Ghostmonkey

It had been one of those Sundays they tell you to avoid in the bible: much to do and too little time. I should have prescribed myself a day of rest. The whole day was off-kilter. A constant tingle of fear and guilt fed the acid in my stomach. Sure, I could have been hormonal, but wrongness fluttered in my stomach like moth's wings in a lamp's shade. I was on edge. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, and not for the first time in my life, I found myself considering whether drinking coffee would be wise; without it, I would have a headache to pound rocks, but with it, any sense of proportion to my uneasiness would be lost altogether. Not one to suffer physically, when the load could be borne mentally, I drank my first cup, then my second, then my third. Only then did I feel as if I could leave the house and go to Church.

At 10:15am a church friend stopped her car and gave me a lift. She and I ran Sunday school, taking advantage of the coffee pot in the hall as we glued, glittered and gamed with the children. We joined the rest of the congregation at Mass with hyper smiles. The Mass went smoothly, but I still waited for some kind of mistake to show up on the pew sheet that I'd typed up during the week. Sure enough, we all shared the 'peach of the Lord', instead of the 'peace'--my desperate eyes always missed at least one typo when I proofread. The acid gurggled happily in my stomach, dancing with the five cups of coffee that swished about in there.

I didn't stay for coffee after Mass. I couldn't. I had to meet Lesley, at noon, outside the church gates. We were on our way to a writers' group in Manchester. She was waiting. I was late. I apologized. She accepted it with good humor, and we increased our pace to the bus stop. I puffed a dog-eared cigarette as we walked--me with guilty glances over my shoulder to where other, better, Christians may be watching from; no doubt praying for some kind of intervention against the unsociable addiction. My stomach lost the acid fight, and bile rose to my mouth. The stale smoke, coffee, and hideous mix of last night's dinner washed over my teeth. I tried to ensure that any aromatic conversation on my part was blown away from Lesley.

We reached the bus stop as I reached the climax of an anecdote on why Sunday School should have as much glitter as possible, instead of boring readings. A smartly-dressed, older member of the congregation tried hard not hear me. I hadn't seen her waiting in the bus's shelter. More bile. More guilt. More unease flooded me. The bus arrived, saving me from too polite smiles.

Still conscious about the state of my breath, I was relieved to see that Carolyn, another writer-friend, was already aboard. Lesley sat next to her, and I found a babbling man to sit next to. Out of deference to the good company he found himself to be, I turned my face toward my friends and their conversation. I found a mint, amid the cotton dust of my bag, and sucked it.

1:00pm and more coffee. This time, it was from the coffee shop the writers met in. I went with the Massivo Americano. It came in a vessel so large that it needed a handle on either side. I also noted that, as well as regular coffee, the Americano had a double expresso poured into it. I only ordered it because it was easier to pronounce than other coffee types.

By 2:00pm my heart was crashing against my ribcage, and my tongue was tripping over itself to try to keep up with what my brain thought were sentences. They weren't. I was babbling at ten to the the dozen, and even caught one thought as it rushed along its course that told me I was annoying myself beyond all forgiveness, never mind the obvious torture the writing group was suffering. I thought I should stop talking, but I didn't. I thought I should stop drinking the never-ending coffee, but I didn't. In fact, I only paused my speech to employ my lips with the side of the coffee-trough in front of me.

When my heart stopped pounding against my ribcage, to set up a steady pulsing percussion in my teeth, I did push the coffee cup away from me. It was empty anyway. My eyeballs started throbbing in time with my molars.

"I think I drank too much coffee," I confided to my friends, as we made our way back to the bus stop.

Carolyn raised an eyebrow and a smile. I took this to be friendly affirmation of my fears. Lesley allowed me to wind-down my energy as we later disembarked at the same stop. We walked the ten minute route that led to my house together, and she continued on another route that took her home. She waved her goodbyes with good humor.

I saw a black monkey jump through the bushes of my neighbor's house. I ignored it; the volume and strength of the coffee I drank must have led to hallucinations. Unease winked at me. My blood-shot mind's eye stared back, horrified.

I should write, I thought, but I didn't. Instead, I entertained a million and one other legitimate excuses and distractions, fueled by cigarettes and, yes, yet more coffee.

I live down a quite suburban street with no through traffic. Like many places in the built-up areas of the north of England, my house shelters in the shadows of redundant mill chimneys. These brick monoliths of a bygone industrial age poke a chubby cigar-shaped finger into heaven, higher than any church spire could hope to attract His attention with. All the houses on our street huddle beneath the mill, with only a feather's bredth between each abode. There are a few trees, but their inclusion in the constructed landscape is much like the inclusion of potted plants in hotel lobbies: there is always the urge to touch them, to see if they are made of plastic. Nature is not natural here--even the cats beg to be let into to their litter-boxes.

At 8:00pm the children were in bed, the husband was fed, and I half-watched the washing-line swing in the wind while I hand-washed the pots. The tension changed on the line. The black monkey leaped from it, onto the shed roof, and over my other neighbor's wall.

I dropped the plate I was washing and clutched my heart. "Andy!" I yelled. "There's a monkey in the garden."

Both he and the newly-put-to-bed children galloped down the stairs in the hope to witness the uncommon and unexpected. There was no monkey for them to see.

Andy shook his head. For a split-second a look that said 'attention seeker' flashed across his brow. "I think you're seeing things. Take a bloody picture of it, if you see it again."

Emily, my twelve year-old, started to sob. "Is Mum going mad, Dad?"

"Probably."

Andy ruffled her hair, but it didn't placate her. "Are doctors going to lock her up? She said she had a ghostcat under her bed at Christmas."

Emily threw her arms around me. At six, her sister, Jennifer, didn't know how surreal conversations worked, but she saw the upset and the 'hug mum' vibe was picked up on, so she added her tiny presence to the mix of arms and legs that enveloped me.

I hugged them back. "Oh, give over, you two. I thought I saw a monkey, but I've had a lot of coffee today. It was probably just a cat."

"What did it do?" Emily asked, cautiously.

"Jumped from the washing line and onto the shed."

"Then it couldn't have been a cat; they don't have opposable thumbs so they can't climb. What if it was a ghostmonkey?"

"There are no such things as ghostmonkeys."

Jennifer began to wail, too. "Ghostmonkeys! Ghostmonkeys!" she shrieked between sobs, hard enough for Andy to investigate.

"Are you winding the kids up about ghostmonkeys at bedtime? Come on, Mand. Get a grip, or it will be just like the Christmas ghostcat incident; the kids were in our bed for months."

"Andy, I'm not winding them up. I thought I saw a monkey and I shouted you all down. Thinking about it, I agree with you: I've probably had too much coffee and it was nothing but a figment of my imagination."

Andy pried the kids off me and steered them back to the stairs. "See? Mum's not mad--she's as high as a kite on caffeine, but she's perfectly... well, there's no such thing as ghostmonkeys. Now, off to bed, and don't come back down."

Each time I went to the back door for a smoke, I opened it with loud intention: I wanted to scare away any monkeys that might be out there. Andy went to bed and left me to write. I got a good head of steam up, as well as a fresh pot of coffee. In no time at all it was 1:00am and I had five new pages of story to my credit. I was feeling pretty cocky, and went for a smoke. Monkeys were the last thing on my mind.

There it was.

It was sat on the windowsill of the house on the opposite side of the road. A fist of fear throttled my bowels while I stared, cigarette dangling from my lips and lighter flame illuminating my face. Attention caught by the light, it turned its little black head to me; its eyes a blinking brilliant gold in the street-lighting. The moment stretched tighter than the skin across my heart. It looked at me. I looked at it. I had hoped its existence was coffee-fueled imagination, or acrobatic cats were at the bottom of this, but no: it was most definitely a little black monkey. Its legs hung from the sill, and its tail curled like a Spanish question mark between them. I had a sudden image of it bounding toward me, and I knew I wouldn't like that, so I backed up slowly, closed the kitchen door and stood in the kitchen. My thumb exploded in pain, and I dropped the lighter. The pain jolted me into action. I ran into the studio, sucking my thumb as I hunted for Andy's digital camcorder. Bless him, it was sat in the charger, ready to go. I grabbed it and went back into the kitchen.

I turned the kitchen light off and fumbled with the camera settings until I found 'night-vision', while my own light-blindness began to fade, turning the orangey-glowed urban street lighting beyond my window into a back-light of normalcy. I took a few deep breaths and opened the back door of the kitchen.

The sill where the monkey had sat was now vacant. I looked behind, in front, above, and below me. No monkey. Then, I heard it: a chittering sound and the scamper of little paws. The sound was near to me, and I rechecked my immediate surroundings. I couldn't see anything. I brought the camera up and saw the same world illuminated in the darkening shades of green captured in night-vision. All sounds stopped, except my panting, smoker's rattle. I panned the camera slowly around. A movement caught my eye--a plastic carrier bag playing with the breeze.

Five minuets later, my heart rate back to normal, I gave up. I turned to go in. BAM! The monkey flew out of my kitchen, and straight past my face. I squealed. I fell backward. I closed my eyes and landed hard. I think I wee'd a bit. Lights from upstairs flooded the scene, as I caught the last glimpse of a retreating tail scamper over the roof of my car, which was sat in the drive. The monkey was gone. Had I been recording? Yes. Yes, I had.

Andy burst into the kitchen. He was naked, but for the toilet brush he wielded as a defensive weapon. A good choice, I thought; I certainly wouldn't want it touching me, if I were villain.

He looked for someone to hit, and saw me sprawled out on the block-paving. "What the bloody hell are you doing?"

"Catching monkeys."

"Oh, for pity's sake, woman! Get a grip, pour the coffee away, and come to bed. The kids are right: you'll end up in a loony bin."

I got to my feet, and waggled the camera at him. "You said to get a picture of it. I did. I'm not going mad. Ghostmonkey, or not, I've got the evidence here."

His face crumpled into something resembling sleepy compassion, with just a hint of anger at the edges. "Mand, it's late. I've got work in a few hours, and you've had a 'funny' day. Let's just go to bed, eh?"

"Not until you see my ghostmonkey footage."

"You're not going to let it drop are you?"

"No."

"Then I'll humor you, if you promise me something."

I nodded. He grabbed my shoulder with his weapon free hand. "Get some help, babe. Get some help, and lay off the coffee."

"Sure," I agreed.

With giddy delight, I led the way to the mass of cables next to the TV that would convert my over-active imagination into solid fact. I plugged the camera into the power-point and, with a slight smile on my face, pressed the on button.