Sprout Mask Replica

I stood there in the alleyway and watched him walk away. Something very odd had just occurred and I meant to find out just what it was.

  I reached into the inner pocket of my jacket, oblivious to the fact that it contained three fir cones painted silver and a cork which had compensated for the new train time tables and fished out my private eye tape recorder.

  I’d set it recording back in the Gents and was eager to hear just what was really on it.

  In my business, tape-recording your conversations can sometimes mean the difference between a revelation and a REVELATION.

  This was one of those sometimes.

  HOTEL JERICHO

  The last time I saw Sparrow

  He was leaning on his barrow

  Where he sold the spud and marrow

  And the sprout of ill repute.

  He was tall and tanned and well advised,

  His ego too was over-sized,

  And I looked on in wonder

  At the brightness of his suit.

  For he would swagger to and fro

  En route to Hotel Jericho.

  The last time I saw Norman

  He was working as a store man

  And a part-time western law man

  Of the Wyatt Earp brigade.

  He was dressed in rags and tatters,

  Versed in all the legal matters,

  And the natives came to watch him

  As he strolled the esplanade.

  For thus he strolled, both thus and so

  En route to Hotel Jericho.

  The last time I saw Wheeler

  He was training as a Peeler

  And making quite a mealer (meal of)

  Doing press-ups for the boys.

  They were standing round in motley knots,

  Like leopards who were changing spots,

  You couldn’t see or hear or think because of all the noise.

  The blighters come, the blighters go

  En route to Hotel Jericho.

  The last time I, well, never mind

  I’m leaving all those lads behind

  They really are the common kind

  And quite below my style.

  I’m selling up my stocks and shares,

  The dogs I’ve trained for baiting bears,

  My bingo halls and wax museums on the Golden Mile.

  It’s hi de hi and ho de ho

  I’m buying Hotel Jericho.

  5

  In Hotel Jericho the beds are never changed, the windows never opened. Flies circle the naked light bulbs, static crackles on the broken TV screens. The taps all drip and the plugs all leak and the people all smell bad.

  Someone’s crying in the basement, someone’s lying in the hall. No-one notices as I glide by, nobody at all.

  I speak to no-one now. I dare not speak. Words have power and power corrupts. I spend all the time I can in my room. I only shop at night and I’m very careful what I buy. I have to keep the balance right. Too much salt and there might be another war. Too little sugar and who knows what might happen? I know, so I always take three in my coffee. No milk though, that might be dangerous.

  I write only on lined paper in red exercise books. Thirty lines to the page, twenty pages to the book. I count the number of words on each page very carefully. The number of mis-spellings. The number of letters to each word, where to put the punctuation marks. If I’m wrong by a comma the results could be catastrophic.

  I work very slowly. Very is in italics. I have to be very careful about italics.

  I’m remembering back again now. Back to how it started. Back to when I became aware. The REVELATION.

  So long ago.

  I walked home from Fangio’s Bar that night. I didn’t take the free bus. It was a long walk home, but it seemed the thing to do at the time. I walked on the pavement cracks to compensate for the new trees they’d planted in the park and went part of the way barefoot because Sonic Energy Authority were at number one for the third consecutive week.

  Of course I didn’t know I was doing it.

  Not then.

  But later. Later I would. Oh my word, yes.

  I entered our house through the unlocked front door. No-one ever locked their doors in those days, not in our neighbourhood. It wasn’t that people were more honest back then, it’s just that no-one had anything worth stealing.

  Muffled screams issued from the kitchen. Mum was ironing Dad’s shirt again. Since Dad had pawned the ironing-board, clothes had to be ironed while still on the body. It was a messy business, but wasn’t everything?

  I wandered into the front parlour. Brother Andy sat in the armchair with a strained expression on his face. He was trying very hard to grow a moustache.

  ‘How’s it coming, Great One?’ I asked.

  ‘I had half a Zappata an hour ago, but it’s gone back in again.’

  I seated myself on the Persian pouffe, a present from Uncle Brian. ‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘do I look strange to you?’

  ‘No, I recognized you at once.

  ‘Nothing odd about me, you would say?’

  ‘Have you grown a moustache?’

  I felt my upper-lip area. ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Well, don’t interrupt me when I’m trying to.’

  I left him to his concentration and went up to my room.

  I occupied the loft at this time. Once I had a bedroom of my own, next to my brother’s. But I came home from school one day to find all my things in the loft and his room knocked through into mine.

  After several months I plucked up enough courage to ask him why I had been moved into the loft.

  ‘Why have I been moved into the loft, Great One?’ I asked him.

  ‘To keep the tigers away.’

  ‘But there are no tigers round here.’

  ‘There. So it works, doesn’t it?’

  And that was that.

  My brother had converted the loft. To Islam. It had been a simple ceremony, but moving. At the end of it he charged me a pound and informed me that I now had the power to issue fatwas, but only small ones and only against domestic animals. I looked up the word fatwa in the dictionary. It wasn’t there. The nearest to it was fatuous, which meant complacently or inanely stupid.

  This bothered me.

  Up in the loft upon the evening of the REVELATION, I lit a candle and sat down upon my lilo. I took out the tape recorder from my pocket and gave it a thoughtful looking-over. There was something important on the tape, I just knew it. But it bothered me. Something deep inside was saying, ‘Don’t play it, don’t play it.’ Something even deeper was saying, ‘Go on, you have to.’ And something even deeper made a rude noise come out of my bottom.

  I watched the candle flame turn green. An omen? It had to be. I rewound the tape and pressed the play button.

  And nothing whatever came out.

  So that was that.

  Oh no it wasn’t. I had the pause button on.

  I pressed upon the pause button and listened in awe to the conversation I’d had with Mr Colon in the alleyway.

  The whole bit.

  It was crazy stuff. The craziest. The message written in the stars. The butterfly’s wings. The compensating. And finally the line that sent shivers down my spine. ‘A man who could do that,’ I had said, ‘would have the world to play with. Such a man would be as God.’

  I rewound the tape and played it again. And again and again and again until the batteries ran out. Then I pulled off the full spool and hid it away behind the water-tank. A chapter of my life was over.

  A very short one, as it happened.

  But there were further chapters yet to come and these, I felt certain, would be gloriously long.

  CAPTAIN OF THE HEAD

  I’ve a way with the old Rosie Lee

  That keeps all the sailors amused,

  When they come home on leave

  I’ve some tricks up my sleeve

  To impress all the salts when they’re used.

  I do speeches from most of the classics br />
  And readings from Judges and Kings,

  A sprinkling of farce

  In a champagne glass

  And a remake of Lord of the Rings.

  I pull bunnies out of my topper

  And invoke ancient runes on a scroll.

  I call up the shit

  From the bottomless pit

  And finish by swallowing coal.

  The sailors throw pennies and halfpennies

  And promise me trips round the bay.

  I just bow to them all,

  Take a quick curtain call

  And then I am off on my way.

  I’m in constant demand for bar mitzvahs

  And weddings and stag nights to boot.

  I charge very good rates

  And supply my own plates (pyrex of course)

  And an ample selection of fruit. (For my Carmen Miranda impersonations)

  There’s no business like show business, is there, eh?

  6

  A NIGHT TO REMEMBER

  It was sprouts for breakfast. But then it was always sprouts for breakfast. I arranged those on my plate into a V formation to balance the eight o’clock news on the wireless set. Wars and rumours of wars, three sprouts to the left and two to the right. A mail train had been held up and many pounds stolen, I angled my fork towards the north to compensate for that. Sonic Energy Authority were still at number one. I might have to wear a blue shirt this morning.

  Although I had played the tape many times I still did not fully understand its implications. I would have to find out more about this chaos theory business, find out how it really worked, if it really worked. It all seemed very unlikely, something tiny happening somewhere, causing something huge to happen somewhere else. That defied Newtonian Laws, didn’t it? And the idea that I was doing the reverse, how could any of that really be? I had to know more. I knew just who I should ask about it.

  And it wasn’t my brother.

  It was my Uncle Brian.

  I would go round and see him after breakfast, play him the tape, ask his advice, decide what to do next.

  Of course I did have some ideas of my own about that, based in part on a certain event I had recently witnessed in a local drinking house called The Flying Swan.

  Although still only a lad of fifteen, I looked far older than I actually was, a gift that I still possess today, and I had been a regular drinker at The Swan for at least five years.

  It was there that I met Jim Pooley and John Omally, who would later find fame in several world-wide best-selling novels and numerous Hollywood musicals.

  I usually went to The Flying Swan on Thursday night, which was talent night.

  The certain event occurred on one of these. You really should have been there.

  It began in this fashion.

  ‘Anyone else? Come up and give us a song?’

  Thursday night at The Flying Swan.

  ‘Come on now, don’t be shy.’

  Talent night. Live music. Come and try.

  Hector would get up and do ‘Green Green Grass of Home’ and ‘I Did It My Way’.

  John Omally would do a recitation, rumoured to be the same one every week, but notable for its infinitely variable and often controversial last line.

  Pooley would sing ‘Orange Claw Hammer’ when pushed, with particular emphasis on the cherry phosphate line.

  And then there was Small Dave.

  Small Dave was the local postman and he was also a dwarf. And Small Dave hated Thursday nights.

  He never missed one though, because, as he said, it was his right as a regular to use the facilities of the saloon bar on Thursday nights if he wanted to. Young aspiring talents were sometimes brought sobbing to their knees, vowing to abandon the bright lights for ever after falling prey to his manic stare and blistering comments.

  Small Dave considered himself something of an authority on show business, having once unsuccessfully auditioned for The Time Bandits, and was always ready to voice his opinion, welcome or not.

  For the most part, not.

  Certainly, what he lacked in inches he made up for in belligerence and out-spokenness He was indeed what P. P. Penrose, author of the ever popular Lazlo Woodbine novels, would have referred to as ‘a vindictive grudge-bearing wee bastard’.

  I rather liked him though.

  One night it became known to us that Small Dave had fallen under the spell of the aforementioned bright lights. How or why, no-one could say for sure. It was a bizarre transformation and by no means a welcome one.

  ‘Why are you wearing a tricorn, Small Dave?’ someone asked.

  ‘Silver. Long John.’ He raised one leg and rolled his eyes about.

  ‘And the dancing pumps?’

  ‘A bit of the old Fred and Gingers.’ Small Dave did a kind of a skip.

  ‘The white gloves? No, don’t tell me.’

  ‘Jolson.’ Down on one knee, arms spread wide.

  ‘And the pillow stuffed up the back of your shirt?’

  ‘Laughton. The now legendary Charles in the role he made his own. Small Dave began to lurch about the bar, muttering such phrases as, ‘the bells, the bells,’ and ‘father, I’m ugly,’ and ‘Sanctuary! Sanctuary!’ This accompanied by a beating upon the door of the Gents. A frightened patron within made his escape through the window.

  ‘A bit of an all-rounder then?’ said Omally, affecting what is known as ‘The Po Face’.

  Small Dave grinned and nodded.

  Glances were, passed about the bar, thoughts exchanged. Small Dave was a bad man to cross.

  ‘You just wait until Thursday,’ he said.

  But none of us was keen.

  ‘This is quite a change that’s come over you,’ said Jim Pooley. ‘I mean, wishing to participate, rather than–’ Jim chose his words carefully, ‘er, offer constructive criticism. For which, I may say, you are greatly admired.’

  ‘Greatly,’ chorused the rest of us.

  ‘Greatly,’ said Jim. ‘Greatly indeed.’

  Talking to Small Dave could be a perilous affair as strangers to The Flying Swan sometimes discovered.

  A sample conversation might go as follows.

  Stranger to Small Dave: Nice Weather

  Small Dave: For what?

  Stranger: For the time of year, I suppose.

  Small Dave: And what’s wrong with the weather the rest of the year, do you suppose?

  Stranger (becoming apprehensive): Nothing. I suppose.

  Small Dave: You do a lot of supposing, don’t you, mate?

  Stranger (the now traditional): But I—

  Small Dave: I think you’d better push off don’t you, mate?

  Stranger (picking up hat): I suppose so. (Makes for door)

  Small Dave: Bloody suppose! (Drinks stranger’s beer)

  ‘Care for another?’ asks Neville, the part-time barman.

  ‘Suppose so,’ says Small Dave.

  Small Dave smiled the sort of smile that helped make Chris Eubank so very popular. ‘I feel I have it in me to make my name famous,’ he plagiarized loosely.

  Pooley bought Small Dave a drink and we all stood about trying to look enthusiastic, as the wee postman ran through his repertoire.

  ‘You have to imagine it with the music,’ he said.

  ‘Music?’ we said.

  ‘String section,’ he said.

  Small Dave took to dancing, he waved a toy umbrella about and flicked beer over himself. ‘Gene Kelly,’ he said, breathlessly. ‘Singing in the Rain.’

  We all nodded gravely. Next Thursday evening had suddenly lost its appeal.

  Pooley put a gentle hand upon the great entertainer’s small shoulder. ‘Dave,’ he said, ‘might I have a minute of your time?’

  ‘What is it, Pooley?’

  Eyes were averted all about the bar. ‘Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb,’ went the conversation.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind stepping outside, I’d like to speak to you in private.’

  Small Dave followed Pooley outsid
e.

  We drew deep breaths and listened. We heard muttered words and then Small Dave’s voice.

  ‘NOT QUITE READY?’ it went.

  Then there was a hideous crunching whack of a sound and shortly after Pooley limped into the saloon bar holding his right knee.

  Neville drew him a large free Scotch. ‘That was a very brave thing to do,’ he told the damaged hero. ‘But has it done the trick?’

  Pooley shrugged and accepted his golden prize.

  Omally watched the following swallowing, and wondered whether Jim had, perchance, planned the whole thing in the noble cause of a free drink.

  He hadn’t.

  Having none of the sorceric powers of Nostradamus, the patrons of The Swan watched Thursday night approach, as a dark and mysterious being wearing a cloak of danger.

  ‘Although I doubt that the word “sorceric” actually exists,’ said Jim Pooley, ‘the point is well made and the night in question will soon be upon us.’ He crossed himself and stroked his amulet.

  ‘Don’t do that in here,’ said Neville, hoping for a cheap laugh.

  Wednesday followed Tuesday, then Thursday came along.

  It was raining. In fact it was pouring. There was thunder, there was lightning. It was not a fit night out for man nor beast. If ever an excuse were needed for spending the night in, catching up on the telly, then here was one falling in bucket loads. But Small Dave, the postman, was a bad man to cross. So to not attend an event which promised, according to rumours in circulation, to be nothing short of a Busby Berkeley Musical Extravaganza, might incur a certain social stigma and ensure that the absentee never again saw the Queen’s mail coming through his or her letter box.

  ‘I don’t know what we’re all getting ourselves in such a state about,’ said Omally. ‘After all, this is just a local talent competition with a bottle of Scotch for a prize.’ Then shaking his head at what he had said, he vanished away to the Gents muttering a strangely familiar recitation.

  Neville was looking horribly pale. ‘Suppose he doesn’t win,’ he murmured to Pooley.