Great Apes (16 page)

But Paul's optimistic signs turned out to be severely misplaced. He and the senior registrar on Gough Ward, Dr Jane Bowen, had no difficulty in getting Simon Dykes settled in the secure room – the chimp didn't pull out of his catatonic state at all. And they had no problem with Dykes's group either. His ex-alpha mate seemed to have been expecting this to happen. When Jane Bowen placed the pant-hoot to her, Jean Dykes appeared on the screen clutching an ornate rosary in one hand, the beads of alternate gold and amber. The whole while the two females gesticulated she fingered this devotional device, so that her signs were admixed with the prayerful fumble. She was wearing a thick, black, velvet dress with a ruffled collar, and the combination of this old-fashioned costume and the female's staring, intent eyes unsettled the psychiatrist.

There was that – and in keeping with her religiosity and her old-fashioned mores, Mrs Dykes continued to receive the attentions of two males while she was on the phone. So that the squeals and pants of mating further embellished her formal tempo.

‘ “H'huuu” Mrs Dykes?'

‘ “HooH'Grnn” yes, may I “huu” help you?'

‘It's concerning your ex-alpha Simon –'

‘Oh, Simon, Holy Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee “h-h-h-h-hooo” …'

‘Mrs Dykes I'm afraid I have some bad news for –'

‘Blessed are thee amongst females “h-h-h-h-hooo”, and blessed are the fruits of thy swelling … Has he had some sort of “h'huu” episode?'

‘A breakdown, my name is Dr Bowen, I'm –'

‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners “h-h-h-h-hoooeeek” …!' The mating came to a squeaky finish. ‘Well, it doesn't surprise me, he has turned away from the path of righteousness … Now, and at the hour of our death –'

‘Mrs Dykes, I'm the senior registrar on the acute ward at Charing Cross Hospital in London. We'd like to keep Simon here on a seventy-two-hour section – we need your consent as next of kine.'

‘Of course, of course … Our Alpha, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name …' Her signing faltered a little, and then for the first time since they had begun to gesticulate the female's hands rested in her lap.

‘I must sign,' Jane Bowen jumped in, ‘did you expect this “huu”? Has Simon a history of these episodes “huu”?'

‘Thy kingdom come, thy will be … He has been a sore trial, both to me and to his infants, Henry and Magnus, yes, that is true. A miserable sinner, full of the bile of his own turpitude. As to his mental health, well, you would have to consult Anthony on that –'

‘Is that Dr Bohm at the Thame Health Centre “huu”?'

‘The same, Anthony has been a great support to us all, a great distal support –' She broke off, a young male of about nine had come into the picture, crawling over the back of
the male who had just mated his mother. The young male's resemblance to Simon Dykes was strong, the same protuberant eyes, the same bouffant brown hair.

‘Can't you see I'm gesticulating, Magnus, really –' She broke off and gave the young male a clip round his ear. He disappeared yowling. ‘I'm sorry. You must appreciate, with a short-reigning alpha …'

‘Of course, of course. I'm going to pant-hoot Dr Bohm as soon as I finish with you. All I need to know is that you'll be able to go into the health centre later today and put your signature on the papers I'm going to fax through.'

‘That will be no problem, Dr Bowen. Now if you'll forgive me …' The big male with the red sideburns was seeing to her rear end once more. ‘Glory be to the Father, to the Son and to the Holy “h-h-hoooo” –'

Jane Bowen broke the connection and knuckle-walked back on to Gough Ward from her office, gently shaking her head and musing. Perhaps there was more to the Dykeses' fissioning than the artist's consort was delineating.

Peering through the judas, Bowen saw that Simon Dykes was as they had left him, sitting on the nest in an odd manner, his feet dangling over the side rather than drawn up, his upper body peculiarly erect. Jane Bowen decided to risk an attack from him, although she was a small female – under eighty pounds. ‘ “Huuu” Simon?'

He didn't turn towards her, but his fingers moved, fumbling faulty signs. ‘Geddaway, beast, foul demon, geddaway … So I'm mad, so what, geddaway …'

She took this as a good portent; perhaps he was pulling out of the flamboyant stage of the breakdown. She moved a little further into the room. ‘Simon,' she inparted very
softly on his shoulder, ‘do you think you cou –' He whirled round at her touch, screamed and began clawing at her muzzle. But despite his size she easily fended him off, and was even able to grab his hands. ‘ “Wraaf”! Simon, I'm a doctor, I'm trying to help you!'

‘ “Aaaieee! Aaaiee! Aaaiee”! Get away! Get away! Don't touch me, you fucking ape! Get away!'

Jane Bowen retreated to the door of the secure room. Simon Dykes collapsed to the floor as soon as she released him. He sprayed, but ineffectually – mostly over his own legs – and now he slumped in the pureed excrement keening and whimpering. Jane Bowen gently closed the door, secured it, and went to find a nurse. ‘Keep a close watch on him,' she signed. ‘He isn't dangerous, but he may try and damage himself. Get me twenty mils of Valium, I'll give it to him intravenously. That should calm him. Then you try and clean him up a bit – but don't groom him, I have a hunch that his psychosis is linked to touch. ' She adjusted her gown, which had ridden down over her ischial scrag. ‘I'm going to pant-hoot his GP and see if I can find out anything more about our tortured genius.'

‘ “H'huu” Dr Bohm?'

‘ “H'hoooo” can I help you?' The features, like the signing, were rotund, the fingers plumply plopping the signs in the very centre of the screen. The male's great bum of a jaw was fringed with a white ruff of beard.

‘My name's Dr Jane Bowen, I'm the senior psychiatric registrar at Charing Cross Hospital.'

‘How can I help you “huu”?'

‘It's concerning one of your patients, Simon Dykes –'

‘Simon “huu”? What's up “huu”? I do hope nothing's wrong –'

‘I'm afraid there is – he appears to have had some kind of breakdown, possibly a drug-related psychosis. We'll need his notes, of course, and I'm faxing through the forms for a seventy-two-hour section –'

‘Is that really necessary “huu”? Is he violent “huu”?'

‘ “Hooo'Grnnn” well, not exactly violent, although he has launched several unprovoked attacks –'

‘Damn it, female “euch-euch”! If the chimp's not a threat to anyone why are you holding him “huu”? This isn't just anybody, you realise, Dykes is an eminent artist –'

‘I do appreciate that, Dr Bohm; believe me, if we didn't feel that he was a potential danger to himself we wouldn't dream of holding him. But put it this way – his collapse has been flamboyant, to sign the least. Show me, has he much history of mental disturbance “huu”?'

‘ “Euch-euch” well … “Euch-euch” well, I suppose you'll get it from the notes anyway. Yes, he has. A lot of depression, been hospitalised for it twice, most recently a year or so ago. And before that a couple of years previously. Group fissioned – as you probably know if you've pant-hooted his ex-alpha –'

‘I have.'

“‘Hooo” poor female – as it happens I've been able to provide some direct “gru-nn” support for her – in a distal capacity of course. Well, since the second hospitalisation he's been on an SSRI –'

‘He's on Prozac?'

‘That's what I signed – yes, he's been getting a repeat prescription. I haven't seen him for over six months now –
as far as I was aware he was much improved. Working again. I believe he's been mixed up in a rather unsuitable consortship, but that's hardly a matter for his doctor – or his ex-alpha's distal male either.'

‘Has he a history of drug abuse, Dr Bohm “huu”?'

‘What do you mean – drug abuse “huu”? If you mean does he take drugs, I'd sign the answer is probably yes – creative types and all that – but it's nothing we've ever gesticulated. Are you sure drugs are involved “huu”?'

‘It looks that way at the moment, but we haven't been able to get anything concrete out of Dykes himself; he's in a fully fledged delusional state, some impairments of motor coordination, striking loss of vigour. Keeps signing things like , won't accept grooming. He sprays any of my staff who get too near, then relapses into catatonia.'

There was no motion on the screen for a while save for Bohm's fingers teasing at his ruff of beard and bum of chin. Then he signed, ‘Well, it does sound serious, very serious. Do you think I'd better come down and take a look at him “huu”? He's been my patient for many years, more in the way of an ally. And now, of course, we're co-group members – of a sort.'

‘That may be an idea, Dr Bohm, I'll keep you posted. Possibly a familiar muzzle or grooming attitude could pull him out of it.'

‘ “Hooo” I suppose so. I'm sorry I was so abrupt before, but you know how it is …' he flourished vaguely, as if this senseless hand movement somehow conveyed a panoply of doubts about psychiatry and its status within the healing professions.

‘Please, don't worry, I acknowledge the suzerainty of your dedication to general practice, I acknowledge your equal ranking with mine and the refulgence of your anal scrag.'

‘Quite so, quite so. Well, give me another pant-hoot as soon as there are any developments – or no developments, in which case I'll come. In the meantime, if you need to sign to anyone who's really close to him, I suggest you try George Levinson – his dealer – he has a gallery in Cork Street. He's been more of a support to Simon over the years than anyone, and in all confidence, the situation with his ex is not good –'

‘I kind of gathered that.'

‘Quite so, quite so. Well, I'll wait to see from you then “HoooGraa”. ' And without further postamble Bohm broke the connection.

For some time afterwards the provincial GP sat at his desk, staring sightlessly at the posters of teddy bears and lap ponies the health centre receptionist had stuck up on the walls of his consulting room. Eventually he summoned himself, and with fluttering hands signed to himself, ‘Hierarchy, that's what it comes down to; every time, hierarchy, bloody hierarchy. ' He pressed a button on the intervid and asked for his next patient to be sent in.

But later that day, in a hiatus between genteel hypochondriacs, Anthony Bohm found himself wondering whether Simon's breakdown weren't in some way connected with that drug trial, and that pushy, exhibitionistic chimp, Busner.

Dr Anthony Bohm's assistance was pant-hooted for by the staff on Gough before too many more days had passed. George Levinson had already been, twice in fact. Which, knowing George and the stacked nature of his diary, was something of a miracle. Sarah had been back every day, two or three times, since that first awful morning. On the third day she brought Tony Figes with her, in the hope that maybe someone who Simon didn't know quite so intimately might be able to reach him where she had failed. But it was all to no avail. Whether his visitor was his consort, his dealer, or his ally, Simon Dykes's reaction was the same – he went humanshit.

Simon comes to. In nest, in secure room number six, on Gough Ward. He is reassured on opening his eyes by the sight of walls painted with institutional creaminess. He is further reassured by the nest itself, with its functional aspect, all rounded wooden edges. Nothing for a hysterical chimp to damage himself on here. The small window is too high up to see through, and it's barred anyway. But that doesn't matter – it's still reassuring. Everything has the character of wakefulness. Simon looks at the very weave of the sheet, the nap of the grey institutional blanket, and sees that it is real. He looks at the back of his hand – only this is unfamiliar. It's clearly his, but it seems somehow far off and hovering –furry as
well. There's a noise from the door, and he turns to be blessed by more reassurance, by the security of the door itself. It's a hospital door with a judas in it. Simon thinks: I'll go to the hole and get some comfort. Parley with a vision and have it reassure me by being real.

He rises and walks, unsteadily upright, across the linoleum. Flotch, flotch, flotch, of sweat-damp soles on linoleum. So reassuring. Someone is looking in on him, someone … he sees as he approaches the judas … Someone with the muzzle of a beast. He collapses. The nurse enters, chimphandles him back into nest, administers ten milligrams of Valium, with sure fingers finding vein below fur.

They come by night and they come by day. Sometimes seconds after he has awoken, sometimes minutes, very occasionally hours. Each time they come it is the same; it cancels out, completely erases whatever security he has gained from the minute, intense examination of his environment. If they leave him for a long time, and then silently, surreptitiously check to see what he's up to before they come in, they may catch him intent upon a laundry mark, or manufacturer's plastic plaque, welding origination to artefact. For the artist is nothing if not painstaking in his delusion. But even if they leave him for hours and he has the opportunity as the sedatives seep out and the disastrous day seeps in fully to accept the testimony of his senses, their arrival is always the same nullifying shock. They are so fast when they enter. So squat, moving rapidly towards him in black scrimmages of fur and muscle.

They appear to be communicating with him – this much he knows. They appear to be communicating with him, as much because of the intentness of their movements, placing their hairy limbs here and there, as the meaningfulness of their meaty grunts,
their sonorous squeals. There's further import in the way they grasp him when he begins – as he invariably does – to flip; grasp him when he begins – as he invariably does – to scream. Scream until the needle bites. Scream until consciousness seeps back out and the dreams flow around and under him.