King Dong

Ann’s eyes widened. ‘You stumbled into a real opium den?’

‘Stumbled, hell, it took me hours to find … er, yeah, sure, that’s right.’

‘Opium!’ muttered Rumbuggery. ‘The power of the dreaded poppy!’

Deadman frowned at the interruption. ‘The dreaded poppy?’

‘Aye. Dreaded Poppy O’Shea. Two jam jars high, breastsh like Zeppelins and fishts like a longshoreman. She ran the Dragon’s Den House of Forbidden Delights and Hand-Wash Laundry in old Singapore. Hell of a woman.’

Deadman sighed. ‘Be that as it may …’

‘Oh, believe me, son,’ rambled the Skipper, ‘I know what the dreaded poppy can do to a man. Fall into her armsh and you’re seduced – a shlave to her wilful charmsh. Oh, I know, I know, the dreaded poppy can help you to escape from the depressing reality of thish world, but she’ll set you on the road to oblivion. Every minute you spend with the dreaded poppy, you flirt with fear and the danger of helplessh addiction leading to rack and ruin and eventually a horrible tortuous death. Aye, many are the helplessh victims of the dreaded poppy. We used to hold a minute’sh silence to remember them on Dreaded Poppy Day.’

Deadman gave the snootered sailor a quelling glance. ‘Have you quite finished?’

‘Aye.’ A smile spread across Rumbuggery’s grizzled face. ‘Happy daysh, happy daysh.’

Deadman pointedly turned his back on the Skipper. ‘I entered the dismal pit,’ he continued. ‘The only light came from the glowing charcoal braziers that were heating up metal bowls and filling the room with choking brown smoke. I could just make out shadows and silhouettes of wizened creatures lying on cane beds: Malays, Chinamen, Lascars and Westerners – a motley assortment of the dregs of humanity coming together in a haze of drug-induced dreams.’

Ann nodded. ‘Yeah, I been to parties like that – back in Hollywood.’

‘In the midst of this hell hole I happened to meet an old sea captain who’d also wandered into this den of lost souls. Although, looking at him, he’d obviously wandered into it dozens of times. As we shared a nocturnal pipe or two, he told me a tale that had happened to him some years previously.’ Deadman looked around the room before beckoning Ann and Rumbuggery closer. ‘One winter’s day, this captain set sail from port with his usual load of passengers when a storm sprang up and before he knew it the ship was off course, lost somewhere in the middle of the Indian Ocean.’

Rumbuggery raised a caterpillar of an eyebrow. ‘What ship wash thish?’

‘The Staten Island Ferry – it was a hell of a storm.’

‘It happensh, it happensh,’ muttered Rumbuggery.

‘When the storm finally blew itself out, they came across a crudely made inflatable rubber dinosaur drifting on the ocean.’

Ann stared. ‘An inflatable …?’

‘Don’t interrupt! On it lay fourteen bodies. All were dead except for one. The captain hauled the unfortunate creature aboard. He, too, was not long for this world and died soon after. But before the end, he told the captain a blood-chilling story – the legend of Dong.’

‘Just a minute,’ said Ann. ‘How could the skipper of the Staten Island Ferry communicate with some native savage?’

‘Through a combination of gestures and an old copy of Savage Native Lingo for Travellers the captain always carried with him to communicate with passengers from New Jersey. Even so, he only managed to gather that the poor souls on the raft had come from an island where the inhabitants conducted human sacrifices to a terrible beast. He and his companions had put to sea on the dinosaur; unluckily for them they soon ran out of food and water and all died except for the lone survivor. With his story told, the poor devil breathed his last – his final words were, “Dong … Dong”.’

‘My eye and Betty Martin!’ cried Rumbuggery. ‘’Tis but an invention of a drug-raddled mind. Nobody would believe it but a raving maniac, a half-witted infant – or a Hollywood producer, down on his luck.’

‘I didn’t believe it,’ replied Deadman, ignoring the slur, ‘until the captain gave me this …’ He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sea-stained, weather-beaten piece of parchment. ‘The native had drawn a crude picture, of which only this piece survives.’

Deadman opened out the parchment and set it down on the table.

Ann gave a cry of shock. ‘Is that what I think it is? OHMIGOD!’

‘I told you it was a crude picture.’

‘It’s enormous! I’ve never seen anything so big … and believe me I’ve seen a few.’ Involuntarily, Ann licked her lips.

‘Thundering typhoonsh! That’s impresshive.’ Rumbuggery’s voice was awed. ‘It’sh enough to give a man a shense of inadequacy.’

‘Dong,’ said Deadman, gravely.

‘You are not just whistlin’ “Dixie”,’ said Ann, dreamily.

‘And if the rest of the creature is in scale with this …’

Deadman tapped the drawing. ‘… then it must be bigger than anything that’s ever been seen before.’

At that moment there was a knocking at the door. A high-pitched, effeminate voice called out, ‘Oh, Mr Deadman, duckie, are you there?’

Deadman scrabbled for the picture, hastily folded it, and rammed it back into his pocket.

‘I’m coming! Ready or not!’ The door was flung open.

Deadman groaned inwardly. ‘Hello, Ray.’

The newcomer was a slim man of indeterminate age. He wore slacks of eye-watering, skin-hugging tightness and a flamboyantly frilled shirt. He had melting brown eyes and sensuous lips, and wore his hair tied back.

Ray gave an ingratiating simper. ‘Hello, Mr Deadman, hello Captain Rumbuggery. Oooh!’ Ray let out a squeal of laughter and clapped his hand across his mouth.

‘What is it, Ray?’ asked Deadman.

‘I just wanted to ask you about Miss Darling’s dress for the screen test. Would you like to go with the crushed silk or the eau-de-nil?’

‘Why not ask her?’ said Deadman. He beckoned Ann over to make the introductions. ‘I don’t believe you two have met.’

‘Oh?’ Ann eyed Ray with her customary calculation.

‘Miss Darling,’ gushed Ray, ‘how very bona to vada your eek at last. Fantabulosa! Such an honour, I’m such a fan.’

‘Oh!’ said Ann again, clearly dismissing Ray from her ‘to do’ list.

‘I thought we’d better see what we can do with your riah …’ Ann gave her hair a self-conscious pat. ‘… and have a little conflab about your cossies. If we stroll down to my cabin, would you be interested in inspecting my wares?’

Ann gave the camp costumier a dismissive look. ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

‘Ooh, you are awful!’ Ray flapped limply at Ann’s arm. ‘I’ll think you’d carry off the raw silk very well. How d’you think she’d look in the raw, Mister Deadman?’

‘Ask any casting director in Hollywood,’ said Deadman nastily. Ann scowled at him. Ray gave a falsetto giggle.

Ann’s eyes narrowed. ‘If I throw a stick will you leave?’

‘You’re such a tease – just my type.’

‘I don’t think so, fly boy. I got a pair of wings and an undercarriage you ain’t never gonna be interested in.’