Danny13

The Jack And Danny Chronicles part thirteen

Author: Cat

Arboreal Manoeuvres On The Light Fitting, part two

“All right Harry Potter,” the tone of Jack’s voice did not match with the lightness of his words as he knocked peremptorily on the door of the cupboard under the stairs. “I’m telling you for the last time today, come out of there and leave that wretched creature alone.”

I emerged from my closet, so to speak, offering the excuse, “I was just checking that the light and temperature were okay.”

Jack directed me towards the kitchen with a brisk swat to my behind. “You’re supposed to be helping me prepare for this dinner party, not playing with unsightly arachnids.”

I leapt at once to Arthur’s defence. “He’s not unsightly, he’s cute, just hold him Jack...”

“Wash your hands,” he commanded, cutting me short (as if I wasn’t short enough) “I don’t want a repeat of yesterdays performance with you scratching and whining because its hairs have irritated your skin. If you so much as open that cupboard door again today, I’ll irritate a certain part of your anatomy until you can’t sit down. Apart from anything else, your friend told you not to over handle the creature, it stresses them and that’s when they bite.”

I silently washed my hands. There was no doubt about it; Jack was tense and tetchy over this forthcoming dinner party. Poor Jack, he’d been elected to play host to one of the directors of his firm. Apparently this man had a penchant for foisting himself on various members of the company, from the highest to the lowest, in order to avail himself of their hospitality and nose into their personal and private lives. From all accounts the poor Janitor had suffered a severe attack of shingles brought on with the stress of entertaining a director in his one room bedsit.

“Best behaviour tonight Danny.” Jack eyed me sternly as I chucked a salad together while he prepared the main course. “No swearing, no provoking Tris and Sebastian, is that clear?”

I scowled, viciously slicing several tomatoes with the air of a French peasant decapitating aristocrats, but otherwise revealing nothing of my inner feelings. It had been a nice few days with Jack still making a big fuss of me, and Tristan remaining at his mother’s home in the aftermath of his father’s death. He had returned late the previous evening and more or less invited himself and his bony beau to the dinner do.

“Did you hear me?”

Yeah, yeah, loud and clear, no swearing, no provoking, generally having no fun at all. I kept the thought in my head, saying simply, “yes Jack.”

“Good, now I want you to go and take a nap.”

I glared at him. It was bad enough that he had been making me go to bed at ten each night, now he was expecting me to take naps during the day like a bloody toddler. “Nap, why?”

“You’ll be staying up later this evening, you therefore need to be rested. I don’t want you over tiring yourself so soon after your operation.”

“I’m not tired Jack. I don’t need a damn nap.” He said nothing, just reached for a cloth and began purposefully wiping his hands. I could take a hint. I was halfway across the floor before he could complete the task. The phone shrilled just as I stepped into the hall.

“I’ll get it!” I yelled. I picked the receiver up, nervously tensing myself for Ally’s voice and any news. Surely she should have heard by now? It wasn’t her, but my stomach lurched all the same. Shit. I didn’t want Jack overhearing any of this. Hastily picking up the phone I crept furtively into the cupboard under the stairs, pulling the door to. The chilly tones of my course tutor demanded to know why I had failed to attend the meeting arranged to determine my future as a scholar within the university walls. Jack, aware that I was due back to college on Monday gone, had offered to inform them of my accident and arrange to have course work sent on. I’d told him that I would prefer to do it myself. Jack, pleased with my maturity and sense of responsibility, had left me to get on with it. I had subsequently done sweet Fanny Adams about anything.

“Who is it Daniel?”

I jumped with fright as Jack’s voice boomed from the kitchen. Hastily concluding the conversation by agreeing to another meeting I made to exit the cubbyhole before Jack discovered me, knocking against the spider’s tank and dislodging the lid in the process. In a trice, Arthur, being an arboreal, and pretty bloody nifty, had leapt from the tank and scuttled through the crack in the door, bounding down the hall like a multi legged racehorse.

“Danny?” The disembodied voice floated from the kitchen.

“It was a wrong number Jack,” heart pounding I quickly returned the phone to the hall table, closed the cupboard door, and began frantically crawling up and down the hall on my hands and knees in search of Arthur. I thought I caught a glimpse of him under the shoe rack and lay on my stomach to have a look.

“What are you doing down there Daniel?” He sounded distinctly irritated.

“I was more tired than I realised Jack, I was just having a lie down before tackling the stairs.”

His attitude changed at once and I congratulated myself on a neat piece of emotional blackmail, as he scooped me up into his arms and carried me upstairs. I declined his concerned offer to call the doctor and assured him I’d be fine after a rest. After he’d gone, I lay and fretted about Arthur, wondering where he was. Peter had entrusted his precious pinktoed tarantula to my care while he went on holiday with Georgie, and already I’d released it back into the wild. I didn’t dare tell Jack that a tarantula was loose about the house, he’d go spare and I’d end up eating my dinner sitting on a cushion, that’s if I could sit at all. With a bit of luck I’d be able to sneak down and recapture him before Jack’s boss arrived. As ever, where I was concerned, lady luck had buggered off on holiday. In the event, I had no time to carry out a search for absconded arachnids. I fell asleep. Jack shook me awake just in time to shower and change. By the time I descended the stairs the man in question, a large, florid, rotund individual, had arrived and was in the sitting room chatting cordially with Prat man and Dobbin. I was plunged into the midst of introductions. I comforted myself with the thought that Arthur had probably found himself a nice dark corner to hide in and I’d catch up with him later.

Jack, smiling in genial host type fashion, drew me forwards, “Mr Rochester...”

My eyes widened in delight at this and instantaneously my mind began bulging with images of consumptive Victorian schoolgirls, gagging for it virgin governesses, and lunatics on roofs amid leaping flames.

“...this is my partner Daniel Macintyre,” Jack’s eyes beamed a clear warning into mine do not, on any account, ask whether this man has a pyromanic psychopath lurking in his loft. Drat! Jack wasn’t much of a romantic fiction reader, but he’d obviously read Jane Eyre. It must have been on the compulsory reading list at his public school. I blushed slightly and looked away. He was developing an uncanny ability to read my mind. I made polite noises about being pleased to meet Mr Rochester. He crushingly shook my hand and guffawed. Yes people, he actually guffawed. I had read a lot about guffaws. Characters in my favourite comics guffawed regularly, but I had never experienced one in the flesh and was fascinated as it resonated around the room. Sadly, my fascination soon waned in the face of his unnatural obsession with tits. For some reason Mr Rochester immediately latched onto me as a fellow twitcher who shared his enthusiasm for the tit species. Blue tits, coal tits, lesser-spotted tits, marsh tits, in fact any fucking tit you could name he droned on about at length. After five minutes he was seriously getting ON my tits. By the time we sat down for the first course I was rapidly losing the will to live and by the end of it, I was trying desperately to open a vein with my teeth.

“Stop fiddling,” hissed Jack, “what’s the matter with you. Why do you keep sucking at your wrist?” He dragged me into the kitchen, ostensibly to help with the next course.

“He’s boring Jack. I mean criminally boring, and Skelator keeps smirking at me. I bet it was him that told Lord of the tits I was a bird watcher. Can’t I go upstairs on the play station?”

“No. Mr Roch...Norbert,” Jack struggled manfully to fight back a smile as he used the man’s Christian name as invited, “seems to be enjoying your company. It would be rude of you just to disappear. Besides,” Jack’s eyes sparkled mischievously, “while he’s boring you to death, he’s leaving the rest of us alone. Believe me love I’ve had the full tit bit before. Now get back in there and do your duty.”

He sent me on my way with a playful tap to my rear. Unfeeling Bastard.

It was Mistoffelees who alerted me to Arthur’s whereabouts. Dessert had just been served and I was in a state bordering on coma, as Norbert described the mating habits of the crested tit, while chomping his way through his second helping of pudding. Misty was sitting on the sideboard and I suddenly noticed he was intently watching something, ears twitching. Following the line of his gaze, my heart developed a sudden desire to travel and hitch hiked its way into my mouth. Arthur was ambling nonchalantly across the ceiling. I closed my eyes tightly for a second, but when I opened them, he was still there. I tried not to gape as he reached the modest chandelier, and began to perform tricks a Russian gymnast would have been proud of, gracefully leaping from branch to branch. I clamped my eyes to my plate, fearful lest Jack follow my gaze and discover that an uninvited guest was providing a cabaret act above the table.
It was no good, after about ten seconds I had to have another peep. My eyes flicked up towards the ceiling just in time to see Arthur misjudge a triple somersault and plunge from the light fitting. He plummeted into the dregs of Norbert’s tiramisu. Norbert, still yakking on about tits, didn’t even notice and scooped Arthur onto his spoon before he could crawl out of the bowl. I risked a glance at Jack to see if he’d noticed. Oh yeah, he’d noticed! His eyes were in danger of rolling from their sockets. Sweat began beading my forehead.
A host of emotions flitted across Jack’s face, each one vying for supremacy, horror, disbelief, and incredulity, then more horror. He seemed beyond speech, wordlessly pointing towards Norbert’s spoon, trying to draw his attention to the fact that there was something squatting on it that shouldn’t be there.

I sympathised. I too was lost for words, as was everyone, with the exception of Norbert, who misunderstood Jack’s gesturing, mistakenly believing he was being asked to partake of a third helping. He nodded enthusiastically like the gannet he was, and popped the spoon into his cavernous mouth to clear the last of his second helping. The sight of a tarantula’s legs waving from a man’s mouth is something that will remain with me for a very long time. It was only as Arthur bravely tried to fight his way to freedom, that Norbert realised something was amiss.

Jack finally managed to speak, after a fashion. A garbled jumble fell from his lips. The gist of which appeared to be, “excuse my rudeness in saying so, but something live appears to have taken up residence in your mouth, and is finding the accommodation less than appealing.”

Poor Arthur, he was projectile vomited across the table, landing with a sticky smack on Sebastian’s left shoulder. All hell erupted. It was like the donkey scene from Disney’s Pinocchio, the one where the kid discovers he’s turning into an ass and begins to buck and bray in wild panic.

“Trissy! Trissy! Help me Trissy! Get it off me!”

Sebastian leapt to his feet, beating his napkin frantically against his shoulder in a frenzied attempt to dislodge the bemused spider. No one could get near him as he galloped around the room in demented agitation dislodging ornaments and furniture.
Arthur was by now thoroughly pissed off with life. He’d had one of his legs chewed off without so much as a by your leave, been projectile vomited across the table and was now being mercilessly flogged with a damask napkin. He lost his rag, and launched himself at Skelator’s throat (which made him a fucking hero in my book) Skel, with a screech that set the chandelier shaking, keeled over in a dead faint. Arthur leapt from his victim’s throat and scuttled into the shadows to nurse his wounded pride and to look for his leg.

That wasn’t the worst of it.

Norbert completely stole Sebastian’s thunder by suddenly clutching his chest and toppling face forward across the table onto a box of After Eight Dinner Mints, which being wafer thin, did nothing to cushion the force of his fall.
Having one guest carted out on a stretcher and the other in a body bag did nothing to enhance our reputation as dinner party hosts. One thing was for sure, Gary bloody Rhodes wouldn’t be beating a path to our door to invite us for a guest slot on Look Who’s Coming To Dinner?

The doctor sedated Tristan, after assuring him that his boyfriend was unlikely to perish from the effects of a tarantula bite. “Shock and an allergic reaction to the venom,” he said reassuringly, as he inserted a hypodermic into Tristan’s arm. “A few days in hospital will soon set him to rights.”

“Jack!” I stared at him helplessly, trying desperately to grasp what had happened, willing him to make everything okay again. “Jack, I just killed a man.” (Put a spider on his spoon, he fell down in a swoon)

“‘I see a little silhouette of a man, Scaramouch Scaramouch will you do the fandango, thundering and lightening, very, very frightening...me...Galileo.”

I was appalled; this was no time to be singing Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody... and so badly! It wasn’t the reaction I expected from him. My eyes filled with tears as he sang on.

“‘...nothing really matters anyone can see, nothing really matters to me...’”

“Please Jack,” I took an anxious step towards him, but with a Freddie Mercury thrust of his hips that in other circumstances would have been sexy, he launched straight into track seven of their greatest hits.

“‘Don’t stop me now, cos I’m having such a good time, I’m having a ball...’”

He’d flipped! I’d finally driven him over the edge. What would I do without Jack’s solid, calming influence? His excruciating rendition of Killer Queen was just too much. I began screaming and then with a gasp I sat bolt upright in bed. Thank God. It had been a nightmare. Not all of it though. I flung the covers aside and got up for the fourth time that night wandering across to the window.

“Come back to bed.” Jack’s voice cut the night air issuing a command, rather than making a request, his earlier patience giving way to irritation, as his sleep was disturbed yet again by my nocturnal activities.

“No.” I stayed where I was, staring out of the window, not that I could see anything. It was pitch black out there; the street lamp was still out. I hadn’t meant to kick the can that high...a haunting tune, an echo of my nightmare flitted idly through my mind you’ve got blood on your face, big disgrace, kicking your can all over the place, only, the blood wasn’t on my face, it was on my hands. I gave a little sob...it was Lady Macbeth all over again. Out, damned spot!

Jack pushed aside tiredness and irritation and came padding over to the window. “It wasn’t your fault darling. I thought I’d convinced you of that,” he steered me gently back to bed, pulling me against his chest and wrapping his arms around me.

I struggled to try and sit up, saying tearfully, “if I hadn’t let Arthur escape then...”

“Norbert would still have had the heart attack. The business with Arthur was unfortunate, but you weren’t to know how things would turn out. Look love, it’s been a long, stressful night, we both need some rest. We’ll discuss things in the morning. Settle down, I mean it Daniel, if you get up once more, I’ll spank you.”

I lay pondering on the events of the night, listening to the slowing beat of Jack’s heart as he drifted back to sleep. Mortality was such a finite thing, alive one moment and gone the next. Jack’s breathing slowed further still as he slipped into the deeper recesses of sleep. The cheery words of Shakespeare flitted through my mind: All lovers young, all lovers must, consign to thee, and come to dust. I suddenly panicked and grasping Jack by the shoulders wildly shook him to make sure he was still alive.

The throb in my soundly spanked bottom reassured me of his health and vitality and snuggling up in his arms I settled down to sleep.

*

The closing hymn to Norbert’s funeral was a nightmare, one of those obscure ones that no one knew the tune to. Undeterred, Jack sang with gusto, while I used my hymnbook as a defensive shield to hide behind as the coffin was carried from the church. The interment itself was to be a private family occasion only. The widow was standing by the church door to greet and thank people for attending the service. I begged Jack to let me stay behind in the church until she’d gone, but he insisted I face her. He shook her hand, expressing his regrets and sympathies, then extricated me from behind his back where I was attempting to hide. I mumbled something appropriate as I shook her hand, while staring hard at the top of my shoes. The inquest had exonerated me of all blame for her husband’s death; the coroner stating that Norbert’s aortic ventricles were more furred up than a mink farm, and it was a miracle he’d survived as long as he had. Apparently, something as simple as a sneeze could have had the same outcome for him. It had done nothing to appease my guilt.

“Don’t blame yourself young man.”

I looked up at her for the first time. She gave a small smile and patted my hand kindly. “I know you feel bad, but it really wasn’t your fault. Norbert, bless him, was his own worst enemy. He’d already had four heart attacks, but refused to change his lifestyle. Just before he left for your house that night, he was complaining of chest pains, but he still insisted on going out. Anything, rather than stay in and eat the heart friendly meal he knew I would prepare for him.” She smiled again, and I smiled back immensely grateful that she didn’t view me as a murderer. Having her personal reassurances meant more to me than any Coroner’s report.
I watched as the floral tributes were placed alongside the coffin. A bird fluttered from a nearby hedge and perched on top of the hearse. Thanks to Norbert, I was able to identify it at once. Its unmistakeable blue-black head, white cheek patches, and yellow breast, with a black bar down the centre, marked it out as a Great tit. It was an auspicious sign. Norbert had forgiven me. I just hoped that Peter would be as understanding when I returned a traumatised seven-legged tarantula to him.

Arthur had given himself up the day after the dinner party, realising that life on the outside was not for him and that his tank was more desirable than the unknown terrors of the wider world. He’d been very quiet ever since, moping dejectedly about his tank and flinching if I so much as looked at him. The vet had checked Arthur out and assured me that he was, relatively speaking, none the worse for his ordeal, and that his leg would gradually grow back over several moltings. I must have looked puzzled because the vet explained that tarantulas, in order to grow, periodically shed their exoskeleton. I was relieved to think that Arthur would not remain legless for long.
Jack ruffled my hair, I loved it when he did that, gave me a quick hug and went off to speak with some of his work colleagues. I wandered a little further down the path, watching the last of the funeral procession pull out onto the road that would take Norbert to his final resting place. This was the final scenario for all of us; a wooden casket and a slow drive to eternity. If we were lucky there would be people to mourn us and remember us with love. I had a sudden flashback to my mother’s funeral. It had been a Spartan service in a small crematorium. I had been sandwiched between two people I barely knew; utterly bewildered and frightened. As the dark blue curtains drew silently around the coffin, it hit me that I’d never see my mum again. My heart pounded with fear and I had felt sick with grief, but I couldn’t cry. I was angry with her for dying and leaving me alone. I glanced up at the woman I’d only met two days before my mother died, Alison, my sister. The look I saw on her face somehow mirrored the feelings I was having. Instinctively I had slipped my hand into hers. She squeezed it and leaning down whispered that it was okay to be angry, because sometimes you had to be angry before you could be sad. Then she had said, you’re not alone Danny, I’ll always be here for you, I promise. I’d believed her. I suddenly jumped with fright as a hand grasped my shoulder and spun me round. “Dennis?” I stared at him in surprise. His face was strained and for the first time he looked all of his forty-one years.

He thrust a sheet of paper into my hands, saying, “tell me where she is Daniel, for pity’s sake.”

I stared at the words in silence, my heart rate picking up with each syllable, the world narrowing and shrinking until all that was left was an indiscriminate blur of vowels and consonants and the sound of blood pounding in my ears. In the far distance, Dennis’s voice faintly registered, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

“What’s going on?” Jack, like the Cavalry, showed up at the optimum moment. His hand took mine. “Danny?”

I didn’t respond. I was too lost in memories, hearing the voices of my mother and sister making promises to a ten-year-old boy, promises that couldn’t be kept. All the illusions I’d built up around myself disintegrated. Nothing was sacred in this world; nothing was safe or reliable, not Alison or Dennis and not Jack. And if Jack wasn’t safe, then everything was pointless. I’d invested in him all the things I’d invested in them, and so much more. My love, my trust, a belief that they’d be there for me, no matter how often I fucked up my life, they’d be there helping me pick up the pieces. I laughed, I actually laughed. It was a lie, all of it, a great big fucking lie. The desire to laugh vanished and rage washed over me. I let myself go with the swell.