The Hall Chimp Read online

  Atlantic Short Stories

  A Lesson in Englishness

  Life Lessons

  Unnatural

  Published in Great Britain in 2019 by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

  Copyright © Robbie Arnott, 2019

  The moral right of Robbie Arnott to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

  Every effort has been made to trace or contact all copyright holders. The publishers will be pleased to make good any omissions or rectify any mistakes brought to their attention at the earliest opportunity.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  E-book ISBN: 978 1 8389 50545

  Atlantic Books

  An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26–27 Boswell Street

  London

  WC1N 3JZ

  www.atlantic-books.co.uk

  The Hall Chimp

  By Robbie Arnott

  The mum and the dad are in bed, but the boy is standing in the hallway. He’s been sleepwalking again, and he has woken up here at the bottom of the stairs, not far from the photo-crowded hall table. His fuzzy little mind is rugged by confusion. He sleepwalks often, and usually he wakes up in his parents’ bedroom, mumbling at the foot of their bed, or in the bathroom with urine sneaking into the gaps between his pale toes. But this is the first time he has woken up in the hallway. He wobbles on his feet and thinks about going back to bed. He knows he should, but the mum and the dad aren’t there to guide him with their big warm hands, and it’s dark, and he’s disorientated, and half-dreaming, and someone is opening the front door.

  Is this part of the dream? The boy rubs at his eyes and decides no, this is not a dream, because the handle has twisted south and the door is being pushed inwards. When it’s halfway opened a man carrying a large rectangular container comes inside and closes it behind him. The boy feels his pulse wake up. Panic zips through him. A bright white fear fills the space inside his head, and he sucks air into his lungs and gets ready to scream. Then the man turns around and sees the boy, just as the boy is about to release his cry, and before the sound bursts from the boy’s lungs the man makes a funny face: cheeks inflated, eyes pulled wide, nose yanked upwards into a snout. He looks like a silly pig. The boy pauses, confused. The man puts down his container and changes his face, making spectacles with his fingers and poking his tongue out. This new face turns boy’s pause into a giggle. Then the man crouches down and impersonates a chimpanzee: scratching his armpit, rolling on the ground, blowing a raspberry and making chimp sounds. Now the boy is chuckling — who is this man? He’s so funny! He’s just like a chimp!

  The man-chimp walks over to the boy and points behind his ear, beckoning the boy to scratch him there. The boy does, digging his uncut nails into the messy, oily hair, and the man makes a satisfied, chimp-like aaaah. The boy giggles again. Now the man sits down in front of him, legs crossed, and says Hello. My name is Brett. What’s yours? He holds out a large hand, which the boy takes, because the dad has always told him to shake hands, that shaking hands is important.

  I’m Nathan, says the boy, and they swing hands in a solemn, over-serious way.

  What are you doing out of bed, Nathan?

  The boy shrugs. I think I was sleepwalking. The man smacks a palm into his forehead and turns his mouth into a wide O, as if sleepwalking is the most outrageous thing a boy could possibly do, then shakes and wriggles his head from side to side in a blurry whir of lips and jowls and funny sounds. Again the boy giggles, and this giggling carries him down to the carpet, where he rolls with delight as the man rises on his long bendy legs and starts fondling the pictures on the hall table.

  Is this your Mum? He picks up a large gold frame and holds it down to the boy’s face. It contains a photo of the boy and the mum playing on a seesaw at the park. The mum is smiling at the camera as her end grazes woodchips; at the other end the boy flails his arms in the higher air.

  Yes, says the boy, that’s me and mum.

  The man raises the frame to his eye level. Aren’t you a lucky boy? Then he starts picking up the other photos, asking the boy more questions as he studies each one.

  Does your mum love you?

  Yes.

  Is she nice?

  She’s the nicest there is.

  Does she love your Dad?

  Yes!

  A lot?

  Lots and lots.

  That’s nice.

  The man holds on to the last photo longer than he’s held the other ones — it’s a small picture of the Mum when she was younger, wearing a thin blue dress as she walks down a grey beach. The man slips this frame into his pocket, and the boy says That’s not yours.

  The man crouches back down in front of him and says I know. But it’s okay, I promise. I’m a friend of your mum’s.

  The boy frowns. Really?

  The man nods. Yep! We’ve been friends for a long time. Hasn’t she ever told you about me? The boy shakes his head, which makes the man smile, but it’s a weird smile that confuses the boy. He yawns and remembers he’s meant to be in bed. It’s so late. He’s not allowed up this late.

  The man is silly and funny but the boy decides he wants to see his mum and dad now. He turns around and starts walking up the stairs, but when he hears the man’s voice he stops.

  Hey Nathan, where are you going?

  To see mum and dad.

  Aren’t they asleep?

  Yes.

  Won’t you wake them up?

  Yes, but I want them.

  Don’t you want to play a game?

  The boy, now on the fourth stair, turns. What game? The man turns back into a chimp and shuffles around the hall, rolling and bouncing into the walls until the boy giggles and scampers down to play with him. Now they are both chimps! They hop and scratch and make chimp sounds together. The boy stands up straight and shout-whispers:

  I’m King chimp!

  The man bows before him and waves his hands, fanning the boy with his fingers, which are long and hairless and have too many knuckles. The boy flexes and poses as the man reaches back to the door to grab the container he’d brought with him. It’s large and red, with a built-in handle and a long yellow spout. The boy watches as the man unscrews a cap from the top of the spout. What’s that?

  The man smiles at him, and now his smile has turned from weird to excited, but excited isn’t the right word — the boy doesn’t know what sort of smile it is. It’s excited and angry and hungry all at the same time. The smile spreads wider. It’s the next game.

  The man stands up tall and ruffles the boy’s hair with his free hand. Can you show me around your house, Nathan?

  Is this part of the game?

  Yep. But we’ve got to be quiet. We can’t wake your parents up!

  The boy says Okay and leads him on a sneaky tour through the dining room, the kitchen, the lounge, the study, the laundry and the downstairs bathroom. In each room the man takes a long look at everything, as if he is trying to memorise the house. At the back door the boy stops and says My room and
mum and dad’s room, and the big bathroom is upstairs. He starts walking back to the hall, but the man drops a hand onto his shoulder and pulls him close, so the boy’s shoulder knocks against his hip.

  We don’t need to go up there. This is a downstairs game.

  The boy has become tired again. When do we start playing?

  The man picks up the container. Now.

  He hefts it above his waist and tilts it downwards, pouring something clear and smelly all over the carpet in front of the back door. The boy gasps. You’re making a mess!

  The man makes a Ssshhh sound as he keeps pouring. I know! That’s why it’s a fun game! The boy is worried. He’s scared of what the mum and the dad will do when they find out. One time he walked mud onto the tiles and he got shouted at, which made him sad for a whole weekend.

  We’ll get in trouble!

  The man, who is now splashing the liquid over the walls and the entrance to the laundry, winks at him.

  Not if we don’t get caught.

  The boy is still unconvinced — it is his friend Bart’s birthday party on the weekend, and he doesn’t want the dad to get angry and stop him from going — but the man asks Do you want to have a go? Before the boy can answer the man grabs his hand guides it onto the handle, helping him support the container and aim the nozzle at the floor. Another stream of the liquid gurgles out of the spout, and the boy is transfixed by the movement of it, the way it splashes and spreads and sinks into the fibres of the carpet. It smells like the dad’s hands when he tickles the boy after he’s been fixing the lawn mower. The boy grips the handle tighter and knows he shouldn’t be doing it, that it’s bad, that the mum and the dad will be angry, that they might make him clean it up, but it’s so fun! It’s so naughty! Look at all the watery mower-smelling stuff go everywhere!

  The man leans down. It’s fun to make a mess, isn’t it?

  The boy whispers Yes.

  The man tells the boy to stand on his feet, and the boy does without letting go of the handle. Once the boy is firmly perched on his boots the man starts shuffling backwards, like a man dancing with a little girl at a wedding, helping the boy swing the nozzle in wide, slow arcs. In this fashion they retrace their steps, pouring the smelly water all over the laundry, the downstairs bathroom, the study, the lounge, the kitchen and the dining room. Eventually they make their way back to the foot of the stairs, where the boy jumps off the man’s feet.

  Are we going to do it upstairs now too?

  The man shakes his head. Nope. It’s a downstairs game, remember. He looks up at the black maw of the staircase. We’ll just do the stairs. Wait here.

  He leaves the boy in the hall and creeps to the top of the stairs. He then walks backwards, carefully pouring the remnants of the container over each step. Back at the bottom he shakes out the last few drops and turns back to the boy. Now for the really fun part.

  The boy has already had so much fun. He’s been a chimp! He’s made a big mess! He’s made a funny friend! He can’t imagine more fun, especially in the middle of the night. What happens now?

  The man places a hand between his shoulder blades and leads him to the front door. Now we play hide and seek. He opens the door and points to the front gate. You go stand by the letterbox and count to fifty. Then come find me!

  Why am I counting?

  Because those are the rules.

  The boy is annoyed; he likes hiding more than seeking. He knows so many good hiding places! Under the couch, behind the laundry door, in the dryer, behind the curtains — the man will never find him. And it’s his house — he should choose who counts and who hides! But the man sees his disappointment and crouches back down into a chimp shape and makes a few chimp-noises. When the boy smiles and makes some of his own chimp sounds the man prods him out the door, saying Quick! The sooner you count, the sooner you catch me. Then you can hide!

  The boy says Okay and scurries to the front gate. He hears the door click closed behind him. It’s cold and windy and the boy isn’t used to being outside at night. He tugs his pyjama shirt closer to his chest and jams his eyes shut. One. Two. Three. He peeks at the street; no one is there. The wind is whistling, and leaves are twirling around the wheels of the parked cars. Four. Five. Six. He is counting out loud, loud enough to scare off any ghosts or bad people who might be hiding in the bushes. When he gets to twenty, he lowers his voice and starts counting faster, gradually building up to the fastest pace his lungs can handle: fortysevenfortyeightfortyninefifty!

  He opens his eyes and spins around on his heels, ready to sprint inside — but the man isn’t hiding. He is standing right in front of him. The boy looks up and sees that the funny smile on the man’s face has become even funnier. It’s all red and floppy and twisted. The boy is angry. He shouts Why aren’t you hiding!

  The man grips his own face, running his fingers back on forth over his cheeks, scratching and pinching. He wheezes out a high moan. The boy stamps his foot. I found you! It was easy! Now I get to hide!

  The man’s moaning stops. He ignores the boy and stares at the house. His eyes are wide and white. A yellow light is jumping around behind the windows.

  The boy stamps again, properly furious now. He hates unfairness. Sometimes the dad tells him life isn’t fair, which makes him really upset. Life should be fair!

  I want to hide!

  The man rubs at his face again, working his knuckles into his eye sockets, and looks at the boy, as if remembering he was there. Then he turns and walks through the gate, taking long, fast steps. The boy yells Wait and shuffles after him, but when he hits the open street, he becomes scared — he’s not meant to come out here without the mum or the dad. And the man is walking away so quickly, and he’s not even waving goodbye! As he watches the man go the boy realises how cold the night is, how scary the street is, and how alone he feels. He forgets about the man and runs back inside the gate, hurrying back to the house. He wants to see the mum and the dad. He won’t tell them about the man or the chimp game or the car-smelling water. He won’t even tell them about his sleepwalking. He’ll just climb into their bed and hang onto their big warm hands and go to sleep.

  But now, closer to the house, he looks inside the windows and sees the leaping light. Yolky ribbons are licking the living room. The boy shrieks and yanks the front door open. He takes a few steps inside but then he can’t walk anymore, because he can’t breathe. What is going on? Why can’t he see anything? Smoke bites his eyes and invades his little lungs and he coughs and coughs and coughs. He coughs so much he can’t think. More light dances around the corner of the hall, and now the boy knows that it is fire. He is more scared than he’s ever been before. He crawls back to the front door and rolls outside, where it is still windy and cold and quiet. He keeps coughing, and when the coughs slow down, he is crying. But then he remembers the mum and the dad.

  The boy tumbles across the clean green lawn to the spot beneath the mum and dad’s bedroom. He starts screaming:

  Mum! Dad! Mum! Dad! Mum! Dad!

  He keeps saying Mum and Dad until his smoke-coated throat is sore and he can’t make any more noise. Real hard-red flames are flicking up through the inside of the house, and a light inside the Mum and Dad’s room turns on. The boy sees the light appear and tries to scream again, but he can only rasp and rattle and cry. A door opens somewhere on the street, followed by a shout. Footsteps are thumping towards him. Skinny clouds wash across the sky as the noiseless boy watches the light, and the window, and he waits for the mum and the dad to be alright, because that is their job; they are always alright.

  If you enjoyed The Hall Chimp, Robbie Arnott’s exquisite novel Flames is the perfect next read. Robbie Arnott's mad, wild debut novel is rough-hewn from the Tasmanian landscape and imbued with the folkloric magic of the oldest fireside storytellers.

  Read on for an extract from Robbie Arnott’s Flames…

  First published in Australia by The Text Publishing Company Pty Ltd, 2018.

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p; First published in hardback in Great Britain in 2018 by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

  This paperback edition published in 2019.

  Copyright © Robbie Arnott, 2018

  The moral right of Robbie Arnott to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Paperback ISBN: 978 1 78649 629 4

  E-book ISBN: 978 1 78649 627 0

  Atlantic books

  An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26–27 Boswell Street

  London WC1N 3JZ

  www.atlantic-books.co.uk

  ASH

  Our mother returned to us two days after we spread her ashes over Notley Fern Gorge. She was definitely our mother—but, at the same time, she was not our mother at all. Since her dispersal among the fronds of Notley, she had changed. Now her skin was carpeted by spongy, verdant moss and thin tendrils of common filmy fern. Six large fronds of tree fern had sprouted from her back and extended past her waist in a layered peacock tail of vegetation. And her hair had been replaced by cascading fronds of lawn-coloured maidenhair—perhaps the most delicate fern of all.