King Dong

At that moment there was a knocking at the door. A high-pitched, effeminate voice called out, ‘Oh, Mr Deadman, duckie, are you there?’

Deadman scrabbled for the picture, hastily folded it, and rammed it back into his pocket.

‘I’m coming! Ready or not!’ The door was flung open.

Deadman groaned inwardly. ‘Hello, Ray.’

The newcomer was a slim man of indeterminate age. He wore slacks of eye-watering, skin-hugging tightness and a flamboyantly frilled shirt. He had melting brown eyes and sensuous lips, and wore his hair tied back.

Ray gave an ingratiating simper. ‘Hello, Mr Deadman, hello Captain Rumbuggery. Oooh!’ Ray let out a squeal of laughter and clapped his hand across his mouth.

‘What is it, Ray?’ asked Deadman.

‘I just wanted to ask you about Miss Darling’s dress for the screen test. Would you like to go with the crushed silk or the eau-de-nil?’

‘Why not ask her?’ said Deadman. He beckoned Ann over to make the introductions. ‘I don’t believe you two have met.’

‘Oh?’ Ann eyed Ray with her customary calculation.

‘Miss Darling,’ gushed Ray, ‘how very bona to vada your eek at last. Fantabulosa! Such an honour, I’m such a fan.’

‘Oh!’ said Ann again, clearly dismissing Ray from her ‘to do’ list.

‘I thought we’d better see what we can do with your riah …’ Ann gave her hair a self-conscious pat. ‘… and have a little conflab about your cossies. If we stroll down to my cabin, would you be interested in inspecting my wares?’

Ann gave the camp costumier a dismissive look. ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

‘Ooh, you are awful!’ Ray flapped limply at Ann’s arm. ‘I’ll think you’d carry off the raw silk very well. How d’you think she’d look in the raw, Mister Deadman?’

‘Ask any casting director in Hollywood,’ said Deadman nastily. Ann scowled at him. Ray gave a falsetto giggle.

Ann’s eyes narrowed. ‘If I throw a stick will you leave?’

‘You’re such a tease – just my type.’

‘I don’t think so, fly boy. I got a pair of wings and an undercarriage you ain’t never gonna be interested in.’

Ray let out an even higher-pitched squeal of laughter. The Captain’s glass shattered in his hand.

‘Ooh you’re soooo naughty. I’m so looking forward to dressing you. I’ll just go and lay on some chiffon …’

‘Sure,’ drawled Ann. ‘Knock yourself out.’

‘… and then I’ll come and find you. Don’t go away now.’

Ann watched him go with pursed lips. ‘Who’s the squirt?’

‘Ray? He’ll be dressing you for the movie,’ Deadman told her. ‘He’s a wizard with a needle and thread. Back in Hollywood they call him Fey Ray.’

‘I can imagine. But who says I’m goin’ on this cruise to nowhere?’

Deadman smiled the smile of the shark he was. ‘Doesn’t the sight of Dong make you kinda curious?’

The memory of the crudely drawn picture flickered to the forefront of Ann’s mind. ‘Maybe,’ she admitted. ‘But let me get this straight – you’re askin’ me to spend weeks on a beat-up old ship, the only female on board, with dozens of sailors, gawpin’ and lustin’ after me and watching my every move? What sort of goil do you think I am?’

‘An actress.’

‘OK, OK.’ She held up her hands. ‘Ya persuaded me. But what’s this cargo the old seagull keeps yabberin’ on about? Contraband, he said.’

‘I’m not saying anything.’ Deadman glared at the Skipper. ‘And neither is he. ’Cause if he doesn’t keep quiet, then the authorities might find out what really happens at those fish finger parties he throws.’

A guilty, fear-stricken look flickered across Rumbuggery’s white-bearded face. ‘You can’t prove nothin’.’

Ann stood up. “Well if I’m joinin’ this crazy ship I need showin’ to my suite.’

The Skipper stared. ‘Suite? Oh, sure, suite.’

‘Yeah. I gotta powder my nose.’

‘Huh?’ The Skipper stared at Deadman, who closed off one nostril with his index finger in order to mime snorting up some powdered substance …

Ann stamped her foot. ‘I mean I want to take a crap, only I was too ladylike to say so, OK?’ She turned her back on Deadman.

‘Classy broad,’ muttered Deadman under his breath. Raising his voice, he added, ‘Skipper, maybe you could get someone to show Miss Darling to her suite.’

Rumbuggery staggered to the door and hailed a passing crewman. A young, well-muscled, long-limbed, lithe figure dressed in a tight-fitting sailor suit stepped into the doorway.

Rumbuggery introduced the seaman. ‘Roger the cabin boy.’

Ann eyed the creature standing before her. ‘Is that his name or an invitation?’ She turned to Deadman. ‘Things are looking up. Maybe this cockamamie cruise won’t be so bad after all.’ She gave Roger a full-on dazzling smile. ‘Hello there. Come on up to my place – wherever that is. Lead on.’ She gave Roger a pat on the backside. ‘I’m Ann, but you can call me Darling.’ She winked outrageously at Deadman. ‘Don’t wait up, mother, I’m going outside and I could be some time. If you hear me scream, stay the hell out.’

Deadman and the Captain watched Ann and Roger leave. Rumbuggery’s lips were pursed. ‘I still shtand by what I shaid – this is a foolhardy mission, based on the word of a mind-ravaged lost soul. Itsh dangerous and no place for a woman. A woman’sh place is in the home, peeling potatoesh, whitewashing the coal cellar and taking spidersh out of the bath.’

Deadman raised an eyebrow. ‘I think Miss Darling’s place is in a cat’s home.’

‘I don’t think much of women on shipsh.’ Rumbuggery took a long pull from his bottle. ‘Truth be told, I don’t think much of women at all. The love of my life ish thish.’ He tapped his bottle. ‘And my ship – better than a woman any day.”

‘How come?’

‘Shipsh never need yet another pair of shoesh. Shipsh never ask if their bow is too wide or if their rigging is sagging. You can rent a ship to others by the day and you can tie up a ship without it ever complainin’!’

Deadman shook his head. A leading lady with the morals of a degenerate baboon, a rum-sodden old sea-dog in command and a dresser more camp than a scout jamboree. He sighed. It was going to be a long voyage …

CHAPTER THREE A Motley Crew

The ship rang with orders.

‘Cast off fore – cast off aft.’

‘Aye aye, Skipper.’

‘Let go the stays, Mister Decktennis.’

‘Ooh, thank you, sir – they were killing me.’

‘’Ware that bucket, Sloppy.’

‘If you insist, Skipper, but I don’t think it’ll suit me.’

‘Avast behind, Mister Hawsehole!’

‘Well, there’s no need to be personal.’

‘Weigh the anchor, Mister Obote.’

‘Five and a half tons, sir.’

‘That’s enough sarcasm from you, Mister Obote. Mister Dogsdinner, clear the harbour and steer sou’ sou’ east.’

‘Sho’ sho’ thing, Skipper.’

Coughing like a tuberculosis ward, the rickety vessel limped its way towards open water in a haze of black smoke. A spasm of foreboding crossed Captain Rumbuggery’s grizzled face. ‘And may God have mercy on us all.’

Deadman breezed onto the bridge. ‘So we’re under way at last, Skipper.’

The Captain gave him an unfriendly look. ‘Yes, though I can’t say I’m happy to be setting sail on this fool’s errand. This is an ill-fated ship with an ill-fated crew. I’m mortally certain there’s a curse upon us all.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘An albatross just crapped on my head.’ The Captain removed his filthy cap and stared mournfully at the newly deposited guano. ‘I’m going below. If anyone wants me, I’ll be in an alcoholic stupor.’

Deadman watched the departing captain out of sight and shook his head. The Skipper had the jitters: well, Deadman couldn’t exactly blame him. The voyage they had embarked on would be enough to try any man’s courage.

Still, there’d be no room on this ship for milksops and weaklings. Deadman squared his shoulders. It was time he checked on the crew.

The light faded as the movie man made his way into the bowels of the ship, along dimly-lit corridors whose walls glistened with moisture. The air throbbed with the arthritic beat of the engines; from behind the walls came the furtive scrabbling of rats and the less wholesome sound of off-duty crew members removing each others’ gold fillings. Deadman reached the crew’s mess. He stepped over the mess, wondering why a bunch of grown men couldn’t manage to make it to the can in time. Squaring his shoulders, he flung open the door.

Immediately he stepped back, gagging, as a wave of foetid air, redolent of spoiled gorgonzola, athlete’s foot and bus station rest rooms burst over him.

Dabbing at his streaming eyes, Deadman gazed around at the dregs of humanity occupying the stinking fo’c’sle. There was the usual collection of Lascars, mulattos, gimlet-eyed Shellbacks, Ancient Mariners and Flying Dutchmen. In one corner stood a painted savage shaving himself with a harpoon. A shrunken head hung from his waist, tied by its hair. At a rickety table, two old seafaring men – one blind, the other with a wooden leg and a parrot on his shoulder – sang an incomprehensible pirate ditty with the chorus, ‘Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.’

Deadman raised a hand for quiet. The noises of sailors carving their initials on whalebone trinkets and each other died away into an ugly, brooding silence.

‘Men, I guess you know me. Carl Deadman, movie producer.’ Deadman scanned the hard-bitten faces that glowered at him from the dingy recesses of their stinking rat-hole. ‘I’m gonna be straight with you. When we reach our destination, the going could be rough. I’m going to need men with guts, men who laugh in the face of death.’

‘No probleme zere, m’sieu.’ The voice came from a hunted-looking individual wearing a striped shirt, a black beret and a string of onions round his neck. ‘Zere is not one of us on zis hell-ship who would not sell ’is life for a shot of rum an’ think it a bargain.’

‘Is that so?’ said Deadman. ‘And who might you be, sailor?’

‘Jacques-François Peep, formerly of the French Foreign Legion. In ze regiment, I was known as Beau Peep.’ The man’s eyes clouded with pain. ‘I joined ze legion to forget.’

‘Forget what?’

‘’Ow do I know? I’ave forgotten. Zat was ze ’ole point!’ The man stiffened, and his face turned pale. ‘Wait – now I remembair! I was an accordionist – ze greatest in all France! I ’ad a monkey – ’er name was Sylvia – she danced while I played, oh, ’ow she danced, like a small ’airy angel! But one day when I woke up, ze apartment was empty, Sylvia was gone!

‘I searched ’igh and low for ’er, I wandered ze streets of Paree without rest, I could not eat or sleep. Zen – I found ’er. She was with a man ’oo was playing ze barrel-organ.’ Jacques-François clenched his fists and his lips became flecked with foam. ‘She, ’oo ad danced to the music of my accordion, ’ad left me for a cochon with an ’urdy-gurdy. Quelle vulgarité! In my agony, I cried to ’er “Sylvie! Cherie! For what do you prostitute yourself with zis animal?”

‘She turned, she saw me, and she laughed. Zey both laughed! Naturally, for the sake of my honour, I ’ad to shoot zem. Ze judge acquitted me because it was a crime passionel. So I joined ze legion, an’ aftair ten long years in ze fearful ’eat an’ desolation of ze desert, I ’ad forgotten ze ’ole tragic affair, until you forced me to remembair … and now I shall nevair be free of ze memory – nevair …’ The man’s voice choked off. His body shook with uncontrollable sobs.

‘There, there, Jacques-François. Don’t take on so – you’ll get wrinkles.’ The cut-glass tones betrayed the speaker as an Englishman of the upper classes. He patted the quivering Frenchman on the shoulder and eyed Deadman censoriously. ‘All of us on this ship have a similar tale to tell. Mine involves the Rajah of Ranjipoor, his favourite concubine, a polo stick and a bucket of ghee – I prefer not to talk about it.’

‘Yeeesh, that eesh sho.’ A small, pop-eyed man with a pronounced Hungarian accent leered up at Deadman. ‘Een my cashe, eet wash thee Black Bird …’

‘Ze Czarina of oll the Russias,’ contributed a man with a monk’s habit, a long filthy beard and the eyes of a maniac.

‘Thee seex-fingered man who slew my father,’ hissed a leather-doubleted Spaniard. ‘And when ah find heem, I weel say to heem –’

‘Hello,’ chorused every one of that desperate crew in a weary sing-song. ‘My name ees Indignant Montoya. You keeled my father. Prepare to die.’

Montoya’s bottom lip quivered. ‘Well, ah weel!’ he said petulantly. ‘When ah find heem, ah weel keel heem!’

‘Of course you will, my friend.’ The speaker sported a scarlet-lined opera cloak and impressive dentistry, particularly in the canine department. ‘You see, Mr Deadman? This is a ship of lost souls. Who are we? No one. Where are we sailing? Nowhere. Do we even exist? Who knows?!’

‘Right.’ Deadman backed slowly away, feeling for the door handle. ‘Good. OK. Point taken. I’ll – er – catch up with you later, OK? Good, er, fine.’

His questing fingers having at last found the handle, Deadman yanked the door open – and Ann Darling sashayed in.

‘Why, Mister Deadman.’ Ignoring the sudden silence and the lascivious moans of the crew who, having been without a woman for very nearly two and a half hours, were ready to leer suggestively at anything with legs, Ann favoured the slavering cut-throats with her most beguiling smile. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your … friends?’

‘Well, I … er …’ Deadman got no further. Howls of fury and screams of agony indicated that a fight for Ann’s favours had already broken out. Knives were drawn, blackjacks and knuckledusters brandished. A nose flew by. The air reverberated with the shrieks of men having their ears bitten off.

Deadman glared at Ann. ‘See what you did? I’m going to end up with half my crew murdered before we’ve cleared Ellis Island.’

‘Why,’ simpered Ann, ‘can I help it if the boys are fighting over li’l ol’ me?’

‘You started this, you finish it, or no movie.’

Ann pouted. ‘OK, OK.’ She put her thumb and forefinger to her lips and gave a piercing whistle. ‘Hey, youse bums, knock it off before I nail your cojones to the wall with my hairgrips!’

There was a sudden shocked silence.

‘That’s better,’ said Ann. ‘Now, what’s goin’ on here?’

The peg-legged cove Deadman had noticed earlier adjusted his parrot and stepped forward with an ingratiating air. ‘Well, missy, me an the boys was drawin’ lots, all friendly like, to see who’d ’ave first chance to get you into ’is ’ammock, an’ Blind Pugh ’ere was palmin’ the black spot …’

‘Whaaaaaat?’ Ann was furious. ‘You were drawing lots for me? What kind of goil do you think I am?’

The parrot cackled. ‘Piece of ass! Piece of ass!’

The peg-legged man swiped at the bird, which fluttered away, squawking angrily and shedding feathers. ‘You’ll ’ave to excuse Cap’n Flint,’ he told Ann. ‘He meant to say, “pieces of eight”. I reckon ’e’s a mite confused.’

‘I say what I see,’ squawked the parrot. ‘When I say “ass” I mean “ass”!’

Ann looked the peg-legged man up and down. And then halfway up again. Her eyes widened with concupiscence. ‘Say, big boy, what do they call you?’

The rascal leered at his disappointed shipmates. ‘They call me Long John Silver, missy.’

‘And why do they call you that?’

Long John leaned forward and whispered into Ann’s ear.

Anne giggled. ‘You don’t say? In that case, why don’t you come up and see me sometime.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t be comin’ near the officer’s cabins, missy.’

‘Well then, any time you want me, just whistle. You do know how to whistle, don’t you, Johnny? You just put your lips together and … blow.’ Ann winked at Silver and swayed towards the door. Deadman, belatedly remembering his manners, opened it and followed Ann through. He closed the door, leaned against it and mopped his brow.

‘Well, that’s just great.’ Deadman glared at Ann, who was examining her nails with an elaborate show of unconcern. ‘We’ve only just set sail and you’ve already got the crew at each others’ throats.’

Ann pouted. ‘Can I help it if men find me attractive?’ She set off down the corridor, swivelling her hips. A crewman, eyes glued to her oscillating caboose, fell down an open hatchway. A scream of agony echoed from the hold.

Deadman shook his head. This voyage was going to be even longer than he’d thought.

Three weeks later the Vulture was anchored off the coast of Africa.

The ship had wheezed its way across the Atlantic, producing as much smoke as a middling-sized iron foundry and twice as much noise. Storms had battered the leaking vessel. Many of the crew had been prostrated by seasickness – and, Deadman suspected, many more by his leading lady. In fact, apart from Deadman himself, the only members of the ship’s company who had remained immune to the ravages of the voyage were Captain Rumbuggery (who was too blasted to notice the movement of the ship) and Ann, whose self-obsession was such as to be immune to the whims of a mere ocean.

Now Deadman and Ann were leaning on the rail staring at the palm-lined coast of the Dark Continent and chewing the cud about days past.

‘You never did tell me how you got into the crazy world of movie making,’ said Deadman.

‘I was in Hollywood for a screen test. Afterwards the producer said it would take an Act of Congress to get me into the movies, so I thought what the hell! I’ve been acting and congressing ever since …’

Their reverie was interrupted by a high-pitched, effeminate voice. ‘There you both are, sweeties.’

‘Oh hello Ray, haven’t seen you for days.’

‘I know, I know,’ minced Ray. He turned to Ann. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been dancing attendance; my dear, I haven’t been feeling myself.’ He gave a squeal of a laugh. ‘Well, maybe once or twice, to pass the time. I’ve been laid low, drained, positively overwhelmed with mal-de-mer. Still, I’m feeling better now this beastly boat has stopped bouncing up and down in that alarming fashion.’ He gave Ann a sly wink. ‘And rumour has it, that’s not the only thing that’s been bouncing up and down.’

‘If I want any crap outta you I’ll squeeze your head.’

‘Oh, bold!’ Ray’s mouth twisted into a little moue of distaste. ‘Anyway, I’ve been cutting, sewing and embroidering like a thing possessed to get Miss Darling’s costumes ready.’

He was interrupted by a hail from the bridge. ‘Hi, Deadman! I’m shending in the boatsh to fill up the scuttlebutts.’ Captain Rumbuggery waved a half-empty whisky bottle at Ray. ‘That crazy fella has used all our drinking water for dyeing hish goddamn costhtumes.’

‘Philistine!’ Ray gave the Captain a savage glare and minced off, his wobbling derriere attracting almost as much attention from certain members of the ship’s company as Ann’s.

‘Boatsh away!’ Captain Rumbuggery turned his wandering attention back to Ann and Deadman. ‘You two want to come along for the ride?’

‘Sure!’ Deadman waved back, and turned to Ann. ‘Coming?’

But Ann had spotted a sun-tanned young deck-hand with oiled skin and rippling muscles. ‘I think I’ll stay here and take in a little local colour.’

Deadman followed her stare. ‘Riiiight. Be sure not to take in too much.’

Fifteen minutes later, three of the ship’s boats were pulling in an uncoordinated fashion for the shore.

They had almost reached the surf-line when Sloppy, the ship’s cook, stood up and pointed. ‘Hey, look at that.’

A rider had burst out of the forest, galloping hell-for-leather along the beach. He was a white man, wearing a battered fedora and carrying a bullwhip coiled in one hand, with which he was belabouring the flanks of his foundered horse, urging it to greater efforts.

Behind him, a war party of black-skinned warriors burst from cover. They were wearing leather loincloths and carrying buffalo-hide shields and vicious-looking short spears. They pursued their quarry with dreadful purpose, uttering savage war-cries, brandishing their spears with fearsome intent and thirsting for blood.

The rider stood in his stirrups and waved frantically. ‘Hey – you down there! Help! They’re gonna kill me!’

CHAPTER FOUR Bones of Contention

‘Pull for shore, men!’ cried Deadman. ‘Pull till your arms creak and your backs break. We must save that white man from those dreadful savages!’

From behind him, a sulky voice said, ‘Well, I don’t see why.’

Deadman turned to stare at the speaker.

‘As you were, Able Sheaman Obote,’ growled Rumbuggery.

‘Yes, that’s all very well,’ said Able Seaman Obote petulantly, ‘but, I mean, why automatically assume, because he’s a white guy and the black guys are chasing him, that he’s the good guy and they’re the bad guys?’

‘Obote …’

‘It makes me sick. People always make assumptions. I mean, if you saw a bunch of white guys chasing a black guy, you’d think, “Hey, that black guy must have mugged somebody or stolen a purse or something. Let’s go and help the white guys catch him,” but because he’s white and they’re black you don’t give it any thought, you just go barging in on the side of the honky. It’s just emblematic of the institutional, unconscious racism that’s fundamentally rooted in every aspect of society. I mean, he could have stolen their cattle and raped their women, maybe even the other way about, but do you ask questions? No, you just …’

At a nod from the Skipper, the coxswain had crept up behind Able Seaman Obote, and now brought a belaying pin down on the dusky sailor’s head with a solid thwack.

Obote’s eyes glazed over. ‘QED,’ he said, and collapsed.

‘Goddamn pinko liberal commie political activisht.’ The Skipper kicked the unconscious Obote into the bilges as the boat shot through the surf. ‘In oars, men!’ he commanded. ‘Break out the riflesh!’

As the boat ran up the sand of the beach, eager hands tore at the long wooden boxes that had been loaded from the Vulture. The lids flew off, and their contents lay exposed.

There was an awkward silence.

‘Ah,’ said Deadman. ‘I guess Ray must have run out of room to store his costumes and – ah – made some extra room by – ah – dumping the rifles and using the crates …’ His voice tailed off.

Rumbuggery made an executive decision. ‘Back to the ship, men!’

‘But what about the guy on the horse?’ demanded Deadman. ‘We can’t just leave him here to be speared to death by those cannibals.’

‘How do you know they’re cannibals?’ cried Obote, who had just come round. ‘Cannibalism is comparatively rare in pre-industrial societies. You just have a negative and stereotypical view of any ethnic group you deem to fall short of the arbitrary standards of your so-called civilization …’

Thwack!

‘Well done, coxswain.’ The Skipper glared at Deadman. ‘I’m not going to washte my men’s lives on a futile geshture.’ He pointed unsteadily at the oncoming war party. ‘What are we shupposed to fight them off with, seashellsh?’

‘Wait!’ Deadman was examining the flimsy contents of the crates. ‘I’ve got an idea, Skipper. Give me one minute.’

The Skipper sighed.‘ ‘One minute. And thish had better be good.’

‘Right. You men – with me!’ Deadman snatched a double armful of costumes from the crate and led the party he had selected into a nearby stand of trees.

The chase was approaching its climax. The rider had nearly reached the boats when his horse stumbled and fell. He pitched headlong from the saddle and landed, rolling. His mount gave a broken-winded neigh, and expired.

‘Come on, man!’ cried Rumbuggery.

To the astonishment of the crew, the rider, on picking himself up, stumbled back to the horse and began to fumble with the saddlebags.

‘Are you crazy?’ demanded the Skipper. ‘Get over here or you’re a kebab for sure!’

Indeed, the refugee was now within throwing range of the war party. Spears rained around him as he tugged desperately at something caught in the saddlebag beneath the horse. Eventually, whatever it was came free, just as a spear went straight through the man’s fedora, knocking it from his head. He turned, a cloth-wrapped parcel in his arms, and stumbled towards the safety of the boats, clutching the bundle to his chest. From the way he was moving, the parcel obviously contained something heavy.