Milrose Munce and the Den of Professional Help (17 page)

“Peel me another grape,” whispered Desiccated Douglas.

“I beg your pardon?” said Massimo to Milrose.

“I didn’t say anything,” said Milrose, smiling.

“I thought you said pass the grapes. Or something.”

“There are no grapes, Massimo.”

“Well, yes.” Massimo frowned and shrugged. He resumed his lunch.

Stuck Stu sat in a lotus position beside Massimo and mocked his every gesture. When Massimo reached for a sandwich, Stu reached for the same sandwich,
but then drew his hand away in disgust, as if the sandwich were mouldy. It was difficult to imagine anything causing Stu disgust, given the great volume of disgust his presence inspired in the world. Despite having pulled himself together considerably in death, pieces of him were still missing. And lots of pieces of him—bones, for instance—were a bit too prominent.

He burped, loudly. Massimo looked at Milrose severely. “That’s not like you, Milrose.”

“What’s not like me?”

“To … not say excuse me.”

“Um, excuse me? Why would I say excuse me?”

“For … burping.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s better.”

“I mean, I beg your pardon, but I didn’t burp, Massimo.”

Massimo frowned. He resumed his lunch. Then he looked up at Milrose through suspicious eyes. Then he resumed his lunch.

Third Degree Thor, who was so revolting that it would not be in good taste to describe him here, sat between Milrose and Arabella and stared directly into Massimo Natica’s eyes with his own (which had melted, unfortunately, but could still manage an approximation of a stare). He licked his lips in an exaggerated manner whenever Massimo chewed.

“Mmmm,” said Third Degree Thor.

“Enjoying your sandwich, are you, Milrose?”

“Not particularly. Why do you ask?”

“Were you being sarcastic, then?”

“I wasn’t being anything, Massimo.”

“But …” Massimo shook his head, as if attempting to dislodge something from his ear.

Hurled Harry cleared his throat. Massimo glanced quickly at Arabella. Poisoned Percy sneezed. Massimo glanced quickly at Milrose Munce. All very normal, said his worried expression: all very normal for people to clear their throats and sneeze. Except that these clearings and sneezings did not emit, precisely, from the place they ought to—which is to say the throat of Arabella and the nose of Milrose Munce.

Massimo jerked a shoulder, involuntarily, as if a heavy fly had landed upon it.

Third Degree Thor, who had an excess of athletic energy at all times, was too bored to remain seated for long in this congenial circle. He tiptoed dramatically over to the antique cattle prod. Hyper-masculine Thor was not one to tiptoe, and it did not suit his physique at all. He opened the glass cabinet, carefully and quietly, and removed the prod, then tiptoed back to stand behind Massimo Natica. To the great amusement of all, he held the prod just above and behind Massimo, and mimed the activity of sending great jolts of electricity into
that immaculate head. As Thor pretended to zap Massimo, he pulled his own hair up, to make it look as if it were standing on end, while simultaneously assuming an expression—insofar as a charred head can express—of “Help, I’m being electrocuted!”

Massimo Natica, sensing that something was behind him, turned to look. Luckily, Thor had the hairtrigger impulses of a crack jock, and he quickly moved the cattle prod so that it remained behind Massimo’s magnificent head.

What Massimo did see was that the glass case in which the prod was usually kept was open and empty. He looked piercingly at Milrose Munce.

“Where is the cattle prod?”

“I’m not sure. Where did you leave it?”

“I did not take it out.”

“Well then, it must be in the case.”

“Does it look as if it’s in the case?”

“Yes.”

Massimo swivelled his head sharply. And there was the antique prod, lying where it was supposed to lie. Thor had not managed to close the glass door, however.

Massimo Natica turned back to Milrose and pointed an irate finger. “The case is open!”

“That’s not the case.”

“What do you mean? That
is
the case. It’s where the cattle prod’s
always
kept!”

“No, I mean that’s not the case. That the case, in this case, is open.”

Massimo did not turn to look back at the prod. No, he knew very well what he would see, as his hallucinations were becoming predictable. He closed his eyes tightly and shook his head, as if attempting to dislodge a small tumour from his brain. And then, with a look of sad resignation, he turned very slowly to look at the case, which was of course now closed.

Third Degree Thor was standing beside the glass cabinet, triumphantly, his hands spread before him as if he were an Italian chef exalting the veal Milanese: “Look at my exceptional performance!”

For once, Milrose Munce was not at all annoyed by Thor’s tendency to brag. He snorted.

“Why are you snorting?”

“Um …”

“You
did
snort! I heard it! It was
you,
snorting!”

“Why yes it was, Massimo.”

This silenced the Professional Helper completely. The last thing he expected was that the snort would be acknowledged by Milrose Munce.

“So, it was … your snort.”

“Precisely as you said. You called it perfectly.”

“Oh.” He paused. “You’re sure now?”

“As sure as the prod in your case.”

“That’s not an expression!”

“Pardon me. I was being inventive. An old family trait, in fact, invention. My great-great-grandfather patented a device for exploding pimples. Very economical, as it required only a pinch of gunpowder …”

Massimo Natica was so confused that he did not think to insist upon an answer to the initial question: namely,
why
this snort.

For the next few minutes, the ghostly army did nothing but laze about. They gave Massimo time to calm himself, and to dismiss the recent peculiarities as something he had perhaps imagined. The mind is good at this, when faced with what it very much does not wish to believe.

Hurled Harry was proving a freakishly talented tactician. For this was precisely the thing to do: allow Massimo to regain his sanity, so that the next assault would again wrench him but good. It’s far less wrenching to go from insane to slightly more insane. No, Harry had it all figured out: he wanted Massimo Natica’s brain to swing like a pendulum—from reality to nightmare and back again—with him, Harry, holding the end of the rope.

Milrose was truly impressed. This fit well with his own stroke of tactical genius, which he welcomed the opportunity to reveal to Hurled Harry, their commander-in-chief. For Poisoned Percy, nervously clutching his manuscript and not yet joining in the fun, would be the cherry on top of the cake, the
froth on the cappuccino, and the straw to break the camel’s back.

Much remained to be resolved. Although Harry had been briefed regarding the exercises in trust and bodily destruction, none were sure what precise exercise Massimo had in store for this afternoon.

“This afternoon,” said Massimo, “we shall leave the blindfolds off.”

This would have been a relief, except that it wasn’t. In some ways it was better
not
to see the doom that was rushing down upon you like a blind and leprous bull.

“Now, you are to stand face to face.”

Milrose and Arabella, despite themselves, were soon standing face to face. Unfortunately, the ghouls had also paired up: Dave and Douglas, Stu and Harry, Thor and—although Thor’s expression suggested he was clearly not happy with his draw—Poisoned Percy.

Milrose Munce’s hopes recoiled in horror. These dead students had no more ability to withstand the concentrated will of Massimo Natica than did he or Arabella. Harry and his soldiers were also going to find themselves perpetrating exercises in trust. This scenario tested even the highly elastic imagination of Milrose Munce. This was going to prove, at the very least, weird.

“Right. Now, you are to place your index fingers
upon the closed eyelids of your partner. Good. And with subtle pressure …”

But the dreaded exercise was never announced. For a small, pretentious voice began to recite:

“Where is that ridiculous voice coming from?” asked Massimo Natica, sounding both indignant and fearful.

“And who wrote that vile poem?”

Milrose Munce, who would never have imagined himself actually
joyful
to hear Poisoned Percy recite from
The Flavour of Indigestion,
was not simply joyed but overjoyed. This in fact was the secret weapon he had in mind: when all else failed, he intended to wheel out the dreadful poet, for nothing is a blow to the sanity like truly execrable verse. And doubly terrifying is execrable verse emerging, apparently, from nowhere. For Massimo Natica had never seen a ghost, and could not see any now—Percy the Poseur had simply made it possible for Massimo to
hear
him.
The common ability to make oneself heard, while invisible, is useful to a ghost—when howling in a darkened house, for instance. Or when proudly declaiming ambitious poetry from beyond the grave.

Yes, Poisoned Percy, though utterly without taste, was gifted with a
large
and tasteless imagination, and it is this that permitted him to think his way out of the spell woven by Massimo Natica. For in the mind of Poisoned Percy, nothing was more powerful than his own poetry. And he knew that reciting that poetry would break whatever chain was wrapped around his pretentious soul.

It was remarkably effective. Massimo pressed his hands to his ears and looked as if he might throw up. This released the spell upon the finger-to-eyelid couples, and they immediately drew apart. Those ghosts who did not in fact have eyelids were relieved to have the fingers removed from what was left of their eyeballs.

Percival, always pleased to have an audience, rose to new heights of abysmal depth. His voice grew in confidence and volume.

“What is this
garbage?”
howled Massimo.

Everyone else in the room, although fully in agreement with that critical assessment, was truly enjoying the poem.

Freed, now, to continue their assault upon the wits of Massimo Natica, they flew into action.

Harry met the glittering eye of Milrose Munce and nodded with soldierly appreciation. Yes, said Harry’s nod, I now recognize your peculiar genius. True, it was more peculiar than genius, yet who but Milrose Munce—perfected in sarcasm and tutored in pretense by the very best—could possibly imagine the necessity of bringing this puissant, ineluctable force to the battlefield: Rancid Poetry.

S
O POTENT WAS
P
ERCY THAT HE COULD EASILY HAVE DOWNED THE
P
ROFESSIONAL
H
ELPER ON HIS OWN. HURLED HARRY, HOWEVER, HAD ORCHESTRATED A MAGNIFICENT PLAN, AND IT SEEMED UNFAIR NOT TO ALLOW HIS FOOT SOLDIERS TO FOLLOW THROUGH.

Thor whispered something into Arabella’s ear. She happily obliged, removing her ballet slippers and passing them to the flambéed star of the gridiron. Massimo did not see this transaction, but he was soon very much aware of Arabella’s footgear. For Third Degree Thor had put the slippers on his hands, with Arabella helping to fasten the silken straps around his wrists. And Massimo was about to experience a ballet unlike anything ever choreographed by man.

As the rest of the brave soldiers set about preparing to play their part, Thor began to dance.

To be more precise: Thor’s hands began to dance. He got down on all fours, and made his hands walk, with light and easy steps, towards Massimo Natica. Massimo, when he finally noticed this, of course saw nothing more than a pair of ballet slippers, sans ballerina, tippy-toeing his way.

He drew back in horror. And, forgetting himself, let his hands fall from his ears.

The slippers whirled and tapped and hovered in mid-air. And stood and jumped and slapped Massimo Natica playfully across the face.

Thor was enjoying this act. For at the heart of every football player resides a ballerina. He himself was now unnecessarily on his tiptoes, pirouetting and assuming what he imagined were professional ballet poses. While occasionally deigning to chuck Massimo playfully beneath the chin.

Were Massimo concentrating elsewhere but upon the invisible ballerina that was tormenting him, he
might have cause for alarm. Yes, he already had some cause for alarm, but this would have been cause for
alarm.
For the cattle prod was rising out of its case, as if on invisible wings.

Stuck Stu hovered close to the ceiling, bearing this electrical device. He examined it with a frown. How do you start up an antique cattle prod? Luckily, Stu had been a budding engineer back in the carefree days when he was healthy and whole, and he was soon able to figure out the mechanism. It was quite simple, really: there was a switch.

Stu made a dramatic show of throwing the switch, and the cattle prod hummed to life.

What proved particularly useful, and unexpected, was the prod’s high-pitched whine, which sounded very much like a mosquito. It became immediately clear to Stuck Stu that he need not actually
assault
Massimo with the prod; he need not
electrocute
him; it might prove even more amusing to simply
annoy
him.

And so great Stu descended with the prod held in front of him, and flew around the Professional Helper’s head. This was no ordinary irritation: Massimo soon realized that the noise was being produced not by anything so merely annoying as a mosquito, but by a capricious, floating cattle prod—an entirely different order of annoyance.