Dial M for Monkey (5 page)

‘Yes, I asked a friend of mine to come out here and dig me a big hole.  Just big enough to fit that lovely box in and amazingly it is six feet deep.’

Clint raised an eyebrow, he could feel blood starting to trickle from his brow to his hairline.

‘Yes, well that’s why I asked him to do it isn’t it?’ Big Terry snapped.  ‘Anyway that’s not the point!  How did you like my instructions?’

Clint stared at Big Terry for a moment, his breathing shallow.

‘Oh, this time you can speak - I really am interested to know.  I designed them myself you know.’

‘They blew away in the wind,’ said Clint, determined not to let Big Terry know how much this really was beginning to get to him.  He was pretty sure his voice only cracked once.

‘I know - I saw but you read them, right?’

‘Yes.  I read them.’

‘And?’ said Big Terry, fidgeting with his gun.

‘And I’m glad it’s not shelving.  I’m fucking hopeless at putting up shelving.’

Big Terry raised his right foot and placed it squarely on Clint’s nose, exerting just the tiniest amount of pressure.

‘Now Clint,’ he began.  ‘I know you're a cocky little bastard but we can play this one of two ways.  Either you can tell me what I want to know…’

Clint could smell the fresh soil between the treads on Big Terry’s shoes.  He tried unsuccessfully to turn his head as Big Terry began to put pressure on his face.

‘Or I can and will bury you alive out here and you can starve to death in your own personal hell six feet under the ground.  How does that sound?’

‘Mmmmmmph,’ replied Clint.

‘I’ll tell you what.  Why don’t you get going with the carpentry and you can decide in a few minutes.’  Big Terry took his foot from Clint’s face before kicking him in the ear.

‘Ow!’ Clint screamed, scrambling out of the way.  ‘That fucking hurt.’

‘No shit,’ said Big Terry and began moving back towards the flat pack.  ‘Now come on, start hammering.’

A few minutes later and Clint was hammering only a few feet away from the gaping hole Big Terry had discovered.

‘Terry,’ said Clint.

‘Big Terry.’

‘Sorry, um, Big Terry.  I shouldn’t be here you know.’

‘Oh shouldn’t you?  And why is that exactly?’

‘I was only ever a messenger.  I don’t have the painting.’

‘Don’t play the innocent with me you little shit – you’ve ripped me off one too many times boy.’

‘Wh-’

‘Anyway, shut up. Are you nearly finished?’

Clint stood over the coffin he had constructed.  The wood was rough and unvarnished.

‘Listen,’ said Clint.  ‘About that painting…’

He knew his only chance was to convince Big Terry that he really didn’t know where the damn thing was but even with the pleading tone he had inadvertently adopted Big Terry remained ice cold.

‘Ah yes, now we get to it.’

‘I really don’t know where it is,’ said Clint, deflated by the response.

Big Terry stared at Clint unblinking.

‘Listen, Big Terry…’

Big Terry took the pistol from his coat and cocked the hammer.

‘This can’t be happening, you’ve got to be kidding.’

He waved the pistol at Clint who shook his head.

‘No, I am not getting into that fucking box.’

‘Yes you are.’

Clint had begun to sweat.  Not the healthy, wholesome sweat of DIY but a cold, creeping sweat that began in the small of his back and had begun working its way outwards.

‘I’m really not.  This… this… it’s not…’  Clint waved his hands in front of him and took a step back.

Big Terry got up from where he was sitting and walked across to Clint, smiling a friendly smile.

‘Now Clint, earlier on I gave you a choice.  I appreciate that you maintain you do not know anything about the painting.  For now, I am prepared to believe you.’

‘Thank God!  Oh, Big Terry, I won’t forget this I was really starting to panic about that whole being buried alive deal.’

Big Terry shook his head and held the barrel of his gun in front of his lips like an index finger.  ‘Shhhh.  Earlier I gave you a choice and the choice was you either tell me where the painting is or you will be buried alive.’

Clint nodded.

‘Unfortunately I don’t feel I can renege on that offer and I am going to have to bury you alive.’

Clint wondered if it would make any difference if he threw up on Big Terry.  He swallowed the foul gastric taste that had suddenly pervaded his palette.

‘However as you didn’t have the opportunity to save yourself I am going to give you a second choice.’

‘Wh-?’

‘I can shoot you.’

Clint stared at Big Terry as he lifted the gun and pointed it at him.

‘Or not.’  Big Terry raised his empty left hand and made his thumb and index finger into the shape of a gun before pulling the imaginary trigger and winking his eye.

Big Terry began to blur in front of Clint’s eyes.  He lifted his hand and touched his face, tears streamed down.  There was nothing else he could do, he could practically feel the consciousness slipping away from him.  Clint began sobbing.

‘Is this dignified?  Clint?  Is it?’ Big Terry shook his head.

‘Well?’

Clint sobbed.

‘I’m sorry but we really are going to have to wrap things up. I need your final answer.’

Clint shook his head.

‘Okay then.  In the box.’

Clint stared looked first at the box, then at the hole in the ground and, like the red man, got inside and lay down.  The tears rolled down his cheeks and onto the untreated wood beneath.  A splinter was sticking in his thigh but he didn’t move.  There was no point.

Moments later Big Terry poked his head into view.  ‘Actually, can you just get out for a second?’

Clint did as he was told, his eyes transfixed on the gun the whole time.

‘Tall aren’t you?’ Big Terry grabbed the coffin and dragged it to the edge of the grave.

‘I don’t mean to be.’

‘You can pop back in now, I just thought it’ll be easier to tip you in from there.’

Clint repeated instruction number three and waited for the green man to follow through with his instructions.

Soon the lid of the coffin was in place.  Big Terry, although muted, still continued talking outside.

‘It’s probably the best choice if I’m honest,’ he said.  ‘If nothing else it proves you have hope.’

With each nail that was hammered in, Clint felt the vibrations through the wood, the sound echoed in his ears and the tears kept rolling down his face.  He had stopped sobbing now and just stared at a spot two inches in front of his face, the claustrophobia starting to take hold.

‘I mean you never know, you may be rescued.’

He had been counting the nails and he knew that there had already been twenty two used.  That left one or two and then that would be it.

‘Not that any humans come out this far into the woods.  Perhaps a passing fox will here your cries and call his friends together to dig you up.’

With one last bang nail number twenty four reached its destination.

‘It’ll be like Wind in the Willows.’

Clint lay for a second trying to think of something to do, a plan, anything.  Nothing came.  He could feel the coffin tilting and after a moment it dropped, hitting the bottom of the grave, knocking the wind out of him and winking out the light of his consciousness.  He passed out.

Is That To Go?

G
eoff and Martin are sitting in a popular global coffee outlet which I can’t name for legal reasons (it’s Starbucks). They have been there for some time and Geoff has become concerned.

‘Martin,’ Geoff begins, on the verge of reiterating what the author just pointed out. ‘I’m worried about you.’

Martin shakes his head rapidly left and right.

Geoff sips his coffee. It tastes great; not too warm, not too cold, not too strong, not too weak. Fan-bloody-tastic.

Martin continues to shake his head leftright.

Geoff reaches out and places his mug on the table between them then gently extends his palm and places it on Martin's juddering forearm. Martin stops momentarily, his gaze crunching to a halt on the back of Geoff’s hand.

‘How much coffee have you had?’ but Geoff already knows the answer.

‘No-noNOtenOugh. Not. No. Notenough. Enough. No. Nono.’

Geoff stares at Martin like a long lost lover, wondering where it all went wrong. But Geoff knows. Martin was holidaying in the U.S. and saw a TV report that McDonalds had been sued over the temperature of their coffee. Easy, he thought as he returned on the plane. Some minor oral scalding and I can retire early.

Martin had not counted that McDonalds communication system worked faster than a bush telegraph, faster even than a 747 and it wasn’t until he reached Casualty that he realised a warning message had been placed on the cup.

Unperturbed he had looked for his own niche. His own way of fucking the corporate world over. Geoff had a funny feeling that Martin had found the niche.

‘Five hours,’ Martin begins cautiously, his eyes fizzing with static, darting up-up-down. ‘FifteenNnNoNONineTEEN.’

Geoff makes to interrupt but Martin jitters beyond interjection, throwing Geoff’s palm from his arm with a shout.

‘Yesteen. Nineteen. Nineteen CofFees. Nine. Teen.’ His head drops to the table and his arms snap over the top. ‘STOP!’

For the time it takes to slice the cheesecake there is silence then he’s whipped upright and scratching at his forearm, scratching like someone had slipped a leech under there and it is slowly sucking the life blood from him.

‘McMc’ he purses his lips, staring at Geoff.

‘Donalds?’

‘Right! Donalds. Didn’t work. No, nope no way not that one, didn’t go to plan. This one will it will it will. YesyesYES.’

Martin nods and nods updownupdownupdown.

‘Martin,’ asks Geoff between the virtual seizure before him. ‘What are you…’

‘Doing? GoodquestionknewYOUwouldask. Brightman, cleverbloke. In. The. Know.’ He draws breath then: ‘TwentytwentySIX coffees. Twintowntwentysixsexsixy six SIX. Twentysix and that’s the strike. No warning nowarning body cantake it. Can’t handle it nowaynohow. No. No. Get to twenty SIX! Twentysixthecharm then downdowndown.’

He stop mid-yammer to jab a sweaty finger at his cup.

‘No warning,’ he hisses, as he leans forward as if pushing all his concentration into his frontal lobes. ‘Twenty Seven. Cups. Grande. Will. Kill. ThenweSUE. Lawyers. MmmmHmm.’

Geoff stands up and ruffles his friend’s hair playfully. ‘Martin?’

‘Yes. YES!’

Geoff clenches his fist and punches Martin as hard as he can square in the face.

It Happens

T
wo bottles of wine. Red. Australian Merlot. Chinese microwave food. Chow Mein. With chicken - chewy. Television all evening. American sitcoms. Funnier the more wine I drink. She arrives then… Cold porcelain against my cheek as I recover from emptying the evening's entertainment into the toilet. Brief relief.

The soft duvet wrapped around me, protecting me from the world spinning around and then instant, complete unconsciousness. At last.

‘Okay, okay. I got that part,’ said the sergeant, leaning across the table in the interview room. ‘But what else happened?’

I wake up to the cat licking my face. By the time I pull my eyes open I realise something is wrong. It happens. I rush to the toilet and know it happened again last night. The duvet spills out behind me like the cape of some drunken super-hero and I go, pissing sitting down, head in hands, elbows on my knees as I sit, my world tilting and rutting. I return to the bedroom to see her lying there. Silent.

The sergeant leant back in his chair. This was the fourth time he had heard the story. He rubbed his forehead with grimy fingers and nodded slightly.

‘Go on.’

I stumble towards my dressing gown and somehow manage to get my arms through the right holes. I don't worry about covering myself up, I know there's no point. For a second I think I might need to run back to the toilet but it passes.

I walk slowly over to her. She is lying face down, one hand above her head, one behind her back which I notice is smooth and unblemished. I extend a shaky finger and lightly jab her buttock a couple of times. Just to see. Nothing.

‘Good,’ the sergeant said. ‘This is better, but how did she get there?’

There was a pause before the suspect continued.

She must have used the key I gave her to get into the house. I have this arrangement with her, whenever I go away on business, on holiday, whatever, she comes and feeds my cat. It's very kind, she doesn't have to. In return I do this for her. It isn't a spoken agreement, just something that evolved over the ten years we've been neighbours.

‘So she was your neighbour?’ he said. Somewhere in this blank exterior there may be an explanation.

It's very remote where we live. There are just two houses set back from the beach, side by side. We’re never disturbed. Not another house for miles. The majority of the time it's the epitome of coastal living but sometimes when the darkness comes I get jumpy.

‘Jumpy? What do you mean jumpy? When my wife walks about at night she gets jumpy, she doesn’t go around killing people – d’you see?’

Being here in the country should mean I can leave my doors unlocked and sleep easy. Maybe because I live on my own I don't necessarily see the good in everyone as easily as I should. Call it survival instinct.

So there she was, in the bed. My bed. This woman, this invader, this uninvited guest. I grab her and hoist her over onto her back. She’s a dead weight. 

The sergeant sighed and tapped his pen on the desk. None of this was fitting together the way he had hoped.

I can't think of her sexually, not any more. Not after what had happened. I try to make sure my eyes don't spend too long on any part of her body. It turns my stomach to think of it now. I lay her arms by her sides and go to begin preparations. Her lipstick is long-faded, her lips giving way to a blue tinge around the edges. My eyes glance for a second to her neck. It’s a bullet wound this time. The downy hair on the nape is scorched. The gun would have been fired at close range. It happens.