King Dong

Copyright

This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons or primates, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

HarperNonFiction

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2005

Copyright © Edgar Rider Ragged 2005

Edgar Rider Ragged asserts the immoral right to remain unidentified.

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Source ISBN: 9780007208128

Ebook Edition © Jul 2013 ISBN: 9780007524686

Version: 2017-01-18

Epigraph

And the Prophet said, And lo, the Beast looked upon the face of Beauty. And Beauty said unto the Beast, ‘You lookin’ at me, pal? Stitch that!’ And from that day, the Beast was as one dead.

Old Glaswegian proverb

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

CHAPTER ONE Rumbuggery on the Lash

CHAPTER TWO Deadman’s Tales

CHAPTER THREE A Motley Crew

CHAPTER FOUR Bones of Contention

CHAPTER FIVE Tall Tales and a Big Whopper

CHAPTER SIX Welcome to Dongland

CHAPTER SEVEN By Hook and by Crook

CHAPTER EIGHT Virgin and the Ridiculous

CHAPTER NINE A Taste of Marzipan

CHAPTER TEN Monkey Business

CHAPTER ELEVEN Heeerrre’s Dongie!

CHAPTER TWELVE Beauty and the Beast?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN Gorilla Warfare

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Plots and Pans

CHAPTER FIFTEEN Do Drop In

CHAPTER SIXTEEN Dong Goes Ape

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Sing Alonga Dong

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Dong Flops

CHAPTER NINETEEN So Long, Dong

Epilogue

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE Rumbuggery on the Lash

In the bustling port of Old Hokum, an old tramp lay against the quay, filthy, neglected, rust-streaked and leaking from every seam.

The ship that loomed above him was in pretty poor shape, too.

Seeing the bobbing approach of a watchman’s lantern, the old tramp corked the brown bottle he had been holding to his cracked lips and croaked out a hail. ‘Say, friend, what ship is that?’

The watchman was bored, and disposed to be chatty. ‘The Vulture. Sailing tomorrow.’

The old tramp waved his bottle towards the ship. ‘They lookin’ for any hands?’

The watchman held up his lamp and gazed at the questioner’s impressive collection of liver spots and elephant’s scrotum wrinkles. ‘Now see here, old timer, you don’t want to be taken on to that crew, if half of what they say is true.’

The old tramp blinked his rum-reddened eyes and gave a hacking cough. ‘What do they say?’

‘Why, that the captain of this old rust-bucket has hired it to Carl Deadman, the motion picture producer who’s always going off to the most crazy dangerous places he can find to make movies about the world’s deadliest critters with scant regard for the lives or sanity of his men, and he’s setting off tomorrow for an unknown destination with a highly dangerous cargo and a crew of the worst collection of low-life wharf-rats and plug-ugly desperadoes anyone has ever seen, that’s what they say. Why d’you ask?’

‘Come to think of it, no idea.’ The old tramp picked a louse from his beard. ‘How come you gave me such a detailed answer?’

‘I think we’re supposed to set the scene by providing an opening narrative thread and establishing an atmosphere of mystery and foreboding while at the same time adding a little local colour …’ The watchman broke off. The old tramp was making painful retching noises as his 100 per cent rubbing alcohol diet got the better of him, decorating the quay with a little local colour of his own. Shaking his head, the watchman moved on.

On board the SS Vulture, Captain Rumbuggery poured himself another glass of rotgut liquor with a shaking hand, and made a desperate attempt to focus on Carl Deadman. The movie producer was pacing the Captain’s insanitary cabin, from wall to rust-streaked wall, furiously chewing on the end of a cheap cigar. A fug of tobacco smoke and alcohol fumes had turned the air into a sickly pale-green mist.

Deadman paused in his perambulation and whirled to face Rumbuggery, slapping his hand down upon the desk. With a drunk’s instinct, Rumbuggery lifted his glass from the tabletop just in time to prevent its being knocked over.

‘I tell you, Skipper,’ growled Deadman, ‘sometimes I just can’t figure the movie business. I’ve been out with you on two expeditions to the ends of the Earth. Each time, I’ve brought back a swell film – and the public, rot them, just don’t want to know. I ask you! I put everything into those pictures – blood, sweat tears, even money – and what happens? An Exciting Movie About a Big Strong Elephant was box-office poison and A Thrilling Story About a Big Fierce Lion didn’t even open in the top theatres. How could pictures like that fail?’

Captain Rumbuggery gave a lurid belch. ‘I’m flying a kite here,’ he slurred, ‘y’know, jusht running up the flagpole and sheeing if anyone drops his pantsh – but could the titlesh have anything to do with it?’

‘Hogwash!’ roared Deadman.

‘Plus the fact that your leading men got trampled to death in the firsht picture and eaten in the shecond …’

Deadman waved a hand dismissively. ‘I tell you, Skipper, I have it all figured out. My movies have adventure, excitement, spectacle, thrills, danger …’

‘And big shtrong elephants and big fierce lionsh …’

‘Sure, sure. But they don’t have the one thing the public wants. Know what that is?’

‘A decent shcript?’ hazarded the sozzled Captain. ‘Conshistent plot? Compelling dialogue?’

Deadman stared at the old salt. ‘What the hell are you talking about, Skipper? No! The public don’t care for any of that horse-shit. I’ll tell you what they want!’ He leaned conspiratorially towards Rumbuggery. ‘Sex!’

The Captain stared. ‘Shexsh?’

‘You heard me! S-e-c-k-s, sex! That’s what I need! Sex!’

The Captain fumbled with his belt. ‘Well, why didn’t you shay?’

‘Not now!’ snapped Deadman. ‘In my movie!’

The Captain rubbed his grizzled chin. ‘Well, I don’t know … if it wash artistically valid, and the money wash right …’

‘Holy mackerel! You think the public are gonna pay to see a rummy deadbeat with his pants round his ankles?’

The Captain considered. ‘I would.’

Deadman ignored this. ‘No, you old fool, I need a girl. But every flapper I’ve tried to hire has been interfered with.’

‘Well, this is New York.’ The Captain did a cock-eyed double-take. ‘Jusht a cotton-pickin’ minute! Are you telling me you’re planning to bring a woman on board?’

‘I sure as hell am! What’s wrong with that?’

‘What’sh wrong with it?’ Captain Rumbuggery spluttered with righteous indignation. ‘I’ll tell you what’sh wrong with it! Women on board ship are nothing but trouble! Talk about a Jonah. Dischipline goesh to hell! The crew neglect vital dutiesh, such as shteering the ship and shtoking the boilersh and pleasuring their Shkipper. I tell you, Mishter Deadman, I’d shooner have an albatrossh round my neck. I’d sooner have a man-eating tiger on board than a woman!’

Deadman gave the Captain a contemptuous look. ‘Oh, pipe down, you old buzzard.’

The blare of an auto-horn from outside caught the movie man’s attention. He crossed to the porthole and rubbed at the condensation misting the grimy glass.

A taxi had drawn up on the wharf below. As Deadman watched, a platinum blonde wearing an outrageous amount of cheap fur and fake jewellery stepped out.

Deadman clicked his fingers. ‘There’s my girl now. Sit tight, Captain. I’ll bring her up here and introduce you.’ He yanked open the ill-fitting door at the third attempt and headed for the companionway.

By the time he reached the wharf, the argument between his star and the cabbie was already turning the air blue and causing the Vulture’s blistered paint to flake off over a wide area.

‘Whaddaya mean, wiseguy?’ his leading lady demanded as Deadman joined the fray. ‘A dollar thoity from Brooklyn? Ya lousy joik, tryn’a rob me.’

‘That’s the fare, lady.’ The cabbie’s voice was weary. ‘Right there on the meter.’

‘I’ll give ya meter, ya –’

‘Here. Keep the change.’ Deadman thrust a five-dollar bill at the cabbie and took his fare by the arm. ‘Come along, Darling.’

‘Darling?’ The cabbie whistled.

‘That’s my name, ya doity moocher,’ the lady replied. ‘Ann Darling.’

‘Sure it is. And mine’s Rudolph Valentino.’ The cabbie leered. ‘Keep one hand on your wallet with that one, Mac.’ He sidestepped to avoid a vicious swipe from Ann’s purse and roared off while Deadman restrained his furious star.

A few minutes later, Ann was installed in Captain Rumbuggery’s reeking cabin, wrinkling her nose at the foul atmosphere and staring disdainfully at the glass of 90 per cent proof spirit the old sea-dog had considerately poured for her.

‘Ann!’ Deadman radiated cordiality. ‘I’d like you to meet our skipper for the voyage. Captain Rumbuggery – Ann Darling, the leading lady of my new movie.’

Ann gave the Captain a hard-eyed stare and beckoned Deadman closer. ‘We’re sailing half-way round the world with him in charge? The guy’s a lush!’

‘Only when he’s drinking,’ Deadman reassured her.

‘Oh.’ Ann was mollified. ‘That’s OK, then.’ She gave the Captain a winning smile, from sheer force of habit.

Deadman lit another cigar. ‘OK, here’s the deal. Captain, we sail on the first tide.’

Rumbuggery nodded and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Right. Gotcha. Before any shneaky dockside rat getsh to hear about some of the characters we got in the crew – not to mention the cargo …’

Ann’s ears pricked up. ‘What characters? What cargo?’

Hurriedly, Deadman continued, ‘Sure, sure, Skipper. Then you take us to the co-ordinates I’ve already given you.’

‘What’s he talking about?’ demanded Ann. ‘What characters? What’s all this about a cargo? What sort of cargo?’

‘Yessiree.’ Rumbuggery gave Ann a knowing, drunken wink. ‘I sure wouldn’t want the port authorities to hear about thish cargo.’ He gave a phlegmy chuckle which deteriorated into a hacking cough.

‘When we get to this latitude,’ continued Deadman, ‘I’ll reveal our destination.’

‘I want to hear more about this cargo.’

‘I don’t like it!’ The interruption was sudden and shocking. Rumbuggery’s mood, in the way of drunks, had undergone a sudden swing. His voice, powerful enough to summon a favoured fore-mast hand from the fo’c’sle to the Captain’s bunk in the teeth of a hurricane, made the solid steel walls vibrate.

‘I tell you, it’s ashking for trouble.’ The Captain’s face was a picture of misery. ‘You’re ashking me to shet sail for an unknown destination …’ The Captain enumerated his points on nicotine-stained fingers. ‘… on a ship that leaksh like a sieve, carrying a highly dangerous cargo and crewed by the worsht collection of cut-throats and no-goods I ever laid eyesh on – and, worsht of all …’ The Captain’s eyes bugged out with indignation. ‘… with a woman on board!’

‘Now hold it right there!’ Ann shot to her feet, eyes flashing. ‘Did you say, “a woman” on board? “A woman” as in “one”? Singular?’ She pointed accusingly at Deadman. ‘Youse creep, you never told me that!’

‘Didn’t I?’ said Deadman unconvincingly. ‘It must have slipped my mind. Does it matter?’

‘You betcha it matters!’ howled Ann. ‘You expect me to spend three months on this hell-ship, being pawed and leered at by a bunch of lecherous deck apes, without even another goil on board? You told me this would be a cruise, with luxurious accommodation on a swell, high-class liner.’

‘Maybe I exaggerated a little.’

‘I shoulda guessed you were lyin’ when youse lips started to move.’ Ann fixed Deadman with a furious glare. ‘Forget it, buster. Include me out.’

‘Well, there’s gratitude!’ Deadman turned to Rumbuggery. ‘Captain, I appeal to you …’

‘No you don’t.’ Rumbuggery eyed Deadman up and down, then shook his head decidedly. ‘Not one bit. I like lithe young deck-hands with firm, rounded –’

‘I meant,’ grated Deadman, ‘I appeal to your sense of fair play.’ He pointed accusingly at Ann. ‘She hadn’t worked for two years. I dragged her out of the gutter …’

‘I was resting, you joik!’

‘Yeah, like you’d been resting ever since the talkies came in, and your fans discovered that Ann Darling, the Sweet Maid of Milwaukee, had a voice like a buzz-saw tearing through sheet metal.’

‘That ain’t fair! I had elly-cue-shun lessons …”

‘… till your voice coach threw himself out the window. Get this, doll-face – I hired you because no other producer would touch you with a camera crane.’

‘Yeah? Well, no other goil would agree to come on a crazy trip like this.’

‘That too,’ agreed Deadman. Ann, not sure whether she’d just scored a point or conceded one, gave an injured huff and turned her back on the men.

‘While we’re on the shubject,’ said Captain Rumbuggery, taking yet another liver-dissolving pull at his glass, ‘just where the hell are we going?’

Deadman rolled his eyes. ‘I told you. I’ll spill the beans when we reach the coordinates I gave.’

‘No!’ Captain Rumbuggery slammed his glass down. Liquid slopped from it and began to eat through the table. ‘That’sh not good enough! You exscpect me to take you into uncharted seas and unknown dangersh with a contraband cargo and a woman on board? I won’t do it, I tell you!’

‘All right, already!’ Deadman gave an exasperated sigh. ‘I can’t tell you everything – there may be spies aboard. But, just to satisfy your curiosity, I’ll give you a few hints.’

He bit the end off another cigar. Ann leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with calculation. The Captain tried to focus, and not fall off his chair.

Deadman lit the cigar puffing hard and rolling it around in the match flame to ensure that the tobacco burnt evenly. He stuck one hand in a waistcoat pocket, took a deep draught of the pungent smoke, and blew three rings which sailed up to join the clouds roiling around beneath the flyspecked ceiling.

Lowering the cigar, he carefully removed a flake of tobacco from his bottom lip. Only then did he turn to face the Captain and Ann.

‘Tell me,’ he said slowly, ‘did you ever hear of … Dong?’

CHAPTER TWO Deadman’s Tales

Dong … Dong … Dong … Dong

The sound reverberated around the cabin.

Dong … Dong … Dong … Dong

Deadman stared through the porthole. ‘Who is ringing that goddamn bell?’

‘Eight bells!’ intoned a salt-roughened voice from the deck.

‘Twenty hundred hours, ship’s time,’ explained the Skipper. He staggered to the cabin door, flung it open and bellowed, ‘Will you shut up out there! How’sh an old seadog to think with that noise going on?’

‘Sorry, Skipper.’

Rumbuggery weaved his way back to his seat. ‘Did you jusht shay what I thought you said, Mr Deadman?’

‘I did,’ nodded the producer.

Rumbuggery’s eyes flared with shock and fear. Then they flared again as the light from Deadman’s smouldering cigar spontaneously combusted with the alcoholic fumes surrounding the Captain. The smell of singed hair joined the cabin’s rich mixture of odours, but the Skipper seemed barely to notice it. ‘Dong!’ he repeated in a quaking voice.

Ann shrugged. ‘Is that the name of the island we’re goin’ to?’

Deadman shook his head and tapped the side of his nose significantly.

Ann let out an impatient sigh. ‘Well, if this “Dong” is a poyson, why don’t you stop fooling around and tell us who the hell he is?’

The producer shook his head. ‘Dong isn’t a “who”, he’s more of a “what”.’

‘What?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Exactly what?’

‘Exactly. “What”.’

Ann’s eyes narrowed. ‘Deadman, I swear you’ll be soon livin’ up to your name, if you don’t give us some answers right now!’

Deadman took a long pull on his cigar. ‘I’m talking about the legend of Dong.’

Before Ann could explode, Rumbuggery shook his head decisively. ‘Dong! Ha! Dong is a will o the wisp, an old seafarersh’ yarn, a tittle-tattle tall tale told by tellers of tittle-tattle tall tales.’ There was a pause. ‘Er – I jusht shpat my denturesh out – could you passh them back, pleashe? They’re jusht there beshide my shcale model of the U Essh Essh Missbbhhisshhipp…’

‘A legend?’ Using his handkerchief, Deadman did as requested. ‘That’s what I thought too, Skipper.’ He stubbed out his cigar on the ship’s cat, which yowled and hid under the Skipper’s bunk. Deadman leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘A couple of years ago I was in China, filming A Nice Movie About a Cute Panda – a guaranteed blockbuster how the distributors passed on it I’ll never know. When I’d finished shooting, I headed south to Hong Kong to board a steamer for home. My boat wasn’t due to leave for a couple of days and I had some time to kill. Wandering the gloomy back streets of Kowloon I accidentally by sheer coincidence chanced upon an opium den.’

Ann’s eyes widened. ‘You stumbled into a real opium den?’

‘Stumbled, hell, it took me hours to find … er, yeah, sure, that’s right.’

‘Opium!’ muttered Rumbuggery. ‘The power of the dreaded poppy!’

Deadman frowned at the interruption. ‘The dreaded poppy?’

‘Aye. Dreaded Poppy O’Shea. Two jam jars high, breastsh like Zeppelins and fishts like a longshoreman. She ran the Dragon’s Den House of Forbidden Delights and Hand-Wash Laundry in old Singapore. Hell of a woman.’

Deadman sighed. ‘Be that as it may …’

‘Oh, believe me, son,’ rambled the Skipper, ‘I know what the dreaded poppy can do to a man. Fall into her armsh and you’re seduced – a shlave to her wilful charmsh. Oh, I know, I know, the dreaded poppy can help you to escape from the depressing reality of thish world, but she’ll set you on the road to oblivion. Every minute you spend with the dreaded poppy, you flirt with fear and the danger of helplessh addiction leading to rack and ruin and eventually a horrible tortuous death. Aye, many are the helplessh victims of the dreaded poppy. We used to hold a minute’sh silence to remember them on Dreaded Poppy Day.’

Deadman gave the snootered sailor a quelling glance. ‘Have you quite finished?’

‘Aye.’ A smile spread across Rumbuggery’s grizzled face. ‘Happy daysh, happy daysh.’

Deadman pointedly turned his back on the Skipper. ‘I entered the dismal pit,’ he continued. ‘The only light came from the glowing charcoal braziers that were heating up metal bowls and filling the room with choking brown smoke. I could just make out shadows and silhouettes of wizened creatures lying on cane beds: Malays, Chinamen, Lascars and Westerners – a motley assortment of the dregs of humanity coming together in a haze of drug-induced dreams.’

Ann nodded. ‘Yeah, I been to parties like that – back in Hollywood.’

‘In the midst of this hell hole I happened to meet an old sea captain who’d also wandered into this den of lost souls. Although, looking at him, he’d obviously wandered into it dozens of times. As we shared a nocturnal pipe or two, he told me a tale that had happened to him some years previously.’ Deadman looked around the room before beckoning Ann and Rumbuggery closer. ‘One winter’s day, this captain set sail from port with his usual load of passengers when a storm sprang up and before he knew it the ship was off course, lost somewhere in the middle of the Indian Ocean.’

Rumbuggery raised a caterpillar of an eyebrow. ‘What ship wash thish?’

‘The Staten Island Ferry – it was a hell of a storm.’

‘It happensh, it happensh,’ muttered Rumbuggery.

‘When the storm finally blew itself out, they came across a crudely made inflatable rubber dinosaur drifting on the ocean.’

Ann stared. ‘An inflatable …?’

‘Don’t interrupt! On it lay fourteen bodies. All were dead except for one. The captain hauled the unfortunate creature aboard. He, too, was not long for this world and died soon after. But before the end, he told the captain a blood-chilling story – the legend of Dong.’

‘Just a minute,’ said Ann. ‘How could the skipper of the Staten Island Ferry communicate with some native savage?’

‘Through a combination of gestures and an old copy of Savage Native Lingo for Travellers the captain always carried with him to communicate with passengers from New Jersey. Even so, he only managed to gather that the poor souls on the raft had come from an island where the inhabitants conducted human sacrifices to a terrible beast. He and his companions had put to sea on the dinosaur; unluckily for them they soon ran out of food and water and all died except for the lone survivor. With his story told, the poor devil breathed his last – his final words were, “Dong … Dong”.’

‘My eye and Betty Martin!’ cried Rumbuggery. ‘’Tis but an invention of a drug-raddled mind. Nobody would believe it but a raving maniac, a half-witted infant – or a Hollywood producer, down on his luck.’

‘I didn’t believe it,’ replied Deadman, ignoring the slur, ‘until the captain gave me this …’ He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sea-stained, weather-beaten piece of parchment. ‘The native had drawn a crude picture, of which only this piece survives.’

Deadman opened out the parchment and set it down on the table.

Ann gave a cry of shock. ‘Is that what I think it is? OHMIGOD!’

‘I told you it was a crude picture.’

‘It’s enormous! I’ve never seen anything so big … and believe me I’ve seen a few.’ Involuntarily, Ann licked her lips.

‘Thundering typhoonsh! That’s impresshive.’ Rumbuggery’s voice was awed. ‘It’sh enough to give a man a shense of inadequacy.’

‘Dong,’ said Deadman, gravely.

‘You are not just whistlin’ “Dixie”,’ said Ann, dreamily.

‘And if the rest of the creature is in scale with this …’