by Steve Aylett
4th August. Leggahorn, Hazlitt and myself went to waterfall in jungle. Hazlitt claimed a carp was smiling at him. Gathered a few coconuts. In our absence Forfang promoted Amberley to bosun and maimed him with a marlin’s nose. Funeral service disrupted when Death broke from the ranks and embarked upon a hornpipe dance.
5th August. Fogg approached me with a belt. I departed to a sandbank where crew were burning flags. Hazlitt threw in a crab which exploded with such a deafening report that the savages ran to our aid, careering back into the jungle under a volley of muskets. Crew hollered a shanty, each verse of which ended ‘Kill the Captain for his trousers’. John Conk kept time by stabbing himself repeatedly in the back and Death, though unsure at first, soon picked up a few words. All’s well.
6th August. Cook came juddering out of the jungle yelling that every animal in the world was after him - I was just telling him to have a shave when a bleak-featured panther peered through the leaves and proceeded to pounce amid the crew, who awoke and began discharging muskets at each other, tearing their trousers from the mouths of tigers and bellowing obscenities - I know not fully the number of beasts which pursued us from the beach but a dozen cats of the sneering variety swam alongside our landing-boat, from which we hurled coconuts and volleys of inventive abuse. Crew boarded ship and stumbled hollering amid coconuts, punching each other and pitching overboard. Told Harker that all was well and that we were underway. Peeing over rail, he relayed the order to Mr Byron, who unlashed himself from the wheel and collapsed with groan into coconuts. Lion conveyed aboard clasped to anchor - bit Hazlitt on the arm and stumbled amid coconuts as sails bellied out and we moved off, low in water and overrun with deadly jungle cats. Barricaded door of cabin with coconuts and settled down to pipe and Smollett. Crew say goodnight to one-another and fall asleep lashed to rigging.
7th August. We are safely escaped from the island and no man has suffered disease, save for ship’s doctor, who as a result of venturing on deck has contracted malaria. Cook still a little feverish this morning but when I sat aside his bunk and enquired as to our coordinates he suddenly revived, strangling empty air and shrieking with laughter. Gave him a coconut and told him to rest. Forfang wrestles lions on deck. John Conk apparently complains that Darly is lashed to rigging too close to him, and asks to be moved. Crew jeer. Leggahorn and myself have lunch with Death, who tries to describe native ritual and resorts to demonstration, causing Leggahorn and I to black out. Leopard in the bulkhead.
8th August. Three lions trapped in saloon - tempted in by barrel of coconut milk. Berringer locked door laughing and swallowed key, halting in mid-holler and gasping for medical assistance. Leggahorn carried doctor on deck and all hands leapt overboard.
9th August. At dinner Leggahorn made as though to expound a theory as to where we are, and breaking into laughter concluded ‘At sea’. Just then Berringer entered and, guessing at what had been discussed, drove Leggahorn’s head thirty times against the table, leaving him wild-haired and unresponsive. Saw Darly, whom I still secretly address as Jonathan, dancing today.
10th August. Forfang wrestled two lions and a leopard into landing-boat, setting them adrift. John Tunny remarked indignantly that they weren’t even rowing. Told him to simmer down. Crew unlash themselves from rigging and climb down with easy laughter and conversation. I slap Forfang on the back and awake on the wheel box. All’s well.
11th August. Heat very strong today. Leggahorn resourceful in organising network of gangplanks over coconuts on deck. Crew burn a few flags. Forfang gave Darly a kick in the belly for snagging his trousers. Darly made gurgling sounds in throat and thrashed his tail, knocking over buckets. He’s not all there, if you seek my opinion.
12th August. Hot sun. Sea calm. Batch teaches Death to foam at the mouth. Death quickly becoming one of the crew. I walk on deck, laughing about coconuts. Crew glare at me, unmoved. I remark aloud that we shall not lack for food, and go swiftly below as Berringer stands.
13th August. Hot again - no wind. Ship low in still water. Threw a few coconuts at the Hammerheads. Death joined me at rail demonstrating new skill - commended him and spoke of the sea. Showed him the sneering Hammerheads. Crew hack out strips of canvas and rig up hammocks on deck. Some make a man out of coconut shells, naming it Old Shaky. I go below and look at pictures of greyhounds.
14th August. Still no wind. Crew awoke complaining of bad dreams and visitations from the dead. I went before crew with the conviction that those who are dead remain so. John Tunny belligerently asserted that he possessed the ruddiest bum on the high seas - I retreated with the repeated assurance that I believed him.
15th August. Still no wind. Mr Byron lashed himself to wheel hollering ‘It’s a typhoon lads - biggest I’ve ever seen’ until Forfang knocked him senseless. Went and thanked him on behalf of the men and awoke near the cathead. John Conk struck up a shanty about bloody murder, keeping time by clubbing himself over the head with an oar. Batch confers aloud with his grandfather. I go below and thoughtfully devour coconuts.
16th August. No wind. Spoke to Fogg at rail, commending him for his steady service. He did not regard me but whispered urgently for silence so that he could ‘hear the actors speaking’. I looked out to sea, but could perceive nothing but green fields. Advised him to go below and rest but he pushed me aside yelling that he had paid for this balcony and ‘on t’balcony I’ll stay!’
17th August. Berringer entered cabin with cutlass today and made remarks. Told him I would give them consideration, at which he left hollering with laughter. I consult with my mother and she tells me to ‘simmer down’.
18th August. I stroll on deck, ducking under hammocks. Leggahorn reports a ‘large, angry face’ off the starboard bow and I respond with hilarity. Batch grows a mushroom in his hat. I roll up a chart and, striding, shout through it from the sterncastle that coconuts are the stuff of life. Crew strike up a shanty and dance on deck, pointing in amazement at empty air. I ascend to crow’s nest and set light to my trousers, dropping them into sea like burning bird. New bosun - Old Shaky. Forfang and Death ensnare a magistrate. I go below, laughing.
19th August. Leggahorn and I attempt to sit Darly at table but he writhes off and away. Finally achieved by tying him in chair with length of cable about belly. Seated facing away from cabin door, turned to leer at John Conk who entered heartily and fainted. Laughter.
20th August. Carved miniature pelican from coconut today. Spoke to Harker as he was peeing over rail - told me it was ‘a voyage and a half, this one’ and laughed himself scarlet. Leggahorn and I spend the afternoon hallucinating. Sun sets through tattered sails as Berringer shoots a gull. All’s well.
21st August. Leggahorn and I hallucinate all morning, and then take Death aside to teach him rules of pontoon. Crew gather round, placing bets, but to everyone’s alarm Death wins and begins dancing his joy - eight men fall unconscious and two leap overboard. Four strong men tie him to mast and forbid him to participate in any such game. He seems confused though eager to comply.
22nd August. Watched basking sharks at rail. Remarked to Mr Byron that it were good to spend one’s life doing nought but drifting around with one’s mouth agape, to which he agreed and added that he would do the same were he in my position. In the afternoon, ship overrun with pirates who fastened crew below at sabre-point and set fire to Old Shaky. Complimented the Captain on his colourful garments. Captain said his name was Murder and, inspecting with a frown the deck arrangement of planks and coconuts, asked me mine. I could not recall it and, gasping with laughter, told him so, at which he ceased his inspection and regarded me with raised eyebrows. I am to spend this night lashed to the flying jib, which Captain Murder says might refresh my memory.
23rd August. Strode the deck with Captain Murder. Offered him a coconut, which he knocked to the deck with the others. Told him I run a tight ship, at which he roared with laughter and said he admired a man with a sense of humour, and that he intended to take my ship and kill myself and the crew. B
ecame indignant at my flushed hilarity. Murder’s mate came slamming up through the hatch snarling ‘Calenture, Captain - sunstroke - savage foamin’ at the gob’ and offered his opinion that ‘the ship’s cursed sir - all barkin’ mad as the ides o’ march - coconuts everywhere’. At that another dog of fortune burst out of the aft hatch bellowing ‘Crocodile eatin’ soup at the Captain’s table’. Captain swore that he would find a decent meal aboard if it killed him. Hacked his way into saloon and was eaten by three lions. I climb rigging and watch pirates pursued overboard by lions and vessel uncoupling in alarm, moving off with man-eaters roaring on deck. I eat coconuts and watch their retreat, laughing.
24th August. Crew refuse to come above, hollering that all manner of misery occurs on deck. Leggahorn and myself attempted to negotiate but reasoning marred by sudden appearance on deck of Forfang, who fired musket into darkness - their response was one of screams and abuse. With uncommon bravery, Leggahorn prods Forfang’s arm and leaps overboard. Cook has locked himself in galley shouting about ‘persecution’ and smashing his equipment. Darly looked at me today, with his big eye.
25th August. Land sighted - crew erupt above punching each other senseless and straining at the rail. All voiced aloud their notions - ‘Cadiz! Tobago! Benidorm! The Cape! Purgatory!’ - as town and port became visible. Mr Byron lashed himself to wheel and bade the world farewell. John Tunny became frantic and wondered aloud if we should hoist a flag. Nobody could remember. Drifted near to harbour and set off hollering in landing boats. At wall crew pushed past me as I stood on steps speaking of courtesy and caution, and dashed bellowing into town. Foreigner asked me if I was English - embraced me - asked me into tavern. Told me I was in Havana, at which I took up a brace of pistols and threatened every man present. Backed out blasting away with both hands and bumped into old friend, Burdett, who greeted me with delight and invited me into tavern. Occupants shrieked and ran as I re-entered, and Burdett poured wine and told me of recent events - treaty with Spain, no more killing of Spaniards for us and so on. Told him of damage to ship, eating of charts, arrival of Darly, Death, Old Shaky and my mother, and of many other events which had occurred during the voyage, at which he was aghast. I said that stranger things happen at sea, to which he replied with uncommon emphasis that this was not the case. Forfang entered with Darly on chain and I shouted goodbye to Burdett as he left. Forfang has left me Darly to care for and I am to attempt slumber at an inn this night.
26th August. Took Darly for skitter through town this morning - looked for crew. Saw many citizens who turned and ran. Saw Harker at harbour wall, peeing over rail. Passing ladies disturbed at view. I went and spoke with him, suggesting he attend to his toilet elsewhere. ‘I would,’ he laughed, ‘if I ‘ad one!’ Continued to pee over rail, and soon seemed unaware of my presence. Entered rowdy tavern. Chained Darly to banister. Met woman who threw herself onto my lap from other side of the room. On the way upstairs thought I saw Berringer’s arm in crowd, but as I drew near it punched me senseless. This night I am indisposed in house filled with draperies.
27th August. Scarlet Bella and myself walk Darly through town - look for crew. Bella remarks on man peeing over rail. Laughter. Surprised to see Captain Murder’s mate with arm in sling – became enraged when I asked what had happened. Scarlet Bella punched him in the nose and we moved on. Taught Darly to stagger short distance on hind legs - how we roared!
28th August. Spent the day in bed, writing, carving dogs from driftwood and singing dirges. Received a visit from Murder’s mate, who made a remark and forced a scrap of paper into my hand, leaving with a slam. Unwrapped it but none the wiser - message obscured by great spot of spilt ink. Folded paper into tiny boat which sank in basin.
29th August. Walked out with Scarlet Bella - witnessed Harker being placed under arrest. Interceded on his behalf and was taken to fort in chains. Cuban officer circled me and became bellicose - criticised my ears, asked me my name. Explained to him that I could not recall this information. Slammed his fist on desk and prodded rampantly at statement, demanding a signature. Told him to find a man called Burdett who would probably know my name. Officer said he had no time to waste and told me to sign with a cross. This I did, scribbling above it a rudimentary order promoting him to bosun. As he took it wall exploded with French cannonball and buried him in rubble. I search dungeon, shooting guards and flicking spiders from my apparel. Find Harker and rest of crew, who tell me they have been arrested for witchcraft. Escape to woodland, where by light of campfire Death entertains us with impression of gasping mackerel.
30th August. Hazlitt says we should go to the harbour dressed as dogs. Rest of crew disagree, claiming that beagles would be more appropriate. Death asks ‘What are beagles’ and after startled thought, crew decline to reply. Berringer goes out to kill a bear but returns with some weeds which John Tunny adds to a stew. After eating, everyone blacks out and are finally awoken only by heavy thunderstorm. Mr Byron holds wet finger to wind and nods with a smile. John Conk begins shrieking.
31st August. We wander aboardship at four in morning. Berringer grips me by the arm and claims through clenched teeth that he is ‘exhausted’. John Conk has gone bananas and believes the world is run by a bear playing the trumpet. Sea stormy. At noon three ships appear in pursuit, bringing down our crossjack with cannonfire. I tell Berringer to change his shirt. He comes at me with axe but Leggahorn intercedes, punching my face. Fire amidships. I rush to consult with cook but he is chopping onions. We take another hit and ship water. New bosun - Glasby. Forfang attempts to wrap me in burning canvas. I tell Harker that all is well. Crew celebrate in final moments and fire Glasby from cannon, taking out mainsail of leading ship. Leggahorn remarks amid renewed jubilation that the Iguana has no cannons aboard, and that we must be aboard someone else’s ship. Crew cease cheering. Forfang makes a remark and fires cannon, sinking Iguana with all hands. Crew begin fighting on deck, vaulting over fallen masts and choking each other against the rails. Big seas aboard. I announce my plans to marry. Mr Byron leans back on wheel and chuckles at the progress of his career. John Conk staggers out of the spray holding a fern. We founder on reef and leap into the tempest. Bad omen.
1st September. Spent morning on beach chatting with crew who sit sobbing among rockpools. Announced that it seemed voyage was at an end, that they had performed admirably and I would welcome the chance to sail with them again. Berringer took his hands from his face and, after a pause, lunged at me with animal yell. A flushed Forfang interceded brandishing oar and I awoke on empty beach. Spent a few hours wandering beach looking for driftwood and colourful shells. Found urchin with black eyes. Wear it on my head in rain and start back to England, where I am to present my report.
THE MAN WHOSE HEAD EXPANDED
Brank Osmen’s head parted the city in slow surging waves, immense clouds of powdered glass and concrete getting in his eyes. Not too shabby, but more than he bargained for. As his forehead barged twenty blocks of offices and hotels into the river, he knew the truth makes no exceptions.
Headgloves had become popular when plastic surgery was found to be insufficient. Twitches of human expression would sometimes disarrange and disturb the desired blandness – headgloves avoided this problem by being entirely artificial, a whole-head mask. These became thicker over the years, incorporating embedded nano servo-motors to replicate certain select expressions. People could buy celebrity heads, the deader the eyes the higher the price. The real head of a headglove wearer had to be surgically shrunken to roughly the size of a potato. People wore the headglove their whole lives, their real head shrivelled and forgotten. Some, rich only in money, had their actual head dwindled to the size of a maggot.
The Contraflow Revolutionary Army fought alone, without any lies to help them. Their enemy seemed a weak one, a people who were helpless without disguise and feared honesty like fire. Contraflow favoured girls who exploded out of nowhere with huge tiger smiles, faces of a thousand muscles and two-handled gullwing sedan guns with
retro Gatling drums the size of turnstiles. The media’s misinterpretation prerogative named them the Nobhead Liberation Army and Brank liked this so much he changed the name officially, laughing the big laugh.
You could tell who was under a mask - smiles didn’t reach the eyes, the eyes were false and rain bounced off. Dr Buck’s compound, administered by intravenous dart, reversed the head-shrinkage process and the public got their first view of this when a chat-show host’s outer head spatted suddenly like a snipered melon, crumbling open to make way for a swelling grey abomination. His real head, which hadn’t seen the light of day for forty years, squalled like a child against a dark caul of mould and steaming slime, several cockroaches darting to escape the sudden exposure. Overnight the Nobhead Liberation Army became oppression excuse number one. The authorities asserted that the assaults on headgloves were not activated by a desire to dispose of headgloves: why would anyone? Knowing that a crime investigation was doomed if the motive was so strenuously denied, Brank felt safe.
The Army’s headquarters was upstairs from an old chapel fronted by relay monks who dispensed ominous looks to entrants and clasped precaution razors between their prayhands. The night of his weekly broadcast Brank made the sign of the Errorverse and entered. Not for him an imprecise, amateur apocalypse open to interpretation. Upstairs he passed a rack of carbines and the modified jacuzzi in which several gallons of Dr Buck’s incendiary antidote swirled, enough for a city.
Brank loved how much people hated his adolescent doorframe sermonising and so did a lot of other people. A thriving trade had begun in the sound files. He sat at the broadcast desk now and gathered his thoughts, feeling as useless as a hen on a garbage island. Usually he couldn’t wait to finish one insult to the populace before beginning the next. He looked up at the skylight roof, and the striplamp swaying on its chain like a bit of sky come loose. Man was he one fried monkey.
