by Will Self
With Simon’s second-breakfast tray came a plain sheet of questions typed out on the hospital letterhead, as follows:
Charing Cross Hospital
Department of Psychiatry
Thursday 15th August
Simon,
We believe – my colleagues and I – that you are suffering from a delusional state which crucially involves the very ground of your simious interaction. We are avoiding all direct contact with you until we can establish whether or not this is the case. Could you please answer the following questions for me as clearly as possible?
Yours sincerely
Dr Jane Bowen
Senior Registrar
1. How are you feeling – are you in any bodily discomfort?
2. Do you imagine someone is trying to harm you?
3. Can you remember the events that led up to your being here in hospital?
4. You keep referring to ‘monkeys’. What do these monkeys look like?
5. Why do you try and attack any of the staff who come near you – myself included – and your consort, and any other allies who come to see you?
6. You refer in your note to ‘humans’. What humans? Have you been ‘seeing humans’?
Bowen observed Simon Dykes through the piece of fake mirror as he took the tray from the ledge and walked stiltedly upright, resolutely bipedal, back to the nest platform and squatted down. As he put the tray down on the cardboard table, Jane Bowen’s note fluttered to the floor. The artist scratched his head fur with a languid hand, then bent down low so he could recover the piece of paper, using the same hand. ‘Thass another thing,’ signed Dobbs the charge nurse, who was watching as well, ‘he never uses his feet for anything except that weird swaggering around the room. An’ when he picks something up with his hand he’s all cackhanded – he don’t seem able to hold things with his thumb and index knuckle, see …’
It was true, Simon was struggling to scrabble the paper up from the linoleum, and the frustration was calling forth some of his odd, low-pitched vocalisations. Finally he had the note and proceeded to read it, his eyes flicking every so often towards the door. Dr Bowen had the uneasy sensation that he knew he was being watched.
* * *
Sarah pant-hooted in to the agency on the fourth day and signed to her boss, Martin Green, the gist of what had happened. ‘ “HoooH’Graa” Simon has had some kind of a breakdown, Martin, he’s in Charing Cross Hospital.’
‘Overwork, or overplay “huu”?’ Green looked huffy as he turned to contemplate the screen; his signing was abrupt, his body hair semi-erect, his mobile, expressive muzzle creased to expose his canines.
‘I – I don’t know.’
‘So, I suppose this means we won’t be seeing you at work today “huu”?’
‘I’m – I’m a bit upset, Martin, it was pretty bad.’
‘How bad “huu”?’
She showed him, omitting nothing.
‘Jesus Christ, Sarah,’ he signed after a while ‘you know I don’t set much store by convention, but this consortship, the “euch-euch” drugs, I don’t know …’
‘I know, I know.’
‘I’m sorry I was so sharp before “grnnn”. I’ve already had a hell of a morning, more trouble with that “euch-euch” git Young. I’d just finished gesticulating with him when you pant-hooted. He signs he won’t pay a penny –’
“Waaa!”
‘Quite so. And what am I to do without you in the office “huu”? I hate to sign it, but your status in the hierarchy is bound to be put under stress –’
‘I know, I know –’
‘That’s what you keep signing. Look, when can I expect you back “huu”?’
‘I’m going down to Cobham for a few days, back to my natal group, see if I can get my nits picked. I’ll pant-hoot you Monday. Look, Martin, I acknowledge your employment suzerainty, I worship your adamant penis, you are the rising scut in my ischial firmament. I savour your smell –’
‘That’s all right, Sarah, you’re a good subordinate, you go home and relax.’
Sarah took the stopper from Victoria and got off at West Byfleet. It was a hot afternoon and Gracie was panting; the flies circling her head annoyed her constantly and she tossed her little mane and neighed. Sarah had bought the lap pony a nosebag at the terminus, but it was long since finished and the diminutive horse was becoming impatient. ‘There-there “chup-chupp-chupp” there-there,’ she soothed Gracie, idly grooming the caramel mane.
Sarah squatted back in her seat and scanned the copy of Cosmopolitan she held open with the toes of one foot, while turning the pages with the toes of another. Advertisements for artificial swellings, swelling-enhancing clothing, swelling clinics, classes and manuals on how to get the best out of your swelling. And the confessional pieces: ‘I Consorted with a Male for a Year!’, ‘I Joined Three New Groups in One Oestrus’ and so on, and so on. Mating, mating, mating, Sarah thought to herself – that’s all these female magazines are about, as if it were the only thing that mattered.
But even thinking this anti-sensual thought brought back recollections of Simon mating her. His speed that second time – the last time – had been phenomenal. She thought her orgasm might tear her in half, all the way from her swelling to her mouth, spill her guts on the disordered sheets of the nest. ‘I want a lover with a fast hand / I want a lover with a rapid touch / I don’t want a male who ta-akes too long / Let him come in a disordered rush …’ The signs of the soul song came to her readily enough – it was her and Simon’s tune, in a way. She used to do the signing, he the accompanying vocalisations – and she found herself absent-mindedly signing them now in the vicinity of her swelling. When the train got to the station her muzzle was flushed and Gracie was neighing louder than ever.
The Reverend Davis, the Peasenhulmes’ distal-beta male, was waiting for her in the group’s Range Rover. “HoooH’Graa,” he pant-hooted as she leapt from the train. The station was alive with the pant-hoots of other rendezvous, and looking around at the green gardens of suburbia Sarah was almost glad to be back in Surrey. ‘Here I am,’ waved the Reverend, ‘although you are …’ He consulted a fob watch he drew from his waistcoat pocket, an affectation Sarah had always found particularly annoying, ‘about seven minutes late, fancy a fuck “huu”?’
He took her without ceremony, her head banging against the open passenger door of the four-wheel drive, while he used the outside handle to brace himself as he thrusted.
‘Your mother’s got an early first supper almost on the table,’ the Reverend signed as they headed towards Cobham on the A245. ‘Not a lot of the group around at the moment though; quite a few of the males have gone over to Oxshott to mate Lynn – she’s in oestrus, y’know.’
‘ “Waaa” I know,’ Sarah prodded, fingers cramped with irritation. She had in fact been pant-hooted by Lynn that morning. The silly female banging on and on about how she’d come on, and she wouldn’t take the pill this oestrus, and how Giles really wanted an infant now they’d started the sub-group, and how should she furnish the nursery, didn’t Sarah just love the new play trees that were on offer at Conran at the moment … Sarah could hardly stand the lack of tact and had almost cut the connection while Lynn’s fingers were in mid-motion.
‘Not feeling “gru-nnn” left out, are we, my cherub “huu”?’ the Reverend signed in Sarah’s belly fur, pushing her blouse up so that he could unpick some of his own, rapidly drying semen. Sarah was glad of the tenderness.
‘I’m sorry, Pete “huh-huh-huh”, I expect Mum told you what’s happened –’
‘She did, Sarah, but you won’t get any moralising out of me “chup-chupp” – you needn’t worry about that. In this day and age a young female is perfectly entitled to a consortship well into her twenties as far as I’m “gru-nnn” concerned. We can’t all form new groups or join established sub-groups as soon as we reach oestrus, times have changed. How is he, anyway “huu”?’
‘No change there, I’m afraid, still ranting a
bout monkeys and humans. His shrink thinks the psychosis may centre on Simon’s actual chimpunity. I don’t know’ – she shook her head – ‘ “huuu” it doesn’t seem very likely to me.’
It was one of the things that Sarah liked most about the Reverend, in addition to his typically Anglican tolerance for unorthodox behaviour – he had, Sarah knew, been an active homosexual when a young chimp – he never pushed things, or went on when he had nothing much to sign. They drove the rest of the way home with fingers scrabbling more or less senselessly in each other’s fur, a pleasant post-coital reunion as they fiddled about the redecorated Range Rover, her alpha’s upcoming prostate operation, a tombola the Reverend was organising.
Chapter Nine
A dull morning at the hospital. The pant-hooting of sane chimps in the street outside disharmonised horribly with the screams and fear-barks of the insane chimps on Gough, and the whimpers and hoots of the neurotic chimps on Lowell. Dr Jane Bowen squatted in her office, the Guardian ‘Society’ section cast aside, while she looked at the sheets of paper she held in her foot. The sheets Dobbs had brought her from Dykes. The writing was as cramped and crabbed as before, but the style was thankfully a bit more lucid, almost effortfully composed.
He hadn’t countersigned the questions in any kind of order, rather he had written a résumé of the past few days from his point of view – if that’s what it could be called. At the same time the narrative kept breaking off as Dykes crazily extemporised on what he believed to be his predicament.
I feel fine in myself. Absolutely fine, I feel no pain – less in fact than before. Less, than before I ended up in this nut house. I woke up, you know, and in place of my consort, Sarah, there was this fucking monkey, this ape, whatever. And there was a miniature horse. I saw a miniature horse. I don’t expect you to believe any of this, but it’s true, believe me. Please believe me. I tried to fend the bloody monkey off, I was screaming for Sarah, crying out for her. But the thing was damnably strong. It beat me. Christ, you have no idea how frightening this was. And it was absolutely real, not dream-like, not drug-like, but real. Really real. Then I don’t know, I must have lapsed into unconsciousness. I didn’t know what was happening. When I came to again there were more of these apes in the room. They beat me! They did. I can still feel the blows. They attacked me! They had horrible green eyes, and they were so fast! So strong. I could have sworn it was real. And then, thankfully, I blacked out again.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here now. I know I’m in a mental hospital. Everything looks as it should look. I think I’m in Charing Cross. Am I in Charing Cross? But this delusion – if that’s what you denote it – is persisting. Every time someone comes into the room to give me a shot, it’s one of these fucking monkeys, or apes, or whatever these foul demons are. I haven’t seen a human since I feel asleep with Sarah, in nest, four days ago. I know I’m mad. Ifyou’re a psychiatrist why can’t you help me? I know I’m mad. Even these questions you’ve sent me (and I thank you for stopping the monkeys coming into the room, that’s some relief) are somehow part of the delusion. What do you mean about humans? And baboons? I AM HUMAN. Believe me, I AM HUMAN. Please help me, please send my ex-alpha or my infants to see me, or Sarah, or someone. I don’t think I can stand this much longer. I’d kill myself if there were the means here. Can’t you help me? Please.
The psychiatrist did her routine with the window and the pant-hoot once again. Whatley wasn’t there, or so his secretary pant-hooted back. Off in the canteen or perhaps at his club, the Garrick, lunching with John Osborne. Osborne – perhaps a surprising ally for Whatley – was to die later that year, after pissing into an electric light fitment. Whatley had seen it coming.
Dr Bowen had to wait twenty minutes before the consultant deigned to come crawling in. “HoooGraaa.” He drummed diffidently on the doorjamb – Christ! How she despised the chimp. They hadn’t been in touch for twenty-four hours, but Bowen got through the obligatory grooming session as quickly as possible, hoooting with annoyance. ‘So,’ he inparted the nape of her neck, right on top of a particularly irksome scab, ‘what’s with our resident creative genius “huu”? My secretary signs he’s dispatched another missive.’
‘ “Euch-euch” read this. ’ She gave him Simon’s note. Whatley read in novocal, except for the occasional grunt of concentration. Bowen played with the toys on her desk. They were the sort that most doctors have, given to them usually after they’ve qualified by parents or friends. Bowen had some phrenological skulls where you could remove and replace brain sections to form neurological chimeras; and a miniature psycho-surgery toy, complete with instruments as well as cerebella. Make a mistake performing a tiny leucotomy and a buzzer would sound.
“H’hooo”! Whatley pant-hooted facetiously. ‘I like this –
‘He’s a visual artist,’ Jane Bowen remarked.
‘ “Hoo” yes, “hoo” yes. Well,’ he threw the note on the desk and swivelled to muzzle her, ‘doesn’t look much like a baboon delusion now, “huu” does it?’
‘No.’
‘You read the case histories that came from the Gruton “huu”?’
‘Of course.’
‘A classic baboon delusion is always focused on canines, pseudo-mating displays and so forth –’
‘I read them, Whatley.’
‘Quite so, quite so, none of that here, is there “huu”?
‘No.’
‘It’s all rather fumbled, isn’t it. He signs that he thinks he’s in Charing Cross, and yet the questions were on headed paper. And this business of humans. Are the
‘He signs that he is human –’
‘He thinks he’s human “huu”?’
‘That’s what I took it to mean. ’ Bowen was getting frustrated. She deliberately cut through one of the miniature cortices in the leucotomy toy, setting off the electronic death tone.
‘Well, I don’t know what to make of it. Do you have any ideas “huu”?’
‘Keep on as we are for a couple more days, try and draw him out, then suggesture that we need to do neurological tests. We aren’t going to get much further like this, Whatley. And his chimps may want to get him out of here. We don’t necessarily have the grounds for a full twenty-eight-day section, you know – and this chimp has influential allies. His dealer and his doctor in Oxfordshire have been pant-hooting twice daily, asking about progress.’
‘And the ex-alpha “huu”?’
‘Not interested.’
‘His consort “huu”?’
‘Out of the picture at the moment. Gone to see her natal group in Surrey –’
‘Yes, she looked like a Surrey female. I can just imagine her riding hounds, wearing a Barbour and a quilted “gru-nn” swelling-protector –’ He grinned, tooth-clacked.
‘Spare us your mating fantasies, Whatley. Please.’
So it was Bowen who went on with the programme of communication with Simon Dykes, and it was Bowen who kept Bohm and Levinson at bay when they pant-hooted for more news on his condition.
‘I think we’re making some progress,’ she showed the latter that afternoon.
‘What sort of progress “huu”? Is there any likelihood that he’ll be out next week “huu”? I postponed the private view for his new show until then – but we’re going ahead whatever. The canvases are stretched, the invitations sent, wine bought … Obviously it would be good if he were there –’
‘Good for who “huu”?’
‘For him, of course. This is a very important show for Simon. Very important. Could be the one that puts him right up there among the best contemporary painters in England. You know that the Tate bought his World of Bears last year “huu”?’
‘I am aware of that, yes. Tell me, what are the paintings like in the new show “huu”?’
‘Is it relevant to his condition “h’huu”? I don’t like to preview in this fa
shion. ’ Levinson fiddled ostentatiously with his bow tie; Jane Bowen could just make out the signs ‘tiresome, bloody tiresome’ in amongst the flicks.
‘I saw that “wraaa”!’ She was horripilating furiously and displayed at the screen a little, throwing paper clips, biros, whatever desk clutter came to hand. ‘ “Wraaaa”! I’d like to remind you, Mr Levinson, that you are dealing with a physician, not some bloody little gallery female. Do I make myself understood “h’huuu”?’
‘Of course, of course. Please, please, don’t trouble yourself – your basal eye is a pink loveliness to me –’ Jane Bowen nearly laughed. The timorous old poof was half presenting to her, his angular rump pushed up above the level of his desk. ‘I have to be a bit cautious, I know you’ll understand … the media … What with this breakdown, they could make a lot out of it … and “hoo” the paintings themselves are very graphic. Very graphic indeed.’
‘How so “huu”?’
‘They’re essentially paintings of bodily disintegration, destruction … as it were …’ He manipulated a pair of gold-rimmed bifocals on to his nasal bridge, still signing. ‘dfscorporation. Quite shocking really. He’s taken Martin’s apocalyptic paintings as a starting point and produced a series of canvases that depict both imaginary and historical scenes of bodily destruction with a kind of tortured graphicism …’ The dealer’s hands fell still. The bifocals slid down his nasal bridge, he pushed them back up again.
‘I see.’ Jane Bowen was mollified, charmed even by the dealer’s description. ‘You know “grnn”, perhaps they do have a bearing on this breakdown. He is exhibiting symptoms of some kind of bodily confusion, scrambling of proprioception –’
‘What’s that “huu”?’
