Chapter 4 - The Damage We've Done
Author's Note: Thanks very much for the reviews! Xuanwu, those last 2 chapters have been finished for some time and I've posted them to Gorillaz Adult Live Journal Community. You can find them indexed (along with the rest of my work, much of it far too adult to post to Fanfiction dot net on my LJ at luuuurve dot livejournal dot com.
Burned six
thousand minds, and I'm sorry for all times,
I just
can't add up the sums to find the damage we've done
- "Damage"
by You, Am, I
Murdoc was
thrown in jail...however, when some of the inmates took a shine to
him, Murdoc had to make some new friends. Fast. Murdoc the 'Mexican
Arse-Bandito?' Not a good look.
- Gorillaz
Promo Booklet March 2005
My older
brother Hannibal was a Skin and he took me too see the UK Subs
supporting Sham 69. What he didn't tell me was that he'd taken me so
that him and all of his mates could give me a kicking because I was a
rocker, the bastard. I only got to see Jimmy Percy spitting at a girl
before I was knocked unconscious, so I couldn't give you a review, so
to speak, but I'll never forget that experience or the lesson it
taught me
- From the
Exclaim.ca interview
"I'm looking at a prison term, aren't I?" said Murdoc glumly. He was sitting in his lawyer's fancy office, wearing his usual jeans and grey, long-sleeved t-shirt and showing his usual healthy disrespect for authority by chain smoking. It wasn't as if his lawyer, a tall brunette with a formal haircut and grey business suit, could possibly hate him more than she already did.
She glared at him with the barely veiled dislike and aggression that had started the moment she read the police statement. Murdoc wished he hadn't told the interviewing officer about the fake name he had used, 'Sandy Beach', and how silly it was, but how could he have known that his lawyer's name would be Sandra T. Beach?
"A prison term is likely, Mr Niccals," Beach said coldly.
Murdoc shuddered. "I've been inside before, Ms Beach. Six months for shoplifting. It was bloody awful! The inmates took a shine to my tongue." He shivered. "I stopped taking showers because it wasn't safe. Never really got back into the habit of taking showers again when I got out."
Beach looked disgusted, but not surprised, as if she'd already noticed. "That was a minimum security prison, Mr Niccals," she pointed out. "If you get the harshest possible sentence on this occasion, you're looking at ten years in maximum security prison." Her mouth twisted cruelly. "Ten years fighting off serial killers, gang members and rapists in the showers, Mr Niccals. Minimum security will seem like Happy Fun Play Prison by comparison."
Murdoc paled underneath his olive skin, "I don't deserve that."
Beach tapped a pen on the table. "Mr Tusspot's parents would say you do, Mr Niccals. Their son never regained consciousness and currently resides in a nursing home where he needs round the clock care. Have you read the medical report?"
"I have," said Murdoc. It had made his nightmares much worse. Now the headless body had a medical wristband with Stuart Tusspot written on it and bore the unhealed scars of the numerous operations Stu-Pot had been through.
"So you understand why you'll be getting a severe sentence, then."
Murdoc took a deep breath. "I saved Stu-Pot's life. If I hadn't got that car off him and given him first aid and called the ambulance, he'd be dead. Won't that make a difference to my sentence? Why can't I stay out of prison and look after him? It would make more sense than becoming the British arse bandit, while National Health pays for Stu-Pot's care."
Beach chewed the end of her pen. "The lowest possible sentence you could receive is a long term of community service." She thought for a moment, "Wait here, I have something that could help you." She went into the other room and brought back a tape recorder, which she placed on the table. "Listen to this," she said.
She pressed the play button and Murdoc heard his own voice, but barely recognised it. It was a recording of the emergency phone call he had made at Stu-Pot's side, and it was a somewhat muffled recording but that wasn't the reason he sounded different. Without his usual growling and bullshit, his voice was deep, smooth and beautiful. He heard himself describing Stu-Pot's injuries in calm, medical terms and looked at Beach with curiosity.
"This tape could be the saving of you," said Beach, pressing the stop button. "On this tape, you don't sound like a smelly, alcoholic, satanic bass player with a criminal record as long as my arm."
Murdoc grumbled something, but Beach ignored him. "You sound like a skilled, responsible medical practitioner, who has just made a terrible mistake but can and will make up for it, given half a chance. If you can give the judge and jury that impression you will get the minimum sentence and escape a prison term."
A hopeful look crossed Murdoc's face, but faded. "How the Hell am I going to convince people I'm a skilled, responsible medical practitioner? I'm a Satan-worshipping demon bass player and I look it."
Beach smirked. "The world is a stage, Mr Niccals, and the courtroom even more so." She looked him up and down, rubbing her chin. "You'll need a respectable-looking business suit. The more expensive the better. If you turn up to the courtroom in jeans and a t-shirt, you may as well resign yourself to prison. Do you have a business suit?"
"No, I don't. But I know where I can get one." A gleeful look crossed his face.
"Good," said Beach. She didn't like the look of that gleeful expression but she decided not to comment. "Clean yourself up. You'll need to shower, shave and comb your hair every day of the trial. Hide that inverted cross of yours or better still, don't wear it at all."
"That's religious intolerance, that is," said Murdoc indignantly.
"Wear it then, and discuss comparative religion with the serial killers in the showers."
"OK, OK, I won't wear it. What else?"
"No smart remarks in court. No sneering. Keep your mouth shut and try to look contrite while you're in the dock. Don't slouch. Don't scratch yourself like you're doing now. Yes, I can see you Mr Niccals. Stand up straight in the dock and bow your head as if you're ashamed. There will be journalists at the courthouse. If you have your picture taken, don't mug for attention. Stay calm, and look sad. Remember, you are meant to be a responsible citizen."
"Journalists? There's going to be journalists there?" said Murdoc excitedly, leaning forward in his chair.
"There are journalists covering every trial, Mr Niccals. There's nothing special about you." Beach looked Murdoc up and down. He was looking mutinous. "This is important, Mr Niccals. How you act in the next few weeks will determine how you live the rest of your life. Are you ready to give the performance of your life in the courtroom?"
Murdoc thought about it, and a grin cracked through his angry expression. "Baby, you're talking to The Niccals here. I live to perform!"
Weeks later, Murdoc stood in the dock wearing an uncomfortable, expensive black suit, and awaiting his sentence. The past few weeks of being on his best behaviour had been difficult, and it gave him pleasure to know that his expensive suit was shoplifted, even though no one else knew.
He glanced at his lawyer, who was wearing a white wig and black robes. A pity he hadn't slept with her. He'd tried, of course. During the course of the trial preparation, he'd lolled out his tongue at her until it dangled near his shoulder and asked her out for a drink. She didn't like him, so beer goggles were his best chance. But she had declined the drink offer and every other advance he had made. In his mind, he rolled her name around. Beach became Beeyotch, which became Bitch. Yeah, damn it, only a bitch would refuse sleep with Murdoc Niccals. But she was a cunning bitch, alright, and good at her job. Murdoc had real hopes that he wouldn't end up in prison today.
Remembering where he was, he tried to look contrite and quickly glanced at Stu-Pot's parents. He had avoided looking at them during the trial. They were a sad, middle-aged couple, who for all intents and purposes had lost their son and looking at them made Murdoc feel strange. The father's shirtsleeves hid a few tattoos. He owned a fun fair. They weren't looking back at him, and that was a good thing. He let his eyes roam around the courtroom.
Then Murdoc spotted something strange. His identical twin was sitting in the gallery. Murdoc looked closer. No, not his identical twin. The man in the gallery was older. He had a mop of thick, black hair and olive skin. His nose was long and thin, and both his eyes were black, but apart from that, he was Murdoc's double in every way. He was sitting arm in arm with a woman who had Murdoc's nose and red eyes. The couple stared at Murdoc with a strange intensity. A single tear trickled down the woman's cheek.
Murdoc did not know them but they were a puzzle. He only dragged his eyes away when the judge started to deliver his sentence.
Looking down her nose at Murdoc, the judge said, "Considering your nursing training and the fact that you saved Stuart Tusspot's life after the incident, considering also that Stuart Tusspot is in a comatose state and needs round the clock care, I believe a custodial sentence would be a waste of your medical skills and add extra expense to this unfortunate affair. You are therefore sentenced to thirty thousand hours of community service, at least ten hours a week of which must be spent taking care of Stuart Tusspot..."
The judge's gavel came down and Murdoc successfully fought the urge to cheer and punch the air.
Afterwards, Murdoc followed Beach to her chambers. He wanted to thank her, and possibly steal a kiss and a bit of a grope at the same time. But the look she gave him wasn't welcoming. "What are you looking so happy for, Mr Niccals?"
"I'm not going to prison. I got the lightest sentence and it's all down to you. Fancy coming for a drink to celebrate?" He lolled his tongue out to his shoulder and wriggled it.
Beach looked amused. "It's the lightest sentence you could have gotten given the charges, Mr Niccals. But it's hardly lenient. Add up the sums before you start thinking you've gotten off easily. You'll be doing community service for years."
"Uh," said Murdoc, whose math skills extended to adding up darts scores and no further. "I got kicked out of school at eleven. Never went back. Can you give me a clue? How many years of community service does thirty thousand hours add up to?"
Beach sighed, "Fifty-seven years."
Murdoc's mouth dropped open, and a faint hiss of air came out that soon resolved into a word, "Ffffffffffffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!" As soon as he was capable of speech again he said, "You're bullshitting me." Beach shook her head solemnly and Murdoc took a deep breath, "How'd you figure that?"
"Do the sums, Mr Niccals. Oh, don't look at me like that, I'll do them for you. You must look after Stuart Tusspot for ten hours a week. That's the only set part of your community service and it means five hundred and twenty hours a year. But you've got thirty thousand hours of community service to do. At five hundred and twenty hours a year, that's over fifty-seven years of community service if you only perform the minimum ten hours per week. You're as good as married to Stuart Tusspot now. With no possibility of divorce or parole in your lifetime."
Suddenly the true horror of the sentence began to dawn on Murdoc. "In fifty-seven years, I'll be a hunched-over, white-haired bastard, in the same nursing home as Stu-Pot. And I'll still have to wipe his arse!"
"Only if you're still alive by then," said Beach, who had suddenly cheered up. Now Murdoc was certain she'd never sleep with him. She turned to walk away, but Murdoc grabbed her sleeve.
"Wait, wait! Let's say I looked after Stu-Pot full time. 24/7. How many years would it take to reach thirty thousand hours then?"
"Just under three and a half years," said Beach.
"Three and a half years! That's more like it! Full time it is. Have a word with the legal services, will you?"
"But how are you going to look after Mr Tusspot full time?" asked Beach, frowning at Murdoc.
"He can come and live in my Winnebago," said Murdoc.
Looking incredulous, Beach said, "The doctor at the nursing home won't allow that. You don't have the facilities to look after a comatose person."
"I can see you're not familiar with Winnebagos. They're a palace on wheels. They've got a kitchen, a bathroom, a living room, a bedroom." A leer spread over Murdoc's face. "You should come and see my bedroom sometime. Just for Stu-Pot's sake of course. Trust me, it's plenty...big...enough."
"No, thank you," said Beach in an icy voice.
"It was worth a try," said Murdoc. "Well, can I look after Stu-Pot full time?"
"I'll make some enquiries and get back to you. Oh yes, there was another thing." Beach reached into the papers she was carrying and handed Murdoc a small slip of paper. "Your parents called at my office this morning looking for you. They said they saw an article about the trial and your picture in the paper. Did you see them at the sentencing? Your father is the spitting image of you. When he walked in, I called him Murdoc by mistake."
Murdoc said nothing, but his mismatched eyes narrowed.
"I get the impression they've been looking for you for a while," Beach went on. "Did you run away from home? They had a lot they wanted me to tell you. They're living in London, now, and they seem like a nice couple. Your Dad is a funeral director. Your Mum is a housewife. They want you to come and see them and your new sisters and brothers. Here's their number and address."
Murdoc took at the piece of paper with confusion and suspicion. "What are you talking about? This is impossible. My parents are dead. That's what my foster parents told me."
Now it was Beach's turn to look confused. "You were adopted?
"When I was only a few days old. So tell me about my parents. Are they married?"
Beach nodded.
"Married with kids. Sweet Satan!" said Murdoc. His face grew pale, with a look of anguish that nearly took Beach's breath away. Murdoc sank to the floor as his legs gave way and he crouched there, hugging and rocking himself.
"They gave me away. I thought they were dead. But they've been alive all this time. They've been married all this time and they've got kids, but they gave me away."
For once, Beach looked concerned and bent down towards the miserable figure on the floor, "Mr Niccals?"
"You want to know what my foster family were like?" Murdoc tore open the sleeve of his suit, not caring that he was destroying it. Its purpose had been served. On his forearm was a tattoo of what looked like a red squid. But the eyes of the squid were in a strange position and Beach peered at it and said, "Is that the head of Cthulhu?"
"That's right. You've read your Lovecraft. Look at what Cthulhu is covering up."
There was a massive scar under the Cthulhu tattoo. "You see it?" said Murdoc. "My brother Hannibal's steel-capped boots did this. This is what you got in my house when you liked rock music better than punk."
Clamping her hand over her mouth, Beach said, "Your foster brother did that?"
"He was a neo-Nazi punk. I've got more scars I could show you. Some from my brother, others from his mates. They used to beat me up regularly. I was a rocker and they thought I was gay as well. But I'm not gay. I'm not."
"Didn't your foster parents stop him?"
"They were dead drunk most of the time. Do you know anything about Cthulhu, Ms Beach?"
"Isn't that the giant monster that is supposed to rise from the sea, torture all humanity into insanity and then eat them?"
"That's right and it couldn't happen to a nicer guy than my brother. That's why I put a Cthulhu tattoo over the scar." Beach had never seen Murdoc look more demonic.
Feeling shaken, Beach said, "I'm sure your biological parents never intended this to happen."
"I bet they got married, had me, took one look at my eyes, devil eyes, demon child, and threw me in the garbage so they could try for some normal children." Murdoc ripped up the piece of paper with his parent's address. "I don't want to talk to them. I don't want to hear their excuses. What excuse could they possibly have to have given me away, when they didn't give away any of their later kids?"
Beach remembered the sad faces of Murdoc's parents and felt a compulsion to protect them. "You don't know what happened. Why don't you listen to their side of the story?"
"No, I won't. There's nothing that can say that will make up for what they've done. If they come sniffing around again, tell them to fuck off. They've done enough damage." Murdoc stormed out of the chambers and Beach heard the door slam with enough strength to nearly knock it off its hinges.
Watching him go, Beach wondered if she should go after him. But, as she bent down to pick up the torn shreds of paper, she thought better of it. She was really better off being shot of the entire, disastrous Niccals family.
Further Author Comments: Murdoc's father died in 1994, but I couldn't find a picture of Murdoc's Mum so I thought I'd better include his Dad.
Thanks, optical nerve, for the Beach - Beeyotch - Bitch suggestion!
It only struck me recently what that red squid tattoo on Murdoc's arm might be. I'm annoyed I didn't think of it sooner. Murdoc doesn't seem to be the type to commemorate seafood. But Cthulhu, (pronounced 'Cuth-hool-loo) the monstrous high priest of the Great Old Ones sounds right up Murdoc's alley. His original Winnebago had a bookshelf full of vintage horror novels.
In the next chapter, we get to see the comatose Stu-Pot for the first time and we find out not all zombies are dead.
