Where the Birds Hide at Night

by Gareth Wiles

  ‘Oh why don’t you just go ahead and clone me you beastly failure of the anatomy,’ blabbed Mr Monkey.

  ‘Nice to see a happy clone, just like Nicola,’ smirked The Clown.

  ‘Nicola? You mean…’

  ‘Indeed! The Nicola you met on the plane was a clone that I created. Pretty good, don’t you think?’ The Clown raved.

  Mr Monkey didn’t believe for one moment that The Clown spoke the truth, but he continued to play along with him nonetheless: ‘So all that rubbish with Nicola was to lead me to you!!!’

  ‘Bravo Sherlock, bravo,’ The Clown sang whilst clapping his hands in melody.

  ‘The Worm in on it too?’

  ‘Not quite, but I won’t tell all at these early stages of what will build up to be a huge and long-lasting friendship…’

  ‘Not if I can ‘elp it.’

  ‘Well, can’t stick around gossiping all day you know. People to kill, places to blow up. A busy schedule, you do understand,’ The Clown flabbed, tightening his face up and nodding.

  ‘I fully understand.’

  The Clown spoke no more, just pressing a button on the remote he held in his hand. As previously, the two poles connected with electricity. Mr Monkey felt a power surge run down his body and ignite at the base – his whole being becoming the subject of frequent uncontrollable spasms. Something started to go wrong. The straps inside the dome holding his paws burst open and, although in terrible pain, he managed to free himself from the remaining straps.

  The Clown began to shake and dropped the remote, prompting Mr Monkey to bang his shoulder against the cubicle. Nothing happened. He roared in anger and thrashed at it, shattering it into a million pieces. The Clown stood paralysed with amazement as the puppet came tumbling down with the glass and thrust his body onto The Clown. The two of them went flying through the metal wall, Mr Monkey using his arch-nemesis as a shield. The two men found themselves tumbling down about fifty feet until the both of them landed on top of each other on a large conveyor belt which was moving towards a large pit where quarry rock was falling down. Glass and metal came crashing down on top of them. They lay unconscious as they moved closer towards the pit, the huge rocks falling another twenty feet into giant gnawing metal mincers and being torn to pebbles.

  * * *

  Mr Monkey lay unconscious, but The Clown was awake. The drab circus menace had sustained minor back injuries but was able to haul himself away from the orange one, and further up the conveyor belt. It kept on sliding along, carrying the pair to their impending demise. And what a demise! The Clown grabbed onto the side of the conveyor belt, desperate to get off and save his pale skin. Suddenly Mr Monkey grabbed hold of his foot, trying to pull him back. However, he found his less than energised body clinging onto The Clown’s foot for dear life as he now dangled over the edge of the pit.

  ‘Give it up, puppet. You’ve lost,’ cried The Clown in anger.

  ‘I never lose, Colin,’ he called back with newfound strength in his voice.

  ‘Doesn’t look like you’re in much of a position to contradict me, Brendan,’ he called back hastily. Without any further hold up, Mr Monkey proceeded to pull himself up using The Clown. ‘You stupid fool, my arm’s dislocated,’ he screamed out in pain as the puppet hoisted himself up onto his back. The Clown was horrified by the prospect of his body being used as a weapon against him, and Mr Monkey soon found himself balancing on the edge of the belt, clinging onto the safety bars either side. His enemy was still holding onto his own hook of a handle. This was the last ever hope of either of them staying alive, as, after building up enough energy, Mr Monkey grabbed hold of The Clown’s fingers with his mouth. He no longer showed his pain – just a tightening of the jaw.

  ‘Time for some truth,’ Mr Monkey growled.

  ‘Remarkable, isn’t it?’ The Clown replied, sounding remorseful of something.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That I can manipulate you into being the weak, understanding type – the type that keeps his worse enemy alive to ask him some petty questions. Well you should have killed me when you had the chance,’ he sneered as he looked behind the puppet.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he demanded, turning around, thinking that The Clown was probably just trying to talk his way out of this situation. But, he came face to face with Boris. The shock and sheer surprise of seeing him gave him a start, but it was the blow to the head from Boris that sent him head-first into the pit. Luckily, some of his polyester fur snagged on a jagged edge and he found himself staring down into the pit as huge rocks were mashed into dust by the gigantic metal teeth. Boris lifted up a rock off the conveyor belt and launched it at Mr Monkey. It hit him on the head, but he managed to clamp his paw onto a hook as a second rock hit him. Boris pulled his boss up and helped him to safety, as the poor puppet continued to dangle helplessly. Boris smiled and then stretched his arms to indicate a heavy weight needing to be lifted. With not a word being spoken, Boris bent down over the pit and lifted Mr Monkey’s paw off the hook. His whole life now depended on Boris letting his paw go as he dangled to and fro. It was up to Mr Monkey to amend the evil. With his free paw, he took the initiative and swung it, smacking Boris hard in the face. He seemed surprised, but not hurt in the slightest. As he let go of the paw, the other hooked around his neck and Boris lost his balance. He came down with a bang onto the conveyor belt and Mr Monkey swung himself around, grabbing a hold of the same hook that The Clown had previously grown accustomed to. Boris found himself in the same position as the puppet had once been in – dangling from a hook by his foot.

  ‘Alas, it’s time to bid adieu!’ Mr Monkey quipped, slapping Boris in the face with his free paw and causing him to lose his grip. He went plummeting into the razor sharp blades beneath him. Mr Monkey couldn’t bear to watch what evil self-defence he had just performed – the splatter of blood on his face being the only hard evidence that justice had been served.

  Rocks still came crashing down, but our hero pulled himself up into a safer position and looked around for that children’s entertainment menace. He was nowhere to be seen. The room was large, but almost empty. A huge hole at the other end of the conveyor belt where the rocks poured in seemed the main feature. One side of the conveyor belt was almost up against a wall, and the hole in which Mr Monkey had made his entrance could be seen.

  He got himself off the conveyor belt, casually wiping off some of Boris’s blood. He spotted a set of double sliding doors. It must have been an elevator of some sort – it must have been The Clown’s escape route. Gaining entry into it was a challenge in itself, especially for a half-disorientated heap… smeared in blood and gore.

  The fact that the challenge of getting into the elevator was met with considerable ease escaped his mind. A single button, marked “PRESS ME”, sat on the wall. He pressed it, entering. In the elevator was one small button. He pressed this too. It began to move. Which way? Up, down… sideways… it could not be told. And then, it abruptly stopped. The automatic doors sprang open. Mr Monkey saw before him a huge circus centre ring. He skimmed the room curiously and then spoke: ‘Clown, my faithful foe. Having a little game are we?’ Not expecting a reply, he turned to face the elevator door. It had closed and there was no way out of the circus now.

  After a cacophony of clatter, and some whistles, The Clown rode into the centre of the circle on his unicycle – juggling balls of fire.

  ‘Years I’ve waited, puppet – years. Sets of 365 days!!! I wanted you, the man who thwarted my plans last time, to be the first one to see them back in action. Only this time, I won’t fail!’ The Clown laughed hysterically, his pedalling intensifying as the glow of the flaming balls brightened. ‘And you will be dead… DEAD! No more will you solve the crimes I commit.’

  ‘I’ve solved my fair share of crimes in my time.’

  ‘You’ve committed your fair share of crimes too,’ The Clown pointed out. He was right too. ‘I became a clown to entertain children, old foe… but you, you became a crime solver to eas
e your guilt at committing so much of it. You’re as bad as me. No, you’re worse. I can admit what I am.’

  Mr Monkey turned and looked in the reflective surface of the metallic elevator doors and saw his own reflection – my reflection. I saw Peter Smith. Peter Smith was an orange sleeve puppet.

  ‘Join me, puppet,’ The Clown’s voice called out. I turned back to face him; it was Reaping Icon. ‘Humanity should pay for the sickness it has caused. Let’s stamp it out. Join ARSEN and let’s burn the universe.’

  ‘We are already one, there is no need for me to join.’

  ‘I am not calling you, I am calling as you. The far future is what I beckon forth with my brightly varnished lips – our lips. Oh the hilarity!’ The Clown cackled, suddenly hiccuping. He leapt off his unicycle and threw the fire balls into the air, catching each one in his mouth and swallowing them as they came back down. He burped, breathing fire all over the puppet’s polyester fur. Sadly it was not fire retardant, and he instantly burst into flames. ‘Doom… DOOM! Hellish, hellish doom, you ridiculous thing!’ The Clown screamed as Mr Monkey rolled about the floor in agony. He jumped about in his huge polished yellow shoes, honking his big red nose. Suddenly his chest burst open, splattering blood all over the puppet and dampening the flames. Francesca came into view, clutching a machine gun as she filled her father with bullets from behind. He stumbled forward, arms outstretched, before managing to turn to face his executioner. When he saw that it was his own daughter, he smiled and cried: ‘You’ve done me proud, child,’ before she put one final set of bullets in his head and sent him slamming to the floor on top of Mr Monkey.

  She dropped the gun, horrified with herself, and ran over to pull the puppet from beneath her dead dad. His bullet-riddled, clown-costumed corpse resisted release of the man of cloth at first, but with a good hard tug Francesca managed to pull him out. It was no good, however… he was just too badly burnt. His once vibrant purple button eyes were melted beyond recognition, and the rest of his face was just a charred rag now. She dropped to her knees, sobbing. Mr Monkey was gone.

  The next day I went to the shop and bought another orange sleeve puppet monkey, and slipped my hand into it.

  * * *

  Laughter and the faint murmur of a cackle,

  Came and came and went again.

  COMPLETION

  (FORTY YEARS LATER)

  ‘Goodness sake, Mother, why can’t I watch what I want to for a change?’ Peter babbled to himself as his grey, wrinkled face flanged about. He lay on his deathbed, his senile mind all over the place. Visions of long ago occupied his decaying mind – but not that long ago… only in this lifetime. He’d had a full life this time, however, and had soared past thirty-six. He had broken free from the trap, escaped the endlessness of incessant rebirth. He would have felt himself lucky, had the dementia of old age not altered his perceptions beyond repair.

  ‘Oh it’s just awful seeing him like this,’ Lauren cried, holding his hand. Chloe patted her mother on the back.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Mum, this is life.’

  ‘Noose!’ Peter called out, gasping for breath. He pulled his hand from his wife’s and outstretched it towards the bedroom door. After taking one final intake of breath, the old man gasped: ‘I can see you. You came for me, Noose,’ before exhaling the last of the air from his lungs and dying. His hand fell to the bed, where Lauren clutched it once more.

  ‘Oh I love you, Peter, forever I love you.’