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 …’
Deadman tapped the drawing. ‘… then it must be bigger than anything that’s ever been seen before.’
At that moment there was a knocking at the door. A high-pitched, effeminate voice called out, ‘Oh, Mr Deadman, duckie, are you there?’
Deadman
