The Death of Bunny Munro

  ‘Is there anything I can do, Dad?’ says Bunny.

  ‘Do? You? You must be fucking joking,’ says the old man.

  Bunny Junior turns the gold key in the front of the bird cage and the automata jumps to life and sings a song in a series of short sweet notes, its beak clacking open and shut, its red and blue wings lifting and falling. A look of immense pleasure passes across the boy’s face.

  ‘Don’t break that thing. It’s worth a bloody fortune,’ says the old man who is attempting to pull the zipper up on his flies, working at it with his twisted fingers.

  ‘Sorry, Granddad,’ says the boy.

  The old man stops what he is doing and looks up at Bunny, the cigarette clamped between his dentures, threads of skin like worn rubber bands looping at his throat.

  ‘What did he call me?’ he says, jabbing a finger at the boy. ‘Is he taking the piss?’

  ‘He’s your grandson, Dad. You know he is,’ says Bunny. The old man turns to Bunny Junior, who watches the little mechanical bird as it sings and dances on its perch.

  ‘Leave that bloody bird alone and come over here to Grandpa.’

  With small, cautious steps Bunny Junior moves towards his grandfather, but the old man beckons him closer and leans towards the boy and cocks a thumb at Bunny, who stands clicking his Zippo and pointlessly patting at the pockets of his jacket for a cigarette. The old man says conspiratorially to the boy, ‘I hope you break his heart. I hope you break it like he broke mine.’

  ‘Leave him alone, Dad,’ mutters Bunny, ‘and give us a fag.’

  ‘Fuck off and buy your own,’ says Bunny Senior and looks at Bunny from the corner of one yellow, dewy eye, then rolls his tongue around his mouth and hawks into his handkerchief. Bunny Junior turns to the birdcage and twists the key again.

  ‘I just spoke to the woman who looks after you. Miss … What’s her name?’ says Bunny.

  ‘Cunt-face.’

  ‘She says you need to go to the hospital, Dad.’

  Bunny Senior raises his walking stick above his head, his face purple with rage.

  ‘You tell that bloody bitch if she ever sets foot in my place again, I’ll break this fucking stick over her back! You hear me? I’ll poke her …’ and the old man makes an obscene penetrative gesture with the walking stick and bares his dentures, ‘… in the anus. I’ll pull her fucking guts out.’

  ‘Jesus, Dad,’ says Bunny.

  ‘I’ll fucking eviscerate the bitch,’ and rolls his huge round tongue around his lips. He hacks into his handkerchief again and holds it up for Bunny Junior to see. He shouts, ‘See that? That’s my fucking lung!’ then points at Bunny with his walking stick. ‘Your fucking dad, I tried to teach him the business,’ he snarls. ‘I showed him the most lovely things a boy could see …’

  ‘Come on, Dad,’ says Bunny.

  ‘And he ends up peddling toilet brushes!’

  ‘Beauty products.’

  ‘Door to fucking door,’ snarls the old man, contemptuously.

  ‘By appointment,’ says Bunny.

  ‘Fucking amateur.’

  ‘I work through a reputable company,’ says Bunny.

  ‘You’re the bloody Bog Roll Man,’ says the old man and puts his head between his legs, moans mortally and coughs his guts out. He wipes at his eyes with his handkerchief and sucks on the cigarette.

  ‘Dad, you need proper medical attention,’ says Bunny.

  ‘You broke my heart. You dashed the cup from my lips, you little cunt.’

  ‘Dad, you need …’

  ‘Don’t you come round here telling me what I need.’

  The old man addresses Bunny Junior, with one raised finger, taps the pocked bulb of his snout and says, ‘I was an antique dealer, boy. I had a nose for it.’

  ‘Dad …’ says Bunny.

  ‘You want to end up a bloody nobody like him?’

  ‘Dad …’

  The old man looks at Bunny and sneers.

  ‘Shut your fucking hole. You are beyond recall. You are a lost cause. But we might just be able to save the kid,’ and the old man slams the arms of his leather chair. ‘If he’d just use his ears …’

  Bunny Senior hacks into his handkerchief. His face grows purple with the effort and he takes some time to compose himself and then his eyes glaze, dimmed in memory and loss, and he speaks in a sly, soft voice.

  ‘Down on Tom Tiddler’s ground, we were, picking up gold and silver.’

  ‘We should go, Dad,’ says Bunny to the old man. ‘Come on, Bunny Boy.’

  ‘I had a nose for it. I could smell a piece of Chippendale, the box of Georgian silver under the stairs … a pretty little bit of French, a tasty little bon du jour. Those old girls, give them a few words, and that special look … well, can we do business, then, madam? I’d have the Sheraton escritoire off the old bitch for a song … yes, a lovely bit of serpentine … and there would be not a straight line on it …’

  Bunny Senior makes gentle curves in the air with his hand and says in a state of awe, ‘I was a fucking master of the art.’

  Bunny finds himself wavering on his feet, the whisky hitting him from all different directions at the same time, and he looks around for somewhere to sit but he can’t find anywhere and anyway he feels if he doesn’t have a cigarette soon then he will gnaw his bloody arm off, and he says to the old man, who has now closed his eyes and is reeling in his seat and making motions in the air like he is describing the contours of a well-endowed woman, ‘You sure you don’t want me to make you a cup of tea before we go, Dad?’

  The old man drops his hands, opens one cruel eye and regards Bunny.

  ‘You make me want to vomit,’ he snarls.

  The mechanical bird winds down and stops singing and grows still on its little perch and Bunny Junior turns and takes a step forward and stands in front of his grandfather.

  ‘My dad could sell a bicycle to a barracuda,’ he says.

  There is a sudden anti-sound like a retracted implosion of air that presses around Bunny’s skull and forces him to throw his hands over his ears, stretch wide his mouth and pop the pockets of air in the joints of his jaw. He feels as though he has been plunged to the bottom of a dark and soundless ocean, the hydrostatic pressure so intense it feels like knitting needles hammered into his eardrums. Not a word is spoken and Bunny floats aghast in this petrified state.

  Then, just as suddenly, all the sound comes rushing back and the old man jams his cigarette into a saucer on the butler’s tray beside him and shouts, ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Dad,’ says Bunny. ‘Please.’

  The old man raises himself to his feet and stands crooked as a question mark, as if his ancient spine had lost the power to support his furious, bulbous skull. ‘Do you mock me? Do you mock me!?’ he shrieks.

  ‘Dad, don’t!’ implores Bunny, moving forward, one arm outstretched in front of him, but there is all this whisky in his bloodstream and he stumbles over a walnut footstool – where did that come from? – and falls flat on his face.

  With a roar, the old man lunges, like an animal, towards the boy and jabs him viciously in the ribs with his walking stick and knocks the child to the ground.

  ‘Do you fucking-well mock me?!’ he screams.

  Bunny Junior stares at his father, stunned. Bunny climbs to his feet and sees his father’s bloodless knuckles tighten around the handle of the walking stick and witnesses a terrible and familiar bearing of his dentures and a great hurtling-away of the years.

  ‘Don’t, Dad,’ he says, quietly.

  Bunny Senior rears around – this tiny, wicked man – and raises his walking stick above his head and beats at the air and makes ready to bring it down on Bunny.

  ‘What did you say? What did you say to me?!’

  Bunny cringes, nearly to the floor, screws shut his eyes and throws his hands over his head and whispers, ‘Sorry, Dad,’ and waits.

  In time, Bunny opens his eyes and sees his father sitting back in his cracked leather armchair, his wa
lking stick lying on the floor, rubbing his wrists against his temples, his yellow, deathbed fingers clawing the air like a rack of tiny, mangled antlers. He groans, then examines Bunny through a merciless, solitary eye and says, ‘Look at you.’

  The boy stands now, silent and frozen and alone. He looks down at his father, who is folded in a heap on the floor. The old man claws the ground for his walking stick, then points it at Bunny and says to the boy, ‘Get him out of here.’

  Bunny Junior walks over to his father and Bunny raises himself to his feet. The old man explodes into another bout of coughing, hauled from the depths of his lungs. Bunny opens the door and he and the boy step out.

  ‘Son?’ says the old man.

  Bunny turns around and looks at his father. The old man holds the fouled handkerchief out in front of him, yellow water running from his eyes.

  ‘I’m dying, son,’ he says.

  Bunny’s eyes fill with tears.

  ‘Dad?’ he says, and he makes to step back into the room but the old man reaches out with his walking stick and, with a last enfeebled lunge, pushes shut the door.

  29

  The rain beats down upon the Punto and lashes at the green bin liners that are taped over the shattered windows, that have, by some miracle, held fast and not capsized and poured water all over Bunny Junior’s encyclopaedia and made him have to commit suicide or something. Purple thunder rumbles overhead and sends veins of lightning crackling across the sky. Bunny Junior clutches his encyclopaedia to his chest, like it is his only friend in the world – except at this moment it is no help and he just doesn’t know what to think. He knows that within the pages of the encyclopaedia there is all the information anyone could ever need to know – the answer to all things. But he still doesn’t know what to think. He knows that Edgar Rice Burroughs wrote Tarzan of the Apes, and he knows that there are four-eyed fish that can see above water and below water at the same time, and he even knows that Joseph Guillotin did not invent the guillotine, but what he doesn’t know is what to do about his dad, who has tears running down his face and who is not saying anything and has no idea where he is going or what he is looking for and is driving around and around in circles. He has stopped at a shop and bought a packet of cigarettes and a bottle of whisky and he is smoking like a chimney and drinking like a fish and driving like a maniac and crying like he doesn’t know what.

  For some reason he keeps thinking about the little mechanical bird in the cage, with its colourful wings and pretty little song, and that makes him wish all over again that his dad would stop crying, so he could have a turn.

  ‘Dad?’ says the boy as Bunny steers the Punto into an empty parking space outside a small café on Western Road. People huddle together under a striped and dripping canvas awning, smoking and drinking coffee, dressed in T-shirts and miniskirts and flip-flops, unprepared for this heavy summer rain.

  ‘I spoke to Mummy today,’ says the boy, over the top of his encyclopaedia that he keeps pressed to his chest.

  A spavined old vagrant hobbles past wearing a flesh-coloured eye-patch and sodden rags wrapped around his impossibly swollen feet. He has soiled the front of his trousers and wears an undersized T-shirt that shows the matted fur on his stomach and says, ‘SHIT HAPPENS WHEN YOU PARTY NAKED’. He taps a tin cup against the window of the Punto and peers inside, scrutinises the occupants through his single, crazed eye, shakes his head in consternation and shuffles off into the rain.

  ‘What did you say?’ says Bunny, turning and looking at Bunny Junior as if he had only just realised that there is a nine-year-old boy sitting beside him.

  ‘I spoke to my mummy today.’

  ‘What?’ he says again.

  ‘It was really her, Dad. We talked for ages.’

  ‘You what?’ panics Bunny, and starts slapping at his jacket and looking everywhere at once. He slugs at the Scotch and drags on his Lambert & Butler and blows bones of smoke out his nose and shouts, ‘You what?!’

  ‘She says she’s coming to see you soon,’ says Bunny Junior.

  ‘Eh?’ says Bunny, beneath the clamour of the rain, and then does the thing with the whisky and cigarettes all over again.

  ‘Dad, I think I should go back to school,’ says the boy.

  ‘Eh?’ says Bunny, and he looks across at the café and finds, amid the knot of people sheltering from the rain, three women sitting around a table, deep in conversation, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. One is a blonde and one is a brunette and one is a redhead.

  ‘I think we should go home, Dad,’ says the boy.

  ‘Where?’ says Bunny, and a spasm of panic moves across his face and he begins to claw away the bin liner taped to the window, then peers out at the three women. A great torrent of rain gushes in, drenching him, and he shouts into the deluge, ‘What?’

  ‘I think it’s time we went home, Dad,’ says Bunny Junior, and suddenly he feels a frightful woe in his guts. He reaches over and places his hand on his father’s shoulder as if to pull him back from some deplorable turn of events.

  ‘Dad?’ he says.

  ‘Wait here,’ says Bunny, jerking his shoulder away.

  Bunny throws open the door of the Punto and decants himself into the gutter, the booze ramping through his veins. He scampers across the footpath, stands upright and pats in vain at his decommissioned dishrag of a quiff, tugs at his tie with the dead rabbits on it and ploughs blindly through the plastic tables and chairs and says to the three women with their cigarettes and cappuccinos, ‘I’m Bunny Munro. I am a salesman. I sell beauty products.’

  The women look at each other in bewilderment and the blonde, who has a smudge of chocolate froth on her upper lip, actually starts to laugh, covering her mouth with her long-fingered hand.

  Bunny starts to hop up and down, waggling his hands behind his head, and says, manically and with great urgency, ‘I sell rich, hydrating, age-targeting lotions that soften the skin and exfoliate surface cells for a younger, smoother look!’

  ‘Excuse me!’ says the blonde, who has stopped laughing, but Bunny is screaming now, under the thundering sky and with all the rain coming down.

  ‘The skin is awakened to its fullest potential and infused with a surge of new beauty, stimulating your feelings of pleasure and well-being!’

  Bunny falls to his knees and wraps his arms around the long and shapely legs of the woman with blonde hair and burrows his face into her lap and feels all the psychic strings that bind him to the rational earth snapping like rubber bands in his skull, and he bellows into her dress, ‘What am I gonna do?!’

  ‘Waiter!’ cries the woman. ‘Waiter!’

  Bunny looks up at the woman and sees the stripe of chocolate froth on her lip through a film of tears.

  ‘Will you fuck me?’ he says.

  The woman rears back, her long fingers at her mouth. The brunette and the redhead scrape back their chairs.

  ‘Waiter!’ they scream.

  Bunny stands and from the corner of his eye sees Bunny Junior’s face like a little scared balloon framed in the window of the Punto and he throws out his arms and addresses the shrinking customers with the whole of his voice.

  ‘Will somebody please fuck me?!’

  Thunder rumbles across the sky and Bunny hears the women scream – many of them, all of them – horrified and familiar as he grabs at them, his teeth bared, his mouth gaping wide, jumps at them, leaps at them – and an Italian waiter with a blue jaw and black apron grabs Bunny around the chest, wrestles him from the café and drags him down the street.

  With a shove, the waiter deposits Bunny on the wet footpath outside the Punto and stalks away.

  Bunny wrenches open the car door and piles in and looks at the boy. He turns the key in the ignition, guns the engine and looks at the boy. He zooms into the rainy street just as a maroon ‘DUDMAN’ concrete mixer truck veers into the oncoming traffic, its barrel rolling, its windscreen wipers frantically lashing at the storm. Bunny clocks the tanned, tattooed arm hanging lim
p from the window and looks at the boy. The mixer truck blows its horn – once, then once again – then speeds up and ploughs head-on into the Punto. There is a brutal compaction of metal and an explosion of glass, and as Bunny goes flying past, he looks at the screaming boy.

  30

  Bunny opens his eyes and the world is filmed in red. He realises, in a distant way, that he is on his hands and knees in the middle of a street. He can hear far-off wailing and feels an immense rain beating down upon him. He sees that the ground beneath him is pink with his own blood. He crawls a couple of paces and wonders what he is doing. He looks behind him and sees a little yellow car twisted around a maroon concrete mixer and he slowly stands up. He looks at his hands and wonders why he is holding a child’s encyclopaedia. He looks back at the crumpled yellow car and in his mind’s eye he sees the face of a boy.

  Then there is a boom of thunder and Bunny looks up at the black clouds that move overhead and he sees a silver pitchfork of lightning leap from the sky and with an intake of breath he throws out his chest and sucks the lightning into his heart and the encyclopaedia flies from his hand with a loud bang and a webbed scar blossoms across his body and he crashes, stiff as a plank, onto the rain-filled street.

  31

  First there is the darkness. But Bunny feels he has always been aware of the darkness. Then there is the smell – a rancid stench of body odour with a tang of terror-crazed, female blood trapped within it – and Bunny realises as he inhales this stink that he is, indeed, alive. He finds he is swimming up from the most silent and suffocating depths of the deepest and blackest of seas. He realises that this thing that smells so badly and is squatting beside him has reached way down into the watery darkness and dragged him gasping for air to the surface. He can feel its heat against his lower body but there is something debauched and obscene about its proximity. The thing that is sitting beside him leans across and locks him in an embrace. He can feel, in its form, a plasticity – an absence of bones – and that the creature is quite possibly reptilian by nature. When it speaks, its breath smells of shit and the stench adheres to the contours of his face like a dishcloth or winding-cloth or something.