The Brothel Creeper: Stories of Sexual and Spiritual Tension (31 page)

Later that night, in bed, he lay awake and listened to Rosie snoring next to him. He felt happy for the first time since the mutilation. He thought about what he had done and the tremendous sense of liberation it had given him. He already knew he was addicted. The consequences didn’t matter. The garret would become his new world. Just him and his ape.

There was a knock on the front door. Rosie opened it. A tall woman stood on the threshold and behind her loomed a giant swan with peeling red paint. It was mounted on wheels and a dozen men in hats pushed it. The woman was imperious, but not unpleasant. Her smile was brumal but genuine, and each eye smouldered with a kindness which was as warm as the reflection of a fire in a mirror of ice. She was beautiful and aloof, desirable but unobtainable.

“I’m calling on Professor Merton Toade,” she said.

Rosie stepped aside. “Come in.”

“Thank you. My followers will remain outside — they are gentlemen.”

Rosie ushered the visitor into the lounge and indicated a chair. But the tall woman declined to sit. Her mission was moral rather than social. She desperately needed to see the professor. That’s what she said, though her mannerisms weren’t urgent.

“It might be difficult to arrange,” warned Rosie.

“Why? Has he gone out?”

Rosie shook her head. “No. That’s the problem. He never goes out. He spends all his time in the garret. He first went up a decade ago. Three years later, he removed the rungs of the ladder — the only means of entry. He hasn’t come down since and I’ve never seen him in that time. I pass his food up in a bucket on a rope looped around a pulley. But who are you?”

The woman pouted. “Juliana Morgenstern.”

“The frostiest of all the beautiful heiresses in the realm?”

“Yes. Well no, actually. I’m a penniless tramp — but very bad at it.”

“I see. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

Juliana seemed to sag, as if the hollow icicle that sheathed her backbone had suddenly melted. Something was bothering her. On impulse, Rosie reached out and stroked her hair. She had forgotten exactly how to be shy. That’s what often happens when you stop practising your speciality. Juliana appreciated the caress. She angled her face and kissed Rosie’s hand. It was a warm kiss. The frost had turned to dew. They fell into each other’s arms. Rosie saw everything clearly, including their future together. She had also forgotten to be myopic. They hugged close for long minutes, not wanting to let go. Then Juliana found the emotional strength to pull away.

She had a confession to make.

She said, “I came here tonight to apologise to the professor. I was the one who arranged his castration. I hired those thugs (gentlemen) who wait outside. I paid them to detach the member from the man and graft a gibbon in its place.”

“That sounds perfectly reasonable,” replied Rosie dreamily.

“I did it to defend myself. I heard that I was in imminent peril of being wooed by Merton Toade. I don’t like men in that way, yet I knew his powers of seduction were so strong I’d probably succumb. I pledged at puberty only to allow myself to be bedded by women. I was desperate to maintain my vow. Hence the assault.”

“The gibbon was an inspired touch.”

Juliana laughed. “Not really. I had one spare. It was an orphan and I couldn’t be bothered to raise it, so I solved two problems with one flick of an unwashed wrist.”

“So why apologise now?” wondered Rosie.

“I suddenly realised I’d deprived the professor of the whole purpose of his life. I wanted to protect my own virtue, but maybe I went too far in also protecting every other woman’s.”

Rosie digested this and then said, “I don’t think there’s any need to be sorry. He has lost all contact with the real world. The garret is his womb. I’d take you up and show you, but it’s not practical. I think I know what he does there, and it’s not pleasant. He’s probably a physical wreck now, entirely in the grip of the ape-bashing vice.”

“We could go in the bucket,” suggested Juliana.

“Who would pull us up?” asked Rosie.

“My gentlemen! I wanted to return the professor’s barge. That’s why I mounted it on wheels and hired them to push it up the cobbled hill.”

“If you’re penniless, how do you manage to keep paying them?”

“With
empty
envelopes that are very poor at being empty,” explained Juliana.

“What’s your scheme?” enquired Rosie.

“Tie one end of the rope to the swan and let it roll back down the hill. The bucket will go up and us inside it! I have a box of matches to provide light. What do you say? It’s a risk, but it might be worth it. To satisfy our curiosity.”

“Very well. But how shall we get down?”

“My gentlemen will enter the house and take the place of the missing rungs on the ladder. They will lie lengthwise in the brackets, all twelve of them. A dozen steps should be enough for us to descend safely. Then they will detach themselves, the highest first, and follow us. A ladder whose rungs step on each other. What a concept! Come, I’m eager to see the condition of the professor.”

The scheme was put into operation. The pulley squeaked as the bucket was drawn up into the garret. As they rose higher, they exchanged bemused and horrified glances. Unnatural sounds were emanating from the space directly above their heads. A low rhythmic grunting, but it had nothing of the real jungle about it. An urban noise. An academic rumpus, pained but very precise. A rigorous fuss. They embraced for comfort and balance. The din grew steadily louder and it seemed they were entering a new atmosphere, a region of turbulence made all of hurt. Something outrageous was happening. They passed into the shadows and turned to face the source of the noise. A hulking shape.

They remained in their embrace in the swinging bucket. Their eyes adjusted slowly. In the furthest corner of the garret, the shape was busy with monstrous business. Its arm rose and fell with devastating force. Regularly. It was like abominable applause. Ironic. Juliana fumbled for her matches. She found the box, struck one and cast it at the shape. It landed short and flared. Now they saw everything. The room with its crates and shelves of model boats was such an inappropriate setting for what lurked there that they wondered at its authenticity. Perhaps it was artificial, another barge in the form of an animal. But then it blinked angry yellow eyes and bared its fangs. It had something bent over its knee. A hairy foot stamped out the match. It shifted its weight on the crate and paused for a moment, resting its arm.

The professor gasped, “Help me!”

Juliana called for her gentlemen. The note of urgency in her voice was such that they came immediately, forming rungs with their bodies. Safe again below, they all sat in a circle in the lounge. The sounds in the garret were almost inaudible now and might be mistaken for the gurglings of the plumbing, but they were there. The beating had recommenced.

Rosie said, “I’ve never seen a monkey spank a man before.”

Juliana answered, “It was a gorilla. How did that happen? I swear it started life as a gibbon. I guess it just wasn’t too good at being itself.”

“That must be it,” agreed Rosie. “For years.”

The barge in the shape of a swan had trundled all the way down the hill into the river. It was waiting for them. They left the house together and locked the door. The gentlemen carried them on their shoulders. It was time to drift away. Whichever way they went now, it would always be cuntwardly — the best direction. They turned their heads once, to look up at the window of the garret. It was dark and gave nothing away, but they knew that behind its innocent surface the tables had turned. And so had the worm, the milk, the lover in the grave, and every other suitable figure of speech, whether old or brand spanking new.

THUS ENDS THE TALE OF THE MONKEY THAT SPANKED THE MAN WHO SPANKED HIS MONKEY

The miracle itself was modest enough. As the last gust of winter blew his blanket onto the grass verge, Raymond stepped out to retrieve it. He realised his mistake at once, but it was too late. The nurse had seen all. The wheelchair was locked away in the attic and the easy life was over.

At first he refused to acknowledge the cure. He kept to the paths and avoided the steps. Winding his way down to the lake, as he did every day, he gazed at the swans with a new sense of frustration. He was horribly free. He pretended to be in pain, but the act held less power than the previous reality.

A white road curved away from the hospital, sparkling with the promise of distance. His legs were remarkably strong. Years of immobility should have wasted his muscles, but the miracle had been complete. He could feel eyes branding his back as he walked. Trees lined the road, sinuous branches pointing at him.

A little way along, his progress was blocked by an iron gate. He was not astonished to discover it was locked. The road continued on the other side, wide and straight and unreal. He did not grip the bars with fevered longing. He would deny them the pleasure. “But what now?” he wondered. He needed advice.

Marcel would know. Marcel was blind, but he remembered angels. He had charted their positions in the sky with his lost eyes. They were metallic and never flapped their wings. They roared as they passed overhead, patterning the sky with vapour trails. But that was long ago and now they were just machines. He had grown old.

“How would
you
escape?” Raymond asked him over breakfast. Marcel did not reply at once. He had never entertained the question. It seemed certain, however, that an answer would be provided before the end of the meal. And indeed, as Marcel wiped the last crumbs from his mouth, he spoke with slow, heavy words:

“There is no hope. We are trapped here indefinitely. Climb the tallest tower of the hospital if you doubt me. From the window you will recognise the truth.”

The effect of this suggestion on Raymond was negligible. He would not climb any tower. Such a course of action was unthinkable. He shook his head violently from a sense of determination and fear, a gesture intended solely for his own benefit. But Marcel felt a slight breeze from this motion and knew what it signified. Then Raymond stood and departed.

His next attempt was over the fields. In the late evening he picked his way through fallow lands, guided by the cables of power pylons, thick silver threads which audibly bristled as they crossed all hedges and ditches. Here was energy to direct him, and direction to power his stamina.

Soon he felt safe in the relative silence of the muted colours. He was not out of place among these tall grasses. Once he stumbled into an ancient furrow gouged by a ploughshare long since crumbled to flakes of rust. He was suffused with a sudden joy. But his ankles were not even lightly bruised.

Lurching over the crest of a sloping field, he was greeted by a river of light. He had reached the motorway. Further motion in this direction was impossible. He fell to his knees and regarded the world from his former perspective. The streams of traffic flowed smoothly, red and white blood cells in the cardiovascular system of the earth, exposed to view by geological surgery. There was no way across.

He had no choice but to turn back. His retreat was warmed by shame and intrusive thoughts of his wife. She had condemned him to this, but whether from love or cruelty he still could not decide. Yet he was safer beyond her presence and the vitality that radiated from it. Her lust for life and movement was oppressive. He forgot about her as he entered the hospital, for the smell here was of despair.

Marcel was still awake, sitting on the one comfortable chair in the lounge. He beckoned to Raymond and repeated his advice. The tallest tower was readily accessible. Three flights of carpeted stairs. But Raymond paced the room and pounded his legs with his fists. And all the while he cried out: “No, no, no!”

In the morning, his nurse came to see him with a visitor. Genovefa was slight and dark and the man she brought was hideously bloated and pale in comparison. He was a priest. She introduced him as Father Crouch and explained the instrument he held in his hand. It was a metal detector. The miracle had to be validated.

With a single flick of her practised wrist, she removed the blanket from the bed, exposing Raymond to the attentions of the device. Naked before her, he suddenly felt lonely, and this loneliness by itself was oddly exciting. With an enormous blush, Father Crouch extended his metal detector over the bare legs of the prone man.

The instrument remained silent. The titanium rods that held the bones together had vanished. The kneecaps were organic. Father Crouch checked the controls and made a second pass, sweeping the device up and down each twitching limb from ankle to thigh. The miracle was real after all. The priest sank to his knees and kissed the hem of the blanket.

Genovefa led him out and returned with a smile. She had unpinned her hair and undone a few buttons of her uniform. It was hot in the room. Raymond propped himself on his elbow and made a dismissive gesture. She sat on the edge of the bed and cast a glance at the clock on a table in the corner. It was still early.

“Surely I can provide something for you?”

He shook his head. He rose and dressed and went to fetch his own coffee. He took his cup outside and sat on a bench and thought about the motorcycle accident. These things happened. Sudden cures were absurd, but still he supposed they had to be taken into account. His could not be unique. But how can a man learn to accept a miracle? He was not religious and despised the idea of conversion.

The problem might be that he had lost faith in himself. This is what he wondered as he blew the steam from his coffee and kept blowing until it was cold. Then he inverted the cup and poured the liquid onto the gravel path. No, it was something else. He shrugged and strolled to the edge of the lake. The swans ignored him.

There was a shout from somewhere behind him, sharp but not urgent. He turned to stare at the hospital. Marcel was standing on a balcony, pressed against the railings, raising a hand to the side of his head, thumb and little finger extended. He was summoning Raymond to take a telephone call. Although his entire aspect was directed away from the building, his erect body seemed to point at the tallest tower directly above him.

Raymond walked back slowly. He picked up the receiver in the lounge and listened for almost an hour to his wife. Clarissa berated him softly for the mysterious extra expenses he had incurred. Then she revealed she was planning another holiday. She had booked a villa in a warm southern country. He wished her luck and forgot to tell her about the miracle. But there was a note of expectancy in her voice. It was possible Marcel had informed her.

During all the time she talked, Raymond wanted to ask her for an absurd favour. She was outside the grounds in a remote city. Now they were connected by the telephone line. His idea was to persuade her to pull her receiver hard, to yank him away to freedom. But he could not force himself to share this delusion. When she hung up, he listened to her absence for many minutes. The hum was more empty than silence.

He wasted the rest of the day staring at the pages of a book without reading a single sentence. Then he retired to his room. There was a knock on the door but he did not answer. It was Genovefa and she eventually went away. He lay on his bed with his arms folded across his chest. He thought about Clarissa packing her suitcases. Departure.

All manner of solutions came to him in the twilight before sleep. He could escape by a hot air balloon constructed in the workshop. He could murder Father Crouch, borrow his clothes and his authority and stroll confidently through the iron gate. He could burrow a tunnel like a gigantic mole. But the workshop was closed, the priest had already left and the ground around the hospital was too hard for one man and a shovel to penetrate.

The lake was the obvious answer. A raft would carry him to the opposite shore, wherever that was, and he might wade the last feet through duckweed to a new horizon. This was a plan for the daytime and a blue sky. Paddling over the reflections of clouds rather than stars seemed more efficient. He was at a loss to say why.

He slept with the pillow between his knees. He dreamed that his bed was a boat and his own breathing was the slap of tiny waves on his hull. The walls of his room were sails. Where was he going? He opened his eyes and discovered he was back where he started. It was a familiar shock. But now he would cheat disappointment.

He spent the entire morning building the raft. There were empty oil drums in the attic. Marcel fetched them down for him. There was a broken bench inverted in a flowerbed. An old storm had flung it there. He cut this up with a hacksaw and used it to provide struts and supports. There was a laundry basket and coils of washing line to lash everything together. And he fashioned a crude oar from a broom handle and the lid of a wooden box.

It was impossible to maintain secrecy for this project. Marcel could be trusted, but the sounds of construction had no loyalties. Genovefa waited until he finished before coming to investigate. She stood with her hands on her hips. Rather lamely he explained that he wanted to go fishing. She winked at him ambiguously and turned away.

He pushed the raft into the water. It rolled and groaned and unnerved the swans. Then he waded out to it with his oar. Mounting it proved difficult. It threatened to tip over at the slightest shifting of his weight. But finally it stabilised and he sat with raised knees over its exact centre of gravity. He called goodbye to his nurse, a permanent farewell, but she glanced over her shoulder and shouted back:

“Bon voyage! See you again soon!”

He paddled carefully away from the shore. The lake was large. The far side was a forest of tall reeds. He supposed that liberty lay beyond these. He gave what he believed was a final wave at the hospital. Every window was occupied by a single face, staring at him, licking its lips and frowning. Only Marcel had angled his attention elsewhere, at the sky. His sockets were scanning for angels.

Raymond kept going into the ripples. Points of light flashed on the water like nerve impulses. What was the lake thinking or feeling? Already he was tired. He closed his eyes and drifted. He refused to open them until his raft shuddered to an abrupt halt. His fear was that he had simply moved in a wide circle and was back at his departure point.

This was not so. He had reached the tall reeds. But there was no firm ground here. The opposite shore was an illusion. The lake had become a marsh. He could not force his way through the vegetation. He paddled down the line of reeds until he found a channel. Entering the marsh was like stepping into a maze. A multiplicity of narrow passages gave him more choice than he wanted. Which way?

He chose a channel at random. His vision was now obstructed by the reeds. He turned corners so sharp they might be artificial. The water was almost black. The air was stale and unpleasant in his mouth. He soon accepted he was lost. The afternoon grew late but the marsh continued. It was vast. He began to perspire.

The channels became narrower and the reeds taller. He poked his oar into the water until it reached the mud below. This was very soft and very deep. It would suck him down if he jumped off the raft. He failed to free the oar from the slime. One side of the raft struck a clump of reeds and the vessel turned slowly. He continued to move like this, rotating and struggling to regain control by splashing with his hands.

The sun was no longer visible. It had dipped too low toward the unseen horizon. The idea of spending a night in the marsh terrified him. He opened his mouth to call for help. But he could not decide who to shout for, Genovefa or Clarissa. This pause gave him enough time to understand that neither woman could assist him. He was alone. Then he saw the tower.

It appeared just above the line of reeds, distant but massive. He swallowed its presence but could not digest its significance. He really had drifted in a circle, but one much larger than he had anticipated. Then as he continued to gently spin and the tower came back into sight he realised it did not belong to the hospital. It was not the tower that Marcel kept referring to. It was different.

There were similarities, but this structure was larger and older. The stones were badly eroded in many places. The windows were without glass. As he approached it, more of its bulk was revealed. At last the channel widened and opened out into another lake. Now the entire edifice was in plain view. The tower was merely one part of a greater whole.

An abbey. It stood on an island and a causeway led off into the gathering dusk. Half the building was a ruin. Blocks of stone littered one side of the island or gleamed under water. The other half was in good condition. Raymond was closest to the intact section. The causeway lay on the far side. He resolved to paddle around the island and wade onto this finger of hope. It must surely connect with freedom.