by Adam Millard
Amanda clenched her teeth and went, “Gnnnnnnnngggghhhhhhh”. After around thirty seconds, and with an almost purple face, she said, “It’s no good. I’m just a spectator along for the ride. Oh, it’s stopped now.” Her eyeballs rolled down into their proper position and the colour returned to her cheeks. A strange smell permeated the bedroom. “You’ll have to excuse me for a moment,” she said, mooching toward the door like John Wayne in any John Wayne film ever made. “There’s something I have to take care of.”
When she returned a whole fifteen minutes later, she was wearing a towel around her waist and a discomfited expression upon her face.
“Nuns!” Freddy said, intersecting what would otherwise have been an embarrassing moment. “We were about to find us a nun.”
Amanda nodded. “We need to be quick about it,” she said. “He’s on his way. Where can we find a nun in Haddon at this time of night?”
*
“Hello, Haddon Nunnery, Daughters of Divine Charity, Sister Clarice speaking, how might I be of assistance?”
Amanda couldn’t believe their luck. First of all, that such a place existed in their city. And secondly, that they had a nun manning (nunning?) the telephone at this ridiculous time. It was a little after ten. Shouldn’t nuns be asleep by now, exhausted after a hard day of praying and not speaking to one another and collecting money out in the city centre to spend on their own bad habits (bid-um-tish!)?
“Yes, I was wondering whether you hire out your nuns?” Amanda said.
“Hire them out?” Sister Clarice said, her voice so shrill that Amanda had to keep the phone twelve inches from her ear. “What do you mean, ‘hire them out’?”
“I mean,” said Amanda, “is there any chance you’ve got a nun to spare for a couple of hours, only we’ve got a bit of a situation, and we need divine help.”
“My dear, I don’t know if this is some sort of wind-up, but if—”
“It’s not a wind-up,” Amanda interrupted. “We genuinely need a nun, or something terrible is going to happen to the people of Haddon.”
“If this is about that new tanning salon, I’ve already made it perfectly clear that there is nothing we, The Sisters of Divine Charity, can do about it.”
“It’s not about the new tanning salon,” Amanda said. “It’s a matter of national emergency.”
Freddy gave her a thumbs up. Those two words, national emergency, were usually enough to put the willies up anyone. Hopefully this nun had the willies up her.
“Listen, whateveryournameis—”
“Amanda,” said she.
“Listen, Amanda. I’d be happy to loan you one of our nuns, if this is indeed a national emergency and you’re not just going to make her strip or do anything silly.”
“Oh, thank y—”
“On one condition,” the nun said. “You talk her out of coming back here, to the convent. The other sisters and I have had enough of her. She is one of the worst nuns I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting, and I’d be chuffed if you could convince her that she would be far better suited as, say, a mechanic, or a prisoner.”
“We can do that,” Amanda said. Freddy, unable to hear the other end of the conversation, frowned and held his arms out: do what?
“In that case,” said Sister Clarice, “you’ve got yourself a nun. I’ll have her delivered to you first thing in the morning. And since you’ll be doing us a favour, I’ll throw in a couple of copies of the book for you.”
“Oh, we already have copies of The Bible,” Amanda said.
“Who said anything about The Bible?” Sister Clarice replied. “No, we’ve got a broom-cupboard full of Fifty Shades of Grey. People generously donate books for the cause, and that one seems to be pretty darn popular, though I’ve heard it’s full of filth and sex and terrible writing. Since the sisters and I are celibate, and I’d hate for my girls to become aroused after all these years abstinence, I’ve been stockpiling them and trying to get rid of them.”
“Have you considered a bonfire?” Amanda said.
“I did,” Sister Clarice said, “but the books, for some reason, are extremely damp. It would be like trying to set fire to a walrus.”
“Well, it’s been lovely talking to you,” Amanda said, trying to draw a line under the conversation. “We look forward to receiving our mail-order nun in the morning. My address is—”
“1203 Elm Street,” Sister Clarice said. “There, that saved a sentence or two, didn’t it? Oh, and Sister Geoff can be a bit of a handful, and she has to have her methadone before ten, otherwise she goes batshit cray-zee. Goodbye.” Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.
Amanda slowly lowered the phone back into its cradle.
“Did I hear the word ‘methadone’ at the end there?” Freddy said.
“You did,” said Amanda. “But I’m sure it was just a joke. I mean, nuns have a sense of humour, right?”
“Not really,” Freddy said. “So do we have a nun, or do we have a nun?”
“We have…something,” Amanda said. A drug-addled mechanic in nun’s clothing, by the sounds of it. “In the meantime, I think we should go to bed.”
Freddy’s eyes lit up, but only for a second or two. “You’re right,” he said. “But we should keep watch. If Pigface is already on his way to Haddon, he’ll be here before midnight.”
“Good thinking,” said Amanda, yawning. “You take first watch. Let’s just hope our nun arrives before Pigface does.” Though, from what she’d gleaned during the telephone call to Haddon Nunnery, both were as bad as one another.
12
The Mayflower Residence (just before Midnight)
Belle Boudoir slowed the car, located a space along the kerb and, after ten minutes of trying, managed to reverse-park into it. Larry glared out of the passenger window at the huge house at the end of the huge drive. You could, he thought, fit a hundred cabins in there and still have space for a dozen pigsties.
“Are we in Haddon?” he said. “Is this…is this Haddon?”
Belle regarded him the way she might a retarded little brother. “We’re on the outskirts,” she said. “Haddon’s a few miles that way.” All of a sudden she looked confused. “I thought you said Gerry was your doctor?”
Say something, urged the mask.
“Whatever happened to Amelia Earhart?” said Larry.
About Gerry, chided the mask.
“Oh, erm, Gerry is my doctor, but I’ve never been to his house before.” Larry just wanted to put an axe in this bitch’s head and be done with it, but he could sense the mask’s apprehension. They might need this woman for transport purposes later, for Larry didn’t have the foggiest where they were, or how far it really was to Haddon. ‘A few miles’ Belle had said, which could be anything between two and fifty out here in the sticks.
“What did happen to Amelia Earhart?” Belle said, turning the engine off and opening her door. “Bitch just vanished into thin air.” She climbed out of the car. The mask saw this as a good time for a quick word, though why it had waited until now was beyond Larry. It wasn’t as if anyone else could hear it.
Okay, so this is a party where everyone is dressed up, m’kay? Luckily, we’ll fit right in. We’re in their world now, and it’s a little different to ours. They have real beer, not stuff strained through an old sock, and they like loud music – the louder the better – and dance funny to it, I think it’s called Turding, or something…
“I’m going to have to kill them all,” Larry muttered.
No! said the mask. Absolutely not. If you want to hunt down and slash that bitch and her boyfriend to death, you’re going to have to keep a low profile. Butchering a houseful of guests at a party is not the best way to go about it.
Groaning, and swearing, Larry eased himself out of the car and slammed the door shut. Belle was already staggering up the path toward the house. It was only now that he noticed her legs. Not that she had a pair – how else would she be able to drive the car? – but that they went most of the way up her body. “C
ome on, little piggy,” she called across her shoulder. “Let’s go and have some fun!”
Ma was right, Larry thought. City life was not for him.
*
“There’s somebody at the door!” sang everyone inside the house as the doorbell chimed. It had become their little thing – bunch of annoying and pretentious fucks, they were – and signalled the arrival of yet another guest to the Mayflower party.
“I’ll get it,” said the man in the TMNT costume. Gerry Mayflower whirled from the drink’s table and stalked across the room, a hero in a half-shell, toward the door. On the way he passed a Transformer, Pikachu, a pair of Power Rangers, the Dalai Lama, Patrick Swayze – who wasn’t there a second later, and might have just popped in for a giggle – The Mad Hatter, a trio of Batmen, one Spiderman (who wasn’t even invited), and a naked pirate (who wouldn’t be invited to the next one). It was a good party, and would only get better as the night progressed. Once they started throwing their keys into the bowl on the coffee-table and…
“Welcome!” Gerry said, yanking the door open and doing something really fiddly with a pair of nunchuks. So fiddly was his manoeuvre that he almost blinded the cowgirl on the step before thwacking himself a right royal cropper in the gonads. It knocked him bandy but, as they say in the business – though not in the funeral business – ‘the show must go on’. And on it went, albeit with a slightly pained expression and a husky moan. “Belle…how…how wonderful to see…you.”
“You too, Gerry,” she said, leaning in for a kiss and a cuddle. Gerry offered to take her hat, jacket, and tights, but since that was all she was wearing, she respectfully declined.
“And who’s this little pork scratching?” said Gerry, turning his attention to Larry, who now donned his trademark white apron, replete with blood-spatter and brain-matter.
“This is Larry,” said Belle. “You two already know each other. Larry is one of your patients.”
And we’re fucked already, said the mask. I thought we’d at least get to have a proper drink, one that didn’t give us the shits.
“Larry?” said Gerry, stroking his chin but being careful not to wipe his green face-paint off. “Larry? Larry-Larry-Larry…”
“That’s me,” said Larry.
“Not…VD Larry?”
Tell him yes, said the mask.
“Yup, that’s me,” he said.
“Really?” said Belle, seemingly upset. “You could have told me that before you got in the car.”
“Wow, I haven’t heard from you for months,” said Gerry. “I take it the old pecker’s on the mend?”
Larry nodded. “Never better,” he said, if better meant ‘a scabrous little black thing that gave off a strange smell and looked apt to drop off at any moment’.
“Come in, come in!” Gerry said, as if suddenly remembering his manners. “Jan!” he called into the living room. “Belle’s here, and she’s brought VD Larry!”
Everyone turned to stare at the newcomers; the music stopped, as it often did when you didn’t want it to, and a woman dressed in bondage gear stood up from the sofa and removed the ball-gag from her mouth. “So good to see you both,” said the woman. “Take it the old pecker’s on the mend, Larry?”
“Never better,” said Larry, if better meant, well, you get the idea.
“Here you go,” Gerry said, handing Larry a glass of something pink and clear – the exact opposite of what he was used to at home. “Get that down your neck.”
Just then, Jan appeared and stole Belle away into the crowd, leaving Larry and Gerry alone.
“Great party, huh?” Gerry said, motioning to the madness taking place all around. “Jan wanted to make it Star Trek themed; can you believe that? I mean, who wants to fuck a Klingon?”
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” Larry said, knocking back his pink cocktail. “So I’m just going to nod from here on in.” As if to demonstrate, he began to nod.
“So, how do you know Belle?” Gerry said, swinging one of his nunchuks around his head. It was, Larry thought, quite disconcerting.
“I don’t,” he said.
You do! said the mask. Tell him you do!
“I do,” he quickly corrected.
“How, though?” asked Gerry.
Tell him something believable, the mask urged.
“She’s my cousin,” said Larry. “Well, second-cousin, twice-removed, and all that…technically, we’re not even related. Just ships passing in the night.”
Stop talking, said the mask, and so Larry shut the fuck up.
“You know,” said Gerry, “I’ve almost forgotten what you look like.” He craned his neck, as if trying to catch a glimpse through the mask’s eyeholes. “Take the mask off for a moment, yeah? I feel weird chatting to such an ugly mask.”
Changed my mind, said the mask. You can hack up the fucking lot of ‘em.
Larry stood in silence, unsure of what to say. He couldn’t take the mask off. It was as much a part of him as his blackened winkle.
“Larry?” said Gerry. “Take off the mask.”
“I can’t,” Larry said.
“You can.”
“I can’t.”
“Larry, take off the mask now. What’s the big fucking deal?” And with that, Gerry reached up and grasped onto a porcine ear. “Take it—”
What happened next was so horrible that it deserves a warning. Those with a dicky tummy or a nervous disposition should skip the remainder of this chapter.
Larry, feeling the tug on his ear, knew he had to do something; that he had been backed into a corner from which there was no way out. He pulled back his arm, aware that he was still grasping a glass that had previously contained a pink cocktail so sweet it had set all six of his false teeth on edge. He thrust his hand forward as hard as he could, smashing the glass into Gerry’s giant, green face. Blood geysered out almost immediately, and for a moment, Larry stood enjoying it.
Then people started screaming and losing their shit, which was about the reaction Larry expected.
You’ve done it now, scolded the mask.
“Good job I brought this,” Larry said. He reached around to his back and pulled the axe from the waistband of his trousers. “Squeeeeeeeeeee!”
A Power Ranger – though Larry didn’t know that; to him it was just some dude in blue lycra – lunged toward Larry, spilling his beer in the process. Larry brought the axe around in a wide arc, and the blue Power Ranger (everyone’s least favourite anyway, so, hey ho!) tottered forward, trying to figure out where his right arm had gone. Another swing of the axe decapitated the poor bastard, his fibreglass helmet smashing as it impacted the far wall.
More screams filled the house as costumed people began to rush toward the door, but Larry wasn’t about to let any of them leave.
Oooh, get the Smurf! said the mask, seemingly over its no-kill policy.
Larry rushed out to the hallway, where bodies were pressed up against the door, trying to figure out how to work the chain. “Squeeeeeeee!” said he, which was as much a catchphrase now as, “Pow! Right in the kisser,” and, “Is that your final answer?” He began hacking away at the backs of those trying to escape. “Gnfh,” said one man. “Heeeeeeelp!” said another. “Surely one of you knows how to work this bloody chain!” said a third.
Someone – a Disney Princess, judging by the way she was dressed – leapt onto Larry’s back, wrapped her legs around his waist, and began slapping at his head with both hands. “Fucking with the wrong Cinderella!” she said, and had taken to chewing on his right ear.
White spots danced across Larry’s vision, but he refused to be bettered by someone who deemed glass slippers a perfectly acceptable form of footwear. He staggered backwards, pressing Cinderella against the wall and knocking the wind out of her. “Squeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” he wailed, turned the axe around so that the blade faced him. He swung upwards, and there was a meaty thunk! as it embedded in Cinders’ head. After that, the fight pretty much went out of her.
There are too many of them! said the mask. Improvise!
Larry rushed into the living room, where he was met with a drink’s tray to the face. On the end of the tray, Jan Mayflower looked rather annoyed that her party had descended into chaos, and a little upset that her husband of eighteen years now sported a cocktail glass where his right eye used to be.
“You killed my husband!” she screamed, wielding the tray as if it were a shield and she was one of three-hundred Spartans. The ball-gag swinging around her face did detract a little from the illusion, but Larry was too busy seeing stars to notice it. “After all he did for you and your VD.”
She was about to crack Larry another good one when he came to. “Squeeeeeee!” he said, and brought the axe down on Jan Mayflower, splitting her in two down to her shoulders. As one side of her head went one way, and the other side went the other, Larry pulled out the axe and continued to the kitchen, where a giant rabbit, an elderly gentleman dressed as the Pope, and a Michael Jackson were all hammering at the back door. One man, a fat fucker who hadn’t bothered with the formality of dressing up (unless he’d come as a fat fuck) was sat at the buffet table. When he saw Larry in the kitchen doorway, he pushed two sausage-rolls into his fat face and began to chew frantically. Oh, if he was going to die, he was going to die full…
“Squeeeeee!” Larry said, and launched his axe toward the back door, where it thumped into Michael Jackson’s back.
“OW! Heeee-heeee,” said Jacko, before falling to one side.
Larry wasted no time in retrieving his axe. At the front of the house, something smashed.
They’re escaping through the windows! the mask said. Can’t let them get away, Larry. They’ll fuck up our whole agenda.
Larry knew the mask was right, and so he had to work quickly. After a bit of a wrestle with the giant rabbit – which left the rabbit with a broken back, two broken arms, and a severed tail – Larry dragged the cooker out and raised his axe. He slammed it down, severing the pipe connecting the cooker to the main gas-line. After a few seconds, the sickly stench of gas had filled the kitchen.
