Dead Funny

by Robin Ince

  The old man hobbled slowly across the room, into the hallway.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ he said, and began climbing the stairs. I waited until he was halfway up, then called out loudly.

  ‘Wasn’t your best.’

  I interpreted his prolonged silence as a subtle joke and went out into the garden. I inspected Christie’s mammoth bonfire, rummaging through the piles of ragged clothes and compost until I located some more of my old possessions buried underneath. I wasn’t upset to see my gloves there, but I rescued an old watch my father had given me on my sixth birthday and decided that I would try and mend it. Deep within the piled rubbish was the inevitable roadkill, the largest of which was a mangled fox. I dragged it out by its tail, and as I passed back through the house on my way to the front door, slung it halfway up the stairs, hoping Christie might fall when he bent down to remove it. Then I sealed Possum up in my black bag and walked to the school.

  I didn’t stop once along the lane, although I saw enough to know that my old classroom, the scene of Christie’s infamous stunt, had long since disappeared. An extension to the central building almost blocked my view of the playground, where the brick wall, over which I’d escaped, had been painted over with a large smiling face. I passed the second of two remote mobile classrooms, decorated with tiresome nativity displays, and carried on towards the familiar stone steps leading down to the abandoned station. I followed these onto the empty platform, examining the shelter on the opposite side of the track. Despite an abundance of thick spray-paint and several smashed windows, the place was abandoned. I dropped down silently onto the disused line. The metal tracks had been ripped up long before I was born, and the banks on each side of the route, beyond the declining platform, were heavily overgrown. The ancient trail turned sharply to the left before reaching a small, concealed footpath that snaked off into the trees. I brushed aside overhanging branches as I forced myself along it, pausing several times to pinpoint precisely where I’d once built my secret camp. Further along I located the old tree I’d climbed to impress friends, and the small slope we’d raced down. Beyond these, hidden beneath the thickest trees, was the place I was looking for.

  I crouched down on the approaching path and located a suitable vantage point. I made my way over to a dense row of bushes and knelt behind the leaves. The ground around me was littered with empty crisp packets and crushed tins. Nearby lay scattered the feathers of a dead bird. Sooner than I had expected to I developed cramp, and, making as little movement as possible, shifted weight to my hands. Then I settled down to wait, keeping absolutely still.

  When the figure finally approached, I opened the bag. Possum’s face stared up at me as I drew back the leather, eyes whitening in the overhead sun. I gave him some muddy leaves to eat and was in the process of extricating the rest of his body when I heard movement directly behind. I barely had time to conceal Possum again before a tall man appeared from within the trees. He wore walking shoes and a short winter coat, and carried a school rucksack under one arm. His face was hostile and suspicious. ‘Good morning,’ I said. Without replying, he moved off swiftly in the direction of the approaching child, calling loudly. I stood up, finding myself unable to move due to the numbness in my legs, and grabbed the handle of my bag. I waited, suspecting that I might require the use of Possum’s limbs in order to effect a diversion worthy of pantomime. But no-one else appeared, and the man did not return. As soon as I could, I walked home through a great many winding streets.

  ‘Tell me again about the fox,’ Christie said.

  ‘We were in the woods one day and saw a fox. It was panting at the mouth and its whole body was shaking. We thought it had swallowed something bad. When we came back later it was dead. So we played with it a while . . . stuck things in it. Then, as we left for home, the fox stood up. It had been playing with us.’

  ‘I mean the fox you dropped on my stairs,’ Christie replied, smugly. Another game won. And putting the dead animal in my bed and laying it out on the kitchen table before me as I ate my breakfast equalled three victories already that morning.

  ‘You shouldn’t have stolen from my bonfire,’ he said. ‘That was misbehaviour.’

  I sipped my tea and ate his stale cake. ‘Merry Christmas.’

  ‘Not yet, it isn’t.’

  Christie rose slowly from the table and put on the jacket he’d hung over the back of his chair.

  ‘Not staying?’ I said, examining the local paper spread out before me.

  ‘Places to go. The house is your own.’

  ‘I know it is,’ I countered. ‘And don’t you forget it.’ One parlour game to me.

  ‘I’ll be back at six to start my bonfire.’

  I followed him out into the hall, trying the handle of the locked lounge door as I passed, loudly enough for him to hear.

  ‘What happened to our decorations?’ I asked. ‘We used to have several boxes.’

  The old man was struggling with his shoelaces. I didn’t help him.

  ‘And what’s this with the old caravan site?’ I said, indicating the article I’d read.

  ‘Deconstruction,’ he replied, eyes focused on his feet.

  ‘It’s hideous. What are they putting in its place?’

  He stood up, wheezing, and limped forward into mild sunshine.

  ‘Nothing.’

  I followed, handing him his walking stick.

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘Not if they find things.’ He unearthed a strange-looking plant from the ground, exposing a huddle of pink, swollen tubers.

  ‘These shouldn’t be ready this time of year.’

  I stepped back inside the house.

  ‘I’ll have something else for you to burn later. My puppet.’

  ‘Not working any more?’ he said, over his shoulder.

  ‘Retired,’ I replied, and shut the door on him.

  The bleak monotony of the muddy shoreline was lifted only by the distant dance of little red wellingtons far behind. Echoes of light laughter overtook me on the breeze as someone closer, concealed on the far side of the approaching breaker, kicked pebbles repeatedly against the wooden barrier. I refrained from operating the bag in this exposed area, progressing instead along the coastal path toward the strange sunken mast that bordered the marshes. This tall concrete post stood out bleakly against the horizon, as it had done ever since I was a boy, a rusted sign nailed to its front stating ‘Keep Out’. I was still unsure what purpose it had once served, but thought perhaps it could have formed part of an electrical generator servicing the nearby caravan site. Unchanged, it stood grim and obsolete while I leaned against it and watched the trail behind, cradling my cigarette from the wind.

  Ahead, the path grew slippery as it rose toward the crest of a wide ridge overlooking a large, artificial crater. Formed by a jettisoned wartime bomb, this enclosed ravine was broken only by the slow progress of a shallow, man-made stream through its centre. The path, dipping sharply as I continued toward a low wooden bridge, crossed the green and stagnant water, disappearing again over the opposite rim.

  The bridge itself retained most of its original slats, yet one or two had fallen away over the years, exposing a pool of foul silt below. I stepped across, looking down at the clay bank rising from the water’s edge, noticing several holes in the mud that looked like the work of small animals. I considered planting Possum inside one so that my half-buried likeness could surprise the unwary children following behind, but then I thought of a better plan.

  Removing Possum from the bag, I left the bridge and stepped down with him into the stream below, my feet sinking deep into the thick, oily mud. Using the roll of tape I always carried with me, I manoeuvred myself beneath the bridge and fastened Possum’s body securely to the rotting planks, directing his face so that the eyes stared back up through the slats. Returning to the top, I was pleased to discover that the effect was quit
e disarming, and would prove so, I hoped, to my approaching billy goats.

  I left Possum to do his work and moved onward, out of the ravine and across an expanse of wet marsh towards the abandoned caravan site beyond. As I approached, cleansing the mud from my boots in deep puddles, I heard the resounding thud of electrical machinery. The approach to the site involved crossing a stile situated halfway along an elongated hedge, concealing the cabins beyond from view. I was surprised to find, however, that this had now disappeared, along with many of the caravans I had expected to see on the far side. Some distance away, a slow mechanical digger was shifting piles of rubble toward a larger mound. Across what remained of the park stood a few of the oldest cabins, built decades before to capitalise on the town’s short-lived tourist trade. Many were blackened by what must have been a recent fire on the site, their walls and doors plastered with offensive graffiti. On one, a small naked doll had been tied to the remains of a twisted television aerial.

  As I walked around the edge of the site, away from the digger, I encountered a ‘No Trespassing’ sign posted up by the local council. Rain began to fall in large, heavy droplets, and the ground rapidly grew sodden. I sat down on an old tyre and watched as the man operating the digger shut off its engine and wandered over to a small truck parked at the far edge of the site. The vehicle moved off onto the main road and headed back towards town, leaving the site deserted.

  I felt around in my bag for my tool case. Opening it, I removed a small chisel I kept with me for repairs and began to sift through the mud around my feet, smelling the yellow earth caught on its metal blade. I carved a large smiling face into the muddy ground and watched as the rain slowly destroyed its features, then walked back to collect Possum.

  At first I thought the tape must have worked loose in the rain, but then I saw how far the puppet had moved from the vicinity of the bridge, and decided that a real dog must have dragged it there. It couldn’t have been one of the children, and closer examination of the muddy bank behind Possum revealed small paw marks, almost completely eroded by the recent downfall. Possum’s head had been mauled at the ears, and one of the eyes was protruding slightly more prominently than usual. I kicked him around in the wet for a while and stamped hard on his face, wondering whether it was worth burying him permanently beneath the mud at the caravan site. Then I remembered the digger, packed him up in my bag and walked home.

  ‘I’d like a demonstration before I burn him,’ said Christie, opening two tins of cheap lager for us. ‘Nothing special, but I want to see how the legs work.’

  ‘Trade secret,’ I replied, lighting the candles. When this was done he finally removed our meals from the oven.

  ‘What other puppets do you use?’

  ‘Several, but I want this one burned.’

  He served me the larger dish, which I realised was the dead fox.

  ‘I heard about your last performance,’ he said, popping his half-smoked cigarette in Possum’s mouth, whom I’d sat in the guest’s chair between us. ‘One of my old teaching colleagues wrote to me about it. An unpredictable affair, by all accounts.’

  I ignored the comment and jabbed at the sticky burnt carcass staring up at me from my plate.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ I said. ‘Care to swap?’

  Grinning, my host tucked greedily into what appeared to be a small bird.

  ‘You forgot party crackers,’ I said, sipping from my tin.

  ‘And grace,’ he replied, removing a small shred of bone from his upper lip.

  ‘They’ll take me back,’ I said, poking my fork at Possum, ‘once he’s gone.’

  ‘We’ll need gloves to get rid of it,’ Christie said. ‘It’s diseased.’

  I examined my hands, which I sensed were peeling terribly and starting to bleed, and felt my face. I was covered.

  ‘Eczema,’ I said, hiding what I could of me beneath the table.

  ‘Remember,’ said Christie, his mouth full. ‘A demonstration.’

  The front half of the cabin was severely smoke-damaged, although in places I could still make out graffiti beneath the blackened panelling. The place stank of urine and petrol, and I sat at the back with my bag, near to where the bathroom had once been, and watched the remains of the site through a charred breach in the van opposite.

  It was about midday when I crouched down on my knees so that I could not see out and crawled across the cabin floor. I examined where the cupboard used to be and touched the far side of the rear wall with my hands, feeling for the faint words scratched somewhere upon its surface. I leaned closer, sniffing at the floor, then gasped suddenly and withdrew. I stood up, returned to the seat, and opened my black bag.

  I pulled Possum out and sat him on my lap. His body felt softer on one side. When I pressed my fingers against the fur, the insides gave a little, and I assumed they must be damaged in some way. His protruding eye, too, had broken open. A crack to the outer shell had caused a small leakage that ran down Possum’s face, looking like dried egg yolk and smelling vaguely of chemicals.

  I pulled his tongue down and tucked stray hairs behind his mauled ears. The wiring mechanism now broken, I extended, manually, each of his legs, until he sat astride me. I lay back against the seat, stretching my body lengthways, pulling him on top of me so that his face rested inches from my own. I slung his two front paws over my shoulders, opened my own mouth to mirror his, and stared back into his contaminated eyes. Then, with my tongue, I removed one of the dead flies from his.

  ‘Don’t,’ I said, and swallowed it. One by one, I ate them all. When Possum’s mouth was clear, I lifted him from me, very gently, and sat myself up. I resisted the urge to retch and removed the tool case from my black bag. Having selected a blade, I picked up Possum, bit his ear without warning and threw him roughly to the floor. I knelt down on top of him and sawed at his nose, slowly and methodically, until I had sliced off its tip. I stuffed the severed segment inside his mouth and angled his limbs against the floor. With my boot I snapped each joint in turn and threw the broken legs out of the open window. I seized Possum’s torso and thrust my arm inside. Crying out as the razors cut deeply into my wounds, I smashed the puppet hard against the wall, rocking the unstable cabin, before scraping the mutilated face against every sharp and jagged surface I could see. I removed my arm then, which was bleeding heavily, and took the scissors from my tool bag. I snipped off Possum’s hair and jammed the tattered clumps between his teeth. I stabbed his eyes repeatedly with both blades until the weak one gave way entirely, spurting a glob of liquid over my fingers and up the scissor blade. I spat back at him, attempting to gouge a channel from one eyehole to the other, across his nose. The wax proved too strong, and instead I cut my own fingers. Grabbing a blunt wooden pole from my bag, I struck his head several times before shoving the blunt end of the pole into his mouth. When I’d finished thrusting, his head pinned and useless against the cabin wall, I gathered what was left of him beneath my arm and threw him into the corner. I kicked his stomach repeatedly until it caved in, exposing the stained wooden handle inside. I stuffed the belly with junk and threw Possum through the broken doorway, out into the yard beyond. Then I sucked the blood from my fingers, picked up my bag and left the cabin.

  I stood as close to the flames as I could bear, hoping that my clothes would retain the smell of smoke. Christie shovelled in another heap of rubbish, momentarily stifling the blaze. I opened my bag and pulled out Possum’s head, which I’d severed from his body with a spade while Christie had ransacked the last of my bedroom cupboards.

  ‘Season’s greetings,’ I said, tossing it across the grass towards him. ‘Too late for a demonstration.’

  ‘You should let me fix it,’ he said. ‘I like fixing things.’

  I lifted up the headless remains and threw them on the bonfire. Smoke curled around the bent, twisted nails wrenched incompletely from the neck as a sharp, sulphurous odour burned my nostri
ls. Flames snapped loudly against the coarse, brown fur as Christie held up the decapitated head and laughed.

  ‘A broken toy,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t have.’

  ‘I saw it and thought of you,’ I replied, which made him laugh even more. I lit us both cigarettes while Christie perched what remained of Possum on an old wooden stool. He stuck his own inside the puppet’s mouth and begged another. When we’d finished, he lifted up the head ceremoniously and dropped it on the bonfire, along with my watch, smiling to himself as he jammed them deep into the blazing compost with his pitchfork.

  ‘How will you spend your Christmas day?’ he asked.

  ‘Exercising,’ I replied.

  ‘Exorcising?’

  ‘Past the school, if you must know.’

  ‘The school.’ Christie’s face was a mischievous grin. ‘I taught you there once.’

  ‘I know. You died reading us a story.’

  ‘I came especially, the day after that business with the fox. To teach you all a lesson.’

  I watched Possum’s face blacken and bubble, collapsing gradually into soft clear rivers of molten wax.

  ‘Now that was a game to remember,’ Christie continued. ‘The looks on your faces. You should have seen yourselves.’

  ‘I’ll be out all day,’ I said, zipping up my coat.

  ‘Children talk such rot.’ The flames began to rise again as he turned over a pile of burning rags. ‘When there’s no one there to reassure them.’

  The eyes fell out together, exposing two pallid-looking sockets. I went inside and tried, without success, to force open the lounge door.

  I had meant to purchase my return ticket, but realised upon reaching the station that there would be no trains leaving until the following day. I wandered for an hour or so until I gathered enough courage to enter one of the few pubs that were open. There I stomached a strong whisky and some fatty sandwiches as the sun went down, before heading out once more, away from insufferable partygoers, into the darkness of the surrounding streets.