Robert Rankin - The Toyminator

“Toys have feelings, too,” said Eddie.

Jack turned from the grill and gazed upon Eddie. The two of them had been through a great deal together. They had indeed had adventures. They had indeed had a relationship that was based upon trust and deep friendship. A lad and a toy bear. Absurd? Maybe. But then, what isn’t?

“Eddie,” said Jack, “it really is truly good to see you once more.”

“Thanks,” said Eddie. “The same goes for me.”

“Eddie?” said Jack.

“Jack?” said Eddie.

“Would you mind very much if I were to give you a hug?”

“I would bite you right in the balls if you ever tried.”

“Thank goodness for that,” said Jack, “because you smell like shit.”

Jack really didn’t need that much persuading. He put up a spirited, if insincere, struggle, of course, citing the possibilities of promotion in the field of customer services and the pension plan and putting forward some unsupportable hypothesis that young women found griddle chefs sexy. But he really didn’t take that much persuading and, come ten of the morning clock, with Sam shining down encouragingly, Jack took what wages he felt he was owed from the cash register, plus a small bonus that he considered he deserved, and with it his leave of Nadine’s Diner.

“It’s spoon,” he told the crossword-solving dolly as he made his departure. “What the dish ran away with.”

“Does this mean you’re running away from me?” asked the dolly.

“Not a bit of it,” said Jack. “I’ll pick you up at eight. Take you to the pictures.”

Outside in the encouraging sunlight, Eddie said, “Jack, are you doing it with that dolly?”

“Well …” said Jack.

“Disgusting,” said Eddie. “You should be ashamed.”

“I am,” said Jack, “but I’m trying to work through it.”

“And succeeding by the look of it.”

Jack tried to make a guilty face.

“You’re a very bad boy,” said Eddie.

The building hadn’t changed at all, but then why should it have changed? It was a sturdy edifice, built in the vernacular style, Alphabet brick, with a tendency towards the occasional fiddly piece, which gave it that extra bit of character. Bill Winkie’s office was on the first floor above the garage, which might or might not still house his splendid automobile. Eddie did ploddings up the stairway. Jack did long-legged stridings.

“It feels a bit odd,” said Jack as he followed Eddie, who with difficulty had overtaken him, along the corridor that led past various offices towards the door that led to Bill’s, “being back here again.”

“We did have some adventures, though.”

“All of them life-endangering.”

“But we came through, Jack, and –”

“Look at us now?” Jack asked.

“We’ll get back on top. Somehow.”

“I’ll give it a week,” said Jack.

“You’ll what?” And Eddie turned.

“I’ve a week’s money in my pocket. I’ll give it a week with you. That’s fair.”

“It’s not fair,” said Eddie. “Give a month at least.”

“Well, we’ll see how it goes. So where’s this padlock that needs picking?”

“It’s here,” said Eddie. But much to his surprise it was not. “It was here,” said Eddie, “only yesterday, but now it seems to have vanished.”

“Perhaps someone else has moved in.” Jack viewed the door of Bill Winkie’s office, BILL WINKIE INVESTIGATIONS etched into the glass. There were some holes in the woodwork where the hasp of a padlock had been. The door was slightly open. Jack did not feel encouraged by this turn of events.

“The door’s open,” said Eddie. “That’s as encouraging as.”

“No it’s not,” said Jack, “it’s suspicious.”

“Depends on how you look at it,” said Eddie. “It’s like the glass of water that is either half-full or half-empty, depending on how you look at it.”

“I’m sure there’s wisdom in your words.”

“I’m sure there isn’t,” said Eddie. “You’d best go first, I’m thinking.”

“And why would you be thinking that?”

“Well,” said Eddie, “you’re bigger than me and have about you an air of authority. And should there be anyone in that office who shouldn’t be there, you can shoo them away, as it were.”

“I see,” said Jack. “And that would be your considered opinion, would it?”

“Well, actually, no,” said Eddie. “I hardly gave it any consideration at all.”

Jack shook his head and pushed open the door. It squeaked a little on its hinges, but it was a different squeak from the door hinges of Tinto’s Bar. An octave higher, perhaps.

Jack and Eddie peeped into the office.

The office hadn’t changed at all.

Light drifted through the half-opened blinds, falling in slanted rays upon the filing cabinet, which contained little other than empty beer bottles; the desk that Jack had broken and inadequately repaired; the carpet that dared not speak its name; the water cooler that cooled no water; and all of the other sparse and sundry bits and bobs that made a private detective’s office a private detective’s office.

“Ah,” sighed Eddie, “home again,” and he sniffed. “And don’t it just smell good?”

Jack took a sniff and said, “Rank.”

“Rank,” agreed Eddie. “But it’s a good rank, don’t you think?”

“I do.”

“And it’s great to be back.”

“It is.”

“And we will have great times, Jack, exciting times.”

“Will we?” said Jack. “Well, yes, perhaps.”

“We will,” said Eddie. “We will.”

Jack looked at Eddie.

And Eddie looked at Jack.

“There’s just one thing,” said Jack.

“One thing?” said Eddie.

“One thing,” said Jack.

“And what would that one thing be?”

“That one thing,” and Jack now glared at Eddie, “that one thing would be that thing there . That one thing that you are so studiously ignoring. That one thing right there , lying on the carpet that dares not speak its name. Are you following me, Eddie? I’m pointing now, pointing to that one thing – do you see it?”

Eddie followed the pointing finger. And, “Ah,” said Eddie. “You would be referring, I suppose, to the dead body that is lying there upon the floor.”

Jack nodded slowly and surely. “That would be it,” he said.

“It’s a monkey,” said Eddie.

“It’s a dead monkey,” said Jack.

“It might only be sleeping,” said Eddie.

“It is dead ,” said Jack.

“Or run down,” said Eddie, approaching the monkey on the floor. “Its clockwork might just have run down – and run down is a small death, you know, amongst clockwork folk.”

“Look at its eyes,” Jack approached Eddie, who was approaching the monkey. “Those eyes are dead and staring.”

“They’re glass eyes,” Eddie said. “They always stare like that.”

The monkey lay upon the carpet that dared not speak its name. It was one of those monkeys that clap little brass cymbals whilst bouncing up and down. That is all they do, really, but children, and indeed adults, seem to find them very, very entertaining. Indeed, they can never get enough of those monkeys that clap their cymbals together and bounce up and down. Very popular, those monkeys are.

Although this one, it appeared, was dead.

Eddie looked sadly upon the monkey. It lay there, on its side, frozen in mid-clap. This was clearly a monkey that would clap and bounce no more.

“Wakey-wakey, Mister Monkey,” said Eddie. “You can’t sleep here, you know.”

“It’s dead, Eddie – look at it.”