Limbo 56 - Mike Morris (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT) 📗

you eat cheese and onion sandwiches.”

“I’m showing everyone that I’m honest, that I’m not taking more than my fair share,” Arthur answered. “At least, not much more,” he protested.

“What does that have to do with running the place?” Max asked, genuinely puzzled. “You’re an idiot. Worse than that, you’re a poor idiot. Do you really think you’re popular?”

Arthur shook his head. “I got more respect when I was making them work seven days a week,” he said. “What can I do?”

“First, you can authorize a new prison. Any large building in a good area will do. I’ll make my own renovations. Then you can send me out to the poor suffering masses of this miserable place, so that I can make amends for my previous sins. I shall need a car to get about in, naturally, and a chauffeur. Then I’ll tell your subjects how happy they are and how lucky they are to have a generous Governor such as yourself I’ll make you popular.”

“You can’t just tell people that they’re happy.”

“Why not,” Max said. “Who were you talking to when I phoned you this morning? Can you get him in here?”

Later, when the little shop steward stood in front of them, grinning impudently, Max looked at him and said, “Please sit down, I’ve ordered beer and sandwiches.” He cleared his throat. “I’m acting as special negotiator for the Governor, who takes your complaints very seriously. Now, please reiterate what you told the Governor earlier.” He looked at the little man, who was staring at him perplexedly. “Please give us your complaints.”

“I know you,” the shop steward said. “You used to be the Governor before ‘im.” He jerked his thumb in Arthur’s direction. “You was a proper Governor. You always ‘ad nice clothes.”

“What a wonderful memory you have,” Max gushed. “Ah, here are our sandwiches. Now Mr. er…”

“Smith, Alf Smith.” He began to ramble about nurses and safety fences, and Arthur was amazed at the way Max handled the situation. Within five minutes, Max had summarized a list of complaints, congratulated the little shop steward on his presentation, and wrapped up the interview.

“Your fellow workers are lucky to have such an able spokesman as yourself. You can rest assured that I – we, shall give thorough and serious attention to every one of them,” he said as he ushered the smiling man out of the door. “That’ll shut him up for a while,” he said when the office door was safely closed.

“What have you done,” Arthur said, “you promised him everything.”

“I promised to give serious consideration to everything he said.” Max answered. “I didn’t promise to do anything about it. Did you see how happy he is?”

Arthur rubbed his eyes. “What are you going to do now,” he asked.

“Well, you promised me a new home,” Max answered. “I think I’ll look around for a suitable place today, and tomorrow, we’ll start telling your citizens what a fine fellow you are.” He finished the beer. “You should try some fine wine instead of this stuff.” He looked at Arthur speculatively. “Maybe not. Your type would look out of place sipping on a little fluted glass. You’d probably break the stem.” He saw Arthur’s look. “A good labour leader is a man of the people, a man who knows how to get his hands dirty, and a man who is in touch with his workers, their desires and aspirations. That’s you to a T. I’ll make you the greatest Governor this little Limbo ever saw.”

He was still talking in this vein when Arthur ushered him out. The Governor sat for a moment, wondering at how quickly events had gotten away from him. Max was now loose in the general community, although officially still a prisoner. Arthur’s mind circled round a couple of scenarios, making him feel somewhat dizzy. He sighed and left to inspect his foundry.

Two of Arthur’s teams went missing the next day. Since they were the two teams causing the most trouble, he didn’t mind too much. He noticed them on his rounds after work. He generally strolled around a few areas, taking a certain satisfaction from the fact that luxury items were beginning to show up in the streets. Solid citizens in stylish raincoats strode through the drizzle, hardly noticing the thin man in dirty work clothes. His missing workers were busy painting the wall of a building that faced the foundry. An ugly giant, square-jawed and stern, gazed upon the rows of terrace houses. In his hand, a giant spanner pointed accusingly at the length of Main Street. Arthur supposed that the figure was supposed to represent him. “That’ll make them love me,” he muttered sarcastically.

A small figure scuttled down from the ladder. He was wearing a large tin badge that read ‘Official Portrait Artist.’ “How do you like it, sir,” the shop steward asked. “I was an artist, before I came here,” he said. “Sort of.” He glanced anxiously at the Governor. “I hope you didn’t mind what I said yesterday,” he mumbled. “I get carried away sometimes. I hope you won’t hold my hasty ways against me.” He shuffled in front of Arthur like a nervous schoolboy. “This is the job for me, Governor. You can rely on me. I’ll make sure that the citizens show you the proper respect.” He kept gazing between the Governor and the giant painting as if he expected the giant on the wall to come to life and step on him.

“Carry on Alf,” Arthur said dazedly. A few streets down he came upon the second crew. Obviously, Limbo56 carried no aspiring sculptors, for the massive stone figure, a fat man sitting on a bored-looking horse, looked nothing like him. This had not stopped the crew from hauling it on to a large stone plinth with a brass plate, emblazoned ‘Our Governor’. The workers informed him deferentially that they had traded the statue for ‘a few lumps of gold. “Who is it,” Arthur demanded. “I know it’s supposed to be me, but who was it before you stole – traded it.” He looked at the fat man on the horse. “Bismarck.” He shook his head. “No don’t try to chisel a few inches of its stomach. Just leave it.”

As the days went by, Arthur began to notice his name on every street corner, almost literally, since several thoroughfares became, confusingly, ‘Arthur Boulevard’, ‘Arthur Street’, ‘Governor Arthur Mossop Square.’ Occasionally ‘Max Brown Lane’ added a little variety. The Governor’s name appeared on several buildings, and scrip began to circulate stamped with a smeary picture of the iron-jawed Governor. Arthur still lived in his modest rooms, but many of the better buildings, occupied by Max and his cronies had his name prominently displayed on their facades.

Confined to his luxury cell, Bobby the Criminal began to get restless. “’Ow come that bastard gets to strut around,” he growled one day. “I’m the one who’s bringing the money in. What do I get out of it?” Arthur pointed mutely to the luxury furnishings, the indoor bowling alley, and the private bar. Bobby had already taken over half of the prison, and had extensively remodeled his little world. “I wanna be free,” Bobby shouted, “Just like ‘im”. Arthur protested in vain that Max was still under restraint, and was not able to go anywhere, a statement patently true, giving the circumstances in Limbo. Bobby continued to complain loudly, but the Governor held firm. Max, with his giant statues and flamboyant lifestyle was becoming as much of a problem as the disgruntled workers had been. The few visiting Angels, however, kept their heads bowed in humble contemplation of the cracked roads and never seemed to notice the changes going on in the little Limbo.

Then, one morning, Bobby the Criminal was gone. Some expensive suits and a quantity of industrial diamonds went with him, but his furniture, his cars and his personal valet left testimony to his complete disappearance. “He has to be in the city somewhere,” Arthur said worriedly to Max. They formed search parties, and Arthur and his workers fanned out across town, searching every house. Wherever he had gone to ground, Bobby Boy had covered his tracks well.

Then, a few weeks later, they began to hear rumours of a mysterious criminal, apparently immune from harm, who was terrorizing parts of the outside world. For a while, Bobby Boy boosted the number of new recruits arriving at Limbo56. He obviously planned on taking out his opposition. Even ‘Arry the ‘ammer turned up, bewildered, on the wrong side of the Emporium before vanishing with a wail into the ground. Arthur went out looking for Bobby a couple of times and came back with a neat bullet hole in the head and an untidy slash wound that nevertheless did not disturb the old rusty knife, still lodged between his ribs from the fifty-year old bar fight that had landed him in Limbo56. It was obvious that eventually, even the Angels, contemplating their navels and thinking pure thoughts would stumble upon the situation and consign Arthur and all his subjects to the fires of Hell.

Then the mayhem in the outside world stopped. The steady stream of recruits dropped off and nothing more was heard from Bobby Boy. “This just makes matters worse,” Arthur told Max. “He’s obviously moved to another town. Eventually someone will catch him and trace him back to us, and we’ll all be in trouble. Now, I can’t even go after him.”

“Enjoy yourself while you can,” Max said philosophically. “I’m scheduled for Hell in a couple of years anyway.”

Arthur ventured out into the real world again, but there was no sign of Bobby. The real world had swallowed him up, and until he gave it enough grief to vomit him out again it seemed that he was untraceable. His influence remained, however.


Chapter 10 – Perils of Pauline
Arthur walked into his pub and sat at his table in the dark corner. He wondered how much time was left to them all. Strangely, he felt a touch of remorse over the expected fate of his subjects. He had attempted to make their lives a little easier, and they were all going to pay the price as soon as the Angels stumbled upon Bobby. He drank his Limbo beer gloomily. He had ordered vinegar beer in an act of contrition, and, after the real stuff, it tasted terrible.

“That looks so cool and tasty. Aren’t you going to offer a lady a drink?” He had not seen her approach, and, amazingly, neither had anyone in the pub. In a place where women were defined by seven of the ugliest barmaids in England, she was stunningly beautiful, in a dark kind of way, encased in a green dress that might have been painted on, with hair like black silk and ruby lips. She crossed her legs, and he spilt some beer on his overall. “Bobby sent for me,” she said, “and I came here, and now he’s gone, so I suppose, Governor, that I’m your problem now.”

“Problem,” he croaked. “You’re no problem. Beer,” he babbled, “no, would you like wine, liquor, anything. We have the real stuff here.”

“Bring a bottle of whisky,” she told him. “Then we can talk.”

Dazedly he carried a bottle to the table, and then had to go back for a couple of glasses. She poured a huge drink and tossed it off. “So cool, so smooth,” she said dreamily. “That bastard Bobby,” she murmured in the same tone. “I’m going to tear him to pieces and eat him when