It’s a good job it was summer. Honestly, I could have frozen to death, otherwise, for all the notice she took of me. I was there for ages and she never once even looked out to see that I was all right. One time some strange woman with breath that smelt of beer and onions came out and stuck her face close to mine. She turned and yelled back through the open pub door:
‘Yeh, ’e’s all right, love . . .’
All right . . . ? I tell you. There I was, hungry, thirsty, miserable and dirty. I hadn’t been changed still. The least she could have done was given me a clean nappy. I mean, supposing I’d got knocked down.
God, it was boring out there. I had a bit of a chat with a dog for a few minutes, a collie crossed with a spaniel; not the most communicative breed at the best of times, but at least it broke the monotony for a while. Later on, the beery-oniony woman came again and looked at me. I said to her as plainly as I could: ‘Would you ask her if we can go home, please? Tell her I’m tired and bored, will you? And I’m so wet, I want to be changed. Please . . .’
A look of real concern flashed across the woman’s face for a second, and I thought, at last I’ve got through to somebody. Then she said: ‘That’s it, darlin’. You cough it up.’ Then she patted me on the back. I ask you – what can you do . . . ?
Anyway, at last she came out. She flung her stuff on the pram and started to wheel me up the street. And looking out I saw this man there, walking along with her. He wasn’t what I’d call nice, though. Not like this daddy. But they were talking and talking. We stopped outside the fish and chip shop where the light was very bright and got in my eyes. She braked the pram and joined the end of the queue leading to the counter; the man went with her. They didn’t take any notice of me at all, and didn’t even look to see what I was up to. Of course, by this time I was really awake. What with all that noise in my ears and that light in my eyes I couldn’t very well be expected to sleep, could I. Actually it’s a good job I didn’t. Otherwise I might still be with her today.
I thought she’d never come back to the pram. It seemed ages before I felt her shadow over me and smelt the smell of her – chips, fish and vinegar all mixed up with the beer. I had my eyes closed now and I heard her say:
‘Oh, bloody ’ell. Look what the little bastard’s gone and done.’ She had a really ugly voice, and her voice got nearer and louder, and angrier. And all the time I kept my face turned away. ‘He’s emptied every bleedin’ thing out of my ’andbag,’ she said. ‘Look at that bleedin’ mess.’
And then she leaned down, right low, over the pram. And that’s when I did the pat-a-cake. But I did it against her neck and as hard as I could. It wasn’t easy to aim properly – I’m not that good, as you’d probably guess – but this time I got it just right. And the next thing she was straightening up, and clasping her hands to her throat, and I got a sudden glimpse of the red coming out between her fingers. She half shouted, half spoke: ‘Oh, my God, what’s that little sod done to me? Jesus Christ, I’m bleedin’, for God’s sake!’
The man went up next to her then and I could see him putting up his hands, trying to stop the blood coming out of her neck. But he couldn’t. Of course he couldn’t. No one could. And all the time her cries were getting louder and more frightened. Lots of people started gathering around us – I think it must be the blood that does it – and all talking at once. You should have seen and heard all the panic going on.
‘Quick! Quick!’ somebody was shouting, ‘ – it’s the jugular vein. She’s bleeding to death!’
And then more voices: ‘Get a tourniquet! That’s what she needs.’
‘What for?’
‘To stop the bleeding – !’
‘ – A tourniquet? Round her neck?’
‘It’ll stop the bleeding.’
‘Yeh! – stop her breathin’ as well.’
You should have been there, seen them all running around. I was the only calm one there and for a good few minutes nobody took any notice of me . . . and all the time I still had the darts in my hand. Then this strange woman came over and took them away from me. She did it anxiously but quite gently.
‘Let’s have these before you do any more damage,’ she said. ‘We don’t want you hurt as well.’ Her face was close as she bent down to me. She looked very sad. She murmured softly: ‘Poor little devil . . .’
‘Listen,’ I said, looking up into her eyes, ‘I had to do it. I had to. I mean, what kind of a future did I have with her . . . ?’
The woman shook her head. ‘Ah, listen to him chortling away,’ she said. ‘Poor little bugger. Aw, bless ’im. Poor little darlin’ thinks it’s all a huge joke. Thank God he’s too young to understand what he’s done . . .’
And that’s when I really started to laugh. I mean, honest – I just had to.
MY VERY GOOD FRIEND
There was no doubt about it, the insect had grown. Not only did it look larger, but, Pierre could tell, holding it gently in the palm of his hand, that it was also heavier.
Studying the slender green creature, Pierre experienced a sensation of great pride and satisfaction. After all his months of research he was finally seeing results. At last there was something to show for all those hours spent bending over his workbench in his small – almost primitive – laboratory. His early failures – and there had been so many of them – counted for nothing now in the face of his success.
Briefly he let his mind stray back into the past, seeing the seemingly-endless succession of ill-fated creatures that had been the subjects for his experiments. There had been so many: the flies, the yellow-jackets, the bees, the mosquitoes. And all of them had failed the test – not one had survived for more than a very short time.
So he had gone on, making changes here, alterations there.
The drug he had developed, and now used, was quite different from the one he had started with. And as luck would have it, just as it, the drug, came to be perfected, he had found the praying mantises.
Like his earlier subjects, the first ones had succumbed, but the next one – and what a time that was! – had survived for several weeks after the initial treatment.
And now here he was with the fifth praying mantis. And after five weeks of continuous treatment it still showed no signs of weakening or deterioration. On the contrary, it seemed positively to glow with health – if it was possible for such a very green creature to glow. The rate of its growth was accelerating day by day, Pierre had noticed. He smiled; he had known that he could do it – would do it – eventually.
He replaced the creature in the small, mesh-covered cage he had made for it, then watched as the insect devoured a bluebottle that had been provided for its lunch. When the meal was finished the mantis turned its head and gazed at Pierre with strange, unfathomable eyes. It was uncanny, that, Pierre thought, how it could actually swivel its head from side to side, unlike most other insects. But there, the praying mantis was an extraordinary creature altogether.
Pierre never tired of studying the insect. He found that he could sit for hours, gazing with rapt fascination, just staring at it. And it was not known as a praying mantis for nothing; it even adopted its praying attitude whilst eating. Pierre found it the most enthralling of all his subjects and he looked upon it with a profoundly respectful air, completely caught up in its mystery.
It was a mystery to him, too. Coming from Paris to the backwoods of America he had never seen a praying mantis before. Consequently he had been intrigued by the small, delicate-looking creature from the moment he had first seen one – sitting on a twig outside the laboratory. Mesmerized, he had watched as the insect had snatched a small aphid from a nearby leaf and quickly devoured it.
Now, however, the smaller insects were no longer sufficient to supply the nutritional needs of the swiftly-growing creature before him. Its diet now consisted of the larger species – flies, moths, butterflies, etc. From an approximate length
of one and a half inches the praying mantis now measured well over three. Soon, Pierre reckoned, he’d be able actually to inject the growth-giving serum – instead of brushing it onto the bodies of the insects that had been caught for the creature’s food.
With a satisfied sigh, Pierre turned off the light over the cage and stepped outside on to the veranda of the small house. He looked out over acres of woodland – only one other house visible among the trees. The owner of that house, Royston Stevens, was the only human he saw from one week to another. Apart from the occasional visits from his American neighbour, Pierre was entirely alone.
But this was the way he wanted it. This was the way it suited him. Never a gregarious person, he had at once welcomed the solitude of this place. It had accepted him and he had embraced its silence, its solitude, knowing instinctively that it was right for him. Here he was free from the inquisitive glances of strangers, the half-fascinated, half-shocked glances that would be thrown in his direction.
In the shadowed glass of the kitchen window he saw, for a second, the image of his reflection. It gazed back at him, a slight, deformed figure with stunted legs and distorted features. His face had something of the appearance of a clay model, one side of which might have been forcibly dragged down in a fit of sudden anger. The face was ugly – shocking sometimes even to Pierre himself who had grown up with it. Only the eyes were beautiful. Soft, limpid, infinitely kind and gentle, they shone, a clear, deep blue, twin oases in the desert of his ugliness.
Quickly he turned his head away – he could never look at himself for long.
When Royston Stevens visited the house a week later he found Pierre in the back yard, hard at work on the construction of a large cage which he was covering with a coarse wire mesh. After their initial greetings Stevens asked:
‘What’s that for?’
For a long moment Pierre just looked at him, inwardly debating whether or not to impart the details of his wonderful secret. Then in the end he beckoned and led the way into his laboratory.
‘There. Look at that,’ he said proudly in his French-accented English.
Stevens looked towards the smaller cage on the workbench and gasped.
‘But . . . what is it?’
Pierre smiled – he couldn’t help himself. ‘What does it look like?’ he asked in return.
‘It’s – it’s like an enormous – praying mantis.’
Pierre nodded. ‘True.’
‘Jesus . . . !’ Stevens moved nearer to the cage, gazing in a kind of sick fascination at the huge insect before him.
‘I call him Emil,’ Pierre said, grinning widely.
The mantis was now well over a foot in length and clearly would very soon be too large for the confines of its present home. The body of the insect was a brilliant green with a bright sheen on the skin. It sat there, as always, its short, powerful forearms held together in their attitude of prayer. ‘How . . . ?’ was all that Stevens managed to say.
Later, over coffee, Pierre related the story of his experiments.
‘Don’t you realise what this will mean to the world?’ Pierre asked excitedly. ‘Do you realise that humanity need never hunger again?’
Looking at the ugly face before him, the American silently framed the question: Why are you so concerned for humanity when you can ’t even face it? And anyway, what has it ever done for you . . . ? Then, aloud, he said, ‘It’s wonderful, Pierre. It’s wonderful.’
Later they looked again at Emil.
‘I can see why you’re building a bigger cage,’ Stevens said.
‘Yes. Emil must have room to move around. He must be comfortable.’
‘Why do you call him Emil?’
The Frenchman shrugged. ‘I used to have a dog. He was Emil.’
‘How do you know this one’s male?’
‘I don’t.’
‘You don’t?’
Pierre spread his hands. ‘Well, I’ve no experience of them – other than this one, and in the little researching I’ve done I haven’t come up with any really helpful information. I read somewhere that the female has a shorter wing span, and that with some species the colour of the abdomen is a little different – but . . .’ He laughed. ‘What’s it matter, anyway? If I find Emil’s a lady I shall change her name. To Emilie.’
And so Emil grew. Two weeks later Pierre moved the insect into the larger cage which he had placed on the veranda. The praying mantis now measured over three feet in height, and the drug for its growth was administered directly by injection. Pierre wondered whether he should perhaps stop giving the drug – but no, he couldn’t. Not now. Having seen his experiment working so successfully he felt compelled to continue.
Pierre never tired of gazing at his pet (he had ceased to think of Emil merely as the subject of an experiment), and spent many long hours sitting or standing before the cage, observing the enormous creature within. As he approached the cage, Pierre would see the large, intelligent-looking head turn to watch him. Those eyes that looked into his own were filled with trust.
Feeding times were a source of endless fascination. Pierre had taken now to trapping birds and then releasing them into the confines of the cage. The praying mantis would turn its head, attracted by the frantic fluttering, the keen eyes watching, studying as the terrified bird sought a means of escape. Apart from the slow, measured movement of the head, Emil’s body would be quite still, absolutely motionless, as if carefully judging the distance between itself and its prey. And then, suddenly, without warning, Emil would go into action. The forelegs would shoot out – so swiftly that their movement was, to Pierre’s eyes, just a blur – and the unsuspecting bird would be snatched up, caught in the strong, unrelenting grasp, and carried to the large waiting jaws.
Pierre always had to look away at this point. He found it impossible to watch as the birds were devoured. The fact that they were killed at all brought him considerable distress but, he reasoned with himself, it was necessary. All God’s creatures had to live – and live in the only way they knew.
With Pierre, Emil was gentleness itself. Quite without fear, the Frenchman could go right into the cage. There he would stand, talking to his pet, whispering his soft, soothing words. He would stroke the neck of the large green creature, and the trusting eyes would watch him, following his every move.
Pierre found that, within himself, a great fondness, a great love, was growing for his pet. There was a rapport here that he had never experienced before.
As time went on Emil began to wait anxiously for Pierre’s coming. Seeing him approach the bars of the cage the insect would hurry towards him, tiny piercing cries issuing from its wide mouth. Pierre, hearing the sounds, seeing the eagerness, would feel his heart leap with joy and affection. Here was a living creature who never noticed his deformities. The eyes of the praying mantis never flinched when they lighted on its jailer. Instead they studied him with devotion. It was a mutual love and trust, and Pierre gloried in it.
‘What happened to your insect friend?’
Royston Stevens sat opposite Pierre over their coffee cups. There had been no mention of Emil since the American’s arrival some fifteen minutes earlier, and he was burning with curiosity.
Pierre smiled. It had been some weeks since the two men had last met and he was quite sure that Stevens had not visited him merely for his coffee – good though it was.
‘Come. I will show you.’ Pierre arose and led the way on to the back porch. There, inside the cage, was the praying mantis.
‘My God!’ Stevens cried, aghast. He stared open-mouthed at the enormous creature that crouched there and turned its head to study him with cool, impassioned eyes.
‘It’s – it’s grotesque!’
‘No.’ Pierre frowned, then murmuring, ‘Beautiful, beautiful,’ he moved to the cage and thrust an arm through between the bars.
‘Emil . . . Emil.’
He crooned the name softly, seductively, and Stevens watched as the huge praying mantis moved eagerly towards the outstretched hand.
‘You see?’ Pierre asked the gaping American. ‘There is nothing grotesque about him. Grotesque? How can you say such a thing?’ He began to stroke the creature’s head, Emil clearly revelling in the sensation.
‘How can you bear to touch him?’ Stevens asked. ‘Aren’t you afraid?’
‘Afraid?’ Pierre laughed at the idea. ‘He’s tame,’ he said. ‘Can’t you see? He loves me. We understand one another.’ And seeing the look of horrified doubt on the American’s face, he added: ‘Watch.’
Slipping up the catch, Pierre pushed open the door and went inside. Stevens moved closer, watching intently.
‘Emil is my friend,’ Pierre said, smiling through the bars, his eyes crinkling. ‘My very good friend. Our relationship is based on trust and love. Emil trusts me. Emil loves me.’
Stevens forced himself to try to relax. He tried a smile in return. ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he said. ‘But you must admit it’s bound to give anybody a bit of a shock.’
‘Ah, yes, of course,’ said Pierre. ‘But that’s because you don’t know my Emil.’ He reached out and ran one gentle caressing hand down the long green length of the insect’s huge body. Under his touch Emil gave a small shudder of delight and moved closer to him.
Pierre continued to stroke his friend and after a few moments Emil’s head began to turn, slowly moving from side to side – from left to right – right to left, giving the creature the appearance of a huge green puppet.
‘I think perhaps you might be female after all,’ Pierre chuckled, smoothing the bright skin. ‘I think perhaps I should have called you Emilie.’ His hand moved faster now, like butterflies on the sensitive body, fluttering, titillating, and Emil’s head moved quicker in response.
Stevens, watching in fascination, saw the enormous creature give a tremendous wriggle of joy. There was something almost obscene and disgusting about the spectacle before him, yet he found it impossible to look away. He gazed enthralled as the praying mantis – easily a foot taller than Pierre – throbbed and pulsated to the touch of the Frenchman’s hand.
This Is Midnight: Stories Page 12
