Great Apes

by Will Self

  ‘Yes,’ she snapped back.

  ‘The thing is, as you are aware his ex-alpha has no real inclination to take up cudgels strongly on Simon’s behalf –’

  ‘ “Euch-euch” but you do “huu”?’

  ‘I am his ally … I’ve gesticulated with his lawyer. If he’s to be put on a full whatsit – section, we have the right to claim power of attorney – we are both executors and named in this further capacity –’

  ‘Would you want to object to a section “huu”?’

  ‘ “Hooo” I don’t know, Dr Bowen. Please, I don’t wish to challenge your authority, I think of you as the wisest, most benign, most adorably perspicacious psychiatrist. Your ischial pleat entrances me … And now you’ve been joined by the eminent Dr Busner, well… I’m sure Simon is quite safe in your hands, but the point is, is he a risk to himself or others “huu”? Do you think further confinement will help him “huuu” – ?’ He broke off, one finger up under the eye wear. It reappeared sporting some bit of grit – or grout – which he placed gingerly on his tongue.

  Bowen visualised for a moment. Clearly it was time they made a decision about Simon Dykes. His condition was becoming more rather than less anomalous as they investigated it, and what with this evidence of organic damage – even deformity – could it really be argued that he was insane in any ordinary sense?

  ‘ “Grnnn” well, Mr Levinson, I must confess we are in a bit of a quandary as to what to do with Mr Dykes – I believe we shall convene a case conference sooner rather than later –’

  ‘Meaning “h’huu”?’

  ‘That it probably would be an idea for you and his lawyer to secure power of attorney. If Simon won’t agree voluntarily to whatever course of treatment we decide on, it may be a question of persuading you to force him’

  ‘That looks rather ominous from where I’m sitting “euch-euch”.’

  ‘I think I can sign this without in any way prejudicing the situation, Mr Levinson. I don’t think the chances for Simon Dykes’s recovery are that good – whatever it is that ails him.’

  After hanging up Bowen lifted the receiver again. She pant-hooted Whatley, she pant-hooted Gambol on Busner’s mobile, she called the psychiatric social workers’ department, and finally – out of courtesy – she pant-hooted Sarah, in order to show her that there would be some sort of decision made about Simon in the near future. Then Dr Bowen lay back in her chair, put her feet on her desk, pushed her head forward, and gave herself a good, thorough licking out.

  The chimps assembled singly some two hours later, in Whatley’s office. Norris, the nominee from the social work department, swung himself up the outside of the building from balcony to balcony and in through the secretary’s window. Zack Busner barrelled along the corridor that ran the length of the psychiatry department, shucking submissive chimps off as he came. Whatley showed up from his conspiratorial feed with Gambol. They staggered their entrances, Whatley manifesting himself like the Cheshire Cat in reverse – the first anyone was aware of him was his teeth nibbling furtively at their calluses; and Gambol turning up late, ostentatiously cleaning away the evidence of a recent mating with fingers and lips.

  Bowen came in from her own office, knuckle-walking with her rump aloft, a sheaf of folders shoved up in her armpit.

  Dr Bowen convened the meeting: “HoooGraaa!”

  “HoooGraaa!” they echoed, some more vigorously than others – Gambol gave merely a token grunt and drummed the lino, whereas Busner roared while bashing a cushion so hard Whatley mewled, then signed, ‘My daughter made that “hooo”!’

  When there was novocal and signlence Bowen proceeded to flick over the particulars of Simon Dykes’s case from the beginning, his collapse, his reaction to the crash team, his behaviour towards both the hospital staff and the chimps well known to him. Then she recapped the details of his medical history, reading where necessary from the records supplied by Anthony Bohm. Putting the notes to one side she digitated for a while on the possibility that Dykes’s current condition represented some sort of hysterical symptomatic conversion from his essentially depressive state. She also palped and picked at the image that there was some maladaptive response to the Prozac Bohm had put him on; possibly catalysed by the MDMA he had taken the night of his breakdown. She then returned to the matter in hand – and teased out its various parts. Finally she presented some of the test results showing evidence of a bipolar disorder; and without going into it exhaustively, drew their attention to the organic neurological damage.

  When she had finished she pant-hooted and squatted down, thrusting out a leg so that Norris, the social worker, could get to work on it. Whatley’s fingers were the first to fly. ‘So, what are you signing, Jane “huu”? It seems to me as if the probable, eventual diagnosis will centre on these FSIs, or areas of manifest organic damage in his brain. The prognosis must be, with this degree of “euch-euch” damage – whatever it turns out to be – pretty poor. Obviously Dykes’s human delusion is besides the point; there’s no way that understanding it can help us to help him “h’huuu”?’

  Bowen wrinkled up her muzzle, scratched the thick fur beneath her jaw line, freed a bit of pasta lodged there since her third lunch and gestured, ‘Well, yes, Dr Whatley, I really think you may be right there.’

  Norris flicked in, ‘Is he insured “huu”? Will his mating or natal group help out “huu”? Has anyone investigated whether they’re prepared to fund private rather than NHS hospitalisation?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s “euch-euch” no on all counts,’ Bowen countersigned. ‘His natal group has long since fissioned, same with his mating group. His consort tells me that there’s no insurance – because of his history of mental illness “hoooo”; and his close ally and art dealer, Mr Levinson – who’s in the process of getting power of attorney in case we deem a further section necessary – shows me there’s nothing much in the way of assets until the proceeds from his current show come in – if “hooo” there turn out to be any.’

  All the chimps appeared suitably grave about this information. Dykes might be an artist of some repute, but mental illness was a great leveller – that they all knew. It was quite possible to imagine Dykes a few months hence, drooling his days away in a dark corner of some long-stay institution; or doing the same in the frighteningly exposed surroundings currently offered by ‘tree-covered accommodation’.

  ‘I’d sign that there’s some “grnnn” quality oflife element to be considered in all of this. ’ Whatley chose his signs carefully, placing them so all could see. ‘It does seem particularly cruel to leave this chimp – who’s felt by many to be a fine, if unbalanced individual – to rot on the wards here, or elsewhere for that matter. Surely Levinson is prepared to do something for him “huuu”?’

  There was a deep rumble of phlegm from the corner where Zack Busner lay, on his back, his feet softly bicycling against the walls so that the Artex deliciously abraded the itchy soles of his horny feet. “Grnn-grnn-HooGraa!” he vocalised – and when he had gained their attention signed, ‘I do think there may be another course of action available to us.’

  ‘Which is, Dr Busner “huu”?’ Whatley smoothed down the signs, coated them with symbolic glycerine.

  Busner hauled himself into squat, grunting, and directed Gambol to groom his back fur. ‘Which is to allow me to take care of Mr Dykes. I’ve done as much in the past, with both psychiatric and neurological patients that exhibit unusual symptomatologies. I don’t doubt that there is nothing ultimately mysterious about Mr Dykes’s condition; and as for the prognosis – I’ve seen patients with far worse trauma achieve a form of recovery. The brain – as you all know – has a marvellous “aaaa” plasticity. Correctly channelled it can regain “chup-chupp” homeostasis. Furthermore … “grnn” as he represents no danger, except to himself, I cannot see why he shouldn’t be released into my care –’

  ‘If he and Mr Levinson, or his lawyer, or whoever it is who wishes to take “huu” responsibility agrees – ?’r />
  ‘Obviously. ’ Busner let the sign hang for a moment, his fingers circling and sweeping, before slapping Gambol’s hands from the back of his neck and hauling himself bipedal.

  ‘Well, Dr Busner “euch-euch” where are you going to berth your human-deluded chimp “huuu”?’ Norris couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of sign or sound.

  Zack Busner reared up, took two steps and bit the social worker on his eyebrow. Red blood trickled through black fur. Norris screamed, then hunkered round and presented. Zack patted the mewling member of the caring profession gingerly, as if he were an animate settle, then waved ‘Why, at my group home, of course. Where else better, if he’s to stand a chance of relearning his essential chimpunity “huuu”?’

  There were grunts of assent from the others. Bowen adjourned the meeting.

  In the corridor Gambol hung lazily from a section of architrave for a while. His feet – at waist level – footled with a coil of fire hose attached to the wall. Busner knuckle-walked past at speed, Bowen in his wake. ‘I’m going to sign with Dykes right away, Gambol – you wait for me here.’

  Gambol went on footling. Really, he thought, things couldn’t have gone much better if they’d planned them that way. If Busner hadn’t suggestured taking Dykes on fully – either Whatley or Gambol would have pointed it out themselves. For reasons of their own, there was nothing they hoped for more than that Busner would enfold Dykes in his ample furry bosom. Whatley knew why after their second lunch at Café Rouge, after reading the contents of the shiny folder. Whatley, emerging from his office, winked at the dangling, epsilon machiavel. The two chimps were visualising the same thing; Dykes was like a grenade that had been tossed to Busner. And Busner – the fool – had obligingly caught it, not realising that the pin had been pulled.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Simon Dykes, no longer an artist, merely a mental patient, squatted on the nest in secure room six and pondered the events of the morning. His madness – he felt – was beginning to take on a new texture, like a fog which, having appeared impenetrable, begins to boil then shreds to reveal tatters of landscape. Could his humanity be the delusion – and his chimpunity – preposterous sign! – the reality?

  He yawned, scratched his armpit with one hand, his ischial scrag with the other. Then – without being conscious of it – fell to examining his body. His hands smoothed along his thighs, his fingertips splayed over his shins and then his feet. He didn’t feel any different – or did he? True, he hadn’t shaved for two weeks now and the stubble under his chin had acquired the pile of beard – he could smooth it this way and rough it the other. But his chest, his arms, his thighs, they were no more lanate than before.

  Simon’s questing fingers sought out a pit on his right kneecap. A pit that they knew should be there, a pit caused by a bad bicycle crash when he was six or seven. They failed to locate it and the former artist brought his eyes to bear. He stared at his knee. Perhaps the fur there was thicker. He couldn’t remember it braiding together in this fashion, individual clumps flowing into mini-dreadlocks. Where was the pit? The old scar? Fingers scrabbled – yes, scrabbled – in the sparse fur until they found it, then Simon sighed. Sighed to find himself still Simon, still human.

  He rolled off the nest and knuckle-walked to the window. It felt comfortable to move quadrumanously, good to stretch and grab the thin bars across the slit of window. Simon pulled himself bipedal. There was nothing to see outside, the window looked on to an internal courtyard of the hospital, but a view no matter how limited was part of the outside world. Simon was, he realised, imagining going outside. More than that – he wanted to go outside, whatever he might find there.

  What did the vile piece in the paper about Sarah mean? Was she fucking Ken Braithwaite? Did chimps fuck? And what of all the other people he knew? ‘People’. The sign sounded odd to Simon – more like some garbled vocalisation than anything truly meaningful. And what of his infants, his three little males? Simon pictured them lined up, off-the-peg kids representing a series of standard sizes: small, medium, large. They were all identically clad in dark blue pullovers, with the name of their school emblazoned across their chests. They all had the same squeakily new, shit-coloured, leather satchels slung around their shoulders, and they all had the same expression puckering their muzzles, creasing up their sweet, green eyes. Then they fissioned and scampered towards him, clawed their way up on to him, one leaping for his shoulder, another grabbing an arm, the third – and littlest – shinning up his leg. The four Dykes males made a bundle of mock aggression, from which came the occasional hysterical giggle, clack of teeth, quavering grunt.

  The judas on the door slid open with a dull click. Simon shook himself out of his reverie and glanced towards it to see a familiar eroded muzzle, familiar hooded eyes; their vertical irises flicking from side to side. “HoooGra!” Busner drummed on the outside of the door.

  Simon felt his chest contract – involuntarily; and a gout of air suck inside with a rushing “Hoooo,” then it splurged back out through the grate of his great teeth, “Graaa!” and he drummed a little on the side of the nest, producing a leaden timpani.

  Busner was more than a little surprised by this. ‘Simon,’ he signed, ‘that’s the first time I’ve heard you pant-hoot –’

  ‘What “huu”?’

  ‘No matter. “H’huu” would you feel upset if I came in? I need to sign with you. ’ Busner’s fingers moved awkwardly, feeling up the crack of the judas.

  ‘N-no, if you “grnnn” must.’

  The door swung open and the eminent natural philosopher – as he liked to style himself – swung in, landing heavily on his hirsute feet. He sat there for some moments and Simon regarded him warily. Busner was all ape. His chest a thick barrel, its depth emphasised by the way his tweed jacket rucked up. His bandy little legs supported this mound of muscle readily enough, but the contrast between their feral aspect, the exposed ‘V’ of white shirt and the coil of brown mohair tie, was quite simply – nauseating. Simon could feel a bubble of anxious revulsion building in him as he stared into the muzzle of the beast. Its crescent of hard lip which drooped to reveal canines the size of clothespegs; its bashed-in nose, the nostrils oval, black tunnels; and above them the eyes, the inhuman eyes with their green lambency, their mutant pupils.

  ‘ “Euch-euch” Simon, don’t look at me that way – I can see that you are getting upset. Sign with me, gesticulate with me – that’s the way to stop yourself overreacting. It doesn’t matter whether I’m chimp – or human – the important thing is that we can sign.’

  ‘Sign,’ Simon signed bemusedly. ‘What does that mean “huu”?’ Busner’s eyebrow ridges widened questioningly.

  ‘Sign, Simon, sign, gesticulate with your hands – as I’m doing now “grnnn”.’

  Simon grimaced. A peculiar little grimace. ‘But humans don’t sign, Dr Busner, we “speak”. That’s how we communicate. I believe some chimpanzees and even gorillas have been taught to make a few signs – signs adapted from the sign languages deaf and dumb people use. But humans don’t sign – we don’t have to. We “speak”.’

  It was Busner’s turn to look bemused. His mind whirred. Dykes’s delusion was so beautifully symmetrical. Clearly he had retrieved – from some far bank of his memory – the information that wild humans gesticulated through a large repertoire of vocalisations. But this raw fact had been subjected to baroque embellishment with further suppositions. Dykes had coined an original vocalisation to express the image of that form of gesticulation. Busner hunkered forward, his splayed fingers agitated the air. ‘Simon “gru-nnn”, d’you think you could teach me this “eek”, “huuu”?’

  ‘ “Speech”, Dr Busner, “speech”. And yes, I don’t see why not. After all,’ and here Simon paused and regarded his own fingers, fingers that now shaped with as much fluidity as those of any chimpanzee, ‘I appear to be able to “speak” like you “grnnn”.’

  Busner nodded at this, rocked back and forth on his heels, rose, knuc
kle-walked to the window, handed his way up on to the bars. The former television personality swung there for a while. Simon stared at the ape’s naked hindquarters. Busner’s runtish buttocks and fleshy scut were both an intimate and an alien sight. The folds of brown and pink skin formed a virtual bill, poking out from the furred protruberance. Busner, as if sensing Simon’s gaze, let go of one of the bars and made a sinistral exploration of his arsehole. He then brought his fingers to his prehensile lip and nonexistent nose, where they were subjected to a critical, multi-sensory analysis. The same hand then sped signs at Simon. ‘My arsehole looking all right “huuu”?’

  ‘Fine, Dr Busner – , you might sign.’

  Busner cackled and clacked at this. ‘ “H’hee-hee-clak-clak” oh dear, well, I suppose it’s a little infantile, but I think your joke rather funny. Now, Simon, we have to decide what we should do with you –’

  ‘Do with me “huu”?’

  ‘Quite so. ’ Busner dropped back to the floor. ‘I’ll be frank, we’ve found structural abnormalities in your brain. We don’t know whether they’re evidence of some organic damage or part of a disease process, or even a congenital deformity, but they’re there – and almost certainly implicated in your “euch-euch’” human delusion.’

  ‘Can it be cured “huuu”?’

  ‘I can’t put my finger on that.’

  ‘Then you’re going to keep me in here! Keep me in this bin! Is that it “h’huu”? Is that what you’re signing?’ Simon was bipedal, pacing about in a peculiar, jerky way, like a bonobo sub-adult dancing to jungle music. He started making some of his strangulated, low-pitched vocalisations, which to Busner sounded like “Ohgodohgodohgodohgod …”

  ‘ “Waaa”! Simon, snap out of it, this isn’t going to help. No, I don’t think there’s any point in keeping you here, or sending you to some long-term institution.’

  ‘No “huu”?’

  ‘ “Wraaa”! No! If I am to impact upon this delusion in any way, I must help you to confront reality. I want you to come and live with me at my group home. To range with me, to see something of this planet of the apes you find yourself in – and at the same time –’