Twisthorn Bellow Read online

  * * * * *

  Hapi was another thing on its way. He rang from the airport and Dancin’ picked up the telephone. At first she refused to believe the speaker was really who he claimed to be. Only after he revealed secrets about her sole that nobody else could know did she accept the fact that Hapi had learned to talk like a normal monster.

  Dancin’ took the news to Abortia, who took it directly to Twisthorn in his bed. Two nurses lay on either side of him and when Abortia made her announcement he sat up with such force that the blankets slipped onto the floor, revealing long legs sheathed in black stockings and suspenders with many complicated hooks.

  The nurses also wore lingerie . . .

  But actually the golem was interrogating the underwear, not enjoying the smooth sensuous feel of the satin on his groin. Clothes were the new enemy! Although he was still supposed to be relaxing, he wanted to get as much work done as possible.

  So far, the stockings were refusing to admit anything significant but he expected them to crack soon.

  Abortia repeated her item of news and the golem blinked. “Learned to speak! How did that happen?”

  “Probably the result of a severe shock. He jumped over a behemoth on water-skis,” answered Abortia.

  “Why was a behemoth wearing water-skis?”

  “We don’t know yet, but a more important thing is that Hapi was also wearing water-skis. Maybe it was a factor in what happened. There’s one way of finding out for sure and that is to dissect him, but I’m against that idea and I hope you are too.”

  “Of course! Twisthorn waved a hand.

  “Do you like my new coat?” Abortia asked after a pause.

  “Certainly not! It’s disgusting!”

  “But it gives my waldo such a graceful figure . . . I love the way it feels on my solenoids and it hangs on my steel grabbers like their own skin and it didn’t come from France.”

  “That’s not really the issue, Miss Stake!”

  She pouted. “But I am allowed to wear it, aren’t I? You won’t force me to destroy the only gift I’ve ever been given! Please say you won’t do that, Mr Bellow. I couldn’t bear it!”

  Twisthorn sighed, idly caressing nurse thighs with glazed fingers. “I’ll let you keep it until the end of the month. Then every item of clothing any Agency monster possesses must be thrown into an untidy pile and burned with flame-throwers—an event I don’t intend to witness personally due to my literally explosive nature.”

  Grateful for this reprieve, Abortia walked away. But Twisthorn called her back on the threshold. “One moment, Miss Stake! What colour would you say your new coat was?”

  Abortia frowned. “Fawn, isn’t it?”

  * * * * *

  Professor Cherlomsky sat on a sofa in Limbo and squinted at a television set that stood on a tripod at the focal point of a hyperbola, the curve of which was defined by other sofas on which sat or sprawled other souls unable to find a place in Heaven or Hell.

  The professor shook his head, then swivelled it to attract the attention of Zimara, who slouched on a beanbag set a little apart. This beanbag was a pearly grey colour, exactly the same shade as the sofas, easy chairs, the sky, the ground, the television and the show apparently in progress on the screen. To Cherlomsky it looked like static shrouded in fog. So why was everyone else laughing loudly?

  Zimara ignored him and kept giggling.

  The show was Whose Sin is it Anyway? but the professor couldn’t see or hear anything that might indicate a show really was taking place. With a growl he stood up and stamped off, taking care to knock against the legs of Zimara as he left the recreation area. His friend jumped up and walked after him, snatching his sleeve.

  “What’s wrong? Have I offended you?”

  The professor gritted his teeth and gave a curt shake of the head. “You haven’t, my friend, no it’s not your fault, nor the fault of any of the ghosts back there. It’s just that I can’t seem to fit in properly. I just don’t feel able to join in. I guess this isn’t the way I imagined the Afterlife to be. For one thing it’s boring. Extremely.”

  Zimara chuckled. “Of course it’s boring!”

  “Why should that be so?”

  “Because it’s Limbo, professor! It’s a waiting area, no more than that. Facilities are minimal. You could have had that woman I offered but you turned her down simply because she doesn’t know what marmite is and so failed to be British enough.”

  “I’ve never known the test to fail!”

  “Personally I think you’re deluding yourself in that regard. Marmite is also manufactured in South Africa using the same recipe and methods as in the English factories . . . ”

  The professor sagged. “Is it?”

  “But that’s hardly the point,” continued Zimara. “A woman might have made your time here more endurable. As it is . . . But let’s not despair. You haven’t tried the telescope yet.”

  “Lead me to it, my friend,” said Cherlomsky.

  Zimara showed him an area of Limbo that was deserted. The telescope was a huge device pointed at the ground at a sharp angle, a fact that made the professor scratch his head when his friend urged him to look into the eyepiece. But Zimara explained that the image would penetrate the pearly stuff that constituted the floor of this dimension. Cherlomsky did what his friend recommended and tried to understand the meaning of what he saw. He nodded, then frowned.

  “More greyness with another telescope in the middle of it. That’s all I can see, nothing else at all!”

  “Focus on the eyepiece of the second telescope!”

  The professor’s vision zoomed through that other astronomical device, out of the front end, into a grander vista, into a higher order of magnified reality, into disappointment.

  “Yet another expanse of grey nothingness with yet another telescope in the centre!” he muttered.

  “Focus on the eyepiece of that one too!”

  Cherlomsky obeyed . . .

  And so it went on. Clearly Earth was a long way from Limbo, too far for a single telescope to bring the blue planet into focus on its own, so a whole series was required. Finally Cherlomsky penetrated the edge of this dire place and found himself peering out into the refreshing blackness of the void. “Interstellar space!”

  Zimara nodded. “There’s a final telescope in orbit around the nearest star. Focus on the eyepiece of that one and you should get your first clear view of sweet old Earth.”

  The professor exhaled his dead breath.

  “I can see it! My own dear world! I’m in the upper atmosphere, high above a landmass. I’ll increase magnification. It’s a country down there! Which one? Wait a minute! It’s France! Trust my luck! Now I’m diving into the centre of Paris. Through the window of the headquarters of the president. But he’s not there!”

  “Where has he gone? To buy onions?”

  “His bicycle is absent and there’s a missing stripy shirt inside his open wardrobe, so buying onions is the most logical answer. Strange how the front-page headline of the newspaper that’s lying on his desk is claiming that he’s currently working undercover as a postman in Britain on a secret mission. Shame I don’t speak French—then I would be able to understand the meaning of that statement!”

  “I’ve just had a good idea,” announced Zimara.

  “Oh yes?” said Cherlomsky.

  “While you’re observing France, why not spy on our old enemy, your former Dean, Monsieur Nutt?”

  “But I can’t guess where to start looking. He might be hiding in a cave somewhere in Alsace-Lorraine with the Walnut Whip Helmet jammed on his ugly head, for all I know.”

  “Yes, I heard that rumour,” said Zimara.

  * * * * *

  Hoping to bluster his way in with such exuberance that nobody would ask for details of his mission—which had actually failed—Hapi Daze arrived at the Agency full of words. He poured them out in a torrent, a cascade that was only staunched when Twisthorn uttered a curse that was also an engineering feat. “Dam!”


  Hapi broke off in mid-sentence. He blushed.

  “Well, did you get the poshodile?” demanded the golem. “Where is it? Show me its slaughtered corpse.”

  “There’s been a slight problem,” mumbled Hapi.

  “What’s problem exactly?”

  “Heeeey! Cool!” squeaked Hapi.

  “I don’t understand . . . ”

  “Richie! Heeeey! Cool!”

  “Please explain it more clearly than that. What are you trying to tell me? Was the corpse stolen?”

  Hapi jumped at this chance. “Yes! That’s it!”

  “Who by? Who took it?”

  “Upside Downey Jr . . . He stole the poshodile, it was him! He’s making moves to become overlord of crime, he has a new gun and all sorts of big plans. He’s the inverted culprit!”

  Twisthorn narrowed his yellow eyes and sniffed. “I’ll have to pay him a little visit sometime soon . . . ”

  Hapi might have swallowed then. But he had no throat.

  * * * * *

  Miss Abortia Stake began to make mistakes. However careful she thought she was whenever she did anything, something always went wrong. In the kitchen she dropped pots full of food, sprayed beetroot juice on the white walls, set fire to wooden spoons.

  In bathrooms she splashed dirty water on the floor, forgot to flush the toilet, dented new bars of soap.

  In the mail-room she knocked over her own potted plants, got opened and unopened letters mixed up.

  And lost the telephone down the incinerator . . .

  She found it impossible to sleep peacefully at night and thrashed in her bed, leaving her sheets rumpled and untidy. Sometimes her pillows ended up under her feet, she never knew how. Once she even sleepwalked out of her room, went down the stairs leading to the dungeons and unlocked the cell holding MeMeMeMeMe U.

  The yeti roared and pushed past her and escaped down a corridor. He ran straight through a brick wall and out into the night, tearing down part of the border fence to freedom.

  By the time Twisthorn and Hapi and Dancin’ woke up and gave chase he was long gone. The golem was furious with Abortia. He knew the yeti would return for revenge one day and that he was strong enough to pound all their skulls to clammy dust . . .

  Twisthorn arranged for the fence to be fixed, but he left the wall with a gaping hole, as a reminder that MeMeMeMeMe U shouldn’t be forgotten, then he berated poor Abortia.

  “I don’t know what’s got into you recently, Miss Stake, but if you don’t pull your socks up soon—and I speak figuratively, because socks are due to be banned tomorrow, as are all garments, for monsters at least—then I will be forced to sack you.”

  “Fire me, you mean?” cried Abortia.

  The golem looked confused. “No, put you in a sack with a ping-feng, which is a sort of paranormal pig with a head at each end, and beat the sack with a stick until you are grunted to death. That’s how the Agency punishes bad workers now.”

  “Such wise leadership!” sneered Abortia.

  Twisthorn sighed. “You just don’t understand my position. With great power comes great irresponsibility. That’s something Cherlomsky taught me when I was quite fresh.”

  “Guess you have a point,” conceded Abortia.

  “Please don’t make me resort to such sick barbarity, Miss Stake! Why not ask a technician to check that your waldo’s working properly? Maybe that’s the root of the problem?”

  “Yes, I do seem to have lost control of its metal limbs.”

  “Do it, then. Be a sensible embryo!

  “But I’ll have to take my coat off—my gorgeous fur coat—to provide access to its inner workings!”

  “Your coat comes off forever tomorrow anyway!”

  Abortia went pale. “Are you serious, Mr Bellow? Do you really intend to ban all clothes for the monsters who work for you? Will Hapi have to get rid of his electrum ring? What about the bandages around his stump? Do they count as garments?”

  “Everything must go, Miss Stake . . . Monsters should be nude, the way their mad creators intended!”

  “The rule seems a little harsh to me . . . ”

  “I assure you it’s for the best. I have debated it with myself sufficiently to harbour no more doubts on the issue. I hate harbouring doubts anyway and always do my best to sink them below the waterline with one mighty thrust of my twisted horn. Metaphorically speaking, of course. My mind is made up. Tomorrow at noon all our clothes will be irretrievably turned into ashes. Incidentally, I’m glad you admire my kpinga so much. That’s right, clutch it by the handle, not by the blade. No, swing it with a fully extended arm, not a bent elbow. Release it when maximum velocity has been achieved, not before. No, Miss Stake, you missed me and shattered the mirror instead. These absurd accidents of yours are simply intolerable. Can’t you do anything right?”

  * * * * *

  The Queen was feeling apprehensive. She ordered Scarydung Chinwag to do something about it. He pledged he would, picked up his telephone and dialled the Applied Eschatology Agency. A new secretary answered. She went to fetch Twisthorn, knocking on the door of his office and entering when he shouted, “Come in!”

  “Mr Chinwag wants to speak to you, sir.”

  “It’s Lord Scarydung to you, my girl! Don’t forget that or I’ll be forced to have you defenestrated. But how can you be sure it’s him? What if it’s a Syrian or Slovak impostor?”

  “He was exceptionally patronising, sir.”

  “In that case it must be him! Put the call through to my office. No, I’ve just recalled that Abortia destroyed my telephone! I’d better speak to him on yours. I must remember to order some new telephones before Abortia annihilates the last one!”

  “Is she really that clumsy, sir?”

  “Ever since she started wearing that fur coat of hers, which resembles the pelt of a skinned faun, yes.”

  “Maybe the coat is controlling her, sir?”

  “What a vivid imagination you have, young lady! Better learn to calm down a bit or I’ll be forced to hang you in a gibbet at a lonely crossroads for the ravens to peck you.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I’m going now, sir.”

  The golem rose, stepped out of his office and snatched up the receiver that was lying on her desk.

  “Twisthorn here. What can I do for you?”

  “Ah, Bellow . . . The Queen’s gone a bit anxious again . . . I need a dose of positive news to make her feel secure . . . I’m humping her regularly but that’s clearly not enough . . . Are vampires dying by the dozen? Are ghouls being smashed? Ghosts dissolved? Are you still tearing werewolves limb from limb? Shredding hippogriffs? Impaled any ducks today? Cut a fairy in half lately? In quarters? Minced a brownie? Have you taken a basilicok and inserted its head in an oboe? Thrown any bombs at musicians in pubs without adequate warning? Forced a centaur to ride in a horse-race with a second centaur as a jockey?”

  “All that. And more,” said Twisthorn.

  “Good work, Bellow! I’ll report that to the Queen immediately. Sure to make her feel better. And if you need more money, just give me the word. Spare billion in cash floating round here, taking up lots of surface room, I would welcome the space.”

  “Send it along—through the post. That’s the most trustworthy method. Our postman is very loyal.”

  “Will do, Bellow. Now get back to work!”

  * * * * *

  The day of the great burning arrived.

  A courtyard was chosen as the best location.

  The smoke would be able to rise directly up and nobody would choke to death on the soot of silks.

  Apart from the owls that passed overhead.

  If any ever chose to do so . . .

  They probably had masks and oxygen cylinders ready for just such an event. The sneaky creatures!

  Less about owls. More about monsters . . .

  Twisthorn threw his pyjamas onto the ground. Then all the lingerie he had worn in the sickbay went on top. That’s how he started the pile. Ha
pi contributed his electrum wedding ring and also unwrapped the bandages from the stump of his missing little finger with very little lethal bleeding and cast them on. Dancin’ only had a rotten candied fruit ring, but nobody objected when she added it.

  “Your turn now, Miss Stake!” cried Twisthorn.

  “All your clothes must be incinerated, there’s no sense in delaying the inevitable outcome,” said Hapi.

  Abortia nodded reluctantly. Then she hurled on her entire collection of dresses, blouses, trousers, skirts, chemises, headscarves, jackets, gloves, socks, hats, shoes, necklaces, earrings and brooches, and even her nappies from her early Agency days.

  But not her new fur coat, the gift . . .

  The pile of clothes was now considerable, a veritable hillock of attire, a classy knoll of style, awaiting the fuel and the matches. It was time for Twisthorn to make a speech.

  “Friends, golems and grown-in-a-bottle men, lend me your fears—as a precautionary measure, because I’m not scared of much, thus am prone to overconfidence—I come to cremate our garb, not to bury it . . . The evil that tailors do is overpriced . . . ”

  Nobody yawned, but a general feeling of boredom was expressed on a psychic wavelength and Twisthorn faltered. He licked his lips, tasted the nitroglycerine crystals that were forming there, winced with the bitterness. Then he noticed Abortia lurking at the rear of the gathering, half-hidden by a barrel of low-octane petrol that Hapi had telekinetically rolled from the storeroom an hour earlier.

  The golem felt anger rise inside his belly.

  “Miss Stake! You seem to have forgotten to remove your fur coat. Do so within the next ten seconds!”

  Abortia pouted. “Won’t you reconsider?”

  “No! This is your last warning. If you don’t obey I’ll have you added to the pyre and carbonised alive!”