this be?—the cry of distressed rodents.

  The light that shone from the opened door did not. Which is to say, there was certainly light behind the door, but it did not shine. The light simply sat there, heavily, like the smell in the basement. Massimo Natica stepped graciously aside and issued his two wards into the den beyond.

  The words comfortable and cozy seemed to vie with each other for status as the bigger whopping lie with respect to Massimo Natica’s den. Even the word den was a ridiculous misnomer, if meant in the sense of a place you might put your feet up to read a good book. On the other hand, thought Milrose, aren’t dens also where innocent people get thrown to the lions?

  Displayed in various places around the den were singular objects, some propped against walls, others in glass vitrines—possessions that were clearly dear to the den’s proprietor. The cattle prod was perhaps the most unnerving, even though it was clearly an antique, with prominent wiring and an old-fashioned battery. The pitchfork too was old-fashioned, although it looked as if it could still do a good job in those areas where pitchforks come in useful. The prod occupied its own special glass case, but the pitchfork was propped lazily against the wall. The most elaborate display was a line of framed strait-jackets, stretching all the way across the wall: they had been arranged in historical order, to illustrate the evolution of that garment over time.

  And in the centre of the room was a group of plump chairs and a sofa.

  Massimo indicated these, expansively. “Why don’t you make yourselves comfortable.”

  There were numerous equally appropriate responses to that question.

  “I can see that my antiques have you a little apprehensive. Understand that I collect these objects simply to remind us of how far we have come in the Help-giving process. How much more civilized we are!” He nodded in satisfaction, evidently agreeing with himself. “Well now. Time to sit down and get to work. Try this comfy chair.”