The Toyminator (6 page)

“
You
are in partnership with a teddy?” Amelie raised pretty painted eyebrows and pursed her pretty pink lips.

“This surprises you?” Jack asked.

“Teddies are so common,” said Amelie.

Jack laughed. And the champagne arrived. The liveried personage immediately presented Jack with the bill.

Jack waved this away with the words, “I have an account here.”

“You do?” asked the dolly when she and Jack were alone once more.

“Let’s not fuss with details,” said Jack, pouring champagne. “Let’s just try to enjoy the evening.”

“Dolly Dumpling is on,” said Amelie. “I’ve always wanted to see her perform live. And I’ve always wanted to come here. It’s so big, isn’t it? And so lush.”

“It’s certainly that.” Jack tasted the champagne and found that it met with his taste. “But personally I hate it.”

Bubbles of champagne went up the dolly’s nose. “You hate it?” she said. “You can’t hate this.”

“I’m not blind,” said Jack. “And neither are you. We both saw them whispering and pointing.”

“Yes,” said Amelie. “I know. I know that my kind aren’t welcome here.”

Jack shook his head. “Eddie was right,” he said, “when he tried to change things, make them better. But it was your kind, as you call them, that rose up against him.”

“I don’t understand,” said Amelie. Further champagne bubbles did further ticklings.

“That manky bear was once mayor,” said Jack. “The mayor who tried to change things here.”

“The mad mayor?” Amelie sneezed out champagne. “That manky bear? But the mayor had blue glass eyes and those creepy hands.”

“He cared,” said Jack, “and still does. He would have changed things for the better.”

“Things can’t be changed,” said Amelie. “Change is wrong, everyone knows that. Things are supposed to be as things are. And toys are supposed to do what they were created for. That’s Holy Writ, everyone knows that. And no one could trust that mayor, not with those eyes and those creepy hands.”

Jack sighed and shrugged. “Drink your champagne. Do you like it, by the way?”

“I love it,” said Amelie. “And Jack?”

“Yes?” said Jack.

“I love you, too.”

Now
this
caught Jack by surprise. And caused him confusion and shock. He had not reckoned on that. Had
never
reckoned on
that
. He’d worked with Amelie for four or five months at that diner. And yes they had become friendly. And
yes
they had become lovers. But that was only to say that they had “made love”, which is to say that they had “had sex”. Make love sounds nicer, but making love is really, truly, just
having sex
when it comes right down to it. And Amelie and Jack had come right down to it on quite a few occasions, and Jack had really been hoping that they would be coming-right-down-to-it once more, later, in the back of Bill’s car. Because location and circumstance are both big factors in making coming-right-down-to-it the very great fun that it should be. And it had not slipped by Jack that coming-right-down-to-it with Amelie had been pretty indistinguishable from coming-right-down-to-it with a re –

“Don’t tell me you’re drunk already,” said Jack, smiling as he did so.

“No,” said Amelie. “Not at all.” And she blew Jack a kiss and thrust out her augmented front parts.

Jack blew her a kiss in return. “I think you’re lovely,” he said.

“But do
you
–”

“Oh, look,” said Jack, “there’s someone going up on the stage.”

That someone was Old King Cole.

He’d put on a bit of weight since the last time Jack had seen him. Put on a bit of age, too, as it happened.

“He looks ill,” said Jack.

And the old King did.

He had to be helped onto the stage by minions. It must be one of the best things about being a king, having minions. Minions and underlings. And if you are a wicked king, evil cat’s-paws, too. There’s a lot of joy to be had in being royalty. There did not, however, seem to be much in the way of joy to be found in Old King Cole’s present condition. Even though he
did
have the minions.

And everything.

His minions struggled to manoeuvre his considerable bulk. They pushed and pulled. And two of them, who seemed to chuckle as they did so, went, “To me,” “To you,” “To me,” “To you,” which won some appreciation from those who were into that kind of thing.
[11]

The to-me-ing and to-you-ing minions positioned Old King Cole before the microphone. The old King one-two’d into it.

“Good evening, my people,” he said, once satisfied with his one-two-ings, “and welcome to Saturday night at Old King Cole’s.”

“It’s Wednesday,” said Amelie.

Jack just shrugged.

“Welcome one, welcome all and welcome to an evening of jazz.”

“Nice,” said someone, for nowadays someone always does.

“Tonight we have a very special treat. A lady who is big in jazz. And when I
say
big, I
mean
big. Tonight, we are honoured by a very big presence, a very big talent. It is my pleasure to introduce to you someone who needs no introduction. I give you the one, the only,
the
Dolly Dumpling.”

There was a bit of a drum roll from somewhere and the crowd at its tables set down its champagne and put its hands together.

Further to-me-to-you-ings took place and Old King Cole was shuttled from the stage. Darkness fell, then lights came up. A curtain rose to reveal musicians. Clockwork musicians, all shiny and well polished, with pressed-tin instruments, printed-on tuxedos and matching moustaches. Matching
what
? you might ask. And well might you ask it. There was a sax player, a pianist and a drummer, too, and then behind them a further curtain rose and as it did so a spotlight fell.

And a gasp went up from the assembled crowd.

A gasp that was joined to by Jack.

She was
simply
enormous,

Her frock was a circus tent,

Her chins numbered more

Than a fine cricket score,

And her weight would an anvil have bent.

Her breasts were so large, and I’ll tell you how large,

For if larger there were, none there found them,

Her breasts were so large, and I’ll tell you how large,

They had little breasts orbiting round them.

“What was
that
?” asked Jack.

“What was
what
?” asked Amelie.

“Must have been poetry, or something,” said Jack. “But
that
is one big woman.”

And she was. They sort of cranked Dolly Dumpling forward. There was some winching gear involved, which in itself involved certain pulleys and blocks and some behind-the-scenes unwilling help from minions (who did at least say, “To me, to you,”) and liveried personages (who considered themselves above that sort of thing). Ropes groaned and blocks and winches strained and Dolly Dumpling moved forward.

The musicians cowered before her prodigious approach, and thanked whatever Gods they favoured when the approaching was done.

A microphone did lowerings on a wire and Dolly Dumpling breathed into it.

It was a deep, lustrous, sumptuous breath, a breath that had about it a fearsome sexuality. A deeply erotic breath was this, and its effect upon the crowd was manifest.

Toffs in dinner suits loosened their ties; ladies in crinolines fluttered their fans. Jack felt a shiver go through him.

Dolly Dumpling rippled as she breathed. It was a gentle rippling, but it, too, had its effect. That such a creature, of such an exaggerated size, could achieve such sensuality with a single breath and a bit of body rippling, seemed to Jack beyond all comprehension, but it
was
something, something extraordinary. Yet it was
nothing
, nothing at all, when set against the effect her voice had when that fat lady sang.

There are voices. And then there are VOICES and then there is SOMETHING MORE. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, well, when it does, IT DOES.

Jack’s champagne glass was almost at his lips. And that is where it stayed, unmoving, throughout Dolly Dumpling’s first song. And it never reached Jack’s lips at all even after that, because at the conclusion of the song Jack set it down to use his hands for clapping. And this went on, again and again and again.

How she reached the notes she did and how she held them there were matters beyond discussion and indeed comprehension. How she achieved what she achieved may indeed never be known. And when she breathed, “Please do all get up and dance,” then all got up and danced.

The dancefloor wasn’t large but now it filled and as Dolly Dumpling’s voice soared and swooped and brought notes beyond notes and sensations with them that were
beyond
, the crowd swayed and shimmied, trembled and danced. How they danced!

Jack took Amelie in his arms and although having no skills at all as a dancer, shimmied and swayed with the rest. And waltzed, too. And then did that jazz-dance sort of thing that can’t really be described and which you either
can
do, or
can’t
. And Jack couldn’t. Dinner suits and crinoline. Slicked-back hair and coiffured coils. Menfolk and womenfolk. Jack and a dolly. Around and around and around.

Love and magic in the air, enchantment and wonderment and joy, joy, happy joy.

And.

“I say, chap, careful where you’re treading.”

“Sorry,” said Jack to his fellow dancer. Then he did a bit of a dip and a flourish and then had a little kiss with Amelie. “Isn’t this wonderful?” said Jack as he twirled the dolly round. And Amelie shook her preposterous front parts and blew some kisses to Jack.

And Dolly Dumpling’s voice rose and fell and the band was pretty good, too.

And “Careful, chap, what you’re doing there,” said that fellow again.

“It’s crowded,” Jack called to the fellow that he had just stepped upon for a second time. “Sorry, just enjoy.”

“Lout,” said the fellow’s partner. Loud enough to be heard for a fair circle round. “Disgusting, coming in here with that thing.”

Jack stiffened in mid-second dip and approaching kiss and said, “What did you say?”

“She said, ‘Disgusting’,” said the fellow, “lowering the tone of this establishment.”

“
What
?” went Jack.

“Leave it,” said Amelie.

“No, I won’t leave it.” Jack turned to confront the fellow. A very dapper fellow, he was, probably some son or close relative of a prominent P.P.P. “What is your problem?” asked Jack, in the manner of one who didn’t know.

“You know well enough,” said the fellow. “Bringing that thing in here and flaunting it about.”

“That
thing
,” said Jack, “is my girlfriend.” The words “is my girlfriend”, however, were not heard by the fellow Jack had spoken to, because, at the conclusion of the word “thing”, Jack had thrown a punch at the fellow, which had caught him smartly upon the jaw and sent him floorwards in an unconscious state. Most rapidly.

“
Monster
!” screamed the fellow’s partner, and screaming so set upon Jack.

Most violently.

At least in a bar brawl you know where you are.

There are so many moments in life when you really don’t know where you are. Where you stand, how you’re fixed, what you’re up against and so on and so forth and suchlike. Life can be tricky like that. It builds you up and it knocks you down. The build-up is generally slow, but it leads to overconfidence. The knocking down is swift and it comes out of nowhere. And it hurts.

But at least in a bar brawl you know where you are.

You generally have a choice of three places. Right in the thick of it, getting hammered or doing the hammering. Just on the periphery, where a stray fist or flying bottle is likely to strike you. Or right on the edge, at the back of the crowd, which is the best place to be. You can always climb up on a chair and enjoy the action without too much danger of taking personal punishment.

Back of the crowd is definitely the best place to be in a bar brawl.

In life, well, that’s another matter, but in a bar brawl, it’s the back. You know where you are at the back.

Jack was
not
at the back. For Jack was indeed the epicentre. And when it came right down to it, Jack was
not
a fighter. He was rarely one to swing the first fist and why he had done this now troubled him. But not so much as the other thing troubled him. This other thing being the handbag that was repeatedly striking his head. The partner of the fellow Jack had floored was going at Jack as one possessed. And possessed of a strong right arm.

Jack sheltered his head with his hands and yelled, “Stop!” But the violence ceased to do so. And Jack’s shout of, “Stop!” echoed hollowly through the air, for the music had ceased and the dancing had ceased and all conversation likewise had ceased and all eyes were upon Jack.

And then Amelie swung a handbag of her own and floored Jack’s attacker.

Which somehow increased the sudden silence, made it more intense.

Jack uncovered his head and glanced all around and about himself. Stern faces stared and glared at him, eyebrows and mouth-corners well drawn down. Fingers were a-forming fists, shoulders were a-broadening. Jack now glanced down at the two prone figures on the dance-floor. A little voice in Jack’s head said, “This isn’t good.”

“Right,” said Jack, now squaring his narrow shoulders. “We’re leaving now. No one try to stop us.”

The sounds of growlings came to Jack’s ears, and not the growlings of dogs. The crowd was forming a tight ring now, a very tight ring with no exit.

Jack stuck his right hand into his trenchcoat pocket. “I’ve a gun here,” he cried, “and I’m not afraid to use it. In fact I’ll be happy to use it, because I’m quite mad, me. Who’ll be the first then? Who?”

The ring now widened and many exits appeared. Jack’s non-pocketed hand reached out to Amelie, who took it in the one that wasn’t wielding her handbag. “Come on,” said Jack. “Let’s go.”

And so, with Jack’s pocket-hand doing all-around gun-poking motions, he and Amelie headed to the door. And well might they have made it, too, had not something altogether untoward occurred. It occurred upon the stage and it began with a scream. As screams went this was a loud one and coming as it did from the mouth of Dolly Dumpling it was a magnificent scream. Exactly what key this scream was in was anyone’s guess, but those who understand acoustics and know exactly which pitch, note, key or whatever is necessary to shatter glass would have recognised it immediately. For it was that very one.

Behind the bar counter, bottles, optics, glasses, vases, cocktail stirrers and the left eye of the barman shattered. Champagne flutes on tables blew to shards and next came the windows.

Jack turned and Jack saw and what Jack saw Jack didn’t like at all.

The stage was engulfed in a blinding light. Dolly Dumpling was lost in this light, as were the clockwork musicians.

Dolly’s scream went on and on, if anything rising in pitch. A terrible vibration of the gut-rumbling persuasion hit the now-cowering crowd and signalled that mad rush that comes at such moments. That mad rush that’s made for the door.

Screams and panic, horror and bright white light.

Jack should have run, too, for such was the obvious thing to do. He should have taken to his heels and fled the scene, dragging Amelie with him. But Jack found, much to his horror, that his feet wouldn’t budge. The expression “rooted to the spot” had now some definite meaning to him, so instead he gathered Amelie to himself and as the crowd rushed past did his bestest to remain upright and in a single piece.

The crowd burst through the doors of Old King Cole’s, tumbling over one another. Unshattered glass erupted from these doors. It was a cacophony of chaos, a madness of mayhem, a veritable discord of disorder. A pandemic of pandemonium.

And worse was yet to come.

“And worse was yet to come,” said Tinto to Eddie Bear, in Tinto’s Bar, some way away from the pandemic of pandemonium and even indeed the tuneless tornadic timpani of turbulence.

“Worse than what?” asked Eddie, who hadn’t been listening, but
had
been getting drunk.

“The mother-in-law’s pancake-cleaning facility burned to the ground,” said Tinto, “so we had to release all the penguins and Keith couldn’t ride his bike for a week.”

“You
what
?” Eddie asked.

“I knew you weren’t listening,” said Tinto. “Nobody ever listens to me.”

“They listen when you call time,” said Eddie. “Though mostly they ignore it. But they
do
listen, and
that
is what matters.”

“That’s some consolation,” said Tinto. “But not much.”

“Take what you can get,” said Eddie. “That’s what I always say.”

“I’ve never heard you say it before.” Tinto took up a glass to clean and cleaned it.

“Perhaps you weren’t listening,” Eddie suggested. “It happens sometimes.”

“Well,” said Tinto, “if I see one of those spacemen, I’ll tell them that’s what I think of them.”

“You do that,” said Eddie. “And you can tell them what I think of them, too. Whatever that might be.”

“Should I wait until you think something up?”

“That would probably be for the best.” Eddie took his beer glass carefully between his paws and poured its contents without care into his mouth. “And by the by,” he said, once he had done with this, replaced his glass upon the counter top and wiped a paw across his mouth, “which spacemen would these be?”

“I knew you weren’t listening,” said Tinto.

“You know so much,” said Eddie, “which is why I admire you so much.”

“You do?” Tinto asked.

Eddie smiled upon the clockwork barman. “What do
you
think?” he asked in return.

“I think you’re winding me up,” said Tinto. “But not in the nice way. I hope they get
you
next, that will serve you right.”

“Right,” said Eddie. “What
are
you talking about?”

“The spacemen with the death rays,” Tinto said.

“Ah,” said Eddie, indicating that he would like further beers. “
Those
spacemen. I was thinking about the
other
spacemen, which is why I got confused.”

“Are you drunk?” asked Tinto.

“My feet are,” said Eddie. “You might well have to carry me to the toilet.”

“Now
that
,” said Tinto, “is
not
going to happen.”

“I rather thought not, but do tell me about the spacemen.”

“You’re not just trying to engage me in conversation in order that I might forget to charge you for all of those beers?”

Eddie made the kind of face that said, “As if I would,” without actually putting it into words.

“Good face,” said Tinto. “What does it mean?”

“It means
what
spacemen?” said Eddie.

“
The
spacemen,” said Tinto, “who blasted the clockwork monkeys with their death rays.”

“Now this is new,” said Eddie.

“Not to
those
spacemen.” Tinto took up another glass to polish, without replacing the first. Eddie looked on with envy at those dextrous fingers. “I’ll bet
those
spacemen blast clockwork monkeys all the time.”

Eddie Bear did shakings of his head, which made him slightly giddy, which meant at least that the beer was creeping up.

“Tinto,” said Eddie, “please explain to me, in a simple and easy-to-understand fashion,
exactly
what you are talking about.”

“The clockwork monkeys,” said Tinto, “the ones that got blasted. They got blasted by spacemen.”

Eddie sighed. “And who told you
that
?” he asked.

“A spaceman,” said Tinto.

“A spaceman,” said Eddie. “
What
spaceman?”

“
That
spaceman.” Tinto pointed, glasses still in his hand and everything. “That spaceman over there.”

Eddie turned his head to view this spaceman.

And Eddie Bear fell off his stool.

“Drunk!” cried Tinto. “Out of my bar.”

“I’m
not
drunk.” Eddie did further strugglings and managed at least to get to his knee regions. “It’s your responsibility. Where is this spaceman?”

“You
are
drunk,” said Tinto. “You drunkard. Over there,” and Tinto pointed once again.

“Ah,” said Eddie, rising with considerable difficulty and swaying with no apparent difficulty whatsoever.

Across the bar floor at a dim corner table sat a spaceman. He was a rather splendid-looking spaceman, as it happened. Very shiny was he, very silvery and well polished. He was all-over tin plate but for a tinted see-through plastic weather dome, which was presently half-raised to permit the passage of alcohol.

Eddie tottered and swayed in the spaceman’s direction. The spaceman looked up from his drink and wondered at Eddie’s approach.

Before the spaceman’s table Eddie paused, but still swayed somewhat. “Ahoy there, shipmate,” said Eddie Bear.

“Ahoy there
what
?” The spaceman’s voice came as if from the earpiece of a telephone receiver, but in fact came from a grille in his chest similar to Tinto’s. The spaceman raised a rubber hand and waggled its fingers at Eddie.

“Might I sit down?” asked the bear.

“Your capabilities are unknown to me,” said the spaceman. “Was that a rhetorical question?”

Eddie drew out a chair and slumped himself down onto it. He grinned lopsidedly at the spaceman and said, “So, how’s it going, then?”

“I come in peace,” said the spaceman. “Take me to your leader.”

“Excuse me?” said Eddie.

“Sorry,” said the spaceman. “That one always comes out if I don’t control myself. As does, ‘So die, puny Earthling,’ and, curiously, ‘I’ve done a wee-wee, please change my nappy.’ Although personally I believe that one was programmed into me by mistake. Probably Friday afternoon on the production line – you know what it’s like.”

“I certainly do,” said Eddie, “or would, if it weren’t for the fact that I am an Anders Imperial, pieced together by none other than the kindly, lovable white-haired old Toymaker himself.”

“I come from a distant star,” said the spaceman.

“I thought you said production line.” Eddie Bear did paw-scratchings of the head.

“Perhaps on a distant star,” the spaceman suggested.

“Perhaps,” said Eddie, “but then again –”

“Let’s not think about it.” The spaceman took up his glass, put it to his face, but sadly found it empty. “I was about to say, let’s just drink,” he said, “but I find to my utter despair that my glass is empty. Would you care to buy me a drink?”

“Not particularly,” said Eddie. “But thanks for asking.”

“In return I will spare your planet.”

Eddie shrugged what shoulders he possessed. “I would appear to be getting the better part of that particular deal,” he said. “If I possessed the necessary funds I think I’d buy you a drink.”

“Perhaps you could ask the barman for credit?”

“Perhaps you could menace him with your death ray and get the drinks in all round.”

“Perhaps,” said the spaceman.

“Perhaps indeed,” said Eddie.

The spaceman sighed and so did Eddie.

“I wish I were a clockwork train,” said the spaceman.

“What?” Eddie said.

“Well,” said the spaceman, “you know where you are when you’re a train, don’t you? It’s a bit like being in a bar brawl.”

“No, it’s not,” said Eddie.

“No, I suppose it’s not. But you do know where you are. Which line you’re on. Which station you’ll be coming to next. It’s not like that for we spacemen.”

“Really?” said Eddie, who was losing interest.

“Oh no,” said the spaceman, ruefully regarding his empty glass. “Not a bit of it. We could be anywhere in the universe, lost in space, or on a five-year mission, or something. Drives you mad, it does, makes you want to scream. And in space no one can hear you scream, of course.”

“Tell me about the monkeys,” said Eddie, “the clockwork cymbal-clapping monkeys. Tinto tells me that you know who blasted them.”

“I do,” said the spaceman.

“I’d really like to know,” said Eddie.

“And I’d really like to tell you,” said the spaceman, “but my throat is so dry that I doubt whether I’d get halfway through the telling before I lost my voice.”

“Hm,” went Eddie.

“      ,” went the spaceman.

“Two more drinks over here,” called Eddie to Tinto.

“Dream on,” the barman replied.

“Two then for the spaceman and in return he promises not to reduce Toy City to arid ruination with his death ray.”

“Coming right up, then,” said Tinto.

“I need a gimmick like that,” said Eddie, but mostly to himself.

“Who did you say was paying for these?” asked Tinto as he delivered the spaceman’s drinks to his table.

“You said they were on you,” said Eddie Bear, “because it’s the spaceman’s birthday.”

“Typical of me,” said Tinto. “Too generous for my own good. But you have to be cruel to be kind, I always say. Or something similar. It’s all in this book I’ve been reading, although I seem to have lost it now. I think I lent it to someone.” Tinto placed two beers before Eddie and Eddie shook his head and thanked Tinto for them.