I Don't Really Get Jan-Andrew Henderson: A Short Story Collection

By Jan-Andrew Henderson

A failed photographer in 1970's Krakow. A demon who wants to switch sides. An apocalyptic talent show organizer. A mishap prone Neanderthal hunter. A nefarious Victorian nose surgeon. A teenager claiming to be king of Scotland. A Roman centurion's dying wish. A woman trying to buy a soul for her dog.

A bunch of twisted, tragic, comic and sinister tales by award-winning author Jan-Andrew Henderson. Includes the Aurelais Award winner 'God Complex'

 

'One of the UK's most promising writers' - Edinburgh Evening News

'One of the UK's best talents' - Lovereading

'Jan Henderson writes the kind of thrillers that make you miss your stop on the bus' - Times Educational Supplement

'A moving, funny and original writer' - The Austin Chronicle

'Jan Henderson has written some incredible books… One of my favourite authors' - Sharon Rooney (My Mad Fat Diary. The Electrical Life of Louis Wain. Barbie)

'If there were more books like yours out there, maybe people would be reading more' - Charlie Higson (Young James Bond and The Enemy series)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Hart
• Release date: Feb 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9781636258409

Jan-Andrew Henderson

Jan-Andrew Henderson (J.A. Henderson) is the author of 40 children's, teen, YA and adult fiction and non-fiction books. He has been published in the UK, USA, Australia, Canada and Europe by Oxford University Press, Collins, Hardcourt Press, Amberley Books, Oetinger Publishing, Mainstream Books, Black and White Publishers, Mlada Fontana, Black Hart and Floris Books. He has been shortlisted for fifteen literary awards in the UK and Australia and won the Doncaster Book Prize, The Aurealis Award and the Royal Mail Award - Britain's biggest children's book prize. 'One of the UK's most promising writers' - Edinburgh Evening News 'One of the UK's best talents' - Lovereading.co.uk 'Jan Henderson writes the kind of thrillers that make you miss your stop on the bus' - Times Educational Supplement 'A moving, funny and original writer' - The Austin Chronicle 'Jan Henderson has written some incredible books… One of my favourite authors' - Sharon Rooney (My Mad Fat Diary. The Electrical Life of Louis Wain. Barbie) 'If there were more books like yours out there, maybe people would be reading more' - Charlie Higson (Young James Bond and The Enemy series)

Book preview

I Don’t

Really Get

Jan-Andrew

Henderson

Jan-Andrew Henderson

Black Hart

Edinburgh. Brisbane.

FIRST PUBLISHED 2020 by Black Hart

Extended edition 2023

Black Hart Entertainment.

Blackhartentertainment.com

The rights of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been ascertained in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission.

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the authors’ imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Cover by Panagiotis Lampridis (BookDesignStars)

Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

I Don’t Really Get

ISBN 978-1-63625-858-4

ISBN 978-1-63625-840-9 eBook

Chapters

Chapters

The Elephant

Chocolate Drops

Bareback Rider

Christmas Day In the Morning

The Last Thylacine

Night of the Long Cardigans

Enter the Drabble

A Monster Circles the Wreckage

The Friendship Machine

Skinner’s Box

The First Trip in the Fall of the Roman Empire

The Mechanical Bull

Bunny Wunny Woo

Shaggy Dog

The Plodder

Wasted Trip

doppelganger.com

Chairman of the Board

The Camera Never Lies

The Great Pompydoo

Hobnobble

Gas Mask

Frogman

The God Complex

Moving in a Mysterious Way

One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one’s work is terribly important.

Bertrand Russell. The Conquest of Happiness.

For Siobhan

The Elephant

Ladies and gentlemen , the tale I am about to relate to you is so monstrous, so... unconscionable... it will make you want to go to the toilet quite a lot.

Permit me first to introduce myself. I am Doctor Amadeus Fishbalm - named after my mother’s Crufts winning Daschund, before it met with an appalling accident involving a lawnmower which I happened to be pushing.

Although serving a modest apprenticeship as a bicycle-spoke straightener in the village of Little Sewageboom, I had always harboured higher ambitions. I wished to become a famous medical man, thus gaining the respect and restoring the fortunes of my father, an out of work race-track florist.

Since I had no actual training, I started out small, teaching archery classes as a confidence building therapy for blind children - a radical treatment I might have thought through a bit more, as it required me to redecorate my apartment after each session.

Eventually, however, I built up a modest surgical practice, specialising in removing unwanted nostril hairs from the residents of the nearby ‘Bed-N-Wee’ Retirement Home. Business was brisk and I earned extra cash by moonlighting as an illegal armchair stuffer. In this way, I was able to put away a small nest egg for myself and my good lady wife, Ethel, so she might, one day, forsake her job as a nightclub bouncer at the Nipple Washer’s Arms. I even saved up enough for a top hat, under which I kept my packed lunch and Strawberry Fruit Shoot. As well as looking suitably important, this allowed me free use of both hands when yanking out particularly stubborn nasal foliage.

One day, I was relaxing in my surgery, reading a copy of Professor Moriarty’s Bumper book of Hilarious Surgical Mishaps, when there was a knock at the door.

Had I known what shame and degradation lurked behind yon portal, I would have leapt to my death through the French windows, pausing only to bid farewell to my pet Tasmanian Devil, Susan, who was hiding in the bathroom cupboard. Pets, you see, were not allowed in my lodgings and Susan had an unfortunate habit of biting visitor’s kneecaps.

Instead, oh fool... fool that I am! I went to the door and opened it.

A dishevelled young fellow, wearing a raincoat several sizes too large, stood in the hallway. With him was a fat figure with a paper bag over its head. The scruff pointed to a chair in the middle of the room and indicated for his companion to sit. The unfortunate soul ignored him, as the bag didn’t have any eye holes, earning a quick slap for its trouble. It finally groped its way to the chair, knocking over my life-size Lego model of Jack the Ripper in the process. It plonked itself down – crooning quietly and rocking to and fro.

Good evenink, fine sir, the toerag said in a cockney accent. My name is Reginald Tweeb, warden at Saint Mary Mungo Midge’s Asylum for the Terminally Unsightly.

You look a bit young to be in such a responsible position, I pointed out.

I use a lot of facial products, the man said dismissively. I take it you will have heard of our establishment?

I have relatives there, I retorted. What of it?

From that orrible place, sir, I have brought you this... thing.

Tweeb pointed to the hooded figure, who had stopped humming and was now unsuccessfully trying to pick its nose through the bag. I briefly wondered how hirsute its nostrils were and if I might make myself a tidy sum this fine morning.

I am at my wit’s end with this un. Tweeb slapped the creature’s head again. So, having been turned away by every reputable doctor, I finally brung him to you.

I’ve already got a pet, I informed the vagabond. She’s in the closet.

The portly creature made a sorrowful wheeping sound and let out a small fart.

Is it house trained? I inquired. I was fond of Susan but she had the unfortunate habit of pooping in my Rice Crispies, causing me to mistake them for Cocoa Pops, thus making breakfast a rather hazardous experience.

Do not torment the poor wretch, I beseech you! Tweeb pleaded. For his is a story so monstrous, so.... unconscionable... it will make you want to go...

To the toilet quite a lot, I interrupted. Yes, yes. Could we hurry this up? I fumbled impatiently for my fob watch, before realising I must have left it inside the last person I operated on. I was all set to take a stroll past Madam Benbecula’s House of Fluff. She serves an excellent salmon and banana toasty on Thursdays.

Dr Fishbalm! Tweeb said sternly. Society has utterly violated this poor wretch. His whole life, he has been leered at, peered at, poked at, pinched, prodded and dribbled on. And that’s just by me.

An excellent bit of alliteration, Mr Tweeb, I congratulated him.

Thank you. I was Bromsden borough barrow-boy champion, June 2016. Tweeb said proudly. I can sell you one of the official calendars, if you don’t mind seeing me naked.

I mind a great deal.

It’s very tasteful. I’m hiding me boy bits behind a boiled Brussels Sprout.

Though I was again impressed by his mastery of the tongue twister, I politely declined and directed his attention to the wretch in the chair. It was now having a sneezing fit and the bag was getting progressively soggier.

Tweeb wiped a tear from his eye.

Eventually, this poor creature was reduced to leaping from behind bushes at Loch Ness and living off sandwiches dropped by fleeing tourists. That is where I, Reginald Tweeb, captured him - having refused to let go of a particularly tasty cucumber and prawn triple-decker.

So Tweeb was fond of packed lunches, too. I began to feel a bond forming between us, which was broken by a momentous hiccup from the object in the chair. The bag wobbled on its head alarmingly.

A humane bloke, despite my previous criminal convictions, Tweeb continued. I decided to restore him to normality.

I had to admit, I was intrigued.

What exactly is wrong with the brute? I inquired, hopefully. It wouldn’t happen to be an especially hairy deformity, by any chance?

Worse than that, I fear. See for yourself.

Tweeb removed the bag, revealing a ginger-haired man. A Styrofoam cup was attached to the top of his head by an elastic band.

My God! I staggered back in horror. It’s hideous!

You should see him first thing in the morning. Tweeb shuddered at the thought. This ghastly deformity has earned my unfortunate companion the nickname... Elephant Man!

Tres obviously, I agreed. Excuse my French.

To be honest, Tweeb sighed. I am sometimes uncertain if he really is human or just a talking pachyderm.

The creature rose to its feet and glared at us balefully.

I.... am.... a..... MAN! it shouted.

We stared at him for what seemed like five seconds but was probably only four and a half.

No, I’m afraid you’re an elephant. I tried to let him down as gently as possible. May I call you Dumbo? It’s my favourite film.

With a dejected grunt, the object sat again. Tweeb rested one elbow on its head in a paternal manner.

Dr Fishbalm, I won’t beat around the bush.

Please don’t.

I want you to operate on this elephant... I mean, man. Try and remove the awful malformationism that blights his cranium.

No! I shielded my gaze from the sickening visage and wondered if I could carry out the procedure with my eyes closed. Do you realise how dangerous an operation like this could be? I won’t do it, I tell you.

I’ll pay whatever you want. Tweeb opened his wallet and a cloud of dust wafted into the air.

Oh. I reconsidered. When would you like me to start?

Time is of the essence. Tweeb glanced around nervously. I want to get back before me patients start breaking out of the cellar. Last time they escaped, four of them had been elected to parliament before I tracked em down.

As it happens, you’re in luck, I reassured him. I always keep a set of surgical tools in my smalls.

Is that entirely safe? Tweeb’s eyes widened.

Only if I don’t check before I put them on. I strode across the room, opened my underwear drawer and pulled out a scalpel.

Bravo, Doctor! Tweeb clapped his hands. You show a great deal of foresight.

Thank you. I gave a modest bow. Only last night, my wife complimented me on that very fact. Now help me hold the creature down.

We wrestled the Elephant Man to the couch. Since my regular assistant - ham-fisted Bob - was getting his hook polished, Tweeb was forced to assist me in the delicate operation. I donned a cooking apron and gave instructions for him to pass me vital instruments.

Forceps. Check. Drill. Check. Egg whisk. Check. Vacuum cleaner.

Why have you got them all up the patient’s nose? Tweeb frowned.

Sorry. Force of habit. I started again. Circular Saw. Check. Pool cue. Check. Anaesthetic. Check.

Shouldn’t you have administered the anaesthetic first? Tweeb handed it to the Elephant Man.

That’s for me, I admonished, grabbing the gas back. The sight of blood makes me throw up and I’m already feeling queasy looking at this monster.

I thought for a moment.

Though it might have been the Cocoa Pops I ate this morning.

We got to work again, while the Elephant Man encouraged us with shouts of ‘don’t touch me there’ and ‘that tickles, you morons’. Finally, I stood back and admired my handiwork.

The plastic cup was now attached to the side of my patient’s cheek.

Are you sure that’s right? Tweeb looked rather concerned.

It’s not quite perfect, I acknowledged. But I feel it will suffice. That’ll be four hundred pounds, please.

Does it include tax? Tweeb’s wallet gave an audible creak as he opened it.

No. I used Sellotape. I snatched the money from him. My wife, Ethel, will now escort you through the front door. Violently, if necessary.

You fiend! Tweeb spluttered. Don’t you care what you have done to this poor beast?

I pondered the question.

How much extra would I get for that?

What about the simple pleasure of a job well done? Tweeb scolded.

If I wanted job satisfaction, I’d have become a Playboy Bunny. Madam Benbecula is always looking for new staff.

Tweeb’s face darkened and he reached into his trouser pocket.

In that case, sir, I have something to show you.

I’d rather you didn’t. I only really do noses.

I will! He pulled out a silver whistle, much to my relief.

I am not Reginald Tweeb at all, he announced. My name is Harlan McFarlane, boy detective - and this is my portly sidekick, Fats.

The cup is a disguise, Fats said sheepishly. And you, Dr Fishbalm, are under citizen’s arrest.

In case you hadn’t noticed. I tapped my fingers together. I haven’t actually done anything illegal. Not this time, anyway.

That’s all right. I’ll make something up later. Harlan blew on his whistle and two burly men in police helmets burst into the room. I looked at them suspiciously.

Aren’t those toy hats? I asked. And why are they wearing straight jackets?

They’re from my asylum, Harlan countered impatiently. They think they’re Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. Who am I to argue?

Beats me, I retorted churlishly. "You’ve used two names already.

Nice to meet a fellow professional. Dr Watson wriggled out of his bonds and tipped his plastic headgear.

Don’t get chummy, Watson. Harlan thrust his finger out at me. Seize that villain!

What could I do? I ran for it. Unfortunately, the French windows were locked and the Elephant Man, or Fats as I now knew him, was blocking the door. So we chased each other round the room for a while. Being quite the sprinter in my youth, I often found myself right behind my pursuers, but a swift boot to the pants soon speeded them up.

After what seemed like fifteen minutes but was probably quarter of an hour, I grew weary of the stalemate. So I employed an old party trick, taught to me by Granny Fishbalm, a children’s entertainer at Sparky’s Fun Park and Crematorium.

Simon says follow my actions, I cried, leaping upon the nearest chair. Last one up is a big smell with bells on!

The fake rozzers jumped upon my leather armchairs, squealing with delight, while Fats clambered onto the couch. Harlan McFarlane ran fruitlessly back and forth until he realised all the seats had been taken. He tried to climb on the sofa with Fats, who gave him an epic wedgie then pushed him back to the floor.

No cheating, Harlan. Fair’s fair!

And there the boy stood, adjusting his boxer shorts and fuming at being so easily outwitted.

"I believe you are out," I said smugly.

We shall see who is out! He clouted his henchmen until they climbed down. You, Dr Fishbalm, are nothing but a fraud and a scoundrel!

I could bear these insults no longer, for I have always been a sensitive type. My own mother and father used to call me little snotty parp-pants, which I could have brushed off if I hadn’t been eighteen at the time.

I am no fraud, you misguided fool. I removed my top hat, revealing a Styrofoam cup attached to the top of my head.

"I am an... elephant!"

My shameful secret was finally revealed. No more sneaky mud packs at Bill Wrinkly’s Beauty Parlour for Big Revolting Bikies. No more running away and shrieking like a girl whenever I saw a mouse.

Harlan’s henchmen recoiled in revulsion and hid behind my desk.

Daddy? Fats said expectantly. Is that you?

Fats, Harlan sighed. Your plastic cup is just a ruse, remember? You know very well your father is a trout tickler in the Swiss Navy.

Oh yeah. Fats removed the cup. I forgot.

Which just proves you are not really an elephant, I scoffed.

You, sir, Harlan beckoned to me. Come down off that very high chair.

Shan’t! I folded my arms defiantly.

Grab him, men, Harlan commanded and his minions advanced on me.

Come any closer and I’ll jump. I tensed my muscles and swung both arms to and fro. I mean it!

The henchmen scurried back again.

I think he’s serious, Watson! The fake Sherlock Holmes cried. He’s obviously a desperate elephant.

Mr Holmes, Harlan fumed. Your nuts.

Of course I am, the man shot back. You just let me out of an asylum.

You’re the one trying to arrest an elephant, Watson added.

No! Harlan held out his hand. Pass me your nuts!

"That’s not in the police regulations. Holmes raised an eyebrow. I was hoping to start a family someday."

Your nuts! Harlan groaned in exasperation. The nuts you have for your lunch break!

Oh! You feeling a bit peckish, then? Holmes fished a packet of Nobbies Gum Destroyers from his pocket and handed it to Harlan. The boy took out a peanut and rustled the bag with his other hand.

My, what a tasty looking morsel. Mmmmm!

How could I resist? I tentatively stretched out my arm, grabbed the delicious treat and stuffed it into my mouth. Harlan backed away, laying a trail of peanuts across the carpet. I climbed down and shuffled after him, scooping them up. The boy nodded to his companions, who gently took my arms and led me away.

You wouldn’t send a poor elephant to prison, would you? I pleaded. How will I fit in the cell? Who would look after Susan?

As it happens, I do have another solution, the boy said nonchalantly. I happen to be friends with a country and western singer called Utah Jones, who bends iron bars using her teeth in a travelling circus. For a small cut of your wages, I could secure you a job there.

How small a cut? I asked.

95%

My eyes lit up. I’ve always been good at haggling.

Make it 96% and you have a deal.

You drive a hard bargain, but I accept. Harlan spread his hands. "I can see the billboards now. Doctor Amadeus Fishbalm: the Amazing Flying Mammoth."

But I’m not a mammoth, I objected. And I certainly can’t fly.

You will when you’re shot out of a cannon. 

And so I am, as you see me now. Condemned to travel the land in a brightly painted caravan with a pair of tusks stuck to the front. Susan is in the next trailer, wearing a furry onesie and advertised as the world’s most violent kitten, while Fats has been promoted to bearded lady.

My only pleasures in life are Ethel’s buns and the occasional guest spot on Animals Do The Funniest Things. And I play poker on Saturdays with Harlan’s patients, Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson, Napoleon, Julius Caesar and Bing Crosby.

Sometimes Tarzan joins in as well but he won’t talk to me.

Loser.

I didn’t mean to stand on his monkey....

Chocolate Drops

Ma faither killed ma sister.

Twice.

Then he battered 6-inch nails intae her coffin wi his bare, mucky, scabby auld plumber’s hauns an danced the Dashin White Sergeant on her grave, while his beardie, drunken, bent-nosed cronies sang ‘Donald Whuar’s yer Troosers’ an pissed against the cemetery wall.

Me? I held the hammer.

Mah sister’s name wis Minty Broon - I gave her that nickname cause o this greeny tinge she hid roond aboot her teeth. No rotten or nothin - just the way they looked. An she had this antiseptic smell, a wee bit like washin up liquid. Her friends didnae notice I suppose -