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Transcript of letter sent to Professor Khrysto from the Borough Council

Professor ^[1] Khrysto has been planning his last Punch and Judy show for months. It was to be the grand finale of his long career. All his puppets would get a part, the ones dating back to his grandfather’s day, those that he carved lovingly with his own hands, and characters such as Pretty Polly that were given to him by now departed professors.

At least that was the plan until the Council intervened. Wife beating, child abuse and murder it seems are totally PC, while adultery and the devil are not. Professor Khrysto was told that certain puppets would not be allowed to perform. Understandably, the Professor was very angry but, being the trouper that he is, decided the show must go on. He has vowed to give them a Punch and Judy they would never forget.

Be very quiet now and I’ll take you to the Professor’s workshop where he’s rehearsing a new scene. One more thing, you must promise not to tell a soul about what you see or hear. Say just one word and the Punchmen ^[2] will get you.

Sshhh now! The curtains are about to open.

“Fetch Hector^[3], my horse”, squawks Mr Punch, “I must be off to see my Pretty Polly^[4]“.

Mr Punch starts to sing, “She’s the darling of my heart, she’s so plump and …”, but the silence disturbs him. As he scans the empty stage with short staccato movements, a noose is lowered and comes to rest just above his head.

“Tis only a fool who tinks they can play a trick on me”, japes Mr Punch, poking the rope with his slap stick. “The last laugh will be on me.”

A voice fills the room, “Tis no trick Mr Punch. Tis your fate for all the bad deeds you done”, “Could this be… the ghost of Judy ^[5]?” Mr Punch quivers in mock fright.

“Prepare to meet your maker”, says the voice, as a black top hat rises slowly to reveal the grey hair and wizened face of the old Professor. “You must pay for the murder of your baby and your wife. You are to be hung by the neck until you are dead – dead – dead”.

The Professor adjusts his swazzle ^[6]. “Am I to die three times?”, squawks Mr. Punch.

“No, no; once will be more than enough!”, the Professor assures.

“How does that be?” Mr Punch scratches his head. “You said I was to be hung by the neck till I was dead – dead – dead? I count my dying times three!”

“Yes, you’re right Mr Punch; you’ll only die once but you’ll stay dead – dead – dead.”

Cupping his hands around his mouth, Punch whispers so only the audience can hear, “He may think me simple but we’ll see who keeps their head?”

Taking Punch’s arm between finger and thumb, the Professor guides him towards the noose. “Stop your fooling and prepare yourself for execution.”

“What, up there?”, exclaims Punch, stretching his neck to try and reach the rope. The rope lowers, “Try again!”
Punch waves his head carefully dodging the noose.

“No; down a bit, left a bit, down a bit more.”
”What, here?”
“No, no; through there”, says the Professor pointing directly through the noose. “This way?” asks Mr Punch, now on the other side of the noose.
“No, the other way, Can’t you see?”
Punch starts to sway and then falls down pretending he’s dead.
“Get up, you’re not dead.”
“Oh yes I am.”

“Oh no you’re not.”
“Oh yes I am.”
“Stop your fooling and get up!”

“Please, sir”, pleads Punch, bowing to the Professor, “could you show me the way, for I never was hung before. Please, sir, show me the way, and I won’t trouble you no more.”

“You certainly seem a fool. Look!” says the Professor, taking the noose. “You place your head in here like this, put the rope under my chin like this, and pull the rope tight to your neck.”

“I see now. You make it look easy.”

“When your head is in the rope, turn to the audience and say, Goodbye, fare you well. A quick pull on the lever and it will all be over.”

“This one here?” Punches pulls the lever. “Goodbye, fare you well.”

The whirring noise of a motor can be heard. The curtain starts to close. The Professor hangs by his neck in the noose. Mr Punch is nowhere to be seen.

Moments pass. Have we witnessed a murder? We promised not to tell.

The curtains open again. Mr Punch is bashing the still hanging Professor with his slap stick.

“Oedy dowdy do, that’s the way to do it”, squawks Punch.

We sigh in relief. It would have been good to see Pretty Polly perform.

Footnotes

[1] Professor is the term for a Punch and Judy puppet master.

In two days, you will be twelve. That is when your dæmon will take its final form. You look at Petronella, the large brown bug attached to your shoulder with a short length of cotton and sticking plaster. You secretly wish for her to become a mongoose, but you think any creature will be OK so long as she isn’t still a bug.

“Hurry up, Josh, you’ll be late for school”, shouts your mum. You are already dressed.

“Don’t forget dad’s picking you up tonight. You’re spending the weekend with him. Remember, we agreed? I’ll see you on Sunday for your birthday.”

You nod, more concerned that your dæmon is in the proper position not to get squashed when you put on your rucksack.

Friday is your worst day at school. Year seven football. Like always, you stay well clear of the ball. The others call you names like “batty boy” and “sissy queer“, but you only care about your dæmon.

You sit alone through double maths until the last bell finally comes. Outside the gates, your dad stands waving. A younger woman is at his side. Your dad bends to greet you; her hand stretches towards your shoulder. You see it coming. With lightning speed, like deflecting a snake, the arm is knocked aside.

“That’s not very nice, Josh. Apologise at once“, demands Josh’s dad.

You shrug. “Doesn’t she know a human must never touch another person’s dæmon?” you think in anger.

Something wasn’t right about this woman. You must be on your guard. But you feel very tired. Hardly touching your dinner, you ask to go to bed early.

Come morning, you lay under the covers, half dreaming of what your dæmon might become. A sickly scent hits your nose. The woman is in your room. She pulls back the curtains and opens the window.

“What a beautiful day. Your dad and I have a little surprise planned for…“

As she speaks, a large black bird perches on the windowsill. You were right; she’s a witch. You scream. Petronella is in its beak. You scream and scream and scream.

Cradled between your dad’s arms, your tears slowly subside. On the eve of your twelfth birthday, you wish you were dead.

TO DO

SUNDAY 5 NOVEMBER 1989

• The Wall

MONDAY 6 NOVEMBER 1989

• The Wall

TUESDAY 7 NOVEMBER 1989

• The Wall

THURSDAY 9 NOVEMBER 1989

When I got home, the cockroach would be waiting for me on the arm of my chair. And come bedtime, just before I could say goodnight, it would disappear. I felt sure it must have friends and family of its own kind, but every evening it was there alone.

It wasn’t long before I discovered that the cockroach was rather partial to both wine and beer. It was good to have someone to drink with. I started to leave little snacks for it while I was away. Nothing fancy, a few Madeira crumbs, a smidgeon of jam, that sort of thing. For entertainment, I left the radio on – Classic FM one day, Radio 3 the next.

We’d been together for one month, so I thought we would celebrate with a bottle of Tesco’s best. But when I got home, we were not alone. Two cockroaches were sitting on the arm of my chair. My intuition told me to leave. Maybe there was some innocent explanation; a visiting relative, a neighbour from next door? When I got back, everything would be back to normal. We could enjoy a nice glass of wine.

But what if the other one was still here? Putting on my bravest face, I sat down, poured a glass of wine for myself and sprinkled a few drops on a saucer for my guests. As the evening went on, we were all getting merrier. My friend seemed to have fallen off the chair and was climbing back up. This was my chance. My heart raced, and my hands were covered in sweat. Just grab the interloper and flush it down the loo. Even if I could get away with it, surely the guilt would be too much to bear?

Feeling the need to make amends for the previous night, I purchased a small strawberry tart for us to share. I opened the door, fearing the alien was still there, and my heart almost stopped. Hundreds of them, crawling everywhere.

Less than half a mile to the West, the Queen sleeps snugly in her bed. As dawn breaks, the treeline sways beneath a rushing sky. Green and white striped deckchairs lay stacked, chained firmly to the ground. Leaves dance in formation across the foot-worn grass tossed and jostled by a fickle wind. Blown hard against a bush is a cardboard sheet with traces of a vaguely life-size human form imprinted upon it.

A crow, seemingly the first to rise, pulls a McDonald’s bag from a near to overflowing bin. Ripping the paper with great ease, the bird discards the soggy bun. All it wants is the burger meat. Scanning left to right with beady eyes, it takes the morsel in its beak and flies up high up into a tree.

Below, amongst the bushes, broken branches, torn blue packets, Extra Safe. Small brown capsules, amyl nitrate. Old school ravers sent from Heaven. Tinsel, feathers, dressed as angels, caught together in full flight.

Cigarette ends congregate beneath the benches beyond the reach of keepers’ brooms. White filters, lipstick-stained, mock cork – gold bands, cardboard roaches, extra slims – smoked right out, stubbed and twisted, left to burn – and some with still a puff or two to smoke.

An empty wallet tossed, abandoned. A young man wanders phone-less, card-less, surrendered to a Romanian camper, out of fear, without a fight.

No.

Never mind the benefits payments didn’t cover the 40 cigarettes a day I needed to keep sane; I finally had a roof over my head. The AA meetings weren’t so bad, and I felt strangely good about going straight. They placed me with one of those landlords who specialise in the hard-to-house – high rent, small room, collect their money straight from the council. This all-bills paid arrangement suited me fine. The odd roach intrusion and occasional mouse didn’t bother me much. Nor did the man who thought we were aboard a ship or the girl who tested out prospective partners for the shower sex record every night.

These things became a source of comfort, the reassurance of a routine, a sense of place.

Green lights flash madly
Single parking space in range
Two cars clash head on

Twin horns bellow out
Engines rev at full throttle
Tyres rasp the road

Ocean Paradise
vies with French Vanilla to
permeate the air

No pedals to press
Not a steering wheel to turn
Google does it all

As doughnuts need jam
So data must have its pride
Error has no place

Metal hits metal
Windshields and headlights shatter
Battle never ends.

I’m pissed to fuck and dabbed out of my head on sticky cocaine. My jeans and socks are inside this thing, doing some sort of dance. The half-a-tab has rewired my brain. Hoodie and T-shirt are in there too. As it starts to whirr and shake, my body picks… picks up the beat. I want it harder, more intense. Be my bass god, techno priest. Its vibrating motor gathers speed, white skin against white metal, my body wraps around it, groin pressed firmly to its throbbing shell. It rocks me backwards, rocks me forwards, feeling frisky, feeling nice, then there’s this kinda click. The pulsating motor gets stronger, stronger, building, building with every stroke. Doing me like some monster bunny… breathless, panting, faster, louder… faster, faster, panting, louder, breathing, breathless… feeling horny as a rhino… and then … the machine shudders… “What the fuck?“… and stops.

“Alexa, you gotta help me out!” I scream at the black tube-shaped box. Time takes a holiday, the intercom buzzes. “That was quick”, I think.

“Problem with your washing machine, sir?” says the voice.

“Come, quickly!” I say, and in comes the engineer.

Then he does what engineers do, a scratch on his head, a tut-tut-tut, then lets out a breath of stale air.

“It’s not serious? You can fix it?” I say, trying not to appear too desperate, “I’m sure it’s under guarantee!“

“No worries, sir, we always find the fault“, says the engineer, scanning me with his camera-stare eyes.

I ask him politely, “Cuppa tea? Choccy bik?“; to test if he’s human, get my drift?

“That won’t be necessary, sir“, says he, with his monotone voice.

It’s got to be; he’s one of them AIs. I’m 78 per cent certain.

“There doesn’t appear to be anything wrong with this machine, sir“, it says.
95 per cent and rising. Stay calm, prepare to run.

“But it shuddered and stopped?” is the best I can mutter.

“That’s what washing machines do, sir, once they’ve finished their cycle“, it says, pointing. “Just press the reset button here.“

She came first… that’s so sweet.

“Fuck!” two more engineers at the door.

“All sorted here?” one asks.

“I’ve located the defective part“, says the first engineer.

The other two stand to block the door. “Shall we order a replacement, boss?“

What they clearly mean is me.

I stand there like a rubber leaf; my bladder thinks the worst.

The engineer looks at me, then looks at his two men. “Don’t think that will be necessary lads, but thank you all the same.”

One by one, their lips quiver, and their stern mouths start to crack. A more beautiful sound you’ll never hear than when washing machine engineers begin to laugh.