The Transfiguration of Mister Punch (23 page)

Someone passed outside—long strides, flowered skirt and blood dripping from her fingers. Joan pressed her fingers to her lips. The woman dragged another woman along the alleyway. The captive’s head hung from her body by thin strips of shredded meat. Joan pushed the door shut and ran into the dark hollow of the theatre. There were monsters everywhere. God help her, there was nowhere to run.

Footsteps stomped ahead of her. Dozens more stomped within the auditorium. At the end of the corridor, Joan noticed a set of steps winding into a basement. She’d hide there. Stijn had once told her that monsters populated the world. She’d never thought it true. No denying it now.

At the bottom of the stairs, red light shone from a room to her left. Joan held her breath. The light illuminated jars on a shelf ahead of her. A hacking cough echoed from within the other room and the sound of something sawing back and forth. She moved towards the jars. Eyes peered at her from within glass—bloodshot, blue, grey, brown, hazel and a familiar glass eye usually found peering from behind a monocle.

“Sir Neville,” she whispered, hand cupping the cracked monocle.

The monocle’s glass cut into her palm. Blood dripped onto the wooden floor, slipping between the slats. Floorboards creaked their thank you—no, she’d imagined that last part.
Thank you
, they repeated.

Joan picked up the jar containing Sir Neville’s eye. The jar misted from within and the eye sat in a pool of its own tears. A plucked-out eye couldn’t cry. Then, she reminded herself—as impossible as a girl made from the stolen parts of other people.

Sir Neville couldn’t tell the monster girl how delighted he was to see her, that he was sorry, that he now understood they were all monsters here. She clutched his left eye to her chest. His right eye, several jars along on the shelf, stared at her. Had he lips, he’d sigh. Up close, he noted that her eyebrows were a different colour to her hair. As said hair wasn’t dyed and didn’t appear to be a wig, he could only assume that Stijn had sewn each follicle into place. Come to think of it, the monster girl’s hair never grew.

In the neighbouring room, in a box that pressed against his ears, Sir Neville’s brain pondered on the monster girl and contemplated his own fate. If Stijn recycled his parts and turned him into other men, would he go mad from being in so many places at once? Or would he fade and become only a blip of a memory?

He’d go mad attempting to be many men at once.

He didn’t want to go mad.

If madness wasn’t waiting in box and jar.

Rasputin lay in pieces. Stijn had pulled the puppeteer apart but now his head hurt and he couldn’t recall how to put him back together or build a new puppeteer. He’d done this many times. What was up with him?

Stijn drummed his fists against the sink. Flakes of dead skin tore to reveal red-raw innards. It felt as though his magic were melting; trickling into the drain drip by rotting drip of fat. No, it couldn’t be. In this macabre workshop, Stijn was God, creating new life from old.

Once upon a time, he’d attached arms, legs and necks to torsos with nothing more required than a little elbow grease. Then, a few months after escaping Hell, he’d needed to use needle and thread, sometimes superglue. If he showed weakness, his creations would take over the theatre. Stijn scratched his head, dislodging his hair and tearing away part of his scalp. Still, looking like a decaying clown, make-up melting, should be enough to instil fear if not respect.

He didn’t want to lose his face. It was a part of the true him, of who he’d been. That and his patchwork memories. His right thumbnail fell off, jamming in the plughole.

On the table, Rasputin’s mouth opened, gasping for air despite that Stijn had detached Rasputin’s lungs. Stijn knew he should have left the puppeteer as was, perhaps locked him up for a day or two; too much work to rebuild him. Damn his impulsiveness. Well, at least he hadn’t torn Joan apart.
Yet.
Oh, how he hated his niggling subconscious—it was usually right. In a moment’s passion, he would tear Joan apart and what would become of his theatre then? Although, he pondered, a performing head would draw in the crowds.

Stijn tapped his finger against his chin. The torn fingertip smarted.

“Frankie,” Mr Punch shouted from somewhere above. “I mean, Stijn. Where are you man?”

The floorboards above Stijn’s workshop creaked. If Punch found the storeroom, he’d empty it or command Stijn to build an army. He didn’t have it in his fingers. Couldn’t let Punch know that. His arms ached, felt as though they’d drop off. He needed something to defend himself. That is, if one could defend against a monster of Punch’s magnitude. If he didn’t, he’d end up a head rolling about a theatre basement. On the table, Rasputin groaned, giving away their location. Boards creaked in the neighbouring storeroom. Punch? Stijn looked at the ceiling. Sawdust rained from beneath Punch’s step.

A short, misshapen shadow crossed the threshold. Followed by a whisper. “Sir Neville?”

Stijn skirted around the table on which Rasputin lay and slid along the wall towards the doorway. Joan. When she moved close to the doorway, Stijn’s hand snapped out and clasped around her mouth, dragging her into the workshop. But, someone else had followed her.

“Frankie? Stijn?” Punch said, his voice booming down the stairs.

Joan struggled against his grip.

“You think I’m bad,” Stijn said. “You’ll wish he’d tear you apart. Shush.”

She kicked his shin, knocking Stijn into the table where Rasputin’s hand grabbed his arm. Stijn shook the hand off—easy to do as he’d already detached the hand at the wrist.

“Go out there,” Stijn said. “Maybe you’ll find him accommodating.”

Joan hesitated. She looked about the room, possibly looking for another (non-existent) exit. Stijn pushed her against the wall. A box containing dregs of sawdust rested beneath the shelves.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I’ve never intentionally hurt you.”

“Where you protecting me from the world?” she asked. Stijn wasn’t certain if that was sarcasm or genuine question.

“I’m as much a prisoner as you. Get in the box. I’ll hide you from him. If he tears me apart, escape. Find somewhere far from this theatre, this city, from Hell.”

“Hell?” she asked, frowning.

“Hurry.”

Perhaps the urgency in his voice compelled Joan to climb into the box. It could also be that she was used to obeying a puppeteer’s command. Whatever the truth, Joan climbed into the box. Stijn replaced the lid and rested Rasputin’s head on it.

“I know who’s in this box,” Rasputin said.

“I should construct braces to hold your teeth together for they do chatter so.”

Rasputin closed his mouth. He also winked. Stijn looked about the room for a rag, something to gag Rasputin. Before he could find anything, Punch walked into the workshop, twirling his cane like a gentleman-monster out for a jaunt.

“My, my, what do we have here? A workshop full of things that belong to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your theatre is full of people, none of them players.”

“He decapitated me. If that helps,” Rasputin said, attempting to clear his throat. “I’m willing to perform if someone would reattach my body.”

Stijn ran his finger across his neck.

“Really,” Rasputin said. “Really. You’re threatening to decapitate a head you already decapitated.”

“He’s mad,” Stijn said.

“Flaming pissed and I’d piss all over him if I still had my bits.”

Punch picked up Rasputin’s head; examined it. “I’ll take this with me. Jam it into the gap between here and Hell, wait for it to liquidize.”

“What? Wait?” Rasputin said, hanging from Punch’s fingers by lanky grey-brown threads of hair. “I have important information. I’m an asset. Oh but, once I impart said information you’ll still liquidize me and then I’ll deserve to be flushed to Hell. Oh, the dilemma. Course, I still want to piss on him.”

Punch slammed Rasputin’s head against a shelf. Rasputin’s forehead cracked.

“Ow. Fucking ow!”

Punch dropped Rasputin’s head, allowing it to half-plop on the floor, to roll towards the table and Rasputin’s thrashing body. Then, Punch raised his foot above Rasputin’s head. One stomp and it would be all over. Stijn almost urged Punch to do it. That way Joan wouldn’t be discovered.

“Okay, okay, I give in. I’ll tell you the important information that won’t save me. I only do it because I’m a coward. See my liver runs yellow, right down the side of the table. Careful you don’t slip. The information is... Hey, Stijn is heading for the door, running like the coward I am.”

Stijn stopped mid-escape, foot raised and pausing on the first step. Punch’s claw-like fingers grabbed Stijn’s shirt collar, dragged him back.

“I wasn’t running away.” Sweat dripped from Stijn’s hooked nose. “This is my theatre and thus my responsibility. I was heading to the stage to play the fool.”

“Before you leave,” Punch said, giving Stijn hope that he’d escape. “We’ll have a listen to what this head has to say. I’m sure it will concern us both.”

Punch dragged Stijn into the centre of the workshop. When Punch let go, Stijn’s knees gave way and he dropped to his knees and landed in Rasputin’s piss. Rasputin laughed. From the table, Rasputin’s fingers pointed. His feet offered high-fives (or perhaps low-fives).

“So...” Punch said.

Rasputin tried to roll beneath a shelf before Punch could pluck him up and bash him about some more. Black boots stomped either side of Rasputin’s ears, applied pressure.

“Okay, okay. Stijn is building a new him to fool you into thinking it’s the old him. But you’re not that stupid. Slightly stupid, but not
that
stupid. It doesn’t even look like him. There it is, all my secrets blurted out. Well not quite all. I used to fiddle with myself when Joan was sleeping but... Don’t tell her. Oops!”

“That reminds me,” Punch said, “where is your performer?”

Punch looked about the room. Stijn looked at the box. Stijn found he couldn’t stop looking at the box.

To Judy,

I promise to spend hell fire and brimstone with you, but I will not stay in this poky flat where there isn’t room to swing a severed leg.

With some love and a little devotion, Punch.

Judy’s roar cracked ceiling and walls. Their neighbour banged a broom end or fist against the wall. He or she did that a lot. A couple lived next door. A couple with a cocker spaniel named Copper, matching slippers, and who were fond of baking bread and sewing quilts. A patchwork quilt hung from their balcony. Judy would like to hang them from the balcony. Judy’s huff was louder than she’d intended. It drew one of the couple from their hobbit hole to her door. They rapped at it, insistent.

For decorum’s sake, Judy hid the remains of the woman she’d dragged from outside the theatre.
Damn, Punch.
She opened the door with a roar to swallow a nosy neighbour whole.

The neighbour coughed. “Excuse me, I’m George Van...”

Judy held up a finger, pressed it to George’s lips. “I believe I hear a kettle whistling.” Then she pursed her lips and made a whistling sound before heading into what claimed to be the kitchen but was in fact a stove, a fridge, one cupboard and a sink with a dripping tap.

George followed her, as did the cocker spaniel.

“Do sit,” Judy said, slamming things in the pretend kitchen.

The noise drew the wife. Millicent Van-something barged into the apartment, her substantial hips knocking against the furniture. “George,” Millicent snapped. “You’re supposed to be complaining, not drinking tea with the enemy.”

Judy said, “I bet you’d like to never be parted.”

George and Millicent looked at each other. Before they could reply, Judy smashed their heads together and began to pull apart and reassemble the pair as if they were plastic dolls. Copper, the cocker spaniel, appeared to be encouraging Judy rather than discouraging. Copper wagged his tail and licked up blood spray. When she’d finished, Judy clapped her hands together.

“Wake up, wake up, wake up.”

They didn’t. George and Millicent lay glass-eyed, their blood seeping into the brown 1970s carpet. Seemed she was becoming less adept at getting the dead to walk. Practice did not make perfect, or even a hash-job. Punch had told of how little Frankie made new people out of their dead; that he’d made them dance. He’d smiled and grown glassy-eyed when talking about the girl-player, a puppet of sorts.

Maybe if she tore apart the players at the theatre she could create an army out of them. She’d dismantle the girl-player first. Give her a hooked nose and a wart on her chin.

The box wobbled. Joan swallowed the sawdust-tinged air, couldn’t still her trembling limbs. She prayed Rasputin wouldn’t give her away. He owed her that much.

“That reminds me,” Punch said, “where is your performer?”

His voice rattled through the box. He’d pull her apart. So would Stijn. If Stijn and Mr Punch left together she could climb out and run for the exit, chance the monsters outside. Sir Neville’s monocle remained within her palm. Almost felt as though she held his hand. Oh poor, Sir Neville. What had Stijn done to his lovely, mechanical heart?

The world outside the box stilled. Joan pressed her ear to the wood. She couldn’t hear anything but that didn’t mean they’d left. Mr Punch could be waiting for her to reveal herself. She would not play his puppet—so she waited. Then she waited some more. Joan shifted in the box and it creaked in complaint. If they were there, surely they’d have heard that. Her fingers pressed against the top of the box. It didn’t budge.

“Hello,” she said.

Sod the consequences, better to play the puppet than to be trapped in a box. Some would say she belonged here. Especially, if they knew she was dead. She sniffed. The air stunk—of rotting meat, of something dead. She’d never noticed the smell before; hoped it issued from outside and not from her. She tried the lid again. Trapped. Breath caught in her throat. Although, she didn’t need to breathe, Joan still struggled against expected suffocation. This box would not become her coffin.