[Brenda & Effie 07] - A Game of Crones

by Paul Magrs

And he would talk to me. Long hours in his caravan, when we weren’t required by our task master or the crowds. Joe would tell me about his life and his past, and then he’d coax my stories out of me.

  I was much younger then. Why, even less than a century old. My memory was much less full and patchy. Gradually I told him my various tales – all of them hair-raising – and he accepted everything without question. He never expressed shock or disbelief. Even when I told him I had been a grave-robber, a vagabond, a woman of ill-repute, a warrior, a witch, a handmaiden to a queen, a Sorcerer’s assistant, and a lady pirate. All these things I’d been before barely came as a surprise to Joe.

  I told him how, at last in 1879 I had fallen into the wicked hands of Mr Diodati, at a time in my life when I’d run out of resources, energy and ideas. I’d run out of ways to save myself by reinventing my life. I had no gumption to keep me going. At that very moment Mr Diodati presented himself and I found myself joining the freak show. As usherette and occasional exhibit.

  Here’s what I did, to persuade the crowds to take notice of me.

  I showed them how I could remove my feet, my legs, my hands and my arms.

  I made myself into… The Discombobulated Woman.

  Crowds flocked. Word spread.

  Folk couldn’t quite believe what they were seeing.

  This woman, coming apart at the seams. Turning into smaller and smaller fragments. This woman… was still alive..!

  Joseph thought that the act I developed was astonishing. He was amazed at my growing confidence and my nascent showbiz patter. But he counselled against showing off too much. He thought I was giving too much of myself away.

  Then I found I was getting addicted to all the attention. I did a show in which I came completely to pieces – I was… The Atomised Lady! And at the end I was nothing but a talking head on a plinth!

  Not only women passed out at this unusual and unique sight. I grinned ghoulishly and down came the curtain.

  Great physicians of the day and other scientists gathered to see me. Mr Diodati wouldn’t let them get too close and discover my secrets. ‘It’s all trickery done with mirrors and smoke and black magic,’ they claimed, but the folk from the freak show knew better. They knew that every bit of me was for real.

  At night Joseph and my new young assistant, a country boy called Basil, would spend many hours stitching my limbs and constituent parts back together again with the strongest catgut they could procure. They knew they’d have to do the same thing again the next time I performed my increasingly famous act.

  ‘You’ll do yourself a mischief, Brenda. I think you’re growing mad for all the applause.’

  Oh, he was right. But I couldn’t stop myself. I, who used to skulk among the shadows. Now I was happy in the limelight, doing the most extreme strip-tease of all!

  How well I remember the night I elected to go one better and give them all a new novelty to thrill to. And how their reactions gratified me!

  That night, when my limbs lay scattered around the stage, at the climax of my performance when my head was on the plinth… I did something no one had ever seen before. I wriggled my nose and made my disembodied parts set to twitching. I made them jerk about. Then I made them jump up in synchronised motion. They danced and capered all around the stage, chasing each other around the plinth on which rested my grinning head.

  Perhaps it would have been less disturbing if there wasn’t so much blood splattered about?

  The audience were on their feet and screaming. They ran pell-mell out of the shabby venue. I laughed like a drain to see them go.

  Joseph was appalled.

  ‘You’re going too far. You’re doing things only Beelzebub can do. They’ll accuse you of being in league with Satan. Their admiration will turn to fear and hatred. They will say that you’re an abomination…!’

  As he said this he was busy stitching my lower left leg onto my knee, hunching forward, breathing painfully. And I was all vanity and foolishness, I am afraid to say. All I could hear in his concern was unwanted criticism. I jumped up at once – and almost fell over. And then I accused him of jealousy.

  Oh, what a callow and ungrateful wretch was I! I let him sew my lower leg back on. I seethed impatiently until it was secure, and then I lumbered out of his gypsy caravan without another word.

  ‘Brenda, come back! I’m only trying to help…!’

  The very next day the owner of us all, Mr Diodati, announced that I was to replace Joseph at the top of the freak show bill. My fame had eclipsed even the Elephant Man’s. My cankered heart thrilled at this news.

  Joseph took his demotion with good grace. He was also rather ill. Something bronchial. His breath was sounding chokier and more congested. But I pushed those concerns aside and thought only of myself, and how my billing would look on the new garish posters that were being printed up. I imagined them posted everywhere when we pitched up for shows in Leeds. York, Lincoln, Derby, Norwich… working our way back down the country and finishing up once again in London. I pictured myself in lights – in Drury Lane! Brenda, the Discombobulated Lady..!

  And that is who I became.

  Joseph was gurgling and fighting for his breath. As his lungs filled with fermenting mucous he was slowly drowning. We were hardly talking, but still he and my assistant Basil wielded their expert extra-strong needles after every show. I might have been in a huff with Joseph, but I still needed him to put me back together again.

  I found at about this time that Basil was stealing from me. Not just coins and notes, but souvenirs. By that I mean bits of me. Bits of my body. He was one of the few souls on earth I had entrusted with the knowledge that I had an old wooden trunk lined with silk and stuffed with bolts of soft wool. And this trunk contained spare parts. Ears, eyes, fingers… and the occasional organ.

  Basil had been quietly appalled, the first time he had come upon them, one night when he was searching for a fragment of my exiguous stage outfit. He laid his hands on the flimsy veil I used for my ‘Arabian Nights’ themed dance and then he opened my trunk and fainted dead away at the sight of what lay within.

  Joseph Merrick wasn’t perturbed at all by this. He had heard so much about my past that nothing at all could frighten him. Or put him off me. Even my rotten behaviour.

  I learned a lot about loyalty from my Elephant Man.

  How could I ever have forgotten him?

  Effie is going to marry Keith. That’s the next thing I hear. When this titbit comes my way my heart sinks with a solid thunking noise like it’s come loose in my chest. I imagine dashing round her house and flinging myself on the floor. ‘But you mustn’t, Effie! Over my dead body will I let you..!’

  But that wouldn’t do any good.

  All this month there have been murders in Whitby. The nightly radio bulletins tell the tales and keep up the grisly tally. Now, I know some of them are down to the Crispy Cat. That radioactive feline is still patrolling the town’s back allies. For weeks on end this phantom with claws has been claiming victim after victim. I realise that Effie and I have let this glowing demon slip out of our minds a little.

  But in recent days there have been other deaths as well. Victims have been found in the dingiest of streets, and these women’s necks have borne the livid red marks of strangulation. I listen in shock as a DCI Aickman takes to the air on Whitby F.M. to describe these contusions. I sit there holding my breath, knowing that the great-great grandson of the London Monster has embarked on a killing spree in my newly-adopted town. Mercifully he failed in his attempt upon my life, and it seemed that these murders are a fervid outpouring of his true nature. Badness will out, I fear and Keith has embarked on a reign of terror. And poor old Effie doesn’t know what she’s got herself into.

  Now that news of their impending nuptials is in the public domain, I can hold back no longer. I go to the police. I tell them I think I know who is behind the rash of recent killings. They don’t seem altogether convinced by my accusations. I suppose I look and sound rather wi
ld, pointing the finger so determinedly at my ex-best friend’s new fiancé. Without a shred of hard evidence of his guilt, other than pointing out that he is the possessor of a prehensile trunk.

  ‘A trunk? Are you quite sure, madam?’

  Then I make myself sound even less plausible by gabbling about Keith’s inherited facial deformities and his relation to the London Monster of old, and if the police cared to look up that unsolved case from the 1870s, then they would certainly see some correspondences…

  ‘An Elephant Man, then, would you call him? Ha haha hahaha.’

  ‘No!’ I cry. ‘The true Elephant Man was a lovely fellow and one I let down rather badly with my vain, silly, showbiz ways. He died before I could tell him how wonderful he had been to me and before I could say – you were right, Joseph! The crowd and the circus folk did turn against me in the end! Driving me out of town. Driving me out of Norwich on the last night of our engagement there! Just as you warned me, Joe! They said I was a freak of nature!’

  The two policemen are staring at me now across the interview table and I can see I’m giving them far too much information. They think I’m barmier than a fruitcake. (Or brack, as they call it in these parts.) But when the memories come welling up I can’t hold back. My every waking thought and all my dreams are teeming with Elephant Men these days. The evil ones and the marvellous ones.

  ‘Shall we go and question this Keith, then?’

  They treat me with kid gloves, thinking I’m on the verge of a breakdown. I accompany them to the abbey, where Keith’s mobile home is still parked. It’s Sunday morning and Keith and Effie seem very surprised to have a police car pulling up on their doorstep.

  She’s in a pinny, in the middle of frying sausage sandwiches on the Baby Belling. Keith wears a very surly look as he faces the police and myself.

  ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions concerning your movements on some recent nights.’

  It’s rather impressive, I think, that DCI Aickman and his friend both manage to be cool when confronted with the sight of Keith’s unmistakable trunk.

  ‘Have you got a warrant for my arrest?’

  ‘Well, no, we don’t…’

  ‘Then this is a case of sheer harassment. This is prejudice against a minority. That’s what I am, and I’ve got rights. Can you hear all this, Effie?’

  Effie comes to the caravan door and glares daggers at me.

  ‘You’ve set the coppers onto him..! How could you do this, Brenda? Is it just because I’ve found myself happiness? Couldn’t you just be pleased for me? Why do you have to stir up trouble?’

  I hit back quickly. ‘He’s a murderer, Effie! I’ve seen his sort before – with that trunk of his! Plus he tried to do me in when he was in my sitting room. He’s a wicked, violent man, just as I’ve been trying to warn you for weeks!’

  ‘Are you making an official complaint against this person?’

  ‘I suppose I am, yes!’ I say, and the next thing is, they’re taking him off to the station for questioning. Keith looks like he wants to kill me all over again, as Effie wails about their trip to Scarborough for wedding outfits being ruined.

  I’ve got to follow the police so I can give a proper statement, but I linger to tell Effie, ‘It’s not about your happiness. It’s about the women who’ve been strangled to death by that trunk of his.’

  ‘Rubbish! He wouldn’t hurt a fly!’

  I’m feeling my own neck self-consciously. ‘I think he could.’

  She turns on me rather nastily. ‘Anyway, lady. You think you’re so superior. Keith’s been telling me all about you. He says that when he went round yours the other night it was you who were out of order. He says that you made a number of obscene suggestions to him. And tried it on.’

  I can’t believe my ears. ‘What? Why would I ever fancy a little scrap of a thing like that? Plus, he’s deformed.’

  Effie reacts like a cat dunked in a deep fat fryer. For a moment I think she’s going to hit me. ‘He’s the best thing to happen to me for years. And you know what? I thought you were too, Brenda. I thought it was wonderful because I’d made a new friend. But I can see now it was all a lie.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I gasp.

  ‘Keith says that you put me at unnecessary risk, Brenda. Time and time again you’ve got me involved in macabre adventures during which I could have been maimed, possessed, disturbed for life, or even killed.’

  ‘So could I!’ I shout back. ‘We both know the risks. You aren’t some helpless little puppet. We set about our investigations together, don’t we? We can’t help getting involved, can we?’

  Effie goes quiet, but I can see from her face that she knows I am right.

  ‘But Keith says…’

  ‘Keith is a homicidal maniac,’ I tell her. ‘I just can’t let you go marrying him.’

  She staggers back inside the caravan, which is thick with fumes from blackened sausages.

  She whirls around, eyes blazing. ‘Get out! Get out of my life! You’ve interfered enough, you abominable woman! You’re a monster! That’s what my lovely Keith calls you!’

  I can see I’m not going to get any sense out of her. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. I back away and hurry across the scrubland, stumbling in the long grass with Effie’s awful words ringing in my ears.

  I dash home not caring who sees me on the streets looking so distraught.

  She’s right. I can’t help thinking that Effie’s right. Who do I think I am?

  I’m the one who’s a monster…!

  Then, later that evening I’m killing time watching a silly costume drama I can’t even concentrate on. DCI Aickman rings me and tells me that Keith has been set free. They won’t be taking my complaint seriously and won’t be requiring any more statements from me. I can tell from Aickman’s tone that he is convinced by whatever line Keith has spun them, and that they suspect I am mad or even jealous. I get ticked of for wasting police time.

  Oh, Effie. This is terrible.

  Is he innocent? Did I get it all wrong?

  I’m so confused. My head’s been all over the place.

  Did he try to kill me? Did I hit him with the kitten first? Was he just defending himself? Passions were running high…

  All these flashbacks I’ve been having… they’ve got me all in a tizz.

  I don’t know what to do about it. If only I had someone else to talk to. Henry Cleavis, say. Or Joseph Merrick. But all my old friends and allies are long dead. That’s the thing about being as old as the hills. You end up sitting alone in an attic with no one to mull things over with.

  I’m surprised to learn that Effie takes up Mrs Claus’ offer to hold the wedding and reception at the Christmas Hotel. What is Effie to her after all?

  From my window at the top of my house I can see Effie and her fancy man darting hither and thither. They’re dealing with florists and bakers and dressmakers. I feel rather left out of it all.

  There’s nothing I can do. I keep picturing horrible scenes. Effie lying in her four poster bed and that terrible trunk inching its way towards her, tensing to throttle her where she lies.

  And what happens when Keith finds out she’s not as rich as he evidently thinks? Surely that’s why he’s marrying her, after all?

  I can’t help thinking the worst of him.

  But maybe it’s just that I’m jealous. Maybe it’s my nasty unconscious that’s demonizing the bloke.

  The big day comes round at last and I receive a last minute invitation shoved through my door. It’s a fancy, lacy card hastily scribbled on by Effie. She says she’ll forgive me for what she calls over-protectiveness. She’d rather I was there to witness her happiness first hand.

  I’ve got mixed feelings, of course. I’ve got to be there, but I must get my skates on if I’m to make the ceremony in the Grand Ballroom at eleven. I swear that I don’t mean anything by it, but my black velvet is the smartest, most suitable frock I’ve got. I quickly don it, titivate myself and fluff up my wig, surveying the re
sults before my cheval mirror.

  I think, once more I am the outsider again! Just as I always am. Here I am, like the spectre at the feast, encroaching upon the happiness of a friend.

  Luckily, I find I don’t have to attend alone. As I lock up my side door I bump into Leena and Rafiq, the nice couple who run the grocery on the ground floor. They’re both dolled up – Leena in a rather festive sari. She’s eyeing me in my best party dress.

  ‘We weren’t sure,’ she says. ‘Whether you’d be attending or not. I said you would, no matter how badly you had both fallen out. Friendship means something, even if you did call the police out on them.’

  I gawp at Leena. I’m finding that this is a town stuffed with keen gossips.

  ‘Now then,’ Rafiq tells her sternly. ‘I’m sure that Brenda doesn’t want the more shameful aspects of recent events digging up on Effie’s big day. Look! It’s a lovely morning and we’re all going to a wedding!’ He’s holding what looks like a kilogram bag of basmati rice. ‘I’m sure we’ve brought too much to throw.’

  They invite me to walk along the sea front with them, past the novelty and gift shops, the swanky cafes and amusement arcades. I wish I could join in with things as whole-heartedly as other people.

  ‘Well, Brenda,’ chirps Leena. ‘You’ve certainly had a busy time of it since moving in upstairs!’

  I agree guardedly. ‘Running a B&B can be awfully involved. More work than I even thought. But I don’t mind rolling up my sleeves.’

  ‘Not just that,’ says Leena craftily. Her dark eyes are twinkling. ‘I mean all the spooky stuff, too. You’ve had some strange encounters, innit?’

  I’m startled, but I won’t be drawn. ‘Is there a lot of spookiness here in this town..?’

  Leena chuckles. ‘Yes, there is, but just lately it has been quite astonishing. You seem to have been at the heart of a spooky maelstrom.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ I say, trying to be modest.

  ‘But we think you’ve done rather well, Raf and I. Innit, Raf?’

  He nods, smiling brightly. I’m not very happy to be the subject of their discussions.

  We yomp up the steep hill.