Great Apes (20 page)

For the rest of her time at college, Sarah went every week to see Tom Hansen, and to gesticulate over and over and over again the minutiae of her upbringing. So often did
she recreate the exact circumstances of her weaning tantrums for the personable therapist that he became incorporated into the memories themselves, a benign – if disengaged – influence.

Hansen showed her about Freud, the founding alpha of psychoanalysis, and how he had been the first chimp to recognise the destructive emotional effect of a biological alpha not mating his daughter. And so Sarah came to understand herself, and her parents, if not altogether forgive either of them.

But things also changed on the home range. Although nothing was signed, Harold Peasenhulme did begin to mate her with a little more frequency – albeit with exactly the same chronic disengagement he had always evinced, sometimes taking as much as a minute to achieve climax.

And now, what with this prostate trouble, I suppose he'll never, ever give me a really sound, thorough covering, Sarah thought angrily as she took another willow-patterned plate from the drying-up rack and subjected it to a cursory wipe. The mating that her mother had pointed out took ages, her alpha heaving over her back, his flaccid penis barely penetrating her. Eventually he had given up – not even reaching climax – picked up his discarded
Telegraph
and retired to his study without bothering to groom her.

If that was a mating, then I'm Mae West, Sarah had thought, and hating herself for it, she forced Jane, the Peasenhulmes' delta female, to groom her for a good hour, although she was practically useless at it and insisted on inparting with every tweak and comb some asinine piece of tickle-slapple.

The Peasenhulmes' house, like their car, was comfortably furnished in a staid, almost inter-war style. Every
room was tastefully William Morris wallpapered. In the drawing room a collection of plump sofas and tubby armchairs sat muzzling a highly polished coffee-table adorned with a cut-glass bowl, always flower-filled. In the nestrooms the chests of drawers had lavender cushions buried in their soft depths. And in the large open-plan kitchen the old Aga still squatted, although for years now it had been purely decorative, Hester Peasenhulme preferring to cook on the modern, gas-fired range that her son Giles had fitted for her.

Giles, bloody, conscientious Giles. If it wasn't bad enough for Sarah having a sister like Tabitha, who inflamed male lust when she was days off oestrus, and whose exquisitely beautiful swellings sometimes lasted for weeks, there was also Giles, the perfect son. Giles, who had gone no further than Oxshott to found his own sub-group, and who somehow managed to find time to get back to the natal range almost every day and help his poor old parents out.

The previous evening, after their last supper, with Giles and most of his simpering sub-group in attendance, Harold Peasenhulme put the finger on Sarah. ‘I don't know what I'd do without Giles's help, you know. ' His fingers complacently formed the signs. ‘He's a lifesaver now that I find it so hard to crawl around the place. ' Harold Peasenhulme had had a career in the City notable solely for its great length and even greater stolidity. Length and stolidity also characterised his signing, never using one sign where five would do, and never upping his gesticulant tempo. He had once stood upright for selection as a parliamentary candidate – Tory, of course – but been rejected by the committee with the succinct ascription: ‘Dull'.

Giles grinned widely at his alpha's compliment, displaying the characteristically pointed Peasenhulme canines. He was diligently grooming his alpha. “Hooo”, thought Sarah. Goody two toes is going to pack you off to a rest home, and take over the house and the group before you can sign knife, old chimp. Then she succumbed once more to guilt, which was the emotion she associated more than any other with her alpha. She almost felt sorry for the punctilious old chimp. Almost – but not quite.

After second lunch on the third day of Sarah's stay, her alpha called her into his study. “H'hooo.”

She bounded through from the kitchen where she had been helping her mother make jam. ‘“'H'huu” yes, Alpha?'

‘Sarah, I need to have a gesticulation with you,' he signed awkwardly, most of his hands and feet occupied with pipe cleaners and pipes. ‘Have you seen this morning's paper “huu”?'

‘No, Alph.'

‘Well, you'd better take a look. ' He dropped a pipe, picked up the
Telegraph
and tossed it across the desk to her. It was opened at the ‘Peterborough' column.

The first thing that caught Sarah's eye was Simon's. She blanched. It was an old photo, and Sarah recognised the fur casually draped around his shoulder as belonging to his exalpha. She felt the flush of jealousy that always came upon her when she was presented with even the remotest evidence of Jean Dykes's existence, then summoned herself and read the copy.

* * *

Despite the good weather there's no prospect of a sunny opening at the Levinson Gallery in Cork Street next Thursday. That brooding and temperamental painter Simon Dykes, whose penchant for seeking creative stimulus in the smallest room is well known to the denizens of the Sealink Club, has apparently become even more brooding and temperamental.

Is he engaging in some last-minute life sketching of the kind of brutalised figures that feature so prominently in his new paintings? Perhaps this explains his current residence, the psychiatric ward at Charing Cross Hospital, definitely the
wrong
end of Fulham.

Or possibly it's something to do with that bright young female Sarah Peasenhulme, whose absence from her normal night range has coincided with the artist's indisposition? Undoubtedly, the only way to find out will be to attend the opening and beard George Levinson, a chimp not known for keeping his fingers to himself.

‘ “Wraaf”! Bloody tickle-slapple columnists, who the f–'

‘ “Wraaaf”! Sarah, watch your vocalisation, if you please.'

‘But, Alph, this is repulsive stuff. Hitting Simon when he's down like this. You can't surely –'

‘As it happens this sort of drivel does lend me some sympathy for your “euch-euch” consort. Although I find the implication here that he is a drug user disturbing, and as you know I have never approved of your association. ' Harold Peasenhulme picked the paper up from where Sarah had let it fall, folded it and tucked it away on his
side of the desk, as if it might be required for future reference.

‘ “Huu” Alph, you're not going to go into all of that again, are you? Simon and I have been consorting for more than a year now.'

‘I'm well aware of that. And well aware also that he's very unlikely to found a new group with you, for all sorts of reasons; reasons that I'm sure you are aware of as well. All I can sign is I trust you're taking this opportunity to do some mating elsewhere. I covered you this morning –'

‘Sort of.'

‘Giles will come over and bring his distal males to give you one any time you pant-hoot. Peter and Crispin are always happy to mate you. Sarah “gr-unn”, I know we've never seen exactly eye-to-hand on things, but won't you consider finding a stable, polyandrous group “huu”? You must be aware of how unsuitable this consortship is, verging on monogamy as it does, and without the likelihood of any issue to justify it. ' His fingers stumbled over the sign ‘monogamy', as if fearful of being contaminated.

‘I can't, Alph. I love him. I want to help him. He's a brilliant chimp, a great ape. I wouldn't mind being his consort … for ever.'

With this inflammatory remark she fled the room, not even bothering to give her alpha the slightest of valedictory grooms. And as she packed her bag and readied herself for the journey she felt the dead weight of Harold Peasenhulme's indifference. Why, “hoo” why, “hoo” why can't he beat me the way an alpha should. I insult him, I challenge his authority and he does nothing. Clearly he doesn't love me – never has.

The Reverend Peter drove her back to West Byfleet Station an hour or so later. She didn't bother to give her parents a valedictory pant-hoot, she was still too angry. Peter mated her three or four times on the way, pulling over into lay-bys, twitching aside the light cotton swelling-protector she wore and entering her with surprising alacrity – considering his age, that is. ‘You wouldn't “huuu” consider staying just another day or so, would you, my dear? Just so I could mate you a bit more. It does my soul good.'

‘Oh, Reverend, if only
you
were my alpha. Your arseholiness is so beautiful, your spirituality gushes like spunk from your cock.'

‘You're too sweet, my dear.'

They kissed each other many times on the platform and the Reverend petted Gracie as well. They had ten minutes to wait for Sarah's train, and in that time as many males displayed to her. At one point the platform contained three such suitors, strutting up and down, waving magazines or newspapers to indicate their availability for mating. ‘I do wish you'd let one of them, my dear,' the Reverend gestured. ‘You might even enjoy it, you never know.'

‘No, Peter, if I can't have you, or Simon, I don't think I'll be mating anyone else for the rest of this oestrus. And certainly not a chimp whose courtship display consists of beating himself around the head with a copy of
PC User. '

They hugged again. The train pulled in. Sarah leapt on and squatted at a seat in the window with the lap pony comfortably ensconced on top of her. The last thing she saw as the train pulled out was the elderly priest sitting on a bench, teasing some of her drying vaginal mucus out his
groin fur, with a wistful, almost spiritual expression on his greying muzzle.

But while she may have been defiant to her parents, and direct with the Reverend – who was after all the Peasenhulmes' beta and had been for many years – alone once more Sarah continued to brood on her consort's breakdown, and consider whether or not it might be time they fissioned.

In the few days that Sarah had been away, a voluminous and unusual correspondence had built up between the occupant of the secure room on Gough, and the senior registrar. Dr Bowen continued to ask her troublesome, if talented patient what it was that ailed him, and continued to receive remarks which substantiated a picture of such clinical oddity that at times she wondered whether or not it was she who was suffering from the delusion rather than Dykes.

‘When you say you are ‘human', what do you delineate by this?'

‘I am a member of the human race. The Latin name is
Homo erectus
or
Homo sapiens
, something like that. Why are you asking me these questions, aren't you human?'

‘No. I am a chimpanzee, as are you. You are not human. Humans are brute animals only found in the wild in equatorial regions of Africa. There are some humans in captivity in Europe, although they are mostly used for experimental purposes. Humans cannot sign, or effectively vocalise, let alone write. Which is why I know
you aren't a human. Humans are also largely hairless. You have a fine coat – if I, as your doctor, may sign so. Why do you think you are human?'

‘I am human because I was born human. Christ! I can't believe I'm writing this. You know I think all of this is a part of my madness, these notes I scrawl in response to your insane questions. Where is Sarah? Why won't you send her in to see me? Or get hold of George Levinson, my dealer. They're both as human as I am.'

‘BothSarah and Georgehavebeenintosee you. They, like everyone else who is fully sentient in this world, are chimpanzees. I understand your fear, Simon, and your confusion, but you must recognise that something is profoundly wrong with you. I believe you may well have incurred some organic damage to your brain. If you will allow me, together with my colleagues, to do some neurological tests and assessments on you, we will be able to ascertain whether or not this is true and try and devise some way of helping you.'

And so it went on. But every time this unusual epistolary relationship looked like it was getting somewhere and Simon signalled that he would be prepared to allow Dr Bowen to enter his room and gesticulate with him muzzle-to-muzzle, he would relapse into the state of bestial fear and catatonia in which he had been admitted to the hospital.

“HoooGraa,” Jane would vocalise as gently as possible, sidling in through the door. The bent figure of the chimp
with his back to her was pathetic, slope-shouldered, the evidence of his Parkinsonian weakness written into every lineament. The smell of despair in the secure room was palpable to the psychiatrist's questing lip and flared nostrils.

“H'hooo?” he would vocalise, showing perfect awareness that it was she he was recalling – Jane would then sidle quietly up to him and inpart as gently as possible on his back, sniffing and grooming him the while. ‘Don't worry, Simon, I'm here to help you, to psychically preen you.'

Each time this happened, the artist would allow it to go on just that little bit longer before turning his head to catch sight of her – then: ‘ “Wraaaa”! Get away from me! Get away, get away, get away!' He would back mewling and bellowing into the corner, his hands barely able to shape the signs.

Initially Bowen kept to the instructions she had laid down for the staff. She refrained from administering the reassuring blows, followed by the even more reassuring grooming that she would have given any other disturbed chimp in the circumstances. But as the days went by and his response remained just as aberrant and uncooperative, she did resort to cuffing him lightly around the muzzle as he backed away from her. However, this didn't pay any dividend either, save for nonsensical accusations of ill-treatment when they resumed their contact via letter.

“HoooGraaa!” Bowen drummed on the door of Whatley's office and entered at a bound, throwing handfuls of Dykes's correspondence at her boss. She continued the display for two or three minutes, plucking books from the consultant's shelves and hurling them in the general direction of the desk.