Jonathan Howard - Johannes Cabal the Necromancer

“No. No. No. If you have trouble with any of these terms, you can consult with me in my office.”

“You don’t want to get your soul back, then?” asked Horst with an appearance of innocence that might have been applied by grease gun.

Cabal bit his lip. “It’s only one sideshow.”

“But it might be the one. You never know. We don’t have that many, after all.”

Cabal made a show of thinking it over, but he knew Horst was right. There really was no choice. “Very well. For tonight only.”

“‘For tonight only.’” Horst held his hands up to an imaginary sign. “‘Thrown out of the best universities, excommunicated from all the most popular religions and many of the obscure ones, fresh from his recent engagement in Hell, we present Johannes Cabal, Necromancer!’ Toot toot toot!” He mimed blowing trumpets.

“You’re a constant font of hilarity, aren’t you?” said Cabal, unsmiling. “And I’ll have you know that I was never, ever thrown out of any of my universities. I always left of my own accord.”

“And always in the early hours of the morning,” added Horst. “Look, Johannes. Despite everything, I’ve always sort of liked you. Back in the days before you abdicated from the human race, your heart was usually more or less in the right place. This will be a doddle. The House of Medical Monstrosity has been set aside for you. You know about the human body — how it works, how it doesn’t work, how, if it isn’t working, you can get it sort of ticking over again. Sort of.” He laughed, and Cabal knew he was thinking of Dennis and Denzil. Cabal bridled: that damn test batch was going down the plug hole the instant he managed to develop something better. “Anyway, it’s something you have an enthusiasm for. Believe me, talking about something that excites you will excite others. It communicates.”

“It communicates?” echoed Cabal. He didn’t believe that for a second. Far too many boring people had cornered him in his youth who were fascinated by things very boring indeed. Their enthusiasm had not “communicated” in the slightest.

Horst’s expression of uncertainty showed he wasn’t so sure of the principle when it involved his brother. “I’ll draw up some notes for you,” he said in a conciliatory tone.

“Ahem. ‘Roll up, roll up. Prepare to be shuddered to the very core of your being. Prepare to witness the most horrible tricks Mother Nature has played upon humanity. Prepare to enter the House of Medical Monstrosity.’” Cabal paused from his notes and looked up. He had an audience of precisely one, a small girl who was sticking her tongue out so hard at him it might actually be hurting slightly. Cabal could only hope. He drew a deep breath and continued.

“‘Within the walls of horror behind me lie the most terrible mutations, the most grotesque freaks, the most fearful occupational injuries. See.’” He belatedly realised he’d been missing the exclamation marks. “‘See! The man with the exposed intestine. See! Alicia and Zenia, the two-headed girl. See!’” He couldn’t understand why he had to keep repeating “See!” He couldn’t imagine the average rube wanting to touch, smell, or taste the show’s stars. Not the average rube, anyway. “‘See! Mr. Bones, the Living Skeleton.’” It had been very good of Bones to make up the numbers. In fact, he had leapt at the chance to lounge around in a thong all evening.

Cabal looked up. There was still only the small girl. She was still sticking her tongue out. Her mother bustled over.

“There you are! I’ve been looking all over! And what have I told you about pulling faces? Your face will stick like that if the wind changes.”

“Certain surgical techniques would do the trick, too,” observed Cabal.

The woman looked up at him with an habitual animosity. “And what do you do?” she asked. “You look like a funeral director.”

Despite his black clothes, Cabal knew he looked nothing like a funeral director. He could never have managed the sanctimonious expression if he’d had a month to practice. “Madam,” he said. “Or may I call you ‘florid termagant’?”

“Ooo la!” she said, delightfully outraged. She patted her resinous perm. “I’m a married woman.”

“Forgive me. May I say, he’s a very lucky man,” lied Cabal. His face moved into something that, by strict dictionary definition, was a smile. The girl whimpered and tried to hide in her mother’s skirts. “Madam, the exhibition behind me is the House of Medical Monstrosity. See!” He found his place in his notes, drew breath, and let it out again. He put the notes away.

“Madam,” he started again, “behind me is a freakshow. An exhibit of the unfortunate, the despised, and the outcast. An exhibit where all such are drawn together to give you, a normal member of the general public, a chance to jeer and laugh at those less fortunate than you. Imagine! You may be unhappy about the shape of your nose, the line of your jaw, the way your eyes stick out. But all this fades into insignificance when you see a man whose spine grows out of the top of his head. Unsightly facial hair? We have a bearded woman! Weight problem? We have from one end of the spectrum to the other: a living skeleton, and somebody so astoundingly, grotesquely fat that we haven’t actually been able to discern his or her sex. If you have any feelings of inadequacy whatsoever, then here is the place to come, to point and say, ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I!’”

A crowd was growing. A young woman nervously held up her hand. “I … I … I have freckles.”

Cabal gestured fiercely over his shoulder with his thumb. “We have the Dalmatian Boy. Next?”

A man called, “I have a bit of an overbite.”

“Then gaze in delighted wonder upon the Human Shark. Next!”

“My nose is a little too pert,” said an almost stereotypical blond woman on the arm of a wealthy man.

“It can’t be as pert as Simone Sans-Nez the Noseless Girl’s. Next!”

“I’m ginger,” called a teenage boy.

“So you are. Yes, my friends! The House of Medical Monstrosity! Slake your thirst for abomination and abnormality! Feast your eyes on the people who really are worse off than yourselves! Draw self-esteem from their abasement!” There were a lot of people in front of him now, but nobody wanted to be the first to buy a ticket. He needed a sheep to lead the flock. He flicked his gaze quickly over the rapturous, vacant faces until he saw one whose gaze was locked on one of the lurid paintings that decorated the front of the sideshow. Cabal glanced quickly at them, following the man’s line of sight. Then, with quiet confidence, he looked back out into the crowd in no particular direction. It was a complete coincidence that his eyes met the man’s as he said, “And, for the first person to buy a ticket, the chance to have your photograph taken with Layla, the luscious, lissom, lithely Latex Lady.”

“I’ll buy a ticket!” shouted the man unnecessarily loudly, the sweat showing on his lip. “Me!”

Cabal was beginning to realise that this year could well turn out to be an interesting experiment into behavioural psychology. He doubted Marko the Moulting Man would have turned the trick.

“You, sir! You’re a very lucky man! Here you go! Ticket number one!” The spiel was beginning to come along as well. You just had to give the poor fools the impression that you were doing them a favour and they ate from your hand. The money was handed over, and the small piece of pasteboard exchanged. The man was almost feverish with excitement. Cabal wondered what he would give in exchange for something more than a photograph. He began to think that he’d let the stationmaster off very lightly indeed. He addressed the crowd.