Page 23 of The Mercy Chair

Poe checked his watch. They were a bit early. He was about to suggest they go inside anyway when a small cheer from behind made him pause. He turned, squinted then smiled.

‘You haven’t been introduced to Bugger Rumble yet, have you, Tilly?’

‘I don’t know what those words mean, Poe.’

***

Like Type 2 diabetes, part-time street entertainer/full-time lunatic, Bugger Rumble was a Carlisle staple. A man unfamiliar with subtlety, he was snaggle toothed, had hair like over-sugared candyfloss and a beard down to his belly. The suit he was wearing looked like it had been stolen from a vampire. He completed his look with a top hat, fingerless gloves and the kind of black plimsolls only ever seen in a 1970s school gymnasium. He looked like Bob Geldof during a laundry workers’ strike. The council occasionally tried to move him on but, like ringworm, he returned, stronger and even more irritating. And, like ringworm, you felt itchy just looking at him.

But, because Bugger had always had his finger on the pulse of the city’s sketchier areas, he’d been Poe’s best snout during his time as a Cumbrian detective. Bugger was so obviously batshit crazy, people who really should have known better talked openly in front of him. But just because you didn’t notice Bugger, didn’t mean Bugger didn’t notice you. He saw everything, heheardeverything, and he forgot nothing. Underneath the grime and the outlandish clothes and the ridiculous street entertainment, was a sharp and insightful mind, a mind Poe had been happy to press for the occasional nugget of intelligence.

Poe reckoned Bugger Rumble had once been involved in the world of antiquarianism, as his knowledge of old books was unparalleled. How he had ended up in Carlisle, living the way he did, was anyone’s guess. Poe had occasionally considered making discreet enquiries with Oxford and Cambridge to see if they were missing a professor or knew of a visiting fellow who no longer visited. But he never did – Bugger was happy, and Poe reckoned that was pretty much life’s Holy Grail. Who was he to interfere?

The last time Poe saw Bugger, his act, and that was using the loosest possible definition of the word, was to draw a chalk line on the pavement then wobble his way along as if it were a tightrope. The world’s only low-rise walker, he called himself. But it seemed he had moved on. Instead of a simple narrative – that he was perilously crossing a canyon and stepping off the chalk line would mean instant death – his act had morphed into something that combined mime with interpretive dance.

Poe watched in amazement.

Silently, and with an expression of absolute concentration, Bugger started putting himself into all sorts of weird and wonderful positions. Sometimes he would throw up his hands and kick the air; sometimes he would strut in a circle like a gimpy chicken. He got on the ground and did what looked like yoga; he stood up and changed an imaginary light bulb. He jumped in the air and kicked his heels.

Bradshaw was mesmerised. Poe imagined this was a new experience for her. To be fair, it looked like this was a new experience for everyone. And judging by the way the crowd was drifting away, maybe not a welcome one.

Bugger finished with a leap in the air, a shout of ‘Hey, hoopla!’ and a theatrical bow. He then held out his grubby top hat.

Bradshaw clapped enthusiastically. ‘Bravo!’ she cried.

Reluctantly Poe joined in. ‘Yes, very good, Bugger. Not at all weird.’

Bugger waited until the crowd had dispersed before saying, ‘Who’s the specky lass, Sergeant Poe?’

Which was quite polite for Bugger.

‘Tilly, this is Bugger Rumble – no, don’t shake his hand! As you can see, he’s monetised arsing about.’

Bugger cackled. He was the only person Poe had met who could.

‘Arsing . . . I wasn’t “arsing about”, Sergeant Poe,’ he protested. ‘This is a series of non-narrative shows about important historical texts.’

‘Get stuffed, Bugger. You were dicking about and hoping to earn enough for a pint in the Kings Head.’ Poe reached into his pocket and removed his wallet. ‘And it just so happens, today’s your lucky—’

‘That wasfascinating, Mr Rumble,’ Bradshaw interrupted. ‘When I was twelve, I wrote a paper on whether visual thinking in mathematics might have an epistemically significant role. Unless my eyes were deceived, that was a one-man play depicting the geometric diagrams contained in Euclid’sElements.’

Bugger stared at Bradshaw in astonishment. He tilted his head to one side and started whacking it, like he had a pebble in his ear. ‘Begone, pink elephant!’ he shouted.

‘Tilly’s not a figment of your imagination, Bugger,’ Poe sighed. ‘I can assure you, she’s very real.’

Bugger stopped hitting himself. ‘She is?’

Poe paused. ‘Almost certainly,’ he said.

‘Stop being cruel, Poe!’ Bradshaw said. ‘Yes, I am real, Mr Rumble.’

‘You’ve read Euclid’sElements?’ Bugger asked.

‘All thirteen volumes,’ Bradshaw confirmed.

His eyes narrowed. ‘What’s your major criticism?’

Bradshaw frowned. ‘Probably when he moved two triangles on top of each other to prove that if two sides and their angles are equal, then they must be congruent.’

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