Snuff Fiction Page 5

  ‘We’re going to the fair.’

  ‘What fair?’ asked Norman.

  ‘What fair?’ I asked too.

  ‘The one on the Common, of course.’

  Norman shook his aching head. ‘It doesn’t open until Saturday. Everyone knows that.’

  ‘It opens for me,’ said the Doveston. ‘I have an uncle who runs one of the attractions.’

  Norman’s eyes widened behind the door glass. ‘You have?’ he said slowly. ‘Which one?’

  ‘His name is Professor Merlin. He runs the Freak Show.’ My eyes too widened somewhat at this. The Freak Show was always a big attraction. Last year there had been an eight-legged lamb and a mermaid. Both had admittedly been stuffed, but there were live exhibits too. Giants and dwarves, a bearded lady and an alligator man. And talk of a Japanese Devil Fish Girl too.

  ‘You’re lying,’ said Norman. ‘Piss off.’

  ‘Please yourself,’ said the Doveston, ‘but we’re going. I just thought you might like to see the dog-faced boy. They say that he bites the heads off live chickens.’

  ‘I’ll get my coat,’ said Norman.

  ‘We’ll come inside and wait for you.’

  ‘No you bloody won’t.’

  Norman fetched his brown shopcoat, the new one he’d been given for his ninth birthday. He closed the shop door and, under the disguised scrutiny of the Doveston, locked it with his own set of keys. And then the three of us shuffled off towards the Common.

  I did have my doubts about this. We all stayed well clear of the fair until it officially opened. The gypsies there had very large dogs and no love for casual callers.

  ‘Are you sure this is wise?’ I asked the Doveston as we approached the circle of caravans.

  The Doveston sshed me to silence. He had been explaining to Norman about another uncle he had who was a lama in Tibet. This particular uncle was skilled in the art of levitation, an art that could prove useful in all manner of activities. The vaulting of gymnasium horses, for example. The Doveston felt certain that his lamaic uncle might be persuaded to pass on the secrets of this invaluable art to Norman, in exchange for nothing more than a carton of Strontium Nineties.

  ‘Piss off,’ said Norman.

  Some very large dogs were beginning to bark and between the high-sided caravans we could make out the figures of Romany types. Big-boned burly bods were these, with walrus moustaches and rings through their ears. Tattooed and terrible, hairy and horrid.

  The menfolk looked no better.

  ‘Just wait here while I have a word,’ said the Doveston, hurrying off.

  We scuffed our shoes about on the grass and waited. Norman fished a jujube from his pocket and popped it into his mouth. I hoped he’d offer me one, but he didn’t.

  ‘Gypsies eat their young, you know,’ said he.

  ‘They never do.’

  ‘They do.’ Norman nodded. ‘My dad told me. There’s only ever nine hundred and ninety-nine gypsies ever alive at one time. It’s because they have magical powers, like being able to tell the future and knowing where to find hidden gold. The magic is only strong enough to go round between the nine hundred and ninety-nine of them. One more and they’d lose it. So a new gypsy isn’t allowed to be born before an old one dies. If one is, they kill it and eat it.’

  ‘How horrible,’ I said.

  ‘That’s nothing compared to other things they get up to. My dad’s told me all about them.’

  ‘Your dad certainly knows a lot about gypsies.’

  ‘He should,’ said Norman. ‘My mum ran off with one.

  The Doveston returned and said, ‘Come on, it’s safe, you can follow me.’

  We shuffled after him in between the high caravans and into the great circle where the attractions and rides were being assembled. The tattooed moustachioed women toiled away, singing songs in their native Esperanto as they hoisted the sections of the Pelt the Puppy stalls and Sniff the Cheese stands into place.

  The menfolk lazed on their portable verandas. Dollied up in floral frocks and sling-back shoes, they sipped their Martinis and arranged cut flowers into pleasing compositions.

  ‘That’s the life for me,’ said Norman. And who could argue with that?

  5

  They do not just eat their own young. As if that wasn’t bad enough, they grind up all the small bones and produce a kind of snuff, which they snort up their noses through bigger bones all hollowed out. The skull-caps of the murdered infants are fashioned into ashtrays that they hawk on their stalls to good Christian folk like us.

  Gyppo bastards!

  Norman’s dad

  I have never, before nor since, seen a man quite like Professor Merlin. He wore a purple periwig upon a head so slim it made you shiver. His nose was the beak of a fabulous bird and his eyes were turquoise studs. Above a smiling mouth, which glittered with a treasury of golden teeth, sprang slender waxed moustachios. And beneath this mouth was a chin so long that, when the merry lips were closed, it all but touched his hooter.

  He was dressed in the style of a Regency blade, with a high starched collar and white silk cravat. His waistcoat was red and a-twinkle with watch-chains. His tail-coat was green, with embroidered lapels. He was old and tall and skinny. He was weird and wonderful.

  At our approach he extended a long, thin, pale and manicured hand to shake the grubby mitt belonging to the Doveston.

  ‘My dear little Berty,’ he said.

  ‘Berty?’ I whispered.

  ‘And this would be your brother?’

  ‘Edwin,’ said the Doveston. ‘And this is my good friend Norman.’

  ‘Berty?’ said Norman. ‘Edwin?’

  ‘Norman is the son of Brentford’s pre-eminent purveyor of tobacco and confectionery.’

  ‘Fiddle dee, fiddle dum,’ went the professor. ‘I am honoured indeed.’ He fished into his waistcoat pocket and brought to light a marvellous snuffbox, silver and shaped like a coffin. This he offered in Norman’s direction. ‘Would you care to partake?’ he enquired.

  Norman shook his tousled head, which in profile resembled a pear drop. ‘No thanks,’ said he. ‘I find that stuff makes me sneeze.’

  ‘As you will.’ The professor now grinned goldenly upon the Doveston. ‘Would you like a pinch?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes please, uncle,’ said the boy.

  Professor Merlin leaned forward. ‘Then you shall have one,’ he said and pinched him hard upon the ear.

  The Doveston howled and clutched at his lug-hole. Norman dissolved into foolish mirth and I just stood there, boggle-eyed and gaping.

  ‘Fairground humour,’ explained the professor. ‘What do you think of it?’

  ‘Most amusing,’ said I.

  ‘And what say you, Berty?’

  The Doveston wiped away tears from his eyes and managed a lop-sided smirk. ‘Most amusing,’ he agreed. ‘I must remember that one.’

  ‘Good boy.’ Professor Merlin handed him the snuffbox. ‘Then take a little sample and tell me what you think.’

  The boy gave the lid three solemn taps before he flipped it open.

  ‘Why do you do that?’ I asked.

  ‘Tradition,’ the Doveston told me. ‘For Father, Son and Holy Ghost.’

  ‘Born to the art,’ said the professor.

  The boy took snuff and pinched it to his nose. He inhaled deeply through his nostrils and then made a thoughtful and satisfied face.

  Professor Merlin cocked his head. ‘Let us see if he can identify the blend. A florin says he will not.’

  The Doveston’s nose went twitch twitch twitch and I awaited the inevitable explosion. But none came. Instead he just smiled, before reciting a curious verse.

  ‘Thai [went he,] and light as nutmeg.

  One part sassafras, one part sage.

  Strawberry seasoned, blueberry blended.

  Crad from the stock of the Munich Mage.

  Daintily dusted, finely ground.

  Bought in Bradford, two quid a pound.’

  �
�Remarkable,’ said the professor.

  ‘Rather too fussy for my taste,’ said the boy. ‘And more a winter blend, I would have thought. Would you like me to name both brand and supplier?’

  Professor Merlin nodded.

  ‘Crawford’s Imperial, from Cox’s Tobacco Emporium, High Street, Bradford.’

  ‘Incredible.’ Professor Merlin wrung his slender hands. ‘Even down to the hint of Crad. The boy is a genius.’

  ‘Poo,’ said Norman, who wasn’t impressed.

  ‘It was rather clever,’ I said, ‘and in a poem too.’

  ‘Poems are girly,’ said Norman.

  I noticed now that the professor’s snuffbox was sliding into the Doveston’s pocket. The professor noticed this too and snatched it back. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  The Doveston grinned. ‘That’s a florin you owe me.’

  The professor made mystical motions with his hands and produced a coin from thin air.

  The Doveston took it, bit it, examined it, slipped it in his pocket and grinned a little more.

  ‘Fiddle dee fiddle dum.’ Professor Merlin bowed. ‘You have impressed me as ever, my boy. So what have you come to see?’

  ‘Norman would like a look at the dog-faced boy.’

  ‘I would,’ said Norman. ‘I want to see him biting the heads off live chickens.’

  ‘Well you can’t,’ said the professor. ‘Doggart has been taken to the vet’s.’

  ‘As if,’ said Norman.

  ‘No, he truly has. And you’re wrong about the description, Berty. He’s not a dog-faced boy. He’s a boy-faced dog.’

  ‘As if’ said Norman once more.

  ‘I kid thee not.’ Professor Merlin crossed his heart. ‘The body of an Alsatian dog and the head of a boy. I purchased him several months ago in this very borough, from a chap called Jon Peru Joans.’

  I looked at the Doveston. And he looked back at me.

  ‘So why’s he at the vet’s?’ asked Norman.

  ‘Ah,’ said the professor. ‘An embarrassing incident occurred today. We had been invited to lunch by the lady mayoress, who’d expressed a desire to meet Doggart. We arrived at her house somewhat early and her secretary informed us that she was still upstairs taking a shower. We were sent to wait in the lounge, but Doggart somehow got off his lead and ran upstairs. The bathroom door had been left open and the lady mayoress was still in the shower. She was just bending down to pick up the soap when Doggart entered. He must have misunderstood the situation, because the next thing you know he—’

  ‘No!’ said Norman. ‘He never did!’

  ‘He did. It’s the nature of dogs, you see. He couldn’t help himself. The lady mayoress demanded that Doggart be taken off to the vet.’

  ‘To be destroyed?’

  ‘No,’ said the professor. ‘To have his paw-nails clipped. We’ve been invited back again for supper.’

  We all looked at each other and then began to laugh. These were, after all, the 1950s and Political Correctness was still many years away.

  No-one, of course, would dare to tell a joke like that nowadays.

  ‘So, what have you got?’ asked Norman. ‘Anything worth seeing?’

  Professor Merlin golden-grinned. ‘You really are a very rude little boy, aren’t you?’ he said.

  Norman nodded. ‘Very. That’s one of the benefits of having a dad who runs a sweetie shop.’

  ‘Ah, privilege.’ Professor Merlin made a wistful face. ‘So, what can I show you? Ah yes, indeedy-do. I know just the very thing.’

  And with that said he turned upon a merry heel and led us across the great circle towards his caravan. We shuffled after the curious gent, the Doveston whistling and grinning away, Norman secretively unwrapping Gooble’s Gob Gums in the pocket of his brown shop-keeper’s coat and sneaking them into his mouth and me scratching at the family of ticks that had recently made their nest in my navel.

  Perhaps this had me thinking about families, because, I chanced to wonder whether one of the straining hirsute gypsy women might be Norman’s wayward mum.

  ‘Here we go,’ said the professor as we approached a particularly grand caravan.

  It was a glorious antique affair, its sides decorated with the swirls and flourishes of the Romany persuasion in golds and silvers and pearly pastels. The words ‘PROFESSOR MERLIN’S GREATEST SHOW OFF EARTH’ were writ in letters big, and elephants and ostriches and dancing girls and jugglers were painted on in rich and dashing fashion.

  ‘Gaudy,’ said Norman, munching on a sweetie.

  ‘Inside now, come on.’ We pressed together up the steps and I pushed open the door. As I looked inside, I recalled the words of Howard Carter, who, having chiselled a little hole into the tomb of the boy king and shone his torch through it, was asked what he could see. ‘Wonderful things,’ said Howard. ‘I see wonderful things.’

  We bundled into the professor’s caravan.

  ‘Sit down. Sit down.’ And we sat.

  On the walls were many posters of circuses and sideshows. Adverts for incredible performances and impossible feats. But these were not the wonderful things. The wonderful things were brass contraptions. Inexplicable Victorian mechanisms consisting of whirling ball governors and clicking chains, each puffing and turning and moving and busily doing something or other, although just what, it was impossible to say.

  ‘What’s all this old toot?’ asked Norman.

  ‘The work of another age,’ smiled the professor. ‘A distant technology.’

  ‘Yeah, but what do they do?’

  ‘They don’t do anything, Norman. They don’t do, they simply are.’

  Norman shrugged and munched some more.

  ‘Refreshments,’ said the professor, pouring lemonade into tall green glasses. ‘And fags too. Name your favourites.’

  ‘You won’t have them,’ said Norman.

  Professor Merlin handed out the lemonade. ‘Try me,’ he said.

  ‘MacGuffin’s Extra Longs.’

  ‘Easy,’ said Professor Merlin, producing one from thin air.

  Norman took and examined it. ‘Good trick,’ he said, sulkily.

  ‘Edwin?’

  ‘I’m easy,’ I said. ‘Anything.’

  ‘Make it hard.’

  ‘All right.’ I thought for a moment. ‘I’d like to try a Byzantium.’

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ said the Doveston. ‘Except you can only buy them in Greece.

  ‘One each then.’ The professor snapped his fingers and we took the cigarettes. They were the genuine article and we hastened to light them up.

  ‘I’d like one of those as well,’ said Norman.

  ‘Well, you can’t have one. But’ — Professor Merlin reached over to a nifty little side table, crafted from an elephant’s foot, and took up a small and dainty box — ‘I’ve something else I think you will like.’

  Norman puffed upon his cigarette.

  ‘Sweeties,’ said the professor, turning the box towards him. ‘This is a very special little box with very special sweeties.’

  ‘Give us them,’ said Norman.

  Professor Merlin glittered out another grin. ‘It’s a very beautiful box, isn’t it? The tanned hide has been so perfectly prepared. The craftsmanship is exquisite.’

  ‘What about the sweeties?’ Norman asked.

  ‘You hold on to the box and help yourself and while you do, I will recount to you a tale that I hope will make your visit worth while.’

  ‘I’d rather have seen the dog-boy.’ Norman wrestled the lid from the box and got stuck into the sweeties.

  ‘I have been in the showman’s trade for many many years,’ said Professor Merlin, settling himself back into a throne-like chair all wrought from bones and buckles. ‘And I think I can say that, if it’s there to be seen, I’ve seen it. I have travelled all over this world of ours and visited many strange places. If I have heard rumours of some remarkable performer or human oddity, I have followed up these rumours. Tracked these rumours to their source. And I am proud
to say that I have exhibited some of the greatest artistes of this or any age.

  ‘But, and it is a big but, every showman dreams that one day he will find THE BIG ONE. The most exotic, the most wonderful, the biggest greatest crowd-puller that there has ever been. Barnum found it with General Tom Thumb, but for most of us the search goes on.’

  ‘These sweeties aren’t too bad,’ said Norman. ‘They taste almost meaty.

  ‘Shut up!’ said the Doveston, elbowing Norman. ‘Please continue, uncle.’

  ‘Thank you, Berty. As I say, we search and search, but mostly in vain. And maybe that is for the best. Maybe it is better to search than actually to find.’

  ‘How can that be?’ the Doveston asked. ‘If you want something, it’s better to get it than to not get it.’

  ‘You may be right, but I have not found this to be the case. Quite the reverse, in fact. You see, I found what I was looking for and I wish that I never had.’

  The old showman paused, drew out his snuffbox and favoured his nostrils with Crawford’s Imperial. ‘I travelled with the carnival in India,’ he continued, ‘where I hoped to encounter a fakir who had mastered the now legendary rope trick. But I found something more wonderful than this. Something that I wanted, wanted more than I have ever wanted anything. Something, did I say? Someone. She was a temple dancer, so beautiful and perfect as to overwhelm the heart. She moved with such grace that it made you weep to watch her and when she sang it was with the tongue of an angel.

  ‘I knew at once that if I could persuade this beautiful creature to travel with me and perform around the world, my fortune would be made. The men of the West would fall at her feet. There would be fame and there would be fortune.’

  ‘And was there?’ asked Norman.

  ‘I’ll thump you,’ said the Doveston.

  ‘Fame?’ said the professor. ‘Infamy, more like. I sought out the guardians of this girl. The villagers were not eager to tell me, but I bribed a few with strong liquor and the hut was pointed out to me.

  ‘A rude dwelling it was, nothing more than mud and reeds, filthy and wretched. I knocked and entered and there found an ancient fellow sucking upon a narghile. This old body spoke no English and so I conversed with him in his own tongue. I speak more than forty languages and I was able to make myself understood.