by Will Self
Busner turned to Gambol and contemptuously raised his eyebrow ridges. As soon as he had Whatley’s attention again he signed, ‘So what about this business of being human, when did that first arise “huu”?’
‘Well, he was signing after a fashion when they brought him in, according to the duty psychiatrist. He was also vocalising – but very gutturally and incoherently, all sorts of odd noises. It wasn’t for a couple of days that his gesticulation became at all comprehensible.’
‘And “huu”?’
‘Well, he kept wringing his hands – Get away from me, you fucking ape! Fuck off, Beelzebub, you dark creature! – things like that. Bowen got involved at this point, started this correspondence, by way of attempting some sort of diagnosis. We assumed to begin with that it was either drug-induced, or a flamboyant, hypomanic outburst –’
‘Does he have any history “huu”?’
‘We-ell …’
‘Does he, chimp “huu”?’
‘According to his GP, a chimp called Bohm up in Oxfordshire, he has a history of depression and some drug dependency. Had a fairly bad breakdown a couple of years ago when his group was fissioning “euch-euch”, but nothing like this, nothing so incontrovertibly psychotic. When we got hold of his notes and learnt this we tried a different approach with him, gentler, more accommodating.
‘He clearly found grooming incredibly upsetting, so we made a rule that none of the other patients, or the staff, should touch him. This has paid dividends – over the last few days he’s begun to gesture more fluently, while recounting to Bowen this astonishing delusion about being human. According to him he went to sleep one night a human in a human world, lying in nest with a human female, and awoke with the world as it is now –’
‘What about the consort “huu”?’
‘ “Huu” the female he was with when he had the breakdown?’
‘Of course, of course.’
‘She’s all right. Upset naturally, but she doesn’t think she’s an animal!’
‘Look, Busner,’ Whatley signed after a pause, ‘you know “euch-euch” that I’m not overly impressed by the general tenor and direction of your current work –’
‘Yes, yes, I am aware.’
‘But I must concede that this case not only has me held at bay, but it’s also obviously right up your scrag. The most astonishing thing is the consistency of the delusion. Bowen has pursued the ramifications of Dykes’s psychosis, but neither of us have ever encountered a delusional state that was at one and the same time so comprehensive – he has an answer for everything – and so complex. I’d like you to examine him if you have th –’
‘I’m on my way right now,’ Busner snapped, the finger-flourished ‘now’ coinciding with him punching the off button on the telescreen.
After finishing his pant-hoot to Whatley, Busner sat signless. Gambol noted that his boss had drawn his feet up on to the seat and was manipulating a coin, so that it moved over and under each finger, over and under each toe, around and around on a twenty-digit circumnavigation. This was, Gambol knew, a sign that Busner was deep in thought; to disturb him now would probably result in a sound thrashing, so he kept his feet on the wheel and drove. Even the sub-adult chimps in the back seat sensed their alpha’s preoccupation and remained novocal.
Busner was thinking in the very clear way that he only thought when confronted with a new pathology, or at any rate a case that exhibited a symptomatology with which he was unfamiliar. His personal image for this kind of thought was that it was akin to mopping up termites. He thrust the back of a figurative hand into the confused zone of new information, supposition and conjecture, then drew it out. Attached to his conceptual probe would be tens of little hypotheses, wriggling in the fur of cogitation. At his leisure, Busner would pick these tasty hypotheses out and examine them, thus:
A chimpanzee who suffers from the delusion that he is human. Not only that, but also believes that he has his origins in a world in which humans have been the evolutionarily successful primate species. Not only that! But the chimpanzee in question is a successful artist. Could this conceivably be an organic disfunction? The business about motor-impairment Whatley marked out is promising, but hardly conclusive – it might be an hysterical conversion. If it were an organic impairment the phenomenological implications would be intriguing … but I mustn’t swing in front of myself. Wait to see the patient, Busner; maintain objectivity, dispassion for the moment.
… and yet, how funny that this should come up today of all days, when only this morning I was dwelling on the lack of interesting cases to manipulate –
But there was also a deeper level of supposition that Zack Busner found himself descending to. A level that, mezzanine-like, occupied the area in between conscious conscience and guilty unconsciousness, between daydream and nightmare. A GP called Bohm in Thame; a patient locally treated for depression – presumably with anxiolytics. Could this, Busner wondered with a wondrous lack of acknowledgement, be more of the fall-out from that bloody drug trial?
This hand-jive of thought was interrupted by Charles who began vocalising in the back seat.
“Aaaaa!” Charles cried and then inparted, ‘Alph, can’t we “huu” stop here for a minute, just for a frolic, ple-ease.’
“Wraaaf!” Busner barked, whirling round in his seat to muzzle three anxious, ingratiating countenances, all floppy lower lips, yellow teeth, and six hands frantically gesturing, ‘Ple-ease, Alph, ple-ease, just a little frolic, just for a few minutes!’
The Volvo was standing by the lights on the corner of Albert Road; ahead Busner could make out the frothing greenery of Regent’s Park. To the right he could see the topmost spars and cables of the Snowdon aviary in the zoo. “H’h’hee-hee,” Busner chuckled, and turning to Gambol signed, ‘We could stop off here and have a look at some real live humans, before going to visit this notional one – what do you think “huu”?’ Gambol looked nonplussed, his thick lower lip twisted enquiringly. ‘Just joking, you don’t have to take everything I sign so seriously. ’ He turned back to the sub-adults. ‘All right, we’ll have a patrol up Primrose Hill for twenty minutes, but then we must get on.’
Gambol began to search for somewhere to park, but without much success. ‘They seem to have “euch-euch” zoned this whole area now,’ he indicated as they drove slowly along the section of Regent’s Park Road abutting Primrose Hill for the fourth time. The situation was complicated because there were cars constantly pulling away from the kerb, and parking, as mothers visiting the playground with infants came and went. Busner began to get agitated, the tempo of his signing increased. It was – Gambol recognised – the prelude to him really holding forth.
‘ “Euch-euch” what’s the bloody point of living in this city any more. Look at this “wraaa” traffic! There’s no rush hour now – just rush all day. When these elegant terraces were built the whole of this area was open parkland. The Regency architects and developers conceived of it as providing a bucolic, brachiating progress between outcrops of urbanity, but look at it “waaa” now! You can’t even park when you want to go to the park. ’ Busner pointed at the file of cars, brakes squealing, that were humping their way down Primrose Hill Road. ‘ “Hoo” for Christ’s sake, Gambol “euch-euch”, I really can’t stand this. You’d better drop the patrol off and circle the block for fifteen minutes until we’re ready to go.’
Gambol pulled over. Busner and the sub-adult chimps tumbled out of the car. Busner squeezed between two parked cars, vaulted the railings and headed off across the grassy slope without bothering to see if the others were following in his scut. The sun had been winched overhead and the day promised to be truly hot. Busner set his sights on a bench about halfway up the hill, perhaps some four hundred and fifty-three yards’ distance – or so he judged – and made for it, knuckle-walking swiftly over the tempered turf.
Primrose Hill was, if not exactly crowded, at any rate well stocked, with chimps of all ages, classes and ethnic groups. Trim, Slo
aney mothers lolloped along the paths, wearing floral swelling-protectors and vocalising to one another with the extended grunts of their class, as they toted Mabel, or Maude, or Georgia, the infants dangling off the hanks of maternal fur that flared from between strands of pearls; or perching like jockeys between maternal shoulders.
A group of swaggering males, who would have been working class – saving the fact that they weren’t in work – were indulging in mock displays for their own amusement, charging up and down a small rise; swaggering, with erect fur poking up from the necks of their Fred Perry sports shirts. There were some mating chains – but they were desultory affairs, with only two or three hispid, humping links.
Busner passed a group of sub-adults who were clearly skiving off school – there was no sign of an adult in their patrol. I must be getting old, he thought, because I really can’t stand seeing a chimp with a ring in its nostril. Far from being a fashion accessory or an adornment, all it makes me think is can they blow their noses through the hole when they have a cold?
The sub-adults were grouped around a large ghetto blaster, playing the hit of the moment, a Ragga version of ‘Human Spanner’, and were grooming one another in the negligent, insolent way of sub-adults the world over. Busner paused, barked at them, and waved, ‘Turn that thing down. You know tape recorders aren’t allowed here “euch-euch”!’ They looked up at him, dug their hands deeper into their fur and laughed, heaving collectively. Busner considered going over and giving them a thrashing. He glanced round to see Erskine, Charles, and Carlo fanned out behind him, all moving purposively. The annoying sub-adults only had three males in their number and they were mangy specimens, underweight and unkempt. No match for my lot, thought Busner, scratching his ischial pleat – and therefore no fun either.
The patrol continued on up the hill. Three dossers were sitting on the bench Busner was making for, passing a bottle between them. At ten-thirty in the morning they were already drunk, swaying and lurching although firmly seated. They appeared to be in the terminal stages of alcoholism; none of them had bothered to dress and their coats were ragged, worn, coming out in tufts. Their chest fur was pitted with cigarette burns, networks of ruptured blood vessels stippled their nasal bridges and their eyes were filmed over, almost unseeing.
Busner came up to the bench and coughed softly, gesturing for his patrol to join him. ‘Now “euch-euch”, lads,’ he held forth when they were grouped, ‘you see here one of the most lamentable aspects of comtemporary chimpunity –’
‘ “Hoo” Al-ph,’ Erskine broke in, ‘you’re not going to conduct another of your lectures, are you –’
‘Hold back, Erskine “wraaa”! When I want your directions I’ll ask for them. Now, as I was signing, these dossers, homeless, filthy, their minds blunted by ethyl alcohol, represent a scapegoating that we collectively indulge in as a society. Unlike many of my colleagues in the so-denoted “euch-euch”
One of the dossers, Busner sensed, wanted to object to this gesticulation, although not semiotically. He turned to see the most battered, bemerded of the three apes rearing up, and about to wrap a bottle of cooking sherry around his ear. Busner’s sub-adults began to scream. “‘Hoo” do get a grip!’ he flicked one-handed, while disarming the dosser with his other. He then emptied the contents of the bottle on to the path. The dosser looked as if an artery had been opened in his neck and his lifeblood were draining away.
Busner cuffed the dosser, who collapsed back on to the bench with his fellows. He then lunged forward and delivered a series of swingeing blows to all three of them, barking the while, “Wraaaf! Wraaf! Wraaf!” The dossers were suitably stunned, and even the sub-adults shrank back on their haunches. ‘I’m doing this,’ Busner signed sententiously, ‘for your own good. Judging from the appearance of your ally,’ he pointed to the third chimp along the bench who was breathing irregularly, his chest fur streaked with bile and vomit, ‘he is need of medical treatment, rather than self-medication.’
Busner set his bifocals on his nasal bridge, took a notebook and propelling pencil from the inside pocket of his jacket, scribbled down something, tore the sheet out and passed it to the dosser who had launched the attack on him. ‘That’s the address of Tony Valuam’s clinic in Chalk Farm, it’s barely a crawl – so I expect you can “euch-euch” make it over there. And I suggest you do. He runs a very good detoxification programme, open access, no red tape. I don’t think any of you are capable of helping yourselves, so my patrol and I had better help you on your way.
‘Right, patrol! “HoooGraa’”.’
The sub-adults didn’t need any further instruction; Charles and Carlo were particularly enthusiastic, pulling the dossers off the bench and driving them towards the gates of the park with a series of kicks, slaps and punches. Occasionally one of the dossers would try to break away, screaming pathetically, but in the end they all went off up Primrose Hill Road, supporting one another as they staggered in and out of the gutter.
The sub-adults tumbled back obediently to where Busner squatted on the bench, rightly anticipating the conclusion of this lecture on social responsibility, but on arriving and hunkering down, they found their alpha distracted by a series of loud hoots that were coming from the north “Hoooo-Oooo-Oooooo!” and then, “Hooo-oooo-oo-Waaaaa!” The former television personality responded, “Hooooooo! Hoooooo!” then turned to his patrol, signing, ‘That’s old Wiltshire, I’d recognise his hoot in a hurricane. I must go over and have a groom with him. You lot amuse yourselves for five minutes –’
‘Can we go and have a little hunt, Alph “huu”?’ signed Erskine, who really was pushing his luck this morning.
‘Hunt? Hunt what exactly “huu”?’
‘I saw a squirrel in the trees down there when Gambol was trying to park the car. I’m sure we could “wraaff” get it if we work together.’
Busner showed his lower canines, and ruffled Erskine’s sleek head fur. ‘All right, if you really foresee it, but be back where Gambol let us off in five minutes, or I’ll send the pack of you ranging by yourselves for the day.’
‘Thanks Alph,’ Erskine signed and then the three of them tore off down the hill leap-frogging with excitement. Busner watched them go, spontaneously pant-hooting with the pleasure the sight gave him. Then, confident they could no longer see or sense him, he levered himself off the bench with considerable care. The blows he had dealt the dossers had done his arthritic hands no good at all – but he mustn’t let on to the sub-adults or they’d be all over him.
Busner continued pant-hooting as he knuckle-walked up to the top of the hill. Wiltshire was one of his oldest allies and what with the busy nature of both their lives he didn’t get to groom him more than once or twice a year. It was a stroke of good luck their paths crossing this morning, for Wiltshire – as well as being a medical doctor – was an internationally famous theatrical impresario. He would be bound to have an interesting angle on the chimp who thought he was human.
The two chimps met in the middle of the asphalt apron at the crest of the hill and fell on each other’s necks with loud grunts, bestowing sloppy kisses on eyes, nasal bridges and mouths. They then settled down to groom. Wiltshire seemed to have an awful lot of sawdust in his armpit fur, Busner was trying to get the stuff out – while inparting tenderness – but finding it pernickety work, when Wiltshire pulled away and signed, ‘Let me get a “huh-huh-huh” good look at you, old chimp. I haven’t had my fingers in your fur for what … must be more than six months now –’
‘Nearly a year,’ Busner countersigned. ‘If you remember we had a session at that book launch, but we were both a bit tipsy, I dare say you can’t remember any more of our gesticulation than I can.’
‘By God, Zack, you look in excellent shape,’ Wiltshire signed, holding Busner off by his scruff and running one of his long, sensitive hands over the emin
ent psychiatrist’s face. ‘How do you do it “huu”?’ he prodded. ‘No trace of “gru-nnn” mange or goitre, fur sleek, hardly a wrinkle on your muzzle. I wish I could sign the same for myself.’
Busner examined his old ally. Peter Wiltshire was a tall, gangly chimp. Especially tall given that he was Jewish, a fact somewhat stereotypically proclaimed by the sharp prominence of his nasal bridge and the curliness of his fur. But that fur was – Busner noted – rather lustreless and dull, and Peter Wiltshire’s hands trembled ever so slightly as he signed. “Hooo,” Busner was concerned. ‘Yes, you don’t look too good, Peter, but let me show you I’m not quite as fit as I appear. There’s ar-th-ri-tis in this hand, and I greatly fear I’m getting it in the other. It’s all right for the moment – my beta, gamma and delta are sound enough, but the epsilon could prove very difficult if he puts his finger on it.’
“H’huuuu?” Peter Wiltshire enquired, then signed, ‘No tickling, funny thing is I’m in much the “hooo” same boat.’
‘Home group, or work “huu”?’
‘Bit of both really. You know I set up that production company. Well, like a fool I let my work delta – the assistant producer, chimp called Franklin – come into the home group as well and he’s proved very successful, very “wraaa” cunning. Popular with my females too. It’s mostly because of that that he’s clawed his way up to domestic beta. It’ll only take one more providential alliance on his part – and I may well be out.’
‘Would that affect the work group that much “huuu”?’
‘We-ell, you know how it is. And now I won’t see the right side of forty again … I suppose what I’m marking is, if he really does pull it off I might retire.’
Busner gave his old ally’s fur a slather of spittle before inparting, ‘Really, Peter “huu”? I shouldn’t have imagined you’d climb down from the tree so eas –’
“Hooooo-Hooooo-Hooooo …” Busner broke off as there came a series of long pant-hoots from the direction of Elsworthy Road.
