I’ll go home, thought Danny, but there was no change there.
The cinema then. Still no change.
Danny sniffed a third time. What was it his old dad used to say about a change? Before his old dad sneaked off with the waitress from the Plume Café? ‘Out with the old and in with the new,’ was that it? Danny recalled vaguely that this had some connection with drink and vomit.
I could change my job, thought Danny. But this was not possible, as Danny didn’t have a job.
I could go round and see Mickey Merlin, thought Danny, and this seemed far more practical. Danny had not seen Mickey Merlin in a very long time.
Danny rose from the bench, found his trouser pockets and stuck his hands into them.
‘And then he went, And I stayed here, Soon he’ll be far, But I’ll be near,’ composed the poet.
‘Do shut up!’ said Danny.
Mickey Merlin lived in a converted lock-keeper’s hut on the Grand Union Canal near to where Leo Felix sold used motor cars.
‘With a single turn of a stopcock, I could flood twenty square miles of the home counties, should I so wish…’ he used to say. But it was a damnable lie, because his stretch of canal had dried up years ago. Hence the lock-keeper’s hut becoming available.
And everything.
It being now four of the afternoon clock and Tuesday of the early week, Mickey Merlin was tending to his livestock. A long-handled spade in one hand and a bucket in the other.
He was mucking out his rabbits.
Danny appeared, slouching up the tow-path, lighted Woodbine stuck in his mouth. ‘Good-afternoon, Mickey,’ he said.
‘I know you just lit that up,’ replied the other, ‘so I’ll trouble you to come across with one for me.’
Danny shrugged. ‘My last,’ he said, unconvincingly.
‘You’re a pain in the neck, Danny. And mean with it.’
‘I’ve had a most depressing day. I’ve come round here to ask for some advice.’
‘Then I advise you to give me one of your Woodbine.’
‘Those rabbits really smell,’ Danny observed.
‘It’s not the rabbits that smell, it’s all the– Look, are you going to give me one of your Woodbine or not?’
‘Not,’ said Danny.
‘Then clear off,’ said Mickey.
Danny got out his fags. ‘Have one then,’ he said to the man with the spade and the bucket.
‘You must understand that any advice I give you may not necessarily be the correct advice. I am subject to making the occasional slip up.’
‘Like when you advised Big Frank to roll about naked in the nettle bed as a cure for his piles?’
‘Well, he didn’t complain about them for a couple of weeks, did he?’
‘Not about the piles, no.’
‘I don’t do medical advice any more,’ said Mickey, as he led Danny into his converted hut.
‘In exactly what way is this hut converted?’ Danny asked.
‘Thoroughly,’ said Mickey and that was the end of that conversation.
The next conversation lasted a little longer. Not much, but a little. It was one of those intimate conversations which old friends (who go back a long way) have.
‘Would you like some tea, Danny?’
‘Yes please.’
‘I have only coffee, I’m afraid.’
‘Coffee would be fine.’
‘Black or white?’
‘White please.’
‘Sorry, I don’t have any milk.’
‘As it comes then.’
‘Sugar?’
‘No thank you.’
‘I’ve already put it in.’
Spot on, thought Danny, who hated tea, didn’t take milk in coffee and always had sugar.
‘What I want is a bit of a change,’ said Danny, accepting his coffee and seating himself on Mickey’s camp-bed.
‘Don’t sit there!’ cried Mickey.
Danny jumped up and shifted himself to the ancient wicker commode which stood by the door.
‘There,’ said Mickey. ‘Now you’ve had a bit of a change. Finish your coffee and go away.’
Danny sighed and sipped his coffee. ‘It’s not as simple as that. I want to completely change my life, my entire outlook. I’m tired of being what I am.’
‘And what are you?’
‘Dull and dogless.’
‘You’re both of those, true. Have you thought about changing your job?’
‘I don’t have one.’
‘Well, I can’t employ you. You can’t actually do anything, can you?’
‘I can think about things,’ said Danny. ‘I think a lot about things.’
‘It’s a poser.’ Mickey Merlin scratched his head.
‘You’ve dandruff there,’ said Danny.
Mickey ignored him. ‘There’s one thing we might try, but, well, no, perhaps not.’
‘What? What?’
‘Well, it’s just possible. Hand me down my book of spells.’
‘Book of spells?’ Danny showed a degree of surprise.
‘Oh yes.’ Mickey drew back his shoulders. ‘Seventh son of a seventh son.’
‘Son of a gun.’ Danny lifted down an ancient leather-bound volume from the shelf and blew away the dust of ages.
Mickey took the book upon his knees and idly turned the pages. ‘Rooty-toot,’ said he. ‘This takes me back a few years.’
‘Do they work?’
‘Do what work?’
‘The spells?’
‘Of course they work. They wouldn’t be spells if they didn’t work, would they?’
‘Like the boomerang, you mean?’
‘Like the what?’
‘You know. What do you call a boomerang that won’t come back?’
‘A stick,’ said Mickey. ‘But I know what you mean. They work all right. My many-times great grand-daddy wrote these spells. Surely you’ve wondered about my name.’
‘No,’ said Danny.
‘You can’t, perhaps, think of a famous magician who had the same name as me?’ Danny thought.
‘Oh yes, of course.’
‘There, I told you.’
‘Mickey Mouse,’ said Danny. ‘In Fantasia.’
‘Not Mickey bloody Mouse.’ Mickey Merlin slammed shut the book. Little animated coloured stars burst all around it.
‘Only joking,’ said Danny. ‘Merlin, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘Paul Merlin and Debbie Magee.’
‘Get out of my hut.’
‘I’m sorry, but come on, Mickey. I’ve already had a run-in with a medium today. A magician I really don’t need.’
‘Well, sod yourself then.’ Mickey rose to put back the book.
Danny gave his lip a chew. ‘They really do work?’ he asked.
‘You really are a stupid prat, Danny.’
‘Another reason I need a change.’
Mickey reopened his book and turned pages once more. ‘Hm,’ said he. ‘The spell of Temporary Temporal Transference, what do you think of that?’
‘I think it’s somewhat alliterative. But no offence, I told you I think a lot. What does this spell do?’
‘It effects a temporary temporal transference.’
‘Oh I see.’
‘No you don’t.’
‘No I don’t, please explain.’
‘Your consciousness, your thinking processes in fact, are temporarily transferred into someone else’s head. And theirs into yours. You swap bodies. It’s only temporary, of course. Lasts until you go to sleep. Then you wake up back as yourself.’
‘You have got to be joking.’
‘Do you remember the day Big Frank’s Morris Minor found its way into the top of the vicar’s oak tree?’
‘Wasn’t that the day after he punched you for having him roll about in the nettle bed?’
‘Or when The Kid was bitten by a cheese sandwich?’
‘Shortly after he sold you those socks with no leg-holes in them?’<
br />
‘Correct.’
Danny scratched his head.
‘You’re going grey at the temples,’ said Mickey Merlin.
‘Well, you can’t take the credit for that. I was going grey before I came in here. I’ve been growing grey since–’
‘Since you ran over my foot at school with your bike.’
‘Well, I’ll be dipped in dog dir—’
‘Careful what you say when I’ve got the book out.’
‘Quite so. Temporary Temporal Transference, eh? And I could be anyone I wanted to be, for just a while, until I fell asleep?’
‘That’s the kiddie.’
‘But what about the person who suddenly finds themself in my body? They might go mad and throw me off a bridge, or something.’
‘I’ll be here to look after your body. I’ll tell whoever it is that they’re having a bad dream. I’ll take care of it, you can trust me. Magician’s Code of Conduct and all that sort of thing. Rhinocratic oath.’
‘I miss Viv Stanshall,’ sighed Danny.
‘We all miss Viv Stanshall,’ said Mickey. ‘So what do you think? Care to give it a try? If that isn’t a change, then I’m banjoed if I know what is. You can’t be Viv Stanshall, by the way. No dead people.’
‘I wonder which brat-pack Hollywood star has the biggest—’
‘Number of Oscar nominations?’ Mickey asked.
‘Dick,’ said Danny.
‘Danny?’ said Mickey.
‘Dick Whitby,’ said Danny. ‘He has the biggest number of Oscar nominations.’
‘So you want to be him? You want to be a famous brat-pack Hollywood star with the biggest—’
‘Number of Oscar nominations. Yes.’
‘You wouldn’t fancy being, say, Mother Teresa?’
‘No!’ said Danny. ‘Would you?’
‘Not a second time, no.’
‘A second time?’
‘Certainly, don’t you recall reading in The Sunday Spurt about Mother Teresa once dancing the night away topless at a disco in Calcutta?’
‘No, I don’t!’
‘They hush these things up,’ said Mickey. ‘It’s a conspiracy, you know. There’s magicians all around the world doing this sort of thing all the time. I was Hugh Grant once for an evening.’
Danny did not dignify this remark with a reply.
‘Isn’t Dick Whitby gay?’ Mickey asked.
‘Good grief,’ said Danny.
‘Well listen, it will take me about half an hour to get things set up. You sit outside and decide who you want to be. Give the matter some really serious consideration. OK?’
‘I will,’ said Danny, taking his leave.
The sun was heading down behind the Godolphin Chemical Works by the time Mickey Merlin appeared at the door of the converted hut to beckon Danny within.
Danny had been pacing up and down outside, shaking his head and going, ‘Yes him’, followed shortly by ‘no not him’, again and again and again. In fact, Danny had all but reached the conclusion that although he was fed up with being himself, he really wasn’t all that keen on being someone else.
‘Enter,’ said Mickey. ‘All is in preparation.’
Danny followed him into the hut.
The converted hut had undergone further conversion. But this of a religious nature. The interior was now candlelit, a pentagram had been chalked on to the wooden floor, inscribed within a double circle containing the names of power. Mickey Merlin wore a black silk gown, which stretched from neck to ankle and was embroidered in silver thread with many an enigmatic logo. He certainly looked the part.
‘Who enters?’ he intoned, in a deep dark voice. ‘Say, a seeker after truth,’ he continued, in his own.
Danny raised a doubtful eyebrow. ‘A seeker after truth,’ said he.
‘What is your desire, oh humble one?’
‘Well, you see I–’ Danny sighed.
Mickey frowned and tut-tut-tutted.
Danny sighed again and shrugged. After all, this probably wasn’t really going to work, was it? But the least he could do was to play along. Mickey was going to an awful lot of trouble just to cheer him up.
‘What is your desire, oh humble one?’
‘I wish to be Temporally Transformated, please.’
‘And with whom do you wish to exchange bodies?’
Danny sighed and he sniffed also. He had caught a cold. He knew he would. It was all old Sam Sprout’s fault.
‘I can’t make up my mind,’ said Danny. ‘I’ve narrowed it down to about half a dozen, but you see, I don’t know what they’re doing today. They might be lying in bed with a cold or something.’
‘They don’t have colds in Hollywood,’ said Mickey.
‘All right,’ said Danny. ‘I know who I want to be.’
‘OK, we’ll run it from the top then. Go out and come in again.’
‘Must I?’
‘Just do it.’
‘Okey-doke.’ Danny went out and came in again.
‘Who enters?’ asked Mickey, in his deep dark voice.
‘A seeker after truth,’ said Danny.
‘And what is your desire, oh humble one?’
‘I desire the spell of Temporary Temporal Transference.’
‘Then you’ve come to the right place, moosh. Step into the circle.’ The seventh son of a seventh son positioned Danny at the pentagram’s centre.
‘I will begin the recitation,’ said Mickey. ‘When I reach the line SCARABUS NOSTROS ONAN (in capital letters), speak the name and all will be done. Do you understand?’
Danny nodded. Mickey really did look ever so serious. ‘I understand,’ said Danny.
Mickey removed himself to a little rostrum he had set up next to the primus stove. On this stood his book of spells. Mickey flung wide his arms. ‘We begin,’ said he, ‘with the banishing ritual of the pentagram, in order to cleanse the air of any undesirable presences, then we open and consecrate the temple.’
‘And will all this take long?’ Danny asked.
‘No, I did it while you were waiting outside.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘So, we’ll get straight on to the really tasty stuff.’
‘Jolly good.’
‘Oh, and by the way, while the ceremony is in progress it would be fatal to take a step outside the pentagram.’
‘What?’
‘Well, it’s no big deal, is it? You can stand still, can’t you?’
‘Mickey, I’m beginning to have my doubts about all this.’
‘A change is as good as a rest,’ said the magician. ‘And I’ve started now, so I’m jolly well going to finish. Can’t leave a job half done.’
‘Mickey, I–’
Mickey Merlin raised his arms. ‘Globalis et isipadis et medmanis, et mehanis.’
‘Mickey, this isn’t a good idea.’
‘Daedulas, Daedulas, consumat consumat.’
‘I think perhaps I’ll just look for a job.’ Danny suddenly shivered, it seemed to have grown a bit nippy.
‘Testiculos habet et bene pendentes.’
‘Mickey–’ Danny rubbed at his arms, it was growing extremely cold extremely fast. He lifted a foot and prepared to do a runner. A little blue crackle of light twinkled about the pentagram’s edges. Danny lowered his foot and stood very still.
‘Mickey stop this,’ he said.
But Mickey looked in no mood to stop. One of the reasons that witches and magicians often practise their fearful arts in the middle of forests or on wild lonely moors, is because magic is a very noisy business. It involves a great deal of shouting. Neighbours banging on the walls do not help the aspiring practitioner of The Left Hand Path.
‘Tantalus, Salamandus, Acraphantus.’ Mickey was really working up a lather now. Sounds of thunder rolled from without and the floorboards trembled within.
Danny looked down at the pentagram. Perhaps if he rubbed it out. He put forth a tentative foot. Blue flame crackled. Perhaps not.
‘Et pha
ma, copacantus, lefsphatus,’ shouted the magician. The camp-bed was bouncing, things tumbled from shelves, window panes rattled. Lightning now flashed.
‘Mickey, stop this.’
‘SCARABUS NOSTROS ONAN’ (in capital letters).
‘Mickey Merlin! Listen to me!’
There was a bang and there was a whoosh and then there was a whoosh and a bang. Things turned this way, then turned that and then went rather quiet.
Danny Orion sat upon a bench in Walpole Park. He was well peeved. The day, as they say, had not been his. Soaked to the skin at old Sam’s funeral, striped up for two and a half quid by Madame Lorretta and now…
Danny Orion looked down at himself.
But it wasn’t himself.
It was Mickey bloody Merlin.
Danny sighed, but he didn’t sniff. Mickey Merlin hadn’t caught a cold.
In the far distance another man walked his dog, in the middle distance some other children played at hopscotch and bowling the penny, and in the near distance the same poet sat composing links to go between the background music.
‘Where are we now? And who shall we be? When our measure runs out. To eternity.’ composed the poet.
Danny Orion went over and punched the poet in the face.
5
It came outta nowhere, just to say ‘I’m back again’.
THE SCREAMING BLUE MESSIAHS, 1982
THE BOSCOMBE WALTERS STORY
‘The cruel fact of the matter,’ sighed the sympathetic dermatologist, ‘is that some people are simply born – how shall I put this? – ugly. While some have complexions like peaches and cream, others resemble glass-paper, or places of acute volcanic activity. Sadly you are one of the latter.’
And there was no doubt about it, Boscombe Walters was one ugly son-of-a-something. And it wasn’t just the pustules. It was the entire physiognomic caboodle. The heavy jowls. The flaccid mouth. The bulbous nose. The terrible toad-like eyes.
These now glared balefully at the handsome dermatologist.
‘But it needn’t be a handicap,’ this fellow was saying. ‘Many a man born without the advantage of conventional good looks has gone on to find fame and celebrity. Has won the respect of his peers and the love of a good woman. Think of, well...’ He paused for thought. ‘Think of Sidney James, or Rondo Hatton.’
A Dog Called Demolition Page 4
