Great Apes (29 page)

‘If he and Mr Levinson, or his lawyer, or whoever it is who wishes to take “huu” responsibility agrees – ?'

‘Obviously. ' Busner let the sign hang for a moment, his fingers circling and sweeping, before slapping Gambol's hands from the back of his neck and hauling himself bipedal.

‘Well, Dr Busner “euch-euch” where are you going to berth your human-deluded chimp “huuu”?' Norris couldn't keep the sarcasm out of sign or sound.

Zack Busner reared up, took two steps and bit the social worker on his eyebrow. Red blood trickled through black fur. Norris screamed, then hunkered round and presented. Zack patted the mewling member of the caring profession gingerly, as if he were an animate settle, then waved ‘Why, at my group home, of course. Where else better, if he's to stand a chance of relearning his essential chimpunity “huuu”?'

There were grunts of assent from the others. Bowen adjourned the meeting.

In the corridor Gambol hung lazily from a section of architrave for a while. His feet – at waist level – footled with a coil of fire hose attached to the wall. Busner knuckle-walked past at speed, Bowen in his wake. ‘I'm going to sign with Dykes right away, Gambol – you wait for me here.'

Gambol went on footling. Really, he thought, things couldn't have gone much better if they'd planned them that way. If Busner hadn't suggestured taking Dykes on fully – either Whatley or Gambol would have pointed it out themselves. For reasons of their own, there was nothing they hoped for more than that Busner would enfold Dykes
in his ample furry bosom. Whatley knew why after their second lunch at Café Rouge, after reading the contents of the shiny folder. Whatley, emerging from his office, winked at the dangling, epsilon machiavel. The two chimps were visualising the same thing; Dykes was like a grenade that had been tossed to Busner. And Busner – the fool – had obligingly caught it, not realising that the pin had been pulled.

Simon Dykes, no longer an artist, merely a mental patient, squatted on the nest in secure room six and pondered the events of the morning. His madness – he felt – was beginning to take on a new texture, like a fog which, having appeared impenetrable, begins to boil then shreds to reveal tatters of landscape. Could his humanity be the delusion – and his chimpunity – preposterous sign! – the reality?

He yawned, scratched his armpit with one hand, his ischial scrag with the other. Then – without being conscious of it – fell to examining his body. His hands smoothed along his thighs, his fingertips splayed over his shins and then his feet. He didn't
feel
any different – or did he? True, he hadn't shaved for two weeks now and the stubble under his chin had acquired the pile of beard – he could smooth it this way and rough it the other. But his chest, his arms, his thighs, they were no more lanate than before.

Simon's questing fingers sought out a pit on his right kneecap. A pit that they knew should be there, a pit caused by a bad bicycle crash when he was six or seven. They failed to locate it and the former artist brought his eyes to bear. He stared at his knee. Perhaps the fur there
was
thicker. He couldn't remember it braiding together in this fashion,
individual clumps flowing into mini-dreadlocks. Where was the pit? The old scar? Fingers scrabbled – yes, scrabbled – in the sparse fur until they found it, then Simon sighed. Sighed to find himself still Simon, still human.

He rolled off the nest and knuckle-walked to the window. It felt comfortable to move quadrumanously, good to stretch and grab the thin bars across the slit of window. Simon pulled himself bipedal. There was nothing to see outside, the window looked on to an internal courtyard of the hospital, but a view no matter how limited was part of the outside world. Simon was, he realised, imagining going outside. More than that – he
wanted
to go outside, whatever he might find there.

What did the vile piece in the paper about Sarah mean? Was she fucking Ken Braithwaite? Did chimps fuck? And what of all the other people he knew? ‘People'. The sign sounded odd to Simon – more like some garbled vocalisation than anything truly meaningful. And what of his infants, his three little males? Simon pictured them lined up, off-the-peg kids representing a series of standard sizes: small, medium, large. They were all identically clad in dark blue pullovers, with the name of their school emblazoned across their chests. They all had the same squeakily new, shit-coloured, leather satchels slung around their shoulders, and they all had the same expression puckering their muzzles, creasing up their sweet, green eyes. Then they fissioned and scampered towards him, clawed their way up on to him, one leaping for his shoulder, another grabbing an arm, the third – and littlest – shinning up his leg. The four Dykes males made a bundle of mock aggression, from which came the occasional hysterical giggle, clack of teeth, quavering grunt.

The judas on the door slid open with a dull click. Simon shook himself out of his reverie and glanced towards it to see a familiar eroded muzzle, familiar hooded eyes; their vertical irises flicking from side to side. “HoooGra!” Busner drummed on the outside of the door.

Simon felt his chest contract – involuntarily; and a gout of air suck inside with a rushing “Hoooo,” then it splurged back out through the grate of his great teeth, “Graaa!” and he drummed a little on the side of the nest, producing a leaden timpani.

Busner was more than a little surprised by this. ‘Simon,' he signed, ‘that's the first time I've heard you pant-hoot –'

‘What “huu”?'

‘No matter. “H'huu” would you feel upset if I came in? I need to sign with you. ' Busner's fingers moved awkwardly, feeling up the crack of the judas.

‘N-no, if you “grnnn” must.'

The door swung open and the eminent natural philosopher – as he liked to style himself – swung in, landing heavily on his hirsute feet. He sat there for some moments and Simon regarded him warily. Busner was
all
ape. His chest a thick barrel, its depth emphasised by the way his tweed jacket rucked up. His bandy little legs supported this mound of muscle readily enough, but the contrast between their feral aspect, the exposed ‘V' of white shirt and the coil of brown mohair tie, was quite simply – nauseating. Simon could feel a bubble of anxious revulsion building in him as he stared into the muzzle of the beast. Its crescent of hard lip which drooped to reveal canines the size of clothespegs; its bashed-in nose, the nostrils oval, black tunnels; and above them the eyes, the
inhuman eyes with their green lambency, their mutant pupils.

‘ “Euch-euch” Simon, don't look at me that way – I can see that you
are
getting upset. Sign with me, gesticulate with me – that's the way to stop yourself overreacting. It doesn't matter whether I'm chimp – or human – the important thing is that
we
can sign.'

‘Sign,' Simon signed bemusedly. ‘What does that mean “huu”?' Busner's eyebrow ridges widened questioningly.

‘Sign, Simon, sign, gesticulate with your hands – as I'm doing now “grnnn”.'

Simon grimaced. A peculiar little grimace. ‘But humans don't sign, Dr Busner, we “speak”. That's how we communicate. I believe some chimpanzees and even gorillas have been taught to make a few signs – signs adapted from the sign languages deaf and dumb people use. But humans don't sign – we don't have to. We “speak”.'

It was Busner's turn to look bemused. His mind whirred. Dykes's delusion was so beautifully symmetrical. Clearly he had retrieved – from some far bank of his memory – the information that wild humans gesticulated through a large repertoire of vocalisations. But this raw fact had been subjected to baroque embellishment with further suppositions. Dykes had coined an original vocalisation to express the image of that form of gesticulation. Busner hunkered forward, his splayed fingers agitated the air. ‘Simon “gru-nnn”, d'you think you could teach me this “eek”, “huuu”?'

‘ “Speech”, Dr Busner, “speech”. And yes, I don't see why not. After all,' and here Simon paused and regarded his own fingers, fingers that now shaped with as much fluidity
as those of any chimpanzee, ‘I appear to be able to “speak” like you “grnnn”.'

Busner nodded at this, rocked back and forth on his heels, rose, knuckle-walked to the window, handed his way up on to the bars. The former television personality swung there for a while. Simon stared at the ape's naked hindquarters. Busner's runtish buttocks and fleshy scut were both an intimate and an alien sight. The folds of brown and pink skin formed a virtual bill, poking out from the furred protruberance. Busner, as if sensing Simon's gaze, let go of one of the bars and made a sinistral exploration of his arsehole. He then brought his fingers to his prehensile lip and nonexistent nose, where they were subjected to a critical, multi-sensory analysis. The same hand then sped signs at Simon. ‘My arsehole looking all right “huuu”?'

‘Fine, Dr Busner – , you might sign.'

Busner cackled and clacked at this. ‘ “H'hee-hee-clak-clak” oh dear, well, I suppose it's a little infantile, but
I
think your joke rather funny. Now, Simon, we have to decide what we should do with you –'

‘Do with me “huu”?'

‘Quite so. ' Busner dropped back to the floor. ‘I'll be frank, we've found structural abnormalities in your brain. We don't know whether they're evidence of some organic damage or part of a disease process, or even a congenital deformity, but they're there – and almost certainly implicated in your “euch-euch'” human delusion.'

‘Can it be cured “huuu”?'

‘I can't put my finger on that.'

‘Then you're going to keep me in here! Keep me in
this bin! Is that it “h'huu”? Is that what you're signing?' Simon was bipedal, pacing about in a peculiar, jerky way, like a bonobo sub-adult dancing to jungle music. He started making some of his strangulated, low-pitched vocalisations, which to Busner sounded like “Ohgodohgodohgodohgod …”

‘ “Waaa”! Simon, snap out of it, this isn't going to help. No, I don't think there's any point in keeping you here, or sending you to some long-term institution.'

‘No “huu”?'

‘ “Wraaa”! No! If I am to impact upon this delusion in any way, I must help you to confront reality. I want you to come and live with me at my group home. To range with me, to see something of this planet of the apes you find yourself in – and at the same time –'

“‘Hoo” yes! What, what at the same time? What! “Wraaa”!' Simon came to a halt in front of Busner, he was shaking with anger, with fear, with awful weariness. Busner was near to cracking – he felt his control going. Only long years of dealing with the most abusive and intractable of patients allowed him leeway, leeway not to punish this insolence.

‘At the same time, Simon, you can “gru-nn” show me about your world – your view of the world.'

‘ “Wraaa”! I'd like that very much, really I would –'

‘ “Hooo” we can regard the exercise as educative – as much as therapeutic –'

‘Of course, of course, why not. What a good idea “euch-euch”!' Simon's signing was, Busner noted, improving rapidly. This last semiotic string was shaped with oblique slashes of sarcasm. The anti-psychiatrist couldn't
stand it; his arm lashed out and his nails raked across Simon's chest. For good measure Busner bit him on the eyebrow ridge – quite hard. Simon, naturally, turned tail and squeezed off a spray of liquid shit at his bestial soul doctor. The two of them then engaged in briefscrimmage – arms and legs flying, wraaing and screeching.

It was all over in seconds, Simon lay spreadeagled on the filthy linoleum, his shit-dashed shrink atop him. Simon mewled and whimpered pathetically. ‘Now then, Simonkins darling. ' Busner's fingers as they played upon Simon's body were tender, placatory. ‘You get out the fear, get out the hurt, the anger. Attack me by all means – that's very chimp, very chimp indeed.'

And the former artist responded to the fingers that moved on his chest, responded to them as he hadn't before. He
felt
Busner's concern – and allowed himself to believe in it. Within minutes the two apes were squatting cross-legged, Simon behind Busner, and he was picking the fast-drying shit out of his doctor's fur. It was his first grooming session since the breakdown.

Dr Bowen did a pant-hoot round. She pant-hooted Jean Dykes and Anthony Bohm in Oxfordshire. She pant-hooted George Levinson in Cork Street, and Tony Figes at the newspaper. Finally, she pant-hooted Sarah Peasenhulme.

“HoooH'Graaa'.”

‘ “HoooH'Graaa'”. Have you any news for me, Dr Bowen “huu”?' Sarah's signing betrayed all kinds of anxiety – she was, Jane Bowen noted, wearing a very elaborate swelling-protector for a female who was squatting in an office.

‘I have, Sarah, some good, some not so good. Dr Busner is – as it were – taking Simon in hand –'

‘ “Huuu” meaning?'

‘Well, he's done it with others of his patients before – usually those with neurological damage, or a condition that is “graaa” productive –'

‘What do you mean “huu”?'

‘ “H'hoo” I mean that we fear Simon's condition may be fundamentally intractable – there is considerable damage to his brain.'

‘ “Wraa” but how “h'huu”? Why? Was it the drugs, or that bloody Prozac he was on? What “huuu”?'

‘Sarah, we don't know, but believe me Dr Busner has had considerable success with this kind of case in the past. He takes what he ascripts a approach to such disorders. He may not be able to cure Simon of his delusion that he's a human, but he could make it possible for Simon to come to terms with it – make use of it even, sign in his art. ' Bowen furled and unfurled an ear as she gesticulated.