Read The Fabulous Beast Online
Authors: Garry Kilworth
The Fabulous Beast (13 page)
‘Not really. My head hurts.’
‘Aspirin, paracetamol, we’ll soon sort that out. The main thing is for you to get some good rest tonight. How can you sleep properly believing what you believe at the moment? There’s
nothing
out there. Take my word for it. I’m the sane one here. You’re the loopy bugger. We’ve got to unloop you, man, before you go to bed.’
gathered his courage and finally nodded. ‘All right.’
‘Good. Now you just stay behind me. If there’s any ghoulies or ghosties out there, they’ll get me first.’
That was some comfort to R..
‘I guess so.’
‘Here we go then.’
~
They left the cottage and went out back, R. pointing out the path he had made through the gorse bushes. It was cool and eerie outside and despite what G. had told R. the visitor felt a little spooked by the place. It wasn’t a
happy
land out back, that much was certain. No doubt it had been left wild too long. Who knew how long? Maybe years, maybe a decade, perhaps even a century? After all, why would anyone go there, except to look for a lost cat? It had a – what was it – yes, a pre-Christian feel to it. Pagan? Something of that nature. One of those areas which had been left well enough alone to be able to retain its ancient spirits. But that did not mean, G. reminded himself, that there was anything out here that could harm a modern man. By no means.
‘Are we near yet?’ he asked R.
‘There,’ came R.’s voice, from some way back. ‘Out there in front of you.’
G. looked down. There was a dip in the landscape, then a shallow rise. He was standing on the edge of the hollow. About ten yards away, below him, he could see a strange lumpy shape, half-hidden in the moonshades, camouflaged as it were by a confluence of darkness and light. It seemed out of place, not quite part of the natural scene. Was it a trick of the mind? Perhaps it was indeed composed of bits of tree, pieces of stone, shards of shadow? Perhaps. It was so difficult to tell being as it was in amongst the shrubs and weeds of the wasteland. The more he stared at it, the more the mound looked as if it were somehow unnatural in the setting. Not a part of the landscape but placed there.
From behind R. made a noise clearing his throat.
The shape seemed to stir at the sound. A ripple, a quiver went over its pale broad surface. Then something quite horrible happened. It actually sat up. Two arms appeared on the sides of the lump. A shock wave went through G.’s body. What had risen from the ground appeared to be the torso of a headless man. This had to be a trick. Someone was pulling strings, or working some sort of mechanism. Headless bodies do not lift themselves up of their own accord. G. looked around, wildly, hoping to see some grinning local, hoping to hear giggling in the bushes, hoping that what he was witnessing was a fool’s joke.
The next moment he almost swallowed his tongue.
R. let out a frightened and frightening scream.
A monstrous figure rose from its sitting position in front of the two writers. It was taller than they were, much taller, despite the fact that there was no head on its shoulders. It was a man, or would have been had its facial features not been on its chest. The creature was naked, its skin covered in strange markings or tattoos which the scholar in G. thought he recognised as runes. The mouth in the abdomen opened in a kind of angry sneer to reveal rows of square white teeth. The chest-eyes widened as it stared at the two writers. The look was at first focused on G.’s facial features. Then its eyes switched to R., intently studying that globe-shaped appendage on the other man’s shoulders.
‘What the fuck is it?’ said G., shuddering with both disgust and terror.
‘Blemmyae,’ replied the quietly-hysterical voice of R. from behind him. ‘I remember seeing pictures of Blemmyes in a Medieval bestiary when I was researching one of my books. Ugly bastard, isn’t it? Do you – do you think it envies us our heads? Or maybe it sees them as nature’s abominations and wants to help us, by removing them?’
On hearing speech the Blemmyae began to croon shrilly, from somewhere in the back of its abdomen. The sound was that of a vesper spilling from the mouth of a castrato. It rose in volume gradually, until it cut through the evening. The creature rolled those horrible dark lidless eyes, one either side of its sternum. Its long narrow nose, in the parting between the ribs, was dribbling thick mucus down its torso and matting the hairy regions below its mouth. This foul demonic-looking being had a face on its chest, but where was its brain? Did it indeed have one? Perhaps a brain where its heart should be?
‘It’s singing. Is that a good sign? I don’t know what that means. What shall we do?’ croaked G. from his dry throat. ‘Any ideas?’
‘Only one,’ cried R.. ‘
Run
.’
Both men turned at once and began crashing through the gorse bushes, ignoring the shredding of their shins on the long wicked thorns, falling more than once and piercing their hands and faces, as well as their legs. Gasping for breath, sick with fear, G. almost overtook R. on the straight race to the back door of the cottage. However R. held his head start jealously, even though he was half-dead with fright. Not once did either man look back to see whether they were being chased. They had written many a story themselves, each of them, where the victims were running for their lives and the monster was close on their heels.
A welcome rectangle of light grew ever nearer.
Thank God, each of them thought, as they scrambled through briar, thorn and nettle, thank God we left the back door of the cottage open.
They almost made it.
Call Centre Incident, Procyon 3
Caller: Hello? Hello? Jesus, will someone
please
answer me.
Centre: Hi, you have a connexion with Ssyxiss. How can I help you?
Caller: (A sob) Is that really a human voice. Oh, thank God.
Centre: (A snigger) Well, not exactly
human
. Actually, not human at all. But sentient. I think that’s what you meant to say.
Caller: Yes, yes – anyone. Anyone but another bloody machine. I’ve been talking to machines for two hours now . . .
Centre: Well, we have to be sure it’s a
real
emergency, you know. Now, how can I help. That’s what we’re here for, to help our customers.
Caller: . . . and I thought it was Armageddon, with that terrible rushing noise thundering in my ear, like a firestorm trapped in a metal dustbin.
Centre: Are you referring to our musak, sir? It’s from one of the moons of Jupiter. I rather like it.
Caller: Look – what’s your name again?
Centre: Ssyxiss. It’s not a name exactly, it’s a description – we don’t have names where I come from.
Caller: Whatever. Look, Syxis, I’m supposed to be on a Body Exchange holiday. Luxury Change 7, in fact, and – well, the thing is after the transfer I found myself in this
horrible
body. I don’t mind that it’s old and wrinkled. That doesn’t bother me at all. Or the bad teeth. Even the sores are not exactly painful – just itchy – but
luxury
? The house I’m in is made of rags, on the edge of some foul city garbage dump in the tropics . . .
Centre: Planet?
Caller: What?
Centre: (Patiently) What planet are you on?
Caller: Oh, well, Earth of course. I didn’t want to leave my home planet. Listen, I’m in the body of some refugee. He’s sick, you know, I hate to think with what. Probably a lot of things, but I just want to get out of here. I paid a lot of money. A
lot
of money. Now a mistake has been made – not your fault, you’re just answering the call – BUT I NEED TO GET INTO THE BODY I PAID FOR. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just a little stressed. You would be. Anyone would be. This place is filthy. I’m filthy. I have a hacking cough. I think blood just came up, unless he’s been eating raspberries, which I seriously doubt. I need to get out. I need the body, the holiday I paid for . . .
Centre: Reference number?
Caller: What?
Centre: Your reference number, when you booked the holiday. Can’t do anything without that. After all you could be just someone off the street.
Caller: Good God, man, all I’ve got on is a loin cloth – a fucking loin cloth that looks like a dishrag. Look, my wife has the reference number with her. I’m sure she has. Please, can’t you just look up my name. Jones. Alfred David Jones.
Centre: (After a long wait) Three million.
Caller: Three million what?
Centre: Alfred David Joneses. Whole long list of them. Scattered all over the universe.
Caller: Oh shit, it’s started raining. It’s a bloody monsoon. I can hardly hear you through the noise. This call box has a tin roof. Look, how would I know what free-number to dial if I didn’t book the holiday with your firm? Thank God I memorised it. I
knew
something like this would happen. I didn’t want to come on the bloody holiday in the first place. It was Sheila . . .
Centre: Sheila Jones? Seven million.
Caller: Sheila Deirdre Jones.
Centre: (Unable to stifle a giggle) That narrows it down to four million.
Caller: THIS IS NO LAUGHING MATTER.
Centre: Please do not shout, Mr Jones. I’m not deaf.
Caller: I’m sorry, but I’m desperate here. You have to help me.
Centre: Not without a reference number.
Caller: Please, please. What can I do?
Centre: Um. Hold on, I’ll have a word with my supervisor.
Centre: (Long, long, period with muzak fading in and out, with blank periods in which there is utter silence, as if the connexion is broken).
Caller: (Panic stricken) Hello, hello, are you there? Hello? What’s happening? Is anyone there? Oh shit, no, please. Hello? Hello? Where are you? Hello?
Centre: Mr Jones?
Caller: Yes, yes – thank God – yes, I’m here. Oh fuck . . .
Centre: I beg your pardon.
Caller: No, no, that wasn’t for you. Some flea-bitten mongrel has just peed over my leg. Shit, that stings. I have a sore . . . but never mind. (Hopefully) What did your supervisor say?
Centre: I’m sorry, she’s out at lunch.
Caller: WHAT? What the fuck was I waiting for . . . look, you have to help me. I realise I should have my reference number, but I’ll pay a surcharge if I have to. Anything. Anything to get into body I booked in the first place. I’m supposed to be on a yacht in the Med, for Christ’s sake. I booked the body of a . . . look, hasn’t my wife called in? She must be missing me by now. Surely she’s been enquiring about me?
Centre: I’ll just scan the incoming calls for Jones . . . hmm, two thousand – Cynthia, wasn’t it?
Caller: Sheila. Sheila. S-H-E-I-L-A.
Centre: Schilla. Schilla. Yes, yes, I have a message here from a Schilla Jones. By the way, Mr Jones, did you have insurance with us?
Caller: Insurance? No, I have an annual insurance. It comes with my bank account – look, what difference does it make? I’ve been given the wrong body. It’s nothing to do with . . .
Centre: I’m just wondering if you’ve got
Wrong Body Cover
? Some companies have a clause which says the client is responsible. Act of God, something like that? It’s just a legal phrase of course. Everyone has a different God, or none at all, so the words don’t actually mean what they say, but there you have it, the legalese, so to speak.
Caller: This was not MY mistake. It was yours.
Centre: You mean the Company’s.
Caller: (Groans) Whatever. Oh, hell, I’m
starving
. I don’t suppose this poor soul has eaten anything for a week. Skin and bones. Never known what it feels like to actually be starving before - now I do, and it isn’t very pleasant, I can tell you.
Centre: So actually you
are
getting a new experience out of your holiday.
Caller: THIS IS NOT MY HOLIDAY!
Centre: Sir, sir, we’re getting stressed again. Please calm down. Ah, here it is. Yes, Mrs Jones. Is your reference number XT0673480937217?
Caller: How the fu . . . how would I know. I can’t
remember
my bloody reference number.
Centre: Sir, if you insist on using obscenities I shall have to clear down this call now.
Caller: Well, I didn’t actually finish the word, but sorry, sorry, I’m just very upset. You can understand that, can’t you? I mean, this is a horrible place, I’m in a foul-smelling old man’s body, and – and everything’s gone wrong.
Centre: Sir, good news, very good news. I’ve been in contact with the company and they’re going to give you another Body Exchange free of charge. Isn’t that good?
Caller: (A touch of irony in his tone) Free of charge, how magnanimous of them.
Centre: Yes, isn’t it? Now, sir, just stand where you are now and you’ll be beamed into another body. Now, is there anything else I can do for you today?
Caller: No, thank you Syxis, you’ve done more than enough.
Centre: You’re welcome, sir.
~
Caller: Hello, hello? Call centre? I’ve been waiting twenty minutes. Twenty bloody minutes. Oh, shit – someone answer? Someone please answer . . .
Centre: Good day, sir. This is Rroderr. How can I help you?
Caller: (With panic in his voice) Is that Syxis?
Centre: (Patiently) No, this is Rroderr.
Caller: Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Listen Roder. Listen very carefully. I was given the wrong body on my Body Exchange. Some guy who lives on a rubbish dump in – listen, I’m from Earth, OK? Earth. They gave me
another
exchange and now I’m in the fucking body of an
ape
. An ape, for shit’s sake.
Centre: An
ape
. And you’re a . . .
Caller: Human.
Homo Sapiens
. Jesus Christ!
Centre: A human. I don’t need your name at this stage, Mr Christ. But thank you for that. Hmmm. Human. I’m looking at the screen now and it tells me apes and humans are both of the family of
Hominidae
. Yes, definitely –
chimpanzees, bonobos, gorillas, humans
and
orangutans
. Known collectively as the
Great Apes
. So what appears to be the problem, Mr Christ?
Caller: Jones. There’s a HUGE difference between gorillas and bloody human beings. That’s what the problem is.
Centre: So, you’re a gorilla?
Caller: No – no, I’m some kind of . . . what’s a bonobo?
Centre: Just one second, I’m looking – yes, it’s a dwarf chimpanzee.
Caller: Well that’s what I am and I don’t want to be. I’m in this bloody wildlife park, or something, and it’s not what I ordered, any more than that other body is what I ordered. Get me out of here. NOW!
Centre: Are there any other bonobos nearby?
Caller: What’s that got to do with anything? Yes, I’m surrounded by the bloody things, and they’re getting far too curious.
Stop that
. One of them’s de-flea-ing me, the bastard. It won’t go away. Listen . . . (a jabbering is heard on the line).
Centre: Sir, Mr Christ, if you’re in a wildlife park, how are you calling us?
Caller: I stole a phone from a tourist. GET ME OUT OF HERE.
Centre: You
stole
? Sir, what is your reference number please? I can’t really help you without that.
Caller: My . . . my . . . oh, God, I’ve just realised. I’m not a male ape. I’m a bloody
female
. And that big bull chimp is coming at me. Help! Help! He’s coming, he’s coming. Please help me. Oh, God, I must be on heat. It’s got that look in its eye. You’ve got to do something, QUICKLY.
Female voice: Give me that, you . . . Bill, Bill, I’ve got my phone back from that monkey . . . it’s, oh my God, how
gross
. That’s disgusting, ekk, do you see what they’re doing? Hey, there’s someone on the line. Hello? Who is this please? Why are you calling me?
Centre: This is the Call Centre on Procyon 3.
Caller: Well get off my phone, will you? This is costing me money.
(
Click).