The Japanese Devil Fish Girl and Other Unnatural Attractions

by Robert Rankin

  Professor Coffin heard the sniffling sounds and laid a hand upon young George’s shoulder.

  ‘Tell me all and tell it to me now,’ said he. ‘And if anyone has harmed you it will be the worse for them.’

  It was approaching late afternoon now and although Professor Coffin had erected the exhibition tent, winched the Martian in its covered tank down from the wagon and single-handedly manoeuvred it into said tent, then hauled up the banner that announced the ‘Most Meritorious Unnatural Attraction’, set out the bally rostrum, climbed upon it and proclaimed the meritorious nature of his unnatural attraction, he had taken not a penny of a profit.

  True, he’d drawn money from Rubes, but once inside the tent and almost brought to blindness by the reek of the pickled beasty, all had made with knotted fists and demanded back their coin.

  Sorely vexed, Professor Coffin was, but not too vexed to see another’s pain. He sat himself down beside the sorrowful lad and asked once more to be told what was what.

  George then told his tale, most dismally.

  ‘Macmoyster Farl,’ said the professor, when the tale was done. ‘There is a name that brings back memories.’

  ‘You know him?’ asked young George. ‘Then is he genuine? He knew my name and yours too, Mr Snodgrass.’

  ‘Ah, and plah.’ Professor Coffin spat. ‘’Tis true enough for me, I so regret. But I have never met the man, only heard the stories.’

  ‘He claims that he has travelled to the planets and he spoke to me of very curious things.’

  ‘A hero of the Crown,’ said the professor. ‘A captain of the Middlesex Regiment of the Queen’s Own Electric Fusiliers. He served in the Martian campaign and to all accounts saw terrible things upon that Godforsaken planet. He won the OCE – the Order of the Celestial Empire – for deeds of bravery, but on a second tour of duty became somehow marooned. He wandered alone upon that lifeless world for five years before an archaeological expedition sent out by the Royal Society found him.

  ‘Of course, Mars is now part of the Grand Tour if you have the wherewithal to pay for your flight, but five years back, before the dawn of passenger travel in space, the visits to Mars were few and far between.’

  ‘A hero of the Crown,’ said George. ‘You would not think today that he had ever been a soldier.’

  ‘When archaeologists fetched him up from Mars he was stark roaring mad. He was committed to St Mary of Bethlem’s asylum, otherwise known as Bedlam.’

  ‘And there perhaps he has been returned,’ said a sighing George. ‘The manner of his arrest was most curious. Two pale bodies in funeral black took charge of the affair. And one of them—’ And George once more buried his face in his hands.

  ‘A Gentleman in Black,’ said Professor Coffin, gravely. ‘No good ever came from crossing the path of one of those terrible fellows.’

  ‘Who are they?’ asked George, from between his fingers.

  ‘It is better not to know.’

  ‘He threatened me.’

  ‘I am sure that he did.’

  ‘He frightened me.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  George Fox lifted up his head and gazed at the professor.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ he said. ‘Once again I have let you down. I am no good to you, best I seek employment elsewhere.’

  ‘No, not a bit of it, my boy. I agree that of late you have cost me more than somewhat. But such is the showman’s lot. One day a feast, the next an empty platter. But we will triumph somehow. Tell me more of what Macmoyster said.’

  ‘He said that the book would be opened to me. That I would find Her. And that upon my shoulders would rest the future of the planets.’

  ‘I see your cause for glumness. But what of this book of which he spoke?’

  ‘The Book of Sayito’, said George.

  Professor Coffin smiled. ‘Otherwise known as the Venusian Bible.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said George, recalling his conversation with Ada Lovelace, she of unhappy memory. ‘But what that would have to do with me would be any person’s guess but my own.’

  Professor Coffin rose to his feet and gave a twirl of his cane. ‘I will give my thoughts to these matters and should revelations whisper at my ear, I will whisper at yours. But for now,’ and he gave a bow to George, ‘the temperature drops and my thinking is that if we drain friend Martian’s tank and speedily refill it, deck our tent with nosegays and set you upon the bally, we might turn a profit by evening time and fill our bellies withal. What say you to this, my loyal z—assistant?’

  ‘I say yes to it,’ said George. And shook the professor’s hand.

  In less than an hour, the horrid work done, George took his place on the bally. Barker for the evening, he sought to make the professor proud.

  And so George Fox called out to passing Rubes. Tonight the Most Meritorious Unnatural Attraction took on new life, breathed into it by George.

  ‘Come one, come all,’ he called to all and sundry. ‘View the fiend in all of its terrible form. Behind this wall of canvas lurks the most evil being in all of the universe. Phnaarg by name, the King of all the Martians. Brought to book by General Sir Macmoyster Farl OCE, hero of the British Empire, who engaged the wicked monster in swordplay one upon one.’ And George enthusiastically mimed such swordplay, cut and slash and parry with Professor Coffin’s cane. ‘Come see for yourself and marvel and thrill. No unaccompanied ladies or children under five.’

  When the distant chimes of ten were heard from Hounslow clock tower and the crowds had melted away and were gone, Professor Coffin smiled.

  ‘Splendid,’ he cried, a-counting of coin. ‘Positively splendid.’

  ‘Did I make you proud, sir?’ asked George Fox.

  ‘Beyond all words, my boy, beyond all words.’ Professor Coffin danced a copper penny on his palm. ‘The take is more than a pound, my boy, and what do you think of that?’

  ‘I think,’ said George, ‘as I counted them in, that it is considerably more than that. In fact, it is precisely—’

  ‘Two pounds, one and tuppence,’ said Professor Coffin.

  ‘Yes, precisely that.’

  ‘And one-third of it is yours.’

  ‘A third?’ said George. ‘But you only pay me one-quarter. ’

  ‘But you did magnificently. We will make a showman of you yet.’

  It took much time to fold the tent, winch the Martian back into the showman’s wagon, lock all and sundry within and disable the traction engine (for Professor Coffin had spied minions of Mandible Haxan lurking in the crowd), but finally the professor and his valued assistant set off for sustenance and ale.

  The taverns of Hounslow never closed during the Hounslow Fair. They served beer and victuals twenty-four hours of the day. Professor Coffin led young George past many a rowdy alehouse before tuning into a narrow side street and walking up to an unlit door.

  ‘A more select establishment,’ he explained to George, whose stomach rumbled loudly. ‘But just one thing before we enter. This is where the exclusive brotherhood raise their cups.’

  ‘The exclusive brotherhood?’ George Fox queried.

  ‘Come, boy,’ said the professor. ‘The unique ones. The very special people. Many are close friends of mine and have worked with me in the past. You will find most as charming as can be. If you show politeness to them, it will be returned to you.’

  ‘I am confused,’ said George. ‘But perhaps it is from lack of food.’

  ‘And you’ll dine well tonight and I will buy you ale.’ Professor Coffin knocked upon the door.

  There was a moment’s pause and then the sounds of drawing bolts and then a face peered out into the darkness.

  ‘Quenten, my good friend and fellow.’ Professor Coffin stepped from the dark and gave the fellow hugs.

  The fellow said, ‘My good friend Cagliostro.’

  And as this hugging went about its friendly business, George stared on. Somewhat goggle-eyed and roundly lipped in the mouth department.

  For Quenten
was not as other men. There was a difference to the face of Quenten that cut him out from the crowd. A quality of uniqueness. Something very special.

  Quenten winked over Professor Coffin’s shoulder.

  Winked at George.

  Winked at George with a single eye.

  In the very centre of his forehead.

  9

  ‘Quenten Vamberry the Third,’ said Professor Coffin, making the introductions. ‘And this is my assistant, George Fox.’

  Quenten Vamberry parted from the professor’s embrace and wrung George Fox’s hand between his own. ‘Damnably fine to meet you, George,’ he said.

  ‘And me you, sir, yes.’

  George found himself led into a comfortable room that smelled of hops and tobacco smoke. Lamps fuelled by whale oil with dark heavy shades hung in wall sconces and dropped pools of light upon scrubbed oaken tables. The hubbub of merry conversation did not cease as George entered this room, no one looked up at him, no one paid him any mind.

  ‘Porter?’ asked Quenten of George and the professor. ‘Porter and supper, I’m thinking.’

  ‘Yes indeed, indeed.’ Professor Coffin grinned a mighty grin. He settled himself down into a chair at an empty table and beckoned George to do the very same.

  George sat himself down, took off his bowler, diddled its brim with his fingers. His eyes did cautious wanderings about the clientele.

  They were indeed most very special people.

  A dwarf, his face tattooed after the fashion of the Maori, played at chess with a princely personage from the Indian subcontinent. This gentleman wore a neat white turban affixed with a single ruby, a high-collared shirt, a white bow tie, a double-breasted evening jacket of dark stuff with broad lapels of silk. This jacket, however, bulged curiously, and when the time came for this personage to make his move, a tiny hand sneaked out from the front of the jacket and moved the chess piece for him.

  ‘Laloo, the Indian double boy,’ said Professor Coffin, following the direction of George’s wandering eyes. ‘A parasitic twin sprouts from his chest. He calls it Anna, but it is a he. And plays a finer game than does Laloo.’

  George Fox shook his head in wonder. ‘What marvellous folk,’ said he.

  ‘And many of them, as I told you, my good friends.’ Professor Coffin, through polite indication and no pointing whatsoever, drew George’s attention to a number of the establishment’s most notable patrons.

  ‘Fedor Jeftichew,’ said Professor Coffin. ‘Exhibited as Jo Jo, the Russian Dog-Faced Boy. Although a thick coat of hazel-coloured hair adorns him from top to toe and his face resembles that of a Skye terrier, no more charming and personable a young man could you wish to meet.’

  Fedor caught the gaze of George and waved at him with a hairy hand. George smiled back and nodded and gave a little wave.

  ‘Carl Untham,’ the professor continued. ‘The Armless Prodigy. Born without upper limbs, he can do with his feet what any man can do with his hands. And he plays a virtuoso violin. Perhaps he will favour us with a tune later. But do not push the matter – he can become truculent when in his cups and has been known to kick the occasional nuisance out of the window.’

  ‘I will bear that in mind,’ George said.

  Professor Coffin went on. He named a bearded lady and a frog-boy known as Hopp, a pair of beautiful Siamese twin ladies, a Wild Man of Borneo, a pinhead fop named Zip and an albino called Unzie, whose plaited hair hung down to his knees.

  And then the suppers arrived. Two brimming bowls of nadger, with pickled frips on the side and a generous platter of dolly-bread that none would turn their nose up to. Even on a Tuesday, when the world preferred blunt rolls. George and the professor got stuck in to their suppers and George felt rather glad to be alive.

  He had one of those moments that folk sometimes have and are grateful for. Moments of realisation and happiness, for good food and better friendship.

  ‘You smile as you chew,’ observed the professor. ‘A good sign, that, by my reckoning.’

  George smiled somewhat more and swallowed as he did so. ‘I do enjoy working with you, Professor. Life on the road can never be said to be dull. Although . . .’ And here George’s face clouded somewhat. ‘I must confess to hatred of that Martian.’

  Laughter choked Professor Coffin, who spat frips over George.

  ‘Pardon me,’ he said, a-wiping at his chin, ‘but you and that pickled horror are not a loving partnership.’

  George continued with his feeding.

  ‘And in truth,’ continued the professor, dabbing once more about his Mr Punch chin, ‘I do not know how much longer we can keep that thing on display. It is coming apart all over and soon may be nothing but soup.’

  ‘My heart will not break when we flush it away,’ said George.

  ‘No, but your belly will rumble. We turned a fine penny tonight, young George. You are a natural on the bally. If we lose our Martian we must have something even better to replace him with.’

  ‘Perhaps someone here is presently unemployed,’ was George’s suggestion.

  Professor Coffin shushed that one to silence.

  ‘These are top-class acts,’ said he, ‘who deserve and attain to top-class wages.’

  ‘But if they draw in the Rubes, then they surely deserve their pay.’

  ‘It can be complicated.’ Professor Coffin pressed on with his supper, presently finished same, dabbed himself hugely with his oversized red gingham handkerchief and leaned back in his seat, a-stroking of his belly.

  George mopped up the last of his gravy with a slice of dolly-bread and made satisfied smackings with his lips. ‘I really did enjoy that meal,’ he said.

  ‘Fiddle de, fiddle dum.’ Professor Coffin supped upon porter. ‘It sets me to thinking, though.’

  ‘About what?’ asked George Fox.

  ‘As to what might replace our reeking Red Planet reprobate.’

  A chuckle came from a table nearby and Laloo turned smiles upon them.

  ‘We overhear you, Cagliostro,’ said the well-clad fellow.

  ‘It is ever the showman’s lot to suffer hardship and privation,’ said Professor Coffin. ‘Whilst great folk such as you accrue kingly pensions, we showmen must fork out countless expenses, bear the heavy weight of responsibility and deposit but a few meagre pennies into our patched pockets.’

  Laloo let out another chuckle. ‘And see that,’ he said to George. ‘He says all that without ever breaking a smile.’

  ‘And believe me, it is not easy,’ said Professor Coffin, breaking one now, and a large one too. ‘Years of practice, it takes, and I am getting no younger.’

  ‘In truth,’ said Laloo, ‘the days of the live show, with a prodigy of nature on display, may well be numbered. Mechanical marvels fill the public’s imagination and gaffs are everywhere.’

  ‘Gaffs?’ asked George, who was a stranger to the term.

  ‘Fakes,’ said Laloo. ‘As the professor observed, although obliquely, a live performer needs food, accommodation and payment. A bouncer, by contrast, needs none of these things.’

  ‘Bouncer?’ queried George.

  ‘Or “pickled punk”. A two-headed baby, or unborn Siamese twins, created from wax and hair and mounted in a display bottle. On a recent tour of America, I visited a company in New York by the name of Merz and Hansen – “Manufacturers of Petrified Mummies, Two-Headed Giants, Sea Serpents, Double Babies, etc.” They boast that they can create anything your imagination runs to and they only require twenty-one days to create it – the time it takes for the papier mâché to thoroughly dry.’

  ‘Incredible,’ said George.

  ‘And a death knell to the travelling show,’ said the professor. ‘Perhaps we have become an anachronism. Our time is past. Soon it will be electrical whirligigs and bumping motor carriages.’

  ‘You sing a dismal song,’ said Laloo, ‘but one that lacks for candour on your part. Yes, perhaps we cannot do battle with the new, but why would we try? To do so would be foolhardy. We m
ust adapt, as all must, as Man moves forwards into the future. And who knows this better than you, who has presented so many varied attractions, each in its way tailored to the current fashions?’

  ‘’Tis true,’ said Professor Coffin, raising his porter pot to Laloo and calling out for further ales. ‘But it is every showman’s dream to find the attraction. That most wonderful attraction that ever there was. Something that all of the world would pay to see. And also the other worlds too.’

  ‘There are wonderful beings about,’ said Laloo.