Milrose Munce and the Den of Professional Help

by Douglas Anthony Cooper

  This was no ordinary creature. He was, perhaps, human, except that his forehead was so low as to barely exist: it was just tall enough to entertain eyebrows, and these brute ornaments blended almost with the hair on his head. His nose was unlike most human noses, in that it had no definite shape: it was a sort of doorknob of cartilage, dominating the centre of his simian face. The neck, too, was simian, if in fact a bit wide relative to the neck of the average gorilla. And even the most vicious of the great apes had eyes displaying more warmth and intelligence than those glaring from above that blasted nose and behind those pitiless bars.

  Arabella made her regal way between the ranks of sombre athletes towards this appalling beast. She held a key in her hand. And she realized, as she examined the dream, that she fully intended to use this key to free the monster from his cage.

  It all makes sense, thought Arabella, upon opening her eyes. Although she could not figure out precisely what kind of sense it made, she was pleased to know that everything was now clear. After yawning, she shook her head to rid it of cobwebs (Arabella was not sure that her head contained actual cobwebs, but it seemed best to play it safe), and climbed the tower of beds to where Milrose was snoring. She poked him gracefully in the ribs. “Milrose!” she whispered.

  He opened one eye, annoyed.

  “Milrose Munce, I have had a clarifying dream!”

  He closed the eye, and sighed. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  “You have to have more faith in my dream. Or I shall not tell it to you.”

  “Fine. I’m thrilled that everything has come clear to you in your sleep. Dying to hear it. Really. Now tell me all.”

  Arabella, although she was not at all fooled by this weary pledge of fascination, told him the dream anyway. When she finished, she noticed that Milrose was staring at her with amused disbelief.

  “Arabella, that is the least clarifying dream I have ever heard.”

  “I disagree. You just have a bad attitude.”

  “But what has become clear?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “For this you woke me up …” Milrose turned away from Arabella, in fond annoyance. Then he suddenly perked up. “Hang on. You say he had a nose like a doorknob, this creature?”

  “Yes. Precisely.”

  “And his neck—was it … thicker than the average neck?”

  “Oh, a tree trunk.”

  “What about his forehead. Would you say that he had a tall forehead?”

  “It was the least tall forehead I have ever encountered. It barely deserved the title ‘forehead.’ In fact, it’s only out of generosity that I’m calling that whole bulbous thing a head.”

  “Sledge!” said Milrose.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You dreamed about Sledge! He’s a borderline psychopath. Lives in the basement.”

  “He lives there?”

  “Well, he hangs out there. Athlete. Football player. Squarebacker or something. Nobody else could possibly fit that description.” Milrose thought for a moment. “Yes, this is a truly exceptional dream, Arabella. Sledge—I never thought about this before—Sledge is a survivor of Professional Help.”

  “What? He wasn’t ‘cured’?”

  “Apparently not. I wonder if that makes him unique. But he definitely had Help. Meaning that, insofar as he’s aware of anything, he must be aware of our dead friends.”

  “We have something in common with this brute?”

  “Yup. Who knew. Moreover, I suspect he is on our side. I mean, when I had my last conversation with him—ha! ‘conversation’—it was pretty clear that he didn’t have fond memories. Of Help.”

  “So that’s why I must free him!”

  “Precisely! Superb dream.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Free him from what?”

  “The cage.”

  “Yes, but what cage?”

  “That’s all I know.”

  “Well, let’s get on it, then.”

  Getting on it proved less difficult than might have been imagined. Getting on it would, they both supposed, involve descending into the basement. Hence it was with some excitement that Milrose noticed something dangling from the ceiling.

  “What is that?” said Arabella, who had also noticed this dangling object.

  “A chemistry set!” said Milrose, who had seen more than a few in his time. “A nice one! And it seems to be very old.”

  The set was one of those jaunty children’s toys, in a suitcase-like metal box upon which was painted a cheerful boy genius about to wreak havoc with some liquid in a test tube. Milrose had inherited just such a chemistry set from his grandfather, and before blowing it up during an unfortunate (but thrilling) experiment, had learned a great deal from it. The nice thing about antique chemistry sets is that they contained all sorts of astonishingly dangerous chemicals later deemed inappropriate for children.

  The suitcase was hanging from a rope, and the rope itself was familiar: it was the same homespun ghost stuff out of which Dave had woven his rope ladder to help them climb through the deploded ceiling. This rope seemed to descend through the floor, without actually piercing it, much as a ghost’s arm might emerge from a solid object (an ordinary occurrence they had both witnessed on many occasions).

  “A present from Dave!” said Milrose. “Most excellent.”

  Milrose, with Arabella supporting him so that he did not fall from the hideous height, stood on the bunk and leaned out to untie the chemistry set from its rope. Upon closer examination, it showed further Dave-like characteristics. Where the old metal box had said “Chemistry,” Dave had augmented this word, in nicely embossed and painted letters, so that it read “Ghost Chemistry.” In full, the box now promised “Ghost Chemistry Set for the Young Inquiring Mind. Educational! Fun! Unfold the Mysteries of the Immaterial World!” Milrose looked closely, and yes: it had once read “Material World.” The painted boy genius staring gleefully at the glowing test tube had a familiar expression: cheerful obsession, bordering on insanity.

  As Milrose opened the metal box, Arabella noted that he had much the same expression on his face.

  The ingredients featured in the Ghost Chemistry Set were not at all like the bits and pieces purveyed by the antique set Milrose had inherited. The vials contained things that might have been called chemicals, except that they had eyes, and were very much alive. The test tubes and flasks and devices were more complicated than the ones Milrose had shattered at home: one bottle had no inside and no outside; the test tubes had—was it possible?—teeth; the rubber stoppers beat like tiny hearts.

  To explain all this, the set included a manual, but it was unlike any textbook Milrose had ever encountered. First of all, it was handwritten, in golden ink that glowed and moved restlessly on the page. From the start, it did not much resemble a chemistry book, in that it concentrated mostly on the pronunciation of difficult words in a language Milrose could not identify.

  “This is gonna involve some study,” he said.

  “Lovely,” said Arabella. “You shall study, and I shall sleep.” She yawned, covering her mouth with a pretty hand, and turned to crawl down the ladder.

  Milrose turned to the manual, and focused his clever mind, fiercely, on the longest and probably most useful chapter: “The Art of Temporary Explosions, as Revealed Through the Careful Explorations and Experimental Activities of Deeply Damaged Dave, Scientist.”

  The next day’s Help was a nauseating blur for Milrose, as he had not slept at all after being woken by Arabella. He had spent the entire night studying ghost chemistry, and had learned a great deal, but his brain had ceased to function sometime during breakfast and was now about as sentient and useful as a spleen. The only bit of information to pierce his mental haze was the announcement that Massimo would be away Friday, to attend a special session of something or other to which he had been invited as an important something and was expected to do something important. The details were foggy, but it was obvious that Massimo was lying:
the word important simply did not ring true when applied to Massimo Natica. Nevertheless, he was going to be away, on Friday. Two days from now.

  Massimo had decided to experiment for a few days with exercises devoted to virtues other than trust, and this was a major blessing: if Milrose had been forced to practise trust in his mentally diminished state, it is not likely that Arabella would have remained unforked for long.

  At last Help drew to a close, and dinner was eaten, and Massimo departed for whatever loathsome place he occupied when he was not being a great Professional. The excitement Milrose felt at having the opportunity to return to his studies banished all blur, and his mind again focused on the task at hand.

  “How are we doing, Milrose?” asked Arabella, impressed with the scholarly intensity Milrose brought to this project.

  “Good. Excellent. Yes. Figuring it all out. Yup. Too bad none of it works.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Well, I did some elementary chemistry last night—and I’m pretty sure I got it all correct, the pronunciation and whatnot—but nothing happened.”

  “That’s not a good sign.”

  “No. But this stuff is fascinating.”

  “That may well be, but we have important things to accomplish. Don’t you think you can get it to … well, accomplish something?”

  “Hard to say. It sure sounds like effective stuff. I’m going to try something more ambitious tonight. We’ll see.”

  Arabella watched with interest as Milrose arranged the chemicals on the floor beneath the tower of beds. They were adorable, these chemicals: they would shyly bat their eyelashes at each other and hide in the corners, and occasionally make small sighing noises. Milrose would place one in the bottle that had no inside and no outside, and the chemical would become confused; he would then intone something magisterial in the unknown language, and the chemical would cringe in awe; after which there would be a long, dramatic pause, at the end of which … nothing happened.

  Ghost chemistry, although impressive, was really not very useful. Not in the hands of Milrose Munce, at any rate. “Perhaps you have to be a ghost,” mused Milrose. “Perhaps I ought to be dead.”

  “Please don’t die,” said Arabella, in an unusually urgent tone of voice, which Milrose noted with satisfaction.

  The only perceptible change wrought by this chemistry was a renewed vigour on the part of Arabella’s flower, which seemed once again determined to be the most florid thing ever to floresce. Milrose, if nothing else, had conjured an overwhelming scent of almonds. That, however, was not going to free Sledge from his cage—assuming that this was what they were meant to accomplish.

  The next morning, Milrose was not only in a blur but also in something like despair. Again he had not slept, and again he had learned a great deal, and again he had managed to achieve nothing.

  According to Arabella’s calculations, today was their thirty-eighth day in Professional Help. Neither liked to talk about it, but for a long time both had been very much aware of the coming Monday, and what it meant. Monday would be the forty-second day. On Monday, if the general rule held true, they were going to be cured.

  Even if Milrose weren’t desperately tired, he would have been miserable. But fatigue meant that he was both miserable and half comatose. He looked forward to the morning’s shower as salvation: his last hope of remaining conscious for the rest of the day.

  The shower did prove a form of salvation, but in ways Milrose had not expected.

  “Psst,” said the drain.

  Milrose dropped the soap. “Beg your pardon?”

  “I said ‘psst,’” said the drain, in a very Harry-like voice, “and what I meant was, turn off the water or I’m gonna drown.”

  “How can a ghost drown?” said Milrose. “Meant to ask you that before.”

  “Complicated. Forget it. Concentrate. Did you get the chemistry set?”

  “Yeah. It’s great. Doesn’t do a thing, though.”

  “Oh, it will. Just make sure you learn the stuff.”

  “Learning away. What do you mean, ‘it will’?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough. I suggest you make tomorrow a chemistry day.”

  “You know, you guys with all your hints and half-revealed truths are getting really annoying.”

  “Can’t be helped. Spells, counterspells, heat-seeking missiles …”

  “Yeah, yeah. Know all about it. So you’ve been in touch with Dave?”

  “Sure have. Love that guy. Sure knows how to put on a show.”

  “No kidding. You’ve met, then?”

  “Naw … he’s on the third floor. But he sends these fire-breathing messages to the basement. Awesome stuff—I’ll tell you all about it later. Suffice it to say, man, we’re joining forces. Everyone’s joining forces. It’s gonna be one big fat force, dude.”

  “Brilliant.”

  “So, tomorrow. Chemistry. Make it a priority.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. Massimo’s away.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh.”

  “Turn on the water again—this is gonna look suspicious. I gotta go.”

  And with that, Harry’s voice departed, and a great cloud of sonic irritation was lifted from the atmosphere.

  Arabella was excited to learn of Harry’s reappearance. She was disappointed to hear that he hadn’t said much that was concrete or useful, but they were both getting used to this. It was decided that Milrose would complete his studies early in the evening and get at least some sleep for the day ahead: Friday, a day without Massimo.

  By now, Milrose had almost memorized the entire chemistry manual. He really was quite good at studying things, if they were things worth studying. By the time he was ready for bed, Milrose felt that he had a knowledge of temporary explosion far surpassing that of any mortal (given that no mortal had ever studied the matter, this was highly likely), and that his wisdom might even be approaching that of the great pioneering scientist in the realm, Deeply Damaged Dave.

  “Is this Friday the thirteenth, by any chance?” asked Arabella, stretching.

  “Nerp. The twenty-second. Anyway, I’ve always felt that Friday the thirteenth was a fraudulent concept.”

  “Me too. Yes. Perhaps the twenty-second, however, is truly potent.”

  “Yeah. Extremely unlucky. Especially if you happen to be, say, a Professional Helper.”

  “I feel this to be the case.”

  “Good. You’ve always had unerring intuition.” Milrose frowned. “God, I sound like Percy.”

  “You should be pleased,” said Arabella happily. “It is further proof that you are developing a poetic soul.”

  “I’d rather develop a huge wart between my eyes,” said Milrose, pleased.

  Breakfast was waiting for them on a tray in front of the door. Whenever Massimo was away, that was how their food arrived, although they had never managed to catch the delivery man in the act of delivering. This was for the best: they agreed he would have unnervingly long and disgusting arms, which would doubtless affect their appetites.

  Milrose and Arabella ate quickly, as both were very much in the mood to see whether Harry’s vague prediction was at all valid. Apparently, the chemicals were in a similar mood: when Milrose opened the chemistry set, they were jiggling and bouncing, and their tiny eyes were smiling.

  When placed on the floor, this time, the cheerful chemicals lined up expectantly, their eyes fixed upon Milrose. He arranged a few toothy test tubes about them and placed the insideless bottle off to one side.

  “Right,” said Milrose. “Stand back!” This was to Arabella, who was sitting on a bunk some levels above, but “stand back” is what great magicians and scientists say when about to accomplish momentous things. He then proceeded, in his very best accent, to intone potent words from the manual in a weird incantation, which the chemicals seemed to particularly enjoy. They bobbed up and down and glanced at each other in flushed appreciation—isn’t that lovely, that incantation?—and blew up.

>   The explosion was certainly at least as fine as what Dave had accomplished with the ceiling. If anything it was more precise and elegant. Milrose had produced an almost perfectly circular hole in the floor.

  “Exquisite,” said Arabella.

  “Thank you. Tell me this doesn’t make poetry look totally lame by comparison.”

  “Perhaps this is a form of poetry.”

  “Yes. You’re right. It is. I can’t wait to present Percy with one of my poems.”

  “Munce,” said a noxious voice from below. “You there? Munce!”

  “Harry! Yes, yes—please, not so annoying! I mean, not so loud.”

  “Nice explosion. Now get down here. There’s work to be done.”

  Milrose peered through the hole: Harry had helpfully put a stepladder beneath the hole and was standing beside it.

  “All prepared, are we, Harry?” said Milrose, testing the ladder with his hand before descending.

  “You have no idea. Buddy, there’ve been wars—world wars—that didn’t have this kind of preparation behind them. I am nothing if not prepared. Triple redundancy.”

  “Go, team.”

  “Say. Whatever happened to that chick who was chatting up our ceiling?”

  “She would be right here,” said Arabella with a hint of revulsion. Her face was framed by the lovely circular hole.

  “Ah. Great! Hi, chick. I mean, greetings, fair maiden. Oh hell, whatever.”

  “Hello, Harold. A pleasure.”

  Arabella made her delicate way down the ladder. She stood beside Milrose, and both of them stared about. It did not look much like the basement they had encountered before. They were in a long, bleak corridor of stained concrete. No lockers were in evidence, and no athletes, with one notable exception: Sledge was imprisoned, much to his psychotic consternation, in a powerful steel cage in the centre of the floor.