This is a story from the second section of the short story collection I'm hoping to see in publication at some point in the future. Thoughts and comments welcome as ever. As ever, thanks in advance for looking.
Torrential rain forces you to try the door handle. The doorway’s too narrow to provide even temporary shelter from the downpour. You have to push hard to gain access, so much so that when you succeed, you feel like you’re breaking in. No sooner has the door shut behind you than feel like you’re being watched.
The bland exterior of the shop belies the veritable Aladdin’s cave within. It’s filled with a great number and variety of strange and seemingly precious items too numerous to name. Nevertheless, the curious contraptions catch your eye. Among the wind-up toys on display are their more complicated cousins. Automata, you believe the technical term for them is. There are clowns, acrobats, animals, all manner of fantastic creatures and flying machines.
You glimpse many more of this kind in the shadowy recesses of the shop, dangling from the ceiling or sitting on shelves. Here is a group of jesters. Their fixed smiles, like their costumes, are worn at the edges, their stage, in a state of disrepair. Despite this, they look as though they’re about to perform some absurd miniature drama. You can’t help smiling. These mechanical marvels once held a deep fascination for you: from a childlike sense that they came alive when you weren’t looking, to a more sophisticated, but perhaps no less fanciful, notion that there were hints of a hidden reality in their miniature worlds.
You realise why you have the feeling that you’re being watched when a flash of lightning illuminates the otherwise dim interior of the shop. Antique dolls peer at you from behind the glass doors of display cabinets ranged around the room. Mopping your brow with the grubby sleeve of your coat, you peer around the shop. Although the rumbles of thunder sound loud enough to wake the dead, there’s no sign of life.
Torrential rain forces you to try the door handle. The doorway’s too narrow to provide even temporary shelter from the downpour. You have to push hard to gain access, so much so that when you succeed, you feel like you’re breaking in. No sooner has the door shut behind you than feel like you’re being watched.
The bland exterior of the shop belies the veritable Aladdin’s cave within. It’s filled with a great number and variety of strange and seemingly precious items too numerous to name. Nevertheless, the curious contraptions catch your eye. Among the wind-up toys on display are their more complicated cousins. Automata, you believe the technical term for them is. There are clowns, acrobats, animals, all manner of fantastic creatures and flying machines.
You glimpse many more of this kind in the shadowy recesses of the shop, dangling from the ceiling or sitting on shelves. Here is a group of jesters. Their fixed smiles, like their costumes, are worn at the edges, their stage, in a state of disrepair. Despite this, they look as though they’re about to perform some absurd miniature drama. You can’t help smiling. These mechanical marvels once held a deep fascination for you: from a childlike sense that they came alive when you weren’t looking, to a more sophisticated, but perhaps no less fanciful, notion that there were hints of a hidden reality in their miniature worlds.
You realise why you have the feeling that you’re being watched when a flash of lightning illuminates the otherwise dim interior of the shop. Antique dolls peer at you from behind the glass doors of display cabinets ranged around the room. Mopping your brow with the grubby sleeve of your coat, you peer around the shop. Although the rumbles of thunder sound loud enough to wake the dead, there’s no sign of life.
“We’re closing in five minutes, sir?”
Dan gazed around the shop. Aside from the proprietor, he appeared to be the only one here. There was still no sign of Jacob.
“Are you okay, sir?”
Dan cleared his throat. “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he said, offering a weak smile. “I just lost track of time.” He had been gazing at the statue of cupid. The naked boy’s marble wings were fluttering in his daydream; the bow and arrow in the statue’s delicate hands, pointing at him. He glanced at his wristwatch with a shrug of resignation. It was not the first time he had been blown out by a friend and would probably not be the last. His disappointment was tempered by the fact that he had not arranged the meeting; he had accepted the invitation just because Jacob was the only one of his former fellow students who had not mocked him for having a weak stomach...
“Daniel!”
Only one person other than his mother called him Daniel. That she was long gone gave him the confidence to turn around instead of pretending not to have heard the voice and hoping to avoid seeing somebody he would rather forget.
“I thought it was you,” Jacob said with a smile.
In the patchy light of the shop Jacob’s face had a waxy sheen speckled with droplets of water.
Sorry I’m late, mate.”
Dan accepted his apology without question. Punctuality had never been one of Jacob’s strong points. He clasped his damp hand and shook it to show him he had no hard feelings.
Jacob glanced around the shop, his eyes alighting upon the statue of Cupid. “I didn’t know you like this kind of stuff.”
“I don’t,” Dan said. “I just came in here to get out of the rain.”
Jacob smiled. “You fancy a drink? There’s a nice pub not too far from here.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Dan followed his old friend out of the shop. The rain had turned to sleet, forcing him to pull up the collar of his coat.
“Bloody cold, eh?” Jacob said, rubbing his hands together.
“I don’t mind it so much,” Dan replied. Though he was not too fond of the cold weather, he preferred the wintertime because it appealed to the frustrated poet in him. There was something magical about the winter, something mysterious in the way it simultaneously concealed and exposed the true nature of this world. Why he had studied medicine rather than literature was also a mystery to him.
“It’s been a while,” Jacob was saying. “How you been?”
“Not too bad, not too bad,” Dan said, the imp of the perverse that sat alongside the poet was whispering in his ear about the day when the seasons would be seen as a pageantry of false promises. And when the world would turn for the last time and everyone on it would sink into the cooling ground of a sunless earth like a shrivelled leaf...
“But not today,” Dan muttered.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing.”
“You haven’t changed,” Jacob said.
Dan assumed Jacob was referring to his reticence. He took the comment in the spirit it was intended. Jacob was always the talkative one. Talking them into trouble; more often, out of it. It was par for the course during their med school days. As he shadowed him down a series of narrow alleys, he got the impression that there was a trick to finding the pub in question, and that Jacob was one of the few who knew it.
“Here we are!” Jacob said, finally.
Dan could not help sharing Jacob’s apparent excitement, even though the pub had an ecclesiastical name that seemed at odds with his memories, unreliable though they were, of Jacob’s preferences. But more importantly perhaps, it was not one of those trendy bars that had a stranglehold on the more traditional public houses. This place looked right up his street with its half-timbered façade and opaque windows. That it was much warmer inside and sparsely populated was a welcome bonus.
“What can I get you?” Jacob said.
“Let me get this,” Dan offered. He could afford to buy him at least one drink.
“I insist,” Jacob countered with a broad grin. “To make up for my tardiness.”
Dan smiled. “Okay, okay. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“Hope you like your beers strong,” Jacob said over his shoulder as he approached the bar.
In fact, Dan did; he was pleasantly surprised when Jacob asked for two Old Peculiars. The name itself summed up their sojourn in UCL. He could not help noticing the bartender smirking as he served the drinks. It was an expression he had noticed all too often whenever they were together.
“Let’s grab a table over there,” Jacob said, handing over a pint of the dark beer.
Jacob could not have picked a better place to sit. It was just like him to choose a table out of the way, in a quiet corner. Dan raised his glass and said, “Well, cheers.”
Jacob responded in kind before downing a quarter of the pint. “You really haven’t changed,” he said, wiping the back of his mouth with a chubby hand.
“Neither have you.” They were both blessed and cursed with boyish good looks. Fair-haired, blue-eyed. People had often mistaken them for brothers even though they were not related. Jacob’s round, cherubic face was much like that of the statue of cupid, an extraordinary image for a man in his thirties – except that it was not unblemished as the cupid statue. Indeed, it was daubed with splashes of white powder or paint which he had not previously noticed in dim light of the shop.
“How long it’s been?” Jacob said. “Six, seven years?”
“Something like that,” Dan replied. He was never very good at keeping track of time. “I can’t say I was surprised when I heard you’d dropped out as well.”
Jacob blinked. “Who told you that?”
“You remember Molly?” Dan said.
“Mouse?” Jacob said, frowning.
Dan nodded. “I bumped into her when I was being treated for an overactive thyroid. She was one of the junior doctors on duty.”
“She made it through med school?” Jacob asked as if he was not surprised at all.
“Yeah, it was a surprise to me too,” Dan said.
Jacob leaned back in the seat. “I’m surprised you had to ask.”
“About what?” Dan asked.
“About why I quit school. I’m mean, you know what it was like there. Always looking over your shoulder. Forever picking up your lecture notes and textbooks which some dimwit grabbed from your hands. Constantly being the butt of the joke.” Jacob sighed. “That’s why I quit.”
That was all Dan needed to know. He savoured the honeyed aroma of the beverage before taking another sip. It was just the ticket to ward off the chill the seemed to have settled into his bones.
That was all Dan needed to know. He savoured the honeyed aroma of the beverage before taking another sip. It was just the ticket to ward off the chill the seemed to have settled into his bones.
Jacob wiped his mouth again. “What have you been up to since we last spoke?”
“Nothing much. How about you?”
“I formed a band after I quit school.
Dan jerked his head back. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Jacob grinned. “I played bass.”
“What kind of music did you play?”
“Death metal.”
Dan should have known. Jacob always had a liking for heavy metal. But it seemed his taste for the genre had become more extreme over the years.
“What was the name of your band?” Dan asked.
Jacob took another swig of his beer. “Terminal Agitation.”
It figured, Dan thought, mirroring Jacob’s grin.
“Now I’m in a group of a different kind...”
“Oh.”
“A group of clowns my husband and I formed about four years ago.”
Dan almost choked on his beer. He did not know what had surprised him more: that Jacob was a clown or that he was a married man.
Jacob smiled, seemingly unfazed by this show of incredulity. “Seriously,” he said. “It’s a great way to earn a living, and the kids love it!” He took another swig of his beer. “You got any kids?”
“No, no,” Dan said, “I’m not really paternal...” What he meant to say was that he did not want to bring a child into this world. To know that sooner or later, in one way or another, the child would suffer terribly was already more than enough to bear.
“No, no,” Dan said, “I’m not really paternal...” What he meant to say was that he did not want to bring a child into this world. To know that sooner or later, in one way or another, the child would suffer terribly was already more than enough to bear.
“We have,” Jacob was saying. “A little boy we adopted from Sri Lanka. His name’s Kiaan.”
Dan could see the gleam in his friend’s eye; he was glad it brought some happiness to his life. “Are you really a clown?” he asked.
Jacob nodded.
Dan supposed it must be true. Only Jacob could go from heavy metal to light entertainment.
“That’s why I was late. I had to rush away from a last-minute, private gig...”
“I can tell,” Dan said, smiling. “I couldn’t help noticing you still have some makeup on your face.”
“Oh shit,” Jacob said, pulling out his mobile phone and using the device as if it were a compact mirror.
Dan supposed he shouldn’t have been too surprised. In med school Jacob was always playing the fool – a defence mechanism, he knew only too well, against the machinations of their fellow students, the jibes and jeers to which they were subjected on an almost daily basis.
“How about you?” Jacob said, dabbing at his face with a tissue.
“Me? Oh, I’m in-between jobs.” Dan could not bring himself to admit that he was out of work and struggling to find gainful employment.
“You’ve lost weight, Daniel.”
The comment came out of the blue, taking Dan by surprise. His eyes flittered around the pub, never settling on anything for long.
“The hyperthyroidism?” Jacob enquired.
As Dan was in remission, he was loathe to admit the weight loss was probably due to the stress of trying to find a job. “You’ve gained weight,” he said, deflecting the comment. “Married life seems to agree with you.”
Jacob smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “Look,” if you’ve struggling to find work,” he said, “you’re welcome to join our clown alley.”
Dan coughed, pretending his drink went down wrong. “Me?” he said with a nervous laugh. He had done his share of clowning around in med school, for the same reasons as Jacob, though the idea of doing it for a living rendered him all but speechless.
“Why not?” came the reply. “It’s a right laugh. And the pays pretty good, especially for the private gigs.” Jacob looked him in the eye. “Besides, behind a mask you lose all your inhibitions. You can do whatever you want, be whoever you want...”
Dan had never really looked at it that way. But the idea gave him pause for thought. To be somebody rather than nobody, if only for a while, by simply donning a costume and applying some makeup, made him see it in a whole new light.
“Why not?” came the reply. “It’s a right laugh. And the pays pretty good, especially for the private gigs.” Jacob looked him in the eye. “Besides, behind a mask you lose all your inhibitions. You can do whatever you want, be whoever you want...”
Dan had never really looked at it that way. But the idea gave him pause for thought. To be somebody rather than nobody, if only for a while, by simply donning a costume and applying some makeup, made him see it in a whole new light.
“Why don’t you come along to one of our gigs,” Jacob suggested, “get an idea of how we go down with the audience.”
You’re unsure about whether to accept the invitation. Though you feel certain you’ve nothing to fear, you’re concerned by the proprietor’s willingness to entertain a stranger.
“Please don’t be alarmed by the sound of my” —the man crooks his fingers in the air to indicate quotation marks— “voice,” he says. “I’m talking to you through a voice box I’m wearing around my neck.”
“Please don’t be alarmed by the sound of my” —the man crooks his fingers in the air to indicate quotation marks— “voice,” he says. “I’m talking to you through a voice box I’m wearing around my neck.”
You were wondering what that was for; the sound it produces makes you think of the troupe of jesters on the shelves.
“It’s a prototype I made myself,” the man continues, “based on a design I borrowed from a Japanese engineer.” He smiles. “You’re welcome to stay until your clothes dry. I have a fire burning in the hearth, and hot tea on the stove.”
You’re almost salivating at the prospect of tasting something sweet. The rumble of thunder breaks your reverie, reminding you that it’s still raining outside; leaving now, soaked to the bone, is certainly not a prospect you relish. You have nothing else to do, nowhere else to go...
Dan followed the sound of the therapist’s voice until it became a distant echo. The guiding light inside his head gave way to a large dark chamber – not the room he had been asked to enter but one that emerged, unbidden, from the depths of his mind. Only when he saw the judge’s bench did he realise it was a courtroom. The judge himself looked old and infirm in his dusty judicial wig and gown. His grey skin had the texture of cracked paint; the smudges of rouge on his hollow cheeks and thin, bloodless lips served only to give his face a cadaverous, wasted appearance.
You’re almost salivating at the prospect of tasting something sweet. The rumble of thunder breaks your reverie, reminding you that it’s still raining outside; leaving now, soaked to the bone, is certainly not a prospect you relish. You have nothing else to do, nowhere else to go...
Dan followed the sound of the therapist’s voice until it became a distant echo. The guiding light inside his head gave way to a large dark chamber – not the room he had been asked to enter but one that emerged, unbidden, from the depths of his mind. Only when he saw the judge’s bench did he realise it was a courtroom. The judge himself looked old and infirm in his dusty judicial wig and gown. His grey skin had the texture of cracked paint; the smudges of rouge on his hollow cheeks and thin, bloodless lips served only to give his face a cadaverous, wasted appearance.
“How does the accused plead?”
“Not guilty, your honour, on the grounds of diminished responsibility.”
The plea was met with peals of laughter from the back of the chamber. Dan looked round at the man standing beside him, the man who had entered the plea on his behalf, and thought he saw a curl on the side of his mouth.
“Order in the court!” the judge yelled with a slight chuckle, clouds of dust rising up from his wig as he shook his head. Such was his age and infirmity that he could barely bang his gavel to restore order. But the sound it made on contact with his desk echoed through the chamber and the crowd suddenly fell silent.
“Order in the court!” the judge yelled with a slight chuckle, clouds of dust rising up from his wig as he shook his head. Such was his age and infirmity that he could barely bang his gavel to restore order. But the sound it made on contact with his desk echoed through the chamber and the crowd suddenly fell silent.
Dan followed the judge’s gaze to one side of the courtroom. The jurors were dressed up as clowns. All but one of them wore happy faces.
“How do you find the defendant?” the judge asked.
The sad-faced clown stood up, his oversized shoes pocking through the rails of the jury box, and read the verdict aloud in an alarmingly high voice.
“Guilty as charged.”
The sound of applause erupted from the back of the chamber. Dan glanced over his shoulder at the spectators. Even as they clapped and laughed, they looked as though they wanted to lynch him.
“Daniel Blanc,” the judge intoned, “you have been found guilty as charged. You have committed the most heinous of crimes against the most vulnerable members of society.” He placed a plain black fabric square on top of his wig. “I therefore feel constrained to sentence you to the maximum penalty allowed for these offences. You will be taken from this place and hanged by the neck until you are dead.” He brought the gavel down with a terminal thump. “Court is adjourned. Take him away.”
As the finality of the sentence sank in, Dan’s legs almost gave out. He was half-pushed, half-carried down the courtroom steps and bundled into the condemned cell. Accepting his fate, he allowed his arms to be strapped behind his back by the sad-faced clown.
Dan showed no emotion as he made his last short journey to the execution shed with a party of select witnesses. A doctor, a chaplain, the mayor, the prison governor, and the happy-faced clowns. Through the bars of the execution shed, he saw the noose suspended above a trapdoor in the middle of the cell. Behind it, a plain wooden coffin rested upright against a bare wall. The sad-faced clown was the last thing he saw before a hood was put over his head. Darkness took his sight, but he could still feel the noose being placed around his neck; the knot, tightened. Then the sensation of falling, and falling, and falling, until he found himself in a place that was far from hell. The place where he met his first love. But something was wrong. Monika was not where she should have been. Staring at the empty space where she had lain, he could not stand being here in her absence. And yet, he could not help seeking out his old haunts.
In the dormitory Dan found Monika lying in his bed, as if waiting for him to give her the kiss of life. He did not bring her here; certainly, she did not come alone. This indisputable fact served as a stark reminder, if ever he needed one, that his secret love was no secret anymore; that some person or persons with a very sick sense of humour, knew of his affair. He almost pitied these people, for lacking the imagination of proper pranksters, as he approached his bed.
Dan was relieved to find it was not Monika lying there. He knew every line and contour of her face like the back of his hand, every scratch and chip she had sustained in her long service at the school. It gave him the confidence to dispense with the formalities of a dignified denouement and thereby deprive the jokers of their jollies. Tearing the sheet away from the bed, he recoiled at the sight he had uncovered even though he should have expected it.
The anatomically correct set of body organs glisten obscenely in the firelight, making the manikin look nauseatingly naturalistic. The construct itself is something that you haven’t seen since your med school days; something that you’d hoped never to set eyes on again. The kind of thing you would expect to see in the shop, if not in a classroom; but as you scan the contents of the cluttered room in which you stand, it seems right at home here.
“Daniel Blanc,” the judge intoned, “you have been found guilty as charged. You have committed the most heinous of crimes against the most vulnerable members of society.” He placed a plain black fabric square on top of his wig. “I therefore feel constrained to sentence you to the maximum penalty allowed for these offences. You will be taken from this place and hanged by the neck until you are dead.” He brought the gavel down with a terminal thump. “Court is adjourned. Take him away.”
As the finality of the sentence sank in, Dan’s legs almost gave out. He was half-pushed, half-carried down the courtroom steps and bundled into the condemned cell. Accepting his fate, he allowed his arms to be strapped behind his back by the sad-faced clown.
Dan showed no emotion as he made his last short journey to the execution shed with a party of select witnesses. A doctor, a chaplain, the mayor, the prison governor, and the happy-faced clowns. Through the bars of the execution shed, he saw the noose suspended above a trapdoor in the middle of the cell. Behind it, a plain wooden coffin rested upright against a bare wall. The sad-faced clown was the last thing he saw before a hood was put over his head. Darkness took his sight, but he could still feel the noose being placed around his neck; the knot, tightened. Then the sensation of falling, and falling, and falling, until he found himself in a place that was far from hell. The place where he met his first love. But something was wrong. Monika was not where she should have been. Staring at the empty space where she had lain, he could not stand being here in her absence. And yet, he could not help seeking out his old haunts.
In the dormitory Dan found Monika lying in his bed, as if waiting for him to give her the kiss of life. He did not bring her here; certainly, she did not come alone. This indisputable fact served as a stark reminder, if ever he needed one, that his secret love was no secret anymore; that some person or persons with a very sick sense of humour, knew of his affair. He almost pitied these people, for lacking the imagination of proper pranksters, as he approached his bed.
Dan was relieved to find it was not Monika lying there. He knew every line and contour of her face like the back of his hand, every scratch and chip she had sustained in her long service at the school. It gave him the confidence to dispense with the formalities of a dignified denouement and thereby deprive the jokers of their jollies. Tearing the sheet away from the bed, he recoiled at the sight he had uncovered even though he should have expected it.
The anatomically correct set of body organs glisten obscenely in the firelight, making the manikin look nauseatingly naturalistic. The construct itself is something that you haven’t seen since your med school days; something that you’d hoped never to set eyes on again. The kind of thing you would expect to see in the shop, if not in a classroom; but as you scan the contents of the cluttered room in which you stand, it seems right at home here.
“Please,” the proprietor says, “let me take your coat and hang it up to dry.”
You look round, a frozen smile on your face. “No, no I can do it.”
The proprietor opens his mouth to speak, then stops short. His glassy eyes blink over and over before giving way to an unfocused gaze. A smile appears on his thin lips and he says, “Very well.” He gestures to the gloomy, ill-lit alcoves around the fireplace. “You can hang it over there.”
You nod and peel off your coat. Hanging it on a nail that’s been driven into the wall, you notice the pictures. Colour posters advertising magicians’ travelling magic shows. Some promoted the work of illusionists and escapologists, while others depicted ghoulish and devilish creatures.
You nod and peel off your coat. Hanging it on a nail that’s been driven into the wall, you notice the pictures. Colour posters advertising magicians’ travelling magic shows. Some promoted the work of illusionists and escapologists, while others depicted ghoulish and devilish creatures.
“Striking, aren’t they?”
Your host’s mechanical voice sounds so close that it gives you a start. You look round to see him by your side, even though you’re not aware that he’d moved. His age is difficult to determine because his face is almost entirely obscured by shaggy strands of unwashed hair and an ample growth of untended beard. It makes you feel slightly ill at ease, because you imagine it’s like looking at a mirror image of yourself.
“They’re not reproductions,” the proprietor says. “They’re original posters from the late 19th and 20th centuries.”
You idly wonder why such pictures aren’t framed. Your host is clearly a collector of memorabilia; clearly, a connoisseur of the craft.
“Do you like magic shows?” the proprietor’s saying.
You shrug your shoulders. There’s no magic in this world, you think, only illusion, deception, sleight of hand. Your host has fallen silent and you can’t help wondering if your lack of interest has offended him. Pointing at the posters that depicted the ghoulish and devilish creatures, you say, “They’re interesting.”
“Indeed,” your host agrees. “Produced at the turn of the 20th century, perhaps to remind potential spectators of the dark arts which were previously associated with those who performed magic tricks. Many were practicing spiritualists, playing with the occult, mysteries of the dead and so forth.” He points at a spectacular image titled ‘SELF DECAPITATION,’ which depicted a seated man who appears to be levitating his own head from his shoulders. “Harry Kellar, a predecessor of Houdini, would perform the ‘Levitation of Princess Karnack’ and decapitate his own head, which would then float over the stage. And Charles Joseph Carter” —he points to another that depicted a similarly sensational feat— “performed the classic ‘sawing a woman in half’ illusion and a trick in which his body would vanish just as it dropped from the end of a hangman’s noose.”
“Indeed,” your host agrees. “Produced at the turn of the 20th century, perhaps to remind potential spectators of the dark arts which were previously associated with those who performed magic tricks. Many were practicing spiritualists, playing with the occult, mysteries of the dead and so forth.” He points at a spectacular image titled ‘SELF DECAPITATION,’ which depicted a seated man who appears to be levitating his own head from his shoulders. “Harry Kellar, a predecessor of Houdini, would perform the ‘Levitation of Princess Karnack’ and decapitate his own head, which would then float over the stage. And Charles Joseph Carter” —he points to another that depicted a similarly sensational feat— “performed the classic ‘sawing a woman in half’ illusion and a trick in which his body would vanish just as it dropped from the end of a hangman’s noose.”
Dan’s legs swung over the side of the recliner chair, his feet dangling a few inches from the floor. He felt dazed, as though still in a trancelike state.
“I think you might’ve fallen asleep,” the therapist said without accusation.
Did I?” Dan rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry about that.”
The therapist smiled. “Don’t worry. It’s not uncommon for patients to fall asleep while under hypnosis.” She pushed her glasses up. “You were talking in your sleep.”
Dan felt a sharp pang of guilt, but then realised there was nothing he could say, unconsciously or otherwise, that would make any difference now.
“You mentioned someone called Monica,” the therapist was saying.
Dan attempted to keep his expression neutral. He supposed she expected him to recount the details of his dream, such as they were, and disclose his secret love. He still did not know whether it was love or the idea of being in love, but it was the closest he had ever come to feeling passion in its purest form. Although this love could never have been requited or consummated, he could not help giving it a name. Nor could he help assigning it human feelings even though the imp of the perverse which had presided at their affair took great delight in denigrating his romanticism by reminding him that doing so amounted, in more ways than one, to a pathetic fallacy.
“Do you want to tell me about her?” the therapist asked.
Dan did not; of that he was sure. Not because he thought it was wrong, but because it had been tainted by a disorder that developed because of it, or perhaps in spite of it, like a cancerous growth.
The therapist twiddled with her pen. “It might help to talk about it,” she said.
“It was just a manikin.” Dan tried to deflect the focus away from Monika while playing down the effect the prank had had on him. That he had to remind her that it was just a construct intended for use in the classroom made him feel slightly condescending, although he had been here before and could tell when she became agitated by something that was not necessarily related to the rigours of her profession. Her face had twitched, as if masking some internal conflict or past trauma. Perhaps she too was the subject of a practical joke in which her fellow students conspired to scare her with a similar construct. He had to give his pranksters their due, despite himself, for having more imagination than he had given them credit for.
His therapist squared her shoulders, but without any real force. She seemed resigned to abort a line of questioning that was going nowhere.
“Can you remember what you saw before you fell asleep?”
Dan assumed she was referring to the room he had been asked to enter. Although it was now only abstract, its atmosphere of neglect was almost tangible; its use for violations; almost visceral. Despite this, he felt nothing but gratitude for her change of tact.
“I saw my parents.” Dan told her what he thought she wanted to hear. It did not matter in any case. They were dead. In the end, they both merged into one monstrous obscenity.
“I saw my parents.” Dan told her what he thought she wanted to hear. It did not matter in any case. They were dead. In the end, they both merged into one monstrous obscenity.
The therapist nodded, noting it down in her pad. “What did they do to you?”
Dan sighed.
“I know this is still extremely difficult for you, Daniel,” the therapist said in a soothing tone. “But it’s something we need to talk about.”
“What difference does it make?” Dan asked.
The therapist looked at him over the rim of her glasses. “It could be the difference between being detained or released when you’re eligible for parole?”
“Parole?” Dan did not think people like him were ever paroled.
“I don’t see why not,” the therapist said. “You’ve shown remorse for what you did. And a willingness to accept responsibility for your actions. You’ve been doing so well since you decided to participate in the treatment. In fact, you’ve made such good progress in your rehabilitation that, with the right medication and guidance, you could be ready to be reintegrated into society within months, rather than years.” She smiled. “How does that sound?”
It sounds good to you. You can’t remember the last time you’d had biscuits. You sit in a chair over which your host has draped a blanket he said is no longer in normal use. He still looks a little bemused by your refusal to accept a change of clothes, but it’s a courtesy you can’t countenance, given your disinclination to disrobe in front of strangers.
It sounds good to you. You can’t remember the last time you’d had biscuits. You sit in a chair over which your host has draped a blanket he said is no longer in normal use. He still looks a little bemused by your refusal to accept a change of clothes, but it’s a courtesy you can’t countenance, given your disinclination to disrobe in front of strangers.
“Make yourself comfortable,” the proprietor’s saying, “and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.”
As soon as your host leaves the room, you have that all too familiar feeling that you’re being watched. You look for something to do, anything to distract yourself from the sense that a presence inhabits the room. Something that’s observing you very closely without ever seeming to make itself known. On the table in front of you lies an open book which you scoop up without a thought for whether you’re permitted to do so. It’s a book of verse, to judge from the metrical structure of the lines on the page. You start reading the first passage.
“For behold your body-
A painted puppet, a toy,
Jointed and sick and full of
False imaginings,
A shadow that shifts...”
You stop reading, discomforted by the imagery it conjured in your mind. It’s hardly conducive to alleviating the anxiety you feel. And yet the verse, vaguely familiar as it is, compels you to look at the cover. Of course, The Dhammapada, or rather an English translation of The Dhammapada. An old friend had introduced you to its teachings at school. You were immediately hooked by its unflinching gaze at the human condition, its disquieting insights into the nature of the self. You don’t care for this translation, however competent it may be. Nor for the memories it evokes: they touch a nerve that’s still raw, like an open wound.
Placing the book back down on the table, you stand to stretch your restless legs. A bookcase catches your eye. Perhaps there’s something more agreeable on its shelves. You peer at the worn spines and wince. Treatise on alchemy and the occult sit alongside books on metaphysics, mysticism, and magic. You suppose it’s to be expected, given your host’s somewhat esoteric tastes. The bookcase has mirrored panels in which you see your own reflection. The image of your host crosses your mind and you shiver involuntarily. Averting your gaze, you notice something else reflected in the mirror, something standing silent in the cluttered, shadowed space just beyond the glow of the firelight. A child? Surely not. No child, however well behaved or badly mistreated, could be that silent, that still.
You turn around to look at it with your naked eye, but it’s no easier to make out from where you’re standing. So you cross the room to where the small figure stands and emit a sound like laughter, though you’re not amused by what you find standing there. A clown. Not a real clown but an automaton like those you’ve seen in the shop downstairs, just on a much larger scale. That you’d mistaken it for a human being, child or otherwise, in the first place is both strange and alarming. Nevertheless, it’s been fashioned so fastidiously in the image of a human being – a human being in a costume you’re all too familiar with, that a dissonance of perception in the half-light was inevitable.
You adjust your collar, sweat almost pooling in the hollows of your cheeks. The clown looks pathetic in its worn-out costume. It’s approximately two feet high, although the platform on which it stands makes it appear taller. For some reason, it shares the platform with a small table upon which sits a box covered with a frayed, tight-fitting decorative cloth; it holds in its left hand a black feather fan that’s missing a few feathers.
Placing the book back down on the table, you stand to stretch your restless legs. A bookcase catches your eye. Perhaps there’s something more agreeable on its shelves. You peer at the worn spines and wince. Treatise on alchemy and the occult sit alongside books on metaphysics, mysticism, and magic. You suppose it’s to be expected, given your host’s somewhat esoteric tastes. The bookcase has mirrored panels in which you see your own reflection. The image of your host crosses your mind and you shiver involuntarily. Averting your gaze, you notice something else reflected in the mirror, something standing silent in the cluttered, shadowed space just beyond the glow of the firelight. A child? Surely not. No child, however well behaved or badly mistreated, could be that silent, that still.
You turn around to look at it with your naked eye, but it’s no easier to make out from where you’re standing. So you cross the room to where the small figure stands and emit a sound like laughter, though you’re not amused by what you find standing there. A clown. Not a real clown but an automaton like those you’ve seen in the shop downstairs, just on a much larger scale. That you’d mistaken it for a human being, child or otherwise, in the first place is both strange and alarming. Nevertheless, it’s been fashioned so fastidiously in the image of a human being – a human being in a costume you’re all too familiar with, that a dissonance of perception in the half-light was inevitable.
You adjust your collar, sweat almost pooling in the hollows of your cheeks. The clown looks pathetic in its worn-out costume. It’s approximately two feet high, although the platform on which it stands makes it appear taller. For some reason, it shares the platform with a small table upon which sits a box covered with a frayed, tight-fitting decorative cloth; it holds in its left hand a black feather fan that’s missing a few feathers.
“Ah, I see you’ve met my little friend!”
You shuffle back a step or two, the mechanical tone of your host’s voice making you think, if only for a moment, that the clown’s activated itself. But it remains immobile.
“It’s a very special kind of automation,” the proprietor’s saying, placing a tea tray onto the table. “A Clown Illusionist.”
You’ve never heard of such a thing. But perhaps it explains the ‘props’ you can see.
It’s not one of a kind,” the proprietor says as he approaches, “but it’s very, very close. It’s the only reproduction in my private collection. The original model is in a museum...”
You’d never have guessed that it’s a reproduction. Like the other artifacts you’ve seen since you’d arrived here, it looks as if it belongs in a museum. The dome of its bald head reflects the dim light, which makes the washed-out colours of its diamond-patterned costume look even more muted. The black diamond painted over its left eye contrasts with the dull gleam of its face and the faded rouge on its nose and lips.
You’d never have guessed that it’s a reproduction. Like the other artifacts you’ve seen since you’d arrived here, it looks as if it belongs in a museum. The dome of its bald head reflects the dim light, which makes the washed-out colours of its diamond-patterned costume look even more muted. The black diamond painted over its left eye contrasts with the dull gleam of its face and the faded rouge on its nose and lips.
“Would you like to see the illusion it performs?” the proprietor asks.
“Does it still work?”
“Of course,” the proprietor says sharply. “The music box is temperamental, but the model itself is still in perfect working order.”
You smile and nod even though you don’t much care for clowns. You’re not so naïve and deluded to believe the figure of a clown was the cause of your problems. You’d donned the costume and applied the make-up in the knowledge that it would give you access to places which you mightn’t otherwise have had. That it would provide a mask behind which you could hide and, at the same time, allow you to act on your darkest impulses with impunity. It was just a means to an end.
Your musings are interrupted by the sound of music. A rondo as sublime as it is banal. The clown has already begun its routine, covering its head with the black feather fan in its hand. When it lowers the fan a moment later, its head seems to have disappeared from its body. You watch with mild amusement as the automaton lifts the covering of the box on the table with its free hand, slowly revealing its disembodied head, which blinks its eyes several times as if to say, yes, this is the head you beheld but a moment before. See how it exists without the body! Then, it lowers the covering back onto the box and simultaneously raises the fan above its headless body before lowering it again to reveal the head back in its proper place. In one final flourish it nods as if to add, Ha! Fooled you, didn’t I?
Your musings are interrupted by the sound of music. A rondo as sublime as it is banal. The clown has already begun its routine, covering its head with the black feather fan in its hand. When it lowers the fan a moment later, its head seems to have disappeared from its body. You watch with mild amusement as the automaton lifts the covering of the box on the table with its free hand, slowly revealing its disembodied head, which blinks its eyes several times as if to say, yes, this is the head you beheld but a moment before. See how it exists without the body! Then, it lowers the covering back onto the box and simultaneously raises the fan above its headless body before lowering it again to reveal the head back in its proper place. In one final flourish it nods as if to add, Ha! Fooled you, didn’t I?
“Impressive, isn’t it?” the proprietor says, displaying a wide grin.
You nod, although you’re not fooled by the ‘illusion’ it performed. There were probably two identical heads, one hinged at the neck to literally fold back like a trap door; the other inside the box. If you were to open it yourself, you muse, you’d doubtless find a disembodied head grinning up at you.
“It keeps me company,” the proprietor says, blinking rapidly before returning to the tea tray on the table.
You have the impression that you’ve offended your host. It’s a feeling you’ve had since you first came back here, although one for which, up to now perhaps, there seemed no basis. Clearing your throat, you say, “I’ve seen similar automations in action, but none as sophisticated as this.”
The Clown Illusionist continues its routine on a loop, as if to show it’s worthy of such approval. Your host makes no reply but gestures to the empty chair at the other end of the table.
As you sit down, you’re fairly satisfied the comment has made up for your error in judgement. “It really was a good trick,” you admit, if only to break the uncomfortable silence between you and your host. The rondo coming from the music box is barely audible above the crackling of the fire; the Clown Illusionist’s performance, nothing short of strange and alarming in the cluttered, shadowed space just beyond the glow of the firelight.
The Clown Illusionist continues its routine on a loop, as if to show it’s worthy of such approval. Your host makes no reply but gestures to the empty chair at the other end of the table.
As you sit down, you’re fairly satisfied the comment has made up for your error in judgement. “It really was a good trick,” you admit, if only to break the uncomfortable silence between you and your host. The rondo coming from the music box is barely audible above the crackling of the fire; the Clown Illusionist’s performance, nothing short of strange and alarming in the cluttered, shadowed space just beyond the glow of the firelight.
“There’s no trick,” the proprietor’s saying, his posture stiffening. “The magic’s in the mechanism...”
You’re not quite sure what your host means by this. You can only assume it’s an allusion to, or variation of, the phrase “ghost in the machine”. Either way, it’s suggestive of a philosophical frame of reference to which you’re not, it seems, entirely inured.
“Oh,” you say, just to humour him. “I see. Well, what I would give to know how it’s done.”
The proprietor pours the tea. “It’s a secret known only to its maker.”
You’ve wanted to meet your ‘maker’ for a long time, if only to shake your head in disapproval and ask why you’d been made to suffer and was inclined to cause suffering. But you no longer have the balls to make your convictions a reality.
“Although automatons like this were originally conceived as entertainments,” said the proprietor, “they can show us the absurdity of our lives. If we were to see through their eyes the world we’ve created for ourselves, we’d realise it’s nothing short of a sideshow of puppetry.”
You can’t help nodding in agreement. At one time or another, you’d held such views; but the philosophical house of cards on which they’d been built could no longer bear the weight of your conscience. “You live alone?” you ask, if only to change the subject.
“Although automatons like this were originally conceived as entertainments,” said the proprietor, “they can show us the absurdity of our lives. If we were to see through their eyes the world we’ve created for ourselves, we’d realise it’s nothing short of a sideshow of puppetry.”
You can’t help nodding in agreement. At one time or another, you’d held such views; but the philosophical house of cards on which they’d been built could no longer bear the weight of your conscience. “You live alone?” you ask, if only to change the subject.
The proprietor appears visibly distressed, as if pained by the mere thought of answering.
You lower your gaze. “I’m sorry if I—″
“I had a son,” the proprietor says, his wet, dull eyes blinking as he offers you a cup of tea.
“Thank you,” you say, a dullness developing in your chest. Your host is gripping the saucer so tightly that you have to prise it from his hands, spilling some of the tea in the process.
“How long have you been living on the streets, if you don’t mind me asking?”
You don’t remember saying you’re living on the streets. Perhaps it’s obvious that you’re homeless. “A long time,” you say, wiping your wet fingers on the sides of your soiled trousers.
The proprietor sips his tea.
You do likewise. The tea’s exactly how you like it: strong and sweet. It makes you feel better despite the expanding dullness in your chest.
“Biscuits! How could I have forgotten those!” The proprietor laughs, the metallic sound almost maniacal. “Please excuse me, I shan’t be a moment.”
Your host’s abrupt change of mood is as unnerving as it is unaccountable. Not for the first time tonight, you experience a sense of unease. You can’t shake the feeling that you’re being watched either. You refrain from looking round at the Clown Illusionist, although you can still see it out of the corner of your eye. Instead, you turn your head the other way and notice pictures on the wall - not posters advertising magicians’ travelling magic shows but framed photographs. You recognise the boy first: black curly hair, cocoa skin, doe eyed. You’ve never forgotten their faces. Nor their names. Kiaan was the one against whom you’d committed the ultimate crime. It’s only a matter of time before your reeling mind accepts the identity of the man upon whose knee this child sits.
“I do hope you like Digestives,” the proprietor says when he returns.
You make no reply. All you can think about is making your excuses and leaving. But you have no excuses. Only the urge to leave. But the shop’s closed for night; the door, locked from the inside. And your host has the key.
The proprietor’s frowning. “You’re not too keen on them?”
They’re your favourites, in fact; but of course, your host knows this. Try to act normally, you tell yourself. Pretend you don’t know this man.
“I have Rich Tea, if you prefer.”
“No, no, these are fine,” you say, trying to keep your tone conversational. You can’t be sure your host and the man in the photograph are one and the same. Though you try, it’s hard to imagine what your host would look like without the shaggy beard and hair.
“Are you all right?” the proprietor’s asking, proffering a plate on which the biscuits are neatly arranged. “You look a little pale...”
You nod. It’s all you can do to keep yourself together. Though you’ve lost your appetite, you take a biscuit, trying to keep your hand from shaking, and then set it down so that it rests on the edge of the saucer. What if you were to innocently ask him what happened to his son? Would he say that he was murdered, or perhaps that he was dead, or perhaps just that he was gone? You don’t know - but with luck, you’ll never have to find out. You can only hope that you’re rendered unrecognisable by your own shaggy beard and hair.
“Don’t let your tea get cold,” the proprietor says before nibbling his biscuit.
You balk at the idea of drinking more tea, even though your mouth feels terribly dry. What if the tea’s been poisoned? It’s less than you deserve. But you can’t bring yourself to finish the cup and be done with it. Nor can you look your host in the eye. You keep thinking back to your med school days. You never thought you’d meet a kindred spirit, someone who shared your philosophy on life, albeit to a lesser degree. You never thought you’d betray him in such a despicable way.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” you lie. You’re far from feeling all right. But you have to keep yourself together for as long as you can. Try to be the perfect guest and then be on your way.
“You were saying you’ve been living on the streets for a long time.” The proprietor settles back in his chair. “Tell me, what were you doing before that?”
“There’s really not much to tell,” you reply, having been habituated to a sterile system which had housed you, however restrictively, for the better part of your life. You have a feeling that you’re being toyed with. Made to sweat. Here you are, chatting away as though you’re old friends. Your host is nothing if not congenial. What do you have to fear from a man like him? A man who’s a shadow of his former self? A man who looks almost as pathetic as his Clown Illusionist?
The proprietor shakes his head. “Someone with nothing to say hasn’t lived. Why, such a person would be no better off than a puppet—” He looks round at the Clown Illusionist. “Can you imagine such a terrible existence?”
No sooner have you made eye contact than your host holds your gaze. You adjust your grimy collar. He’s fixed you with a stare that’s frightening in its intensity. But you can’t look away. You watch his lips moving but can no longer understand what he’s saying. It’s as if he’s talking gibberish. A mad, mechanical monologue that drones on and on and on, so much so that your mind begins to wander. You’re back with your therapist, being lulled into a trancelike state by the soothing sound of her voice. “You can’t stay here forever, Daniel,” she’s saying. “It’s not your home...” Another voice chimes in, but it sounds discordant in tone and at variance with her own words: “But you shall stay here, my old friend.”
It breaks the spell you seemed to have been under. You’re gazing back at your host from the cluttered, shadowed space which you’d not long since vacated with him. The other side of the room appears disproportionately large and wide. He bobs around in his chair like a deranged puppet, eyes aglow, hands clapping wildly, a wide grin on his face.
You see somebody sitting at your end of the table, although their head’s completely obscured by the shade of a floor lamp. And you feel as though you’re on the brink of learning a secret too terrible to be shared – yet here you are, looking down your nose at a body that’s not entirely your own.
Then, and only then, do you realise that nobody’s taken your place. You’re beginning to understand there’ll be no end to your suffering, no hope of awakening as the nightmare in which you’ve found yourself suddenly falls silent halfway through its routine. The cogs of your mind keep turning, and turning, and turning, as dependably as the hands of a clock that you know will never run down despite the now dormant coils and springs of your new host, whose disembodied head grins up at you from its box.
The proprietor shakes his head. “Someone with nothing to say hasn’t lived. Why, such a person would be no better off than a puppet—” He looks round at the Clown Illusionist. “Can you imagine such a terrible existence?”
No sooner have you made eye contact than your host holds your gaze. You adjust your grimy collar. He’s fixed you with a stare that’s frightening in its intensity. But you can’t look away. You watch his lips moving but can no longer understand what he’s saying. It’s as if he’s talking gibberish. A mad, mechanical monologue that drones on and on and on, so much so that your mind begins to wander. You’re back with your therapist, being lulled into a trancelike state by the soothing sound of her voice. “You can’t stay here forever, Daniel,” she’s saying. “It’s not your home...” Another voice chimes in, but it sounds discordant in tone and at variance with her own words: “But you shall stay here, my old friend.”
It breaks the spell you seemed to have been under. You’re gazing back at your host from the cluttered, shadowed space which you’d not long since vacated with him. The other side of the room appears disproportionately large and wide. He bobs around in his chair like a deranged puppet, eyes aglow, hands clapping wildly, a wide grin on his face.
You see somebody sitting at your end of the table, although their head’s completely obscured by the shade of a floor lamp. And you feel as though you’re on the brink of learning a secret too terrible to be shared – yet here you are, looking down your nose at a body that’s not entirely your own.
Then, and only then, do you realise that nobody’s taken your place. You’re beginning to understand there’ll be no end to your suffering, no hope of awakening as the nightmare in which you’ve found yourself suddenly falls silent halfway through its routine. The cogs of your mind keep turning, and turning, and turning, as dependably as the hands of a clock that you know will never run down despite the now dormant coils and springs of your new host, whose disembodied head grins up at you from its box.
