His Perilous Throne Page 2

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  Monk finished washing himself at the basin and put on his clean underpants. Rising up from an exaggerated knee-bend, he stopped a moment to admire himself in the unbreakable metal mirror. Just for a change, he began cleaning his own teeth. He stopped for a moment to examine the grazes on his fists and tutted. Having a butler could be tiresome, he told himself. Michael had taken up his regular post-beating position, huddled with his head between his knees in the corner.

  “Shtop that whimpering you little toe-rag,” growled Monk, his mouth overflowing with toothpaste foam. “I shouldn’t be having to do thish myshelf y’know.” He spat out. “Butler’s don’t get holidays Drake, not time off sick neither, now pull your bloody self together and have some bloody self-respect!”

  Muttering a fearful apology, Michael stood up cautiously, his hands covering his groin for fear of a late kick.

  “So let’s get on, shall we Drake?” said Monk with manic enthusiasm. He prodded him with his toothbrush. “Either that’s prison breakfast I smell or you’ve cacked yourself.” Monk chuckled, impressed with his growing way with words.

  “I’m not hungry sir,” said Michael weakly.

  “Whether or not you’re hungry Michael, is of piddling little interest to me,” said Monk, smoothing his new pencil moustache in the mirror. “Don’t you think I look like a proper toff, Drake – a gentleman?” he asked, tilting his head at different angles. “Anyway, pip pip. I am hungry Michael, so get yourself down there and have my breakfast on the table by the time I sit down. Two sugars in my tea, and for God’s sake look like you’re enjoying it will you, I can’t have people thinking I don’t look after my butler now can I, what?” Monk had begun to speak with a ridiculous aristocratic accent of late; even his body language had taken on affectations.

  Following Breakfast, Michael was called to the senior warder’s office and was delighted to be told he had been assigned to work that day; sorting material for rags. He had retreated into his shell and wanted to be as far away from Monk as he could get. Yet he would be back with him tonight, he reminded himself, and night time was the dangerous time now. He would have to face up to that, and every night from now on. He could apply to change cells, of course, but they would never let him. Anyway, Monk would kill him if they did. He was Monk’s prisoner, as well as a prisoner of the state.

  Michael’s reticence did not go unnoticed by his fellow workers, but they all had days when they didn’t feel like talking. Not a word passed his lips all day, although plenty was going on inside. Monk’s words that morning, have some self-respect, kept repeating in his head. Why had he always allowed people to boss him about? Nobody in here had respect for you if you didn’t stand up for yourself. But against Monk? Michael shuddered at the thought. Monk was a killer. He would think nothing of disposing of someone who crossed him. He would enjoy it. No, if he were to stand up to Monk it would have to be by outsmarting him. But Monk was not stupid. It seemed an impossible problem to solve whichever way he looked at it, yet the thought of the situation continuing as it was now was unbearable. He needed advice from someone cleverer than Monk. Mr Tim would have helped him of course. Mr Tim understood everything about people. Even crazy people like Monk. But Mr Tim was gone. Sorting through the sacks of musty old clothes, he thought of Monk, imagining him swaggering about the cell, admiring himself. He really thought he was a gentleman now, but he would never be a gentleman – not like like Mr Tim. Mr Tim would not have got so caught up in admiring himself. In fact Mr Tim had talked to him about being too full of yourself. Vanity he’d called it. It was when he was reading a book he’d liked, about a man with a secret mirror. Vanity was certainly a very bad thing in Mr Tim’s opinion, in fact he remembered Mr Tim telling him how vanity could be a man’s downfall.

  It had been a long day. Michael had done a lot of thinking. Returning to the cell that evening, he received a gentlemanly welcome from his master. Monk was sitting on the chair. It seemed obvious to Michael that it had been placed in a position where he could see himself in the distorting metal mirror. Perversely, it amused Michael. He had begun to see how ridiculous Monk was pretending to be a gentleman. He knew what a gentleman was like and Monk was not it, however many clever words he managed to come out with.

  “Drake, my good man,” drawled Monk, “can’t tell you how good it is to see you, what? One finds it all so tedious sitting in one’s cell alone.”

  Michael stood there for a moment, regarding the sight before him, just as Farker’s boots passed along the landing. Farker seemed preoccupied this evening. His steps were hesitant. Michael’s attention returned to Monk, who seemed to have greased down his dark hair somehow, and if he wasn’t mistaken, waxed his moustache. Arranged around the neck of his buttoned-up shirt, he seemed to have got himself up in a handkerchief as a cravat. There he sat with one leg crossed over the other, swinging his foot in a manner he no doubt thought lordly. In his lap lay a manicured hand, holding what seemed to be a rolled up piece of toilet paper. It seemed fairly obvious to Michael that this had been used to imitate a long cigarette. Michael went to his bunk and lay down with a two day old newspaper. Careful not to let Monk see, he took a bundle from inside his jacket and placed it under his pillow.

  “So do tell, Drake, how was your day?”

  Michael kept his smirking face shielded behind the newspaper. These were strange goings on, yet despite the sense of danger he was beginning to find Monk’s behaviour very amusing. There was no doubt about it, Monk really did believe he was a toff.

  “Nothing unusual sir, just sortin’ stuff into bags for rags.” He strained to hold back a snigger.

  “It’s customary to look at one when one is addressin’ one’s master, Drake,” said Monk, attempting to admonish, while maintaining his newfound gentlemanly decorum.

  “I am sorry, sir,” said Michael, leaping to his feet, “I think I was forgettin’ myself for a minute there, it won’t happen again, sir!”

  “See it doesn’t,” sneered Monk, waving his fake cigarette.

  Just then the buzzer, indicating five minutes to lights out, sounded on the landing and Monk got up to ready himself for bed.

  “No, let me do that for you, sir,” insisted Michael, stepping forward to unbutton Monk’s shirt. “If I might say so, sir, this prison shirt is not right for a gentleman like yourself. I was just thinking that today, sir, while I was doing the sortin’, and low and behold there was this nice white shirt in the sack, with one of them stiff wing collars sir. So I snaffled it for you sir, along with a rather nice college tie and a pair of black suit trousers. The trousers ‘ad a burn mark, sir, but nothin’ too bad. I think I should clean your teeth for you now sir, before the lights go out.”

  Monk sat back down in the chair in front of the basin. He felt confused. Drake must have sorted himself out during the day. Probably the hard work had made him realise how much he preferred his butlering job?

  “Any‘ow sir,” continued Michael, “ pr’aps in the morning you’d like to try ‘em on – the trousers, sir?”

  Monk gazed deeply into his butler’s face as he cleaned his teeth for him. He had despised Drake for his weakness and blind subservience, but looking at him now he felt that perhaps he had misjudged him. Perhaps the beating he’d given him that morning had brought out a better side of him? But it had been a very severe beating…

  “Look here Drake, maybe I...” but there was a click and the two men were left in darkness.

  It was still pitch dark when Monk heard Michael up, cleaning the cell. He’d gone off to sleep that night picturing how suave he’d look in his new shirt and tie. He could hardly wait to try them on. Opening his eyes he noticed that pre-dawn glow, visible through the high window of the cell.

  “You’re up early Drake,” said Monk out of the darkness.

  “Special day sir. I’ve a lot to do,” answered Michael. “I wanted to have the cell clean and your new clothes ready for you to try on before we have to go down to breakfast, sir.”

/>   “Couldn’t I try ‘em on now, Drake?” said Monk after a few moments.

  “Surely you’re too tired to get up yet sir?” said Michael, fastidiously washing his hands in the basin.

  “No, not at all,” replied Monk, “I’m ready to try ‘em now.”

  “Well sir, I thought it’d be nice to surprise you sir. The lights’ll come on in exactly... seven minutes sir, so if I get you ready before that – standing in front of the mirror like – you’ll get a first look at yourself as the lights come on, y’see sir. I know how as you like surprises sir.”

  “Capital idea, Drake,” enthused Monk, “capital!”

  Having removed Monk’s pyjama shirt and trousers, Michael helped his master into a clean pair of underpants and socks. Monk steadied himself on Michael’s shoulder as he placed his left leg into the black trousers. He sighed as he did so, feeling the quality. Buttoning up the stiff shirt, Michael complimented himself on judging his master’s size so accurately.

  “Oh you will look a perfect gentleman sir, I’m sure. Now I’m thinking that if you’re to see yourself perfect in the mirror sir, you’ll need to come further away and be a bit higher. Maybe if you could step onto this chair sir, I’ll just do your tie up and we should be just in time for lights-on, sir, eh?”

  Michael dragged over the second chair. Monk felt himself like a king being dressed for a ceremony, standing on his throne in his finery. Yes, this would be quite a moment. Something to be savoured, indeed.

  “Just the final touches now, sir,” said Michael, climbing onto the other chair to put on Monk’s college tie. “There. I’ll tie it in a Windsor knot sir, same as Mr Tim liked it.”

  The tie smelled of mothballs. Monk could feel the quality of it as Michael slid the knot up. It was a moment of rare ecstasy for him.

  “Pr’aps you’d like to close your eyes sir, for the last few seconds before y’surprise?”

  Monk duly closed his eyes tight as Michael fumbled with the tie. He was hurrying now.

  “I just need to lengthen this tie a little sir. We want it to be perfect. Yes, that’s better.”

  But Monk was not listening. He was deep in thought, glowing with pleasure. He pictured himself as a military general, on horseback perhaps, with his batman holding the reins, or as an admiral being readied to take the salute from his fleet.

  “Michael,” said Monk, “I know I’ve been ‘ard on you sometimes, but I just want to say...”

  Huddled in bed, Michael heard the door hatch slide across as the warder made his early morning rounds, but he kept his blanket up around his ear and his face to the wall, only turning and opening his eyes when the door crashed open.

  “You stay there, Drake! Stay there d’you hear!” shouted the warder.

  Reaching around the open door for the alarm button, the warder stood aghast for a moment, before taking the action he had been trained for. Michael could hear his breathing. Monk’s white shirt glowed brilliant white in the light of the cell – almost as if he were illuminated in a spotlight. You might even have called it beautiful.

  Lifting Monk by clasping his legs, to take the pressure from the tie which had been fashioned into a noose around his neck, the warder continued to bellow orders.

  “Don’t just sit there, Drake, pick up that bleedin’ chair and help me stand him on it!”

  Two other warders rushed into the room at that moment. Familiar with the circumstances, they quickly set to work trying to remove the tie, which had been looped over the water pipe on the ceiling and fastened tightly around Monk’s thick neck. But it was obviously too late. Monk was a lifeless grey colour. Michael remained seated on the edge of his bed, with a faint hint of a smile on his face.

  “Will there be anything else this morning sir?” he muttered to himself.

  The End

  This story is taken from the book Special Treatment & Other Stories, which contains the prize-winning story ‘Special Treatment’ and is available worldwide – Click here to view details or enter the title and author into an internet search box.

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  The story ‘Special Treatment’, winner of The Kinglake Short Story Prize, was previously published in Ten Modern Short Stories 2010 – Kinglake Publishing

  Long Road, Hard Lessons, by Mark Swain with Sam Swain. Published 2012 by Tinderbox Publishing Ltd. ISBN 978-0-9572002-0-3