Читать книгу Danny Yates Must Die - Stephen Walker - Страница 10

The Great Osmosis sat in the dressing room of a closed down Working Men’s Club. Where once he’d heard the babble of club members awaiting the next act, he now heard silence.

And it didn’t matter. He no longer needed the applause of fools. Holding his bucket steady on his head, he sat before the huge wall mirror. With the softest of cloths he polished his precious pail. When that pail gleamed with all the vigour of Lancelot’s armour, he put aside the cloth. He placed the lid on the polish. He twisted tight its tiny latch. And he leaned forward, eyes narrowing to better admire the bucket.

In that mirror’s cracked reflections he glimpsed the past …

… March 28th, 1984. In that club, a novice magician donned his white gloves and marked his debut by making his pretty young wife disappear.

He’d been trying to saw her in half.

Confused, but hiding his desperation, he looked beneath the cabinet. He looked above it. He checked either side of it. He checked inside it. He checked beneath the curtains. He checked above the curtains. Still he found no sign of her.

Accompanied by boos, jeers and beer glasses hurled from the audience, he fled the stage, in tears.

When he got backstage and sobbed against the wall, what did he see by the fire extinguisher? Nothing less than his new bride kissing the club secretary. She spotted him. She threw back her head and laughed.

Days later, jobless and wifeless, he sat by the ring road and cried into a bucket – the only thing that could never betray him. And he knew what he must do.

He stood up, donned that faithful bucket so he wouldn’t see the onrushing traffic, and said goodbye to the world.

He stepped forward.

But, as he was about to step into the road, a miracle happened. A comic book blew onto his bucket. It was Man Fish, the last ever issue, where the soon-to-retire artist had finally granted El Dritch his deserved victory. Oh the writer had tried to hide Man Fish’s defeat, with captions that claimed being torn in half, and squashed by a mountain, was part of Man Fish’s master plan. Osmosis knew better.

His new career began with the founding of a small comic shop on that very site. He kept it spotless. Herbolt Myson was added to the stock, then model kits, then posters; all things that in childhood had given Osmosis hope of escape.

And a new dream was born …

… But now a boy threatened that dream. He’d destroyed the shop, the very foundation of Osmosis’ empire. What if he should strike at other parts of that kingdom; the tenements, the skyscraper, the munitions works? An empire cannot stand without foundations.

And, as he gazed into that mirror, Osmosis again knew what must be done.

Danny Yates must die.

‘Danny? What’re you doing here?’ Lucy stood at the far end of the hallway, in boxer shorts and a vest, holding a TV set. Hair dangling over one eye, she gave a shapeless grin.

Danny stood just inside the flat’s opened front door. ‘This is my home too – in case you hadn’t noticed.’

Carrying the TV into his bedroom, she called through to him. ‘Used to be your home. The Great Osmo materialized ten minutes ago. As of the moment you left hospital, you no longer lived here. Of course, technically, you’ve not lived here for the last six months, but your lease was still valid, so he’s been debiting rent from your bank regardless. Did he mention that during his visit?’

Teeth grinding, Danny dug his fingernails, talon-like, into the sides of the grocery box he held pressed against his chest.

Lucy explained: ‘At first he did it coz he thought it’d be what you’d have wanted had you lived, sort of a memorial. Then, when he discovered you had lived, he just plain emptied your account and went on holiday with it. I’ve never seen him so angry.’ Her head popped round the door; ‘If I were you, Daniel, I would not go round to complain,’ then popped back again.

Her voice receded deeper into his bedroom. ‘Anyway, he’s given me your room. Is this your wardrobe? Or did it come with the flat? If it’s not yours, bags it’s mine.’

‘Lucy, how could you do this to me? I thought we were friends. Well, no, I never thought we were friends but …’

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she said against the swish of coat hangers being test driven along wardrobe rails. ‘There’s nothing personal in this but you know I’ve always wanted this room. I’m a growing girl, Danny, or intend to be. Once I’ve had my breast implants, I won’t even be able to get through my old room’s door.’

‘You’re not really going through with that?’

‘Too right I am. Soon as I’ve graduated, and earned some real money, my chest will be a whole new barrel of fish. Besides, it’s not fair that whenever some new kid moves in they always get this room, when I’ve been here the longest.’ Spring spring. Creak creak. Boing boing creak. ‘This bed’s great.’ Boing. ‘Did it come with the flat?’

He closed the front door, taking a final look around the dingy hallway. Today was the third anniversary of his moving in. On that first day, he’d inadvertently set himself alight. On the second, Lucy had electrocuted him; accidentally, she’d claimed, though laughing too readily whenever retelling the tale to friends. On the third day had been the blender incident. Subsequent events had taken a turn for the worse.

There’d been a third flatmate, Josephine. She sang; like Aretha Franklin, in her sleep – like Bill Franklyn, while awake. And she danced; like Baryshnikov, while asleep – like Barry Sheene, while awake. She acted; like Olivier, while asleep – like Olive Oyl, while awake.

Josephine Daly sold eighty million albums, won three Grammies, two Larries (and an Emmy for her X-Files guest spot as ‘Snoring Alien on the Left’) but had slept through the whole thing. She’d believed she only worked at Mr Kake’s Bakery – her day job – never accepting Danny’s attempts to tell her otherwise.

When two workmen arrived, one midnight, to put the Sleeping Diva in a packing crate and mail her to Hollywood, Osmo’d immediately replaced her with Maria, the flatmate no one had ever seen. Clearly Danny would never get to see her now.

What to do next?

The rattits squeaked in their box, oblivious to all worry. Should he give them names? George and Ira? Arnold and Sylvester? For that matter, what sex were they? No way would he be checking, his Aunt Fi having always warned that only people you don’t want to meet go round checking animal genitalia without veterinary need. And she should have known, having been married to Uncle Fred.

Danny’s index finger stroked a rodentine back. Whatever sex they were, those two lumps of scraggy fur were all he had left in the world.

Lucy reappeared from her new bedroom, for the first time noticed his grocery box and, after a pause, asked, ‘Did those rats come with the flat?’

When he left, Danny left ratless.