Snuff Fiction by Robert Rankin Read Free Book Online Page A

marzipan chin, butterscotch hair and a mole on his left shoulder that resembled a Pontefract cake.
    Norman stood in his vest and pants, having forgotten to bring his games kit. Mr Vaux, all tweed and cravat, blew his whistle. Norman made the sign of the cross, ambled forward, gathered speed, jumped and plunged headfirst into the horse.
    The mighty leathern four-legged beasty took it with scarcely a shudder. Norman stiffened, did that comedy stagger which in cartoons is always accompanied by small birds circling the head, and then collapsed unconscious on the parquet floor.
    There were no great cries of horror and no runnings forward to help. After all, we’d seen this happen many times and if you ran to help without permission, you got walloped with the slipper.
    Mr Vaux called for injury monitors and we all put up our hands, for it was well known that Norman always kept a few toffees hidden in his underpants.
    Our teacher did a ‘you and you’ and Norman was gathered up and stretchered from the hall.
    ‘What that lad needs is a mentor,’ I said.
    The Doveston nodded. ‘You’re not wrong there.’
     
    On this particular occasion Norman’s concussion was sufficiently severe to merit a sending home early and so, after school, the Doveston and I went around to his daddy’s shop to offer our best wishes and hopes for a speedy recovery.
    It was Wednesday afternoon and the shop was early-closed. We knocked and waited and while we waited we gazed longingly through the front window.
    This week it was dominated by a display for a new brand of American cigarette: Strontium Nineties. There were large cardboard cut-outs of fresh-faced college boys and girls, flat-topped and ponytailed, grinning and puffing. Speech bubbles issued from their toothy mouths, with phrases such as ‘Gee whiz, they sure taste good’ and ‘Radiating pleasure, yes siree’ printed upon them.
    ‘What do you think about those?’ I asked.
    The Doveston shook his head. ‘I’ve read a lot about them in the trade press,’ he said. ‘They’re supposedly impregnated with a radioactive element which makes them glow in the dark. The Americans irradiate everything nowadays, it’s supposed to be very good for the health.’
    ‘They irradiate Coca-Cola, don’t they?’
    ‘Allegedly,’ said the Doveston. ‘Allegedly.’
    He knocked again and we waited some more. I knew that the Doveston’s attempts to adopt old Mr Hartnell had met with no success and I must confess that I did not believe that his intention to become Norman’s mentor was altogether altruistic. But the lure of free sweeties and possibly fags was too much for me to ignore.
    The Doveston squinted through the shop-door glass. ‘Someone s coming,’ he said.
    Norman’s face appeared before us, somewhat grey and mournful. ‘Piss off,’ it said.
    ‘Hello, Norman,’ said the Doveston. ‘Is your dad at home?’
    ‘He’s gone to the wholesalers. Same as he does every Wednesday afternoon and he told me not to let any kids in. Same as he does every Wednesday afternoon.
    ‘Very wise too,’ said the Doveston. ‘So, are you coming out, or what?’
    ‘I’m ill,’ said Norman. ‘I’ve got a headache.’
    ‘We’re going to the fair.’
    ‘What fair?’ asked Norman.
    ‘What fair?’ I asked too.
    ‘The one on the Common, of course.’
    Norman shook his aching head. ‘It doesn’t open until Saturday. Everyone knows that.’
    ‘It opens for me,’ said the Doveston. ‘I have an uncle who runs one of the attractions.’
    Norman’s eyes widened behind the door glass. ‘You have?’ he said slowly. ‘Which one?’
    ‘His name is Professor Merlin. He runs the Freak Show.’ My eyes too widened somewhat at this. The Freak Show was always a
big
attraction. Last year there had been an eight-legged lamb and a mermaid. Both had admittedly been stuffed, but there were live exhibits too. Giants and dwarves, a bearded lady and an alligator man.
    ‘You’re lying,’ said Norman.