‘I really can’t remember,’ said Jack.
‘Nor me.’ The chef shook his head, which appeared to creak as he shook it. ‘But then, I never was a baby. It’s funny the things that slip your mind, though, isn’t it?’
Jack nodded politely. ‘I’m dying from hunger,’ he said. ‘Please feed me.’
‘About half past seven,’ said the chef.
‘Excuse me?’ said Jack.
‘Oh, sorry,’ said the chef. ‘I’ve got a woodworm in my ear. It crawled in there last Tuesday. I’ve tried to entice it out with cheese, but it seems to be happy where it is.’
‘Food,’ said Jack, pointing to his mouth. ‘I’ve gold, I can pay well.’
‘Boody fries, you need.’ The barlord smacked his lips noisily together. ‘Mambo-munchies, over-and-unders, a big pot of jumbly and an aftersnack of smudge cake. And if you’ll take the advice of a professional who knows these things, add a pint of Keener’s grog to wash the whole lot down with.’
‘All this fare is new to me,’ said Jack. ‘But a double helping of each, if you please.’
‘I do please,’ said the chef. ‘But the oven’s broken down again, so you can’t have any of those. Not even the grog. If I had my time over again, I would never have bought this crummy concession. I’d have trained to become a gourmet chef for some big swell on Knob Hill. Or I could have gone in with my brother; he has a specialist restaurant over on the East Side. Serves up smoked haunch of foolish boy, supplied by some local farmer who breeds them, I suppose.’
Jack took a very deep breath which, when exhaled, became a very deep and heartfelt sigh. He brought forth his pistol and levelled it at the chef. ‘If you do not feed me at once,’ he said, ‘I will be forced to shoot you dead and feast upon your carcass.’
‘That’s something I’d like to see.’ The chef gave his nose a significant tap, the significance of which was lost upon Jack. But the sound of this tap drew Jack’s attention. It was not the sound of flesh being tapped upon flesh. Jack stared hard at the shadowy chef and, for the first time, truly took in what there was of him to be seen. There was something altogether strange about this fellow. Something unworldly. Jack looked at the chef’s hand. It was a false hand. A hand carved from wood. Jack looked now, but furtively, towards the face of the chef. That nose was also of wood. A wooden nose. Upon … Jack’s furtive glance became a lingering, fearful stare …
… upon … a wooden face!
The chef ’s entire head, so it appeared, was made of wood.
Jack blinked his eyes. That wasn’t possible. He was surely hallucinating from lack of food. A man might have a false hand, but not a false head.
‘Bread,’ said Jack. ‘Cheese, whatever you have. Hurry now, hunger befuddles my brain, as the nesting woodworm …’ he paused, then continued, ‘does yours.’
‘As you please.’ The chef shrugged, ducked down behind the bar counter and re-emerged with a plate of sandwiches held in both hands.
Both hands were wooden.
The hands worried Jack, but he viewed the food with relish.
‘I regret that I don’t have any relish,’ said the chef, placing the plate upon the bar counter and clapping his wooden hands together. ‘I’ve been expecting a delivery. For some months now.’
‘I’ll take them as they come.’ Jack reached out a hand to take up a sandwich, but then paused. ‘What are they?’ he asked.
‘Sandwiches,’ said the chef.
‘I mean, what’s in them?’
‘Ham. It’s a pig derivative.’
Jack tucked his pistol back into his sleeve, snatched up a sandwich and thrust it into his mouth. ‘Bliss,’ he said with his mouth full.
‘It’s rude to talk with your mouth full,’ said the chef. ‘A mug of porter to wash them down?’
‘Yes please.’ Jack munched away as the chef drew a mug of porter. Jack watched him as he went about his business. There had to be some logical explanation. Folk could not have wooden heads. Perhaps it was some kind of mask. Perhaps the chef had been hideously disfigured in a catering accident and so now wore a wooden mask. An animated wooden mask. Jack shrugged. It was as good an explanation as any. And anyway, it was none of his business.
Eating was currently his business.
‘We don’t get many blue-faced youths in these parts,’ the chef observed as he drew the mug of porter. ‘Your accent is strange to me. Which part of the city are you from?’
Jack munched on and shook his head. ‘I’m not from the city,’ he said. ‘I’m from the south.’
‘I’ve never travelled south.’ The chef presented Jack with his beverage. ‘But they tell me that the lands of the south are peopled with foolish boys who travel north to seek their fortunes in the city. Would there be any truth in this?’
Jack raised an eyebrow and continued with his munching.
‘Between you and me,’ said the chef, ‘I do not hold travel in high esteem. Folk should stay put, in my opinion. It’s a wise man that knows where he is. And if he knows where he is, he should stay there, don’t you agree?’
Jack nodded. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Was that a trick answer?’
‘Probably.’
‘So you want a room for the night?’
Jack nodded once more. ‘And a stable and fodder for my horse.’
‘You won’t need that,’ said the chef.
‘I will.’ Jack pushed another sandwich into his mouth, chewed it up and swallowed it down. ‘He can’t stand out there all night.’
‘Well, obviously not.’ The chef adjusted his apron, which didn’t really need adjusting, but he adjusted it anyway. It was a chef thing. ‘But that’s neither here nor there, is it?’ said the chef, when he had done with his adjustments.
Jack took up the mug of porter and drank deeply of it. He was underage and shouldn’t really have been drinking alcohol. But as the chef hadn’t made a fuss about it, then Jack felt that neither would he. ‘Why is it neither here, nor there?’ he asked, without particular interest.
‘Because someone just stole your horse.’
‘What?’ Jack turned to look out of the window.
The post was still there, but Anthrax wasn’t.
‘Oh no,’ cried Jack. ‘Someone has stolen my horse.’ And leaving the balance of his porter untested, he rushed from Nadine’s Diner.
Outside, he stared up and down the lamp-lit street. The only trace of Anthrax was a pile of steaming manure. Jack shouted out the horse’s name, and listened in hope of an answering whinny.
To his great delight, one came to his ears.
‘Good boy,’ said Jack. ‘This way, I think,’ and he dashed around the corner of the diner and into a darkened alleyway.
‘Anthrax,’ called Jack, ‘where are you, boy?’
And ahead Jack saw him, by the light of a distant lamp, being led along by something that looked far from human. Something squat and strange. ‘Stop!’ shouted Jack. ‘Come back with my horse, you … whatever you are.’
And then Jack was aware of a movement behind him.
And then something hit him hard upon the head.
And then things went very black for Jack.
3
The moon, shining down upon the city, shone down also upon Jack, shone down upon the body of Jack, that was lying strewn in an alleyway. The moon didn’t care too much about Jack. But then, the moon didn’t care too much about anything. Caring wasn’t in the moon’s remit. The moon was just the moon, and on nights when there wasn’t any cloud about, it just shone down, upon anything and everything really, it didn’t matter what to the moon. The moon had seen most things before, and would surely see them again. And as for all the things that the moon hadn’t seen, well, it would see them too, eventually. On nights when there wasn’t any cloud about.
Not that it would care too much when it did.
It was a moon thing, not caring.
The moon couldn’t help the way it was.
Jack lay, face down, in th
e bedraggled fashion of one who has been roughly struck down, rather than gently arranged. One who has been dragged and flung. As indeed Jack had.
He’d lain for several hours in this untidy and uncared-for state, and would probably have lain so for several hours more, had not something prodded and poked him back into consciousness.
This something was persistent in its prodding and poking. It prodded and poked until it had achieved its desired effect.
Jack awoke with a start, or a jolt, if you prefer, or a shock, if you prefer that. Jack had no particular preference. So Jack awoke with a start and a jolt and a shock. Jack awoke to find a big round face staring right up close and at him.
Jack cowered back and the big round face, governed by the laws of perspective, became a small round face. And in accordance with other laws regarding relative proportion, remained that way. Jack blinked his eyes and stared at the face. It was the face of a bear. A teddy bear. A knackered-looking teddy bear, with mismatched button eyes and a kind of overall raggedness that did not make it altogether appealing to behold.
The bear was wearing a grubby old trenchcoat.
‘Bear.’ Jack made limp-wristed pointings. ‘Toy bear. What?’
‘What?’ asked the toy bear. ‘What?’
‘I’m dreaming.’ Jack smacked himself in the face. ‘Ouch!’ he continued. ‘Oh and …’
‘You’re new to these parts, aren’t you?’ said the bear. He had that growly voice that one associates with toy bears. Probably due to the growly thing that they have in their stomachs, which makes that growly noise when you tip them forward. ‘I’m Eddie, by the way. I’m the bear of Winkie.’
‘The who?’
‘The bear of Winkie. I’m Bill Winkie’s bear. And I’m not just any old bear. I’m an Anders Imperial. Cinnamon-coloured mohair plush, with wood wool stuffing throughout. Black felt paw pads, vertically stitched nose. An Anders Imperial. You can tell by the special button in my left ear.’ Eddie pointed to this special button and Jack peered at it.
The button looked very much like a beer bottle top.
It was a beer bottle top.
‘And what is your name?’ asked the bear.
‘I’m Jack,’ Jack found himself saying. He was now talking to a teddy bear. (Granted, he had recently chatted to a horse. But at least the horse had behaved like a horse and had failed to chat back to him.) ‘How?’ Jack rubbed some more at his head. ‘How is it done?’
‘How is what done?’ asked the bear.
‘How are you doing that talking? Who’s working you?’
‘Working me? No one’s working me. I work for myself.’
Jack eased himself into a sitting position. He patted at his person, then he groaned.
‘Stuffing coming out?’ Eddie cocked his head to one side.
‘Stuffing? No.’ Jack patted some more about his person. ‘I’ve been robbed. I had a purse full of gold coins. And my boots. Someone’s stolen my boots.’
‘Don’t knock it,’ said Eddie. ‘At least you’re still alive. Listen, I’ve got to sit down, my legs are drunk.’
‘Eh?’ said Jack. ‘What?’
‘My legs,’ said the bear. ‘They’re really drunk. If I sit down, then just my bum will be drunk and that won’t be so bad.’
‘I’ve lost it,’ said Jack. ‘Knocked unconscious twice in a single day. My brain is gone. I’ve lost it. I’ve gone mad.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ The bear sat down. ‘But it will probably help you to fit in. Most folk in the city are a bit, or more so, mad.’
‘I’m talking to a toy bear.’ Jack threw up his hands. His clockwork gun fell out of his sleeve. ‘Oh, at least I still have this,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I should simply shoot myself now and get it all over with. I came to the city to seek my fortune and within hours of arrival I’m mad.’
‘You came to the city? You’re a stranger to the city?’
‘This has not been a good day for me.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said the bear.
‘Well,’ said Jack. ‘It all began when—’
‘No,’ said the bear. ‘It was a rhetorical comment. I don’t want you to tell me about it. I was concurring. Today hasn’t exactly been an armchair full of comfy cushions for yours truly.’
‘Who’s yours truly?’
‘I am, you gormster.’
‘Don’t start with me,’ said Jack, slipping his pistol back into his sleeve and feeling gingerly at the bump on the back of his head. ‘I’ve got brain damage. I can see talking toy bears.’
‘Where?’ asked Eddie, peering all around.
‘You,’ said Jack. ‘I can see you.’
‘You need a drink,’ said the bear. ‘And I need another upending.’
‘Upending? I don’t understand.’
‘Well, I don’t know what you’re stuffed with. Meat, isn’t it?’
Jack made a baffled face.
‘Well, I’m stuffed with sawdust and when I drink, the alcohol seeps down through my sawdust guts and into my feet. I’d have to drink a real lot to fill up all the way to my head and I never have that kind of money. So I get the barman to upend me. Stand me on my head. Then the alcohol goes directly to my head and stays there. Trouble is, it’s hard to balance on your head on a barstool at the best of times. You’ve no chance at all when you’re drunk. So I fall off the stool and the barman throws me out. It’s all so unfair. But that’s life for you, in an eggshell.’
‘It’s a nutshell, isn’t it?’
‘Well, you’d know, you’re the loony.’
‘I’m not well.’
The bear scrambled nearer to Jack and peered very closely at him. ‘You don’t look too well,’ said he. ‘Your face is all blue. Is that something catching, do you think? Not that I’ll catch it. Moth is all I catch. That’s one reason that I drink so much, to ward off the moth.’
‘It’s not fair.’ Jack buried his face in his hands and began to weep.
‘Oh, come on.’ Eddie Bear shifted over on his drunken bottom and patted Jack’s arm with a paw. ‘Things really could be worse. You’ll be okay. I can direct you to the hospital, if you think you need your head bandaged. Or I’ll stagger with you, if you want. Or you can carry me upside down and I’ll sing you drunken songs. I know some really rude ones. They’re all about pigs and penguins.’
‘I had a cap somewhere,’ said Jack, wiping his eyes and peering about in search of it.
‘Was it blue?’ asked the bear.
Jack nodded.
‘Well, it isn’t quite so blue now. I was sick on it. Mostly sawdust, of course, but evil-smelling; I had a curry earlier.’
‘This really isn’t happening.’
‘I think you’ll find that it is. Do you want to come back to my place? You could sleep there.’
Jack climbed painfully to his feet. He gazed down at the toy bear. ‘You really are real, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘As real as,’ said Eddie.
‘As real as what?’ said Jack.
‘Wish I knew,’ said Eddie. ‘But I can’t do corroborative nouns. None of us are perfect, are we? I can get started. As big as, as foul as, as obscene as. But I can’t get any further. But that’s life for you again. As unfair as … Listen, wouldn’t you rather go to a bar and have a drink? My bum’s beginning to sober up. I seep at the seams. I’ve got leaks as big as … But we all have our problems, don’t we?’
Jack agreed. ‘I’m very confused,’ he said. ‘But I don’t want to go to hospital. I don’t like hospitals. And I’m really too young to go into bars.’
‘You’re quite big enough; let’s have a beer. It won’t lessen your confusion, though. In fact, it will probably increase it. But in a nice way and that’s as good as, isn’t it?’
‘I should try and get my purse back. And my horse.’
‘You had a horse?’
‘A horse called Anthrax; he was stolen.’
‘Then he’s probably cat meat by now. Or being minced up to make burgers f
or that Nadine’s Diner around the corner.’
‘That’s terrible,’ said Jack. ‘Poor Anthrax.’
‘This isn’t a very nice neighbourhood, Jack.’
‘So what are you doing in it?’
‘I’m on a case,’ said Eddie Bear. ‘I’m a private detective. Hence the trenchcoat.’ Eddie did a bit of a twirl, then flopped back onto his drunken bum.
Jack shook his head, which pained him considerably. ‘I am mad,’ he said. ‘This is all mad.’
‘Come and have a beer,’ said Eddie. ‘I’ll pay. And kindly carry me, if you will. My legs are still as drunk as, if you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do.’
It was still a bright and moonlit night and as Jack, with Eddie underneath his arm and guided by the bear’s directions, lurched painfully in his stockinged feet along this street and that and around one corner and the next, he was, all in all, amazed by the all and all that he saw.
‘This is a very strange city,’ said Jack.
‘It’s not strange to me,’ said Eddie. ‘How so is it strange to you?’
‘Well,’ said Jack, ‘from a distance, as I approached the city, it all looked grey and dour. And it was, on the outskirts. But the deeper I go, the more colourful it becomes. And it’s night now.’
‘You’ll no doubt find it positively garish in the daytime.’ Eddie wriggled about.
‘Careful,’ said Jack, ‘I’ll drop you.’
‘You’re squeezing me in all the wrong places. You’ll push me out of shape.’
‘Sorry,’ said Jack. ‘But tell me this. Are you a magic bear?’
‘A magic bear? What is a magic bear?’
‘I’m thinking perhaps a toy bear brought to animation through witchcraft or something like that. Not that I’ve ever believed in witchcraft. Although I did once meet with a wise woman who could make ducks dance.’
‘Did they dance upon a biscuit tin?’
‘Now I come to think of it, yes. How did you know?’
‘It’s an old showman’s trick,’ said Eddie. ‘Involves a lighted candle inside the biscuit tin.’
‘Urgh,’ said Jack. ‘That’s most unpleasant.’
‘Works well, though. Look, we’re here.’
‘Where’s here?’
The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse Page 3