Chapter 7 - Life's Refugee

I was raised at The Red Cross Institute for Battered Children and consider myself one of Life's refugees
- Franko B. from "The Customised Body" by Housk Randall

I reached puberty when I was eight and I lost my virginity to a dinner lady at nine and I've been in a bad mood ever since
- Murdoc from Dazed and Confused

Listen, no one looks up to a man whose down. I know it's cool to be depressed and all that but please don't share it with the rest of the class. Bottle it up. There's no point walking around with a face like a smacked arse. Laugh and the whole world laughs with you, cry and you're on your own, you miserable little bugger
- Murdoc from Gorillaz Top Ten Tips For The Summer Article by NME

The nice thing about being a celebrity now is that if you bore the crap out of people, well you just think it's their fault
- Murdoc from We Are The Dury

The mother, sitting on a sofa, and peacefully breast feeding her baby in the mother's room at Nottingham Mall, heard the demon approaching before she saw him. She heard heavy footsteps, and a growling voice outside, and then the door of the mother's room was kicked open by a Cuban heeled boot.

The demon stood in the doorway, a slim monster, with mismatched eyes, sharp, green teeth, and a mop of thick black hair. He was carrying a young, blue-haired man, whose long limbs were clad in jeans, a red and blue long sleeved t-shirt and blue Converse sneakers with the laces undone. A cigarette stuck to the blue-haired man's lower lip, his eyes were closed and his limbs dangled and swung as the demon carried him in his arms.

The mother hugged her baby to her chest and sat back in her chair as the demon passed her by. He glanced at her. "Hi there," he rasped casually, his voice just as gritty as his appearance. She caught a whiff of cigarettes and butterscotch.

The mother could only nod in reply. She watched in astonishment as the demon opened the nappy change table and laid the blue-haired man down with practised ease. The table bent slightly with the strain of holding a six foot man instead of a baby, but it did not break. The blue-haired man did not even stir as he was laid down. There was a smile on his face, the mother noted, as if he were in the middle of a happy dream. He really was gorgeous, with his pointed chin and turned up nose, but there was a strange stillness about him. He remained motionless even as the demon popped the fly button on his jeans and pulled down the zipper.

The mother couldn't remain silent longer. "Ah, excuse me. This is the mother's room," she said.

"I know," said the demon. He was pulling the blue-haired man's jeans down without the slightest bit of embarrassment or concern, as if he did it many times a day. The mother could see a white, fraying, trimmed down disposable nappy underneath the blue-haired man's jeans.

The demon tore the nappy open and the mother averted her eyes. The blue-haired man was anything but a baby underneath that nappy. Her jaw dropped open. "What the…?"

"He needs to be changed," said the demon.

"Can't he just go to the toilet like everyone else?" said the mother, greatly scandalised.

"Oh, I wish." The demon turned and gave her a wry look. "Stu-Pot here is comatose," he said. He rolled up and tossed the nappy into the bin with a casual flick, and he reached into his bag and pulled out a box of baby wipes and started using them.

"He's in a coma? Shouldn't he be in hospital?" said the mother.

"He's in a nursing home usually, but not for much longer. I'm going to take him on a holiday around Britain if I get full time custody. It'll be fun for him," said the demon. He pulled a fresh nappy out of his bag and he slipped it under Stu-Pot's hips.

The mother looked at Stu-Pot's still face. "How can you tell if he's having fun?"

"You can tell if you spend enough time with him," said the demon. He reached into his bag again and this time brought out a large knife. The mother gasped, but the demon merely used the knife to cut away the excess nappy before he pulled up and refastened Stu-Pot's jeans. He tossed the knife back into his bag and gave the mother a cheeky grin, and poked out his abnormally long tongue.

The mother's shoulders, which had tensed up when the demon first entered, started to loosen up. She was a bit put off by the tongue, but no longer by the other things she had seen. She rocked her baby and said, "You're a good friend to him."

"I've heard that before," said the demon. Having finished changing Stu-Pot, the demon hoisted him back into arms, picked up his bag and headed for the door.

"He must have been your best friend in the world before he got sick," she said, her voice full of sympathy.

The demon gave a wicked chuckle, "No, honey. I'm just the guy who ran over him."

The door closed behind the demon with a thud and the mother made a face as if she had sucked on a lemon.


"He's your best friend, isn't he?" said Dr Whinge.

Murdoc paused. He had been rearranging Stu-Pot's closet, now full of fashionable clothes, and chatting away to the silent body lying on the bed about their travel plans. Stu-Pot's eyes were closed but there was a smile on his face, as he often had now when Murdoc was speaking. "No, he's not my best friend, doc. I'm Murdoc Niccals. I can do better than befriending a bloody vegetable," said Murdoc indignantly.

Dr Whinge only smiled.

"Yes, I can do better!" said Murdoc, annoyed. "Just because I look after him doesn't mean he's my best mate or anything. You sound like that woman in the shopping mall today." He mimicked a sympathetic, female voice, "He must have been your best friend in the world!" Murdoc went back to his own raspy voice, "Or that vicar in the car park last week." Murdoc mimicked a doddery old man, "Such friendship I have never seen! God will smile on you young man!" His voice became his own again, "I get this several times a day when ever we go out. So many people telling me what a lovely guy I am. It's sickening!"

Dr Whinge laughed.

"You're all sentimental, that's what you all are. Or maybe just mental," Murdoc waved a sock at Dr Whinge in what he hoped was a threatening manner. The fact that it was one of Stu-Pot's Mum's choices and was pink with bunny rabbits ruined the edge somewhat.

"So you're saying that you don't think you're capable of looking after Stu-Pot full time, am I hearing this correctly, Mr Niccals? " said Dr Whinge slyly.

"I..." Murdoc began and stopped himself. "Very funny, doc. Of course I can take care of Stu-Pot full time. I just," He took a deep breath, "I just don't like it when people are mushy about it."

"Fine," said Dr Whinge, his tone business-like. "Because I'm going to give you custody."

Murdoc punched a victorious fist at the ceiling and whooped.

"With conditions," said Dr Whinge firmly.

Murdoc looked at him and lowered his arm, "What conditions?" he said.

"You need to keep in contact. I want to see Mr Tusspot every few days to check on him," said the doctor.

"Ah, but doc, that's not fair! It means we can't go far," said Murdoc, his voice a disappointed wail.

The doctor rubbed his mouth, thinking. "Very well, if you can't show me Mr Tusspot in person, show me his photograph. Send me a photo of him every few days, so I can see that you're treating him well."

Murdoc looked mutinous for a moment, then laughed. "That sounds like the trick with the garden gnomes," he said.

"What trick with the garden gnomes?" asked the doctor.

"You steal a garden gnome from someone's garden when you're about to go on holiday and you take it with you. Then you send letters from the garden gnome back to his owner, and photos of the gnome on landmarks like he's a tourist or something," said Murdoc.

"I've heard of that," said Dr Whinge. "I've often wondered how people manage. Garden gnomes are big, heavy things. I've got one called Bertie and..." The leer that spread over Murdoc's face told the doctor he had just made a tactical error. "No, Murdoc. Don't steal my garden gnome."

Murdoc looked innocent. As innocent as a demon bass player with green, sharp teeth and mismatched eyes can look. "I'd never steal your garden gnome, doc. But they're funny things, those garden gnomes. They've got minds of their own..."


Dr Whinge's garden gnome went missing that evening. Dr Whinge was taking a constitutional in his garden, half hoping to catch Murdoc in the act, and noticed that Murdoc had been too quick for him. Bertie had gone. Only a clear patch of earth showed where he had once stood. "Well, he'd better take good care of him," Dr Whinge grumbled to himself.

The first photograph arrived two days later. It was a picture of Bertie, now sporting Murdoc's inverted gold cross around his neck. Murdoc was in the picture too, propping up a limp but smiling Stu-Pot who looked perfectly healthy. One of Murdoc's arms was outside the photograph. He had taken the photo at arm's length. A blonde woman with chin length hair also beamed at the camera. She had one arm around Stu-Pot and they were all sitting in a pub, which Dr Whinge recognised as one he'd visited in Nottingham.

Dear Dr Whinge, said the letter that came with the photograph. Bertie is a stupid name. My name is now Bertram of the Worms and I am joining the Church of Satan just as soon as I am eighteen. Today we stopped at a pub in Nottingham called The Cock and that blonde woman, Cheryl, in the photo came up to us. She sat with us for a while then she introduced us to her friends who were all adult baby fetishists. They thought Murdoc was like them 'cos Cheryl saw Murdoc getting kicked out of the Lord Nelson for changing Stu-Pot in the toilets. Those baby lovers were sick bastards and Murdoc had a good laugh at them but when they wanted to put a nappy on him we all got out of there fast. Here is a photo of me wearing a nappy. I'm going to be an adult baby fetishist because I am one sick (and heavy) bit of painted concrete.

Hail Satan!

Bertram of the Worms

Dr Whinge looked at the second photo in the envelope and laughed.


Bertram of the Worm's letters and photographs came thick and fast over the next few weeks. Despite himself, Dr Whinge found himself looking forward to the mail.

It was difficult to know what to expect. One day, a handful of sand dropped out of the envelope. The trio had spent a few days on a Cornish beach and had a photo of the local ladies burying Murdoc, Stu-Pot and Bertram up to their necks in sand to prove it. Bertram complained that the Winnebago was now full of sand, trodden into the carpet and lurking in the bed. Another day, and the trio were being pushed down the narrow cobblestone streets of Plymouth in a shopping trolley. A few days later, they were perched on the ruins of King Arthur's castle at Tintagel. Stu-Pot's hair was a lighter blue than the deep blue sea behind.

When photos of Dartmoor arrived, Murdoc had pasted his face over the faces of the sheep in the photo and Bertram noted, They have sheep here. Murdoc is having a ball! Then photographs from Scotland started showing up, with Stu-Pot and Bertram propped up against a cairn at the top of a Scottish mountain, and fog as the only view. Another sequence showed Murdoc going for a swim at a Scottish beach, posing for the camera in a tiger striped thong swimming costume, running down to the water, and leaping out right away with frozen bollocks.

And always, there were photos of the trio grinning as they sat in pubs, with girls in their laps, sitting beside them, or on one occasion, pretending to breast feed Bertram of the Worms.


Dr Whinge suspected that he was only hearing a few of the stories Murdoc could have told about his holiday and he was right. Murdoc had found that travelling without someone else to watch over Stu-Pot could sometimes be a problem.

Murdoc was standing at the bar of a pub in Brighton when he heard a woman's piercing scream behind him. "He's dead! He's dead!"

Murdoc turned around and a cold chill went through his body as he saw the woman standing over Stu-Pot, with both her hands to her mouth, screaming in terror. Stu-Pot had fallen off his chair and was face down on the floor. Fear gripped Murdoc, a fear so intense he didn't even realise he had dropped his drink as he pushed his way through the muttering crowd to Stu-Pot's side. He rolled Stu-Pot into the recovery position - he still felt warm - and picked up his hand to feel his wrist pulse. It was slow but strong and so was his breathing. The overwhelming panic turned to anger.

"Why did you have to scare me like that?" Murdoc snapped at the woman. "He's not dead."

"He won't wake up," the woman blubbered.

"He's comatose. He's a perfectly healthy comatose man and you're an idiot," said Murdoc.

They both got thrown out of that pub but Murdoc didn't care. A quiet night in with Stu-Pot was just what he needed after a scare like that.

Quiet nights in with Stu-Pot were a strange affair but were becoming increasingly common as Murdoc found that he couldn't live without them. He'd buy a few bottles of red wine, drive the Winnebago to a secluded location, and proceed to get drunk and maudlin with Stu-Pot by his side. Deep into the second bottle, he would start telling Stu-Pot about his past. How he'd been adopted out as a baby to alcoholic foster parents who had neglected him and had an older son, Hannibal, who took it upon himself to beat Murdoc to a pulp whenever he had the chance. How he'd been the only child in his class to reach puberty at the age of eight, and how he'd felt like a dirty freak, with hair growing all over his body, bits of him that moved on their own, and strange urges when the rest of the class were still prepubescent children. How he'd lost his virginity at nine to one of the dinner ladies, who had molested him for at least a year before that, and how he'd been in a bad mood ever since. How, once he'd reached puberty, his older brother, who had become a skin head, had decided that Murdoc had homosexual tendencies that needed to be beaten out of him, as often as possible.

He blamed it all on his biological parents. Even now, he couldn't believe they had dumped him as a baby, though they had kept their other children. What possible excuse could they have had? What a foul little devil spawn baby he must have been.

It was a litany of woe that Murdoc had never told another living soul. What would have been the point? The truth made him vulnerable. Satan only knew how the nasty bad boy crew would have blackmailed him had they known about the gay beatings inflicted by Hannibal. They wouldn't have sympathised, they'd have probably have joined in. And Murdoc was concerned about boring people. He'd always tried to be the bad boy, the entertaining guy, staying in the sparkling shallows of life and never getting in deeper than adding up a darts score. Do not tell your troubles to others unless you are sure they want to hear them. That was the second Satanic Rule of the Earth. Murdoc stuck to that rule religiously and had never told anyone his troubles until Stu-Pot came along.

After he had poured out all his troubles to Stu-Pot it was time to go to bed. It was a drunkenly domestic procedure. He would stagger about the Winnebago, and put pyjamas on himself and Stu-Pot, brush their teeth and put the two of them into his double bed. He'd fall asleep immediately and wake in the morning, with Stu-Pot's warm body in his arms and a headache that threatened to burst his head apart.

Murdoc slept with Stu-Pot every night. After all, he rationalised, he couldn't be sure if Stu-Pot was warm enough any other way. He was hardly about to wake up and announce that he needed another blanket. If Murdoc had managed to lure a woman to his Winnebago, he would kick her out when he finished with her or she would leave herself the moment she started sobering up. She would go out the door, and he would slide Stu-Pot into his bed, before the sheets had a chance to go cold. He never had sex with him. Stu-Pot was a man. Hannibal was wrong about Murdoc being gay, Murdoc would insist when deep into the third bottle of red wine. The memories of being kicked by Hannibal's steel capped boots arose whenever he thought about sex with men.

Besides, sex with Stu-Pot would have been a bit like porking a blow up doll, with the added problem of being arrested if he were caught doing it. Murdoc already owned a wide and varied selection of blow up dolls, from the sturdy 'Love You Long Time' model to the 'Lolita' version whose tits got hot if Murdoc remembered to put in the batteries. Stu-Pot was much better as a listening partner than a sex partner. Though more than once, as Murdoc lay by Stu-Pot's side in the bed, listening to his breathing, having failed to pull a woman that night, he wondered what it would be like to make love with Stu-Pot. But Stu-Pot would have to wake from his coma first and Murdoc was beginning to find himself hoping that that would never happen. Who would he talk to?


One evening, while stacking his dishwasher, Dr Whinge heard a wicked, familiar chuckle outside in his garden. He put down the dish he was holding right away and ran for the garden, but he was too late to catch Murdoc. Even as he opened the door, he heard the sound of the Winnebago driving away.

Bertie, or rather, Bertram of the Worms, was back in his old position, now sporting black robes, an adult nappy and a set of red, plastic devil horns. The doctor wasn't sure whether to get angry or laugh. He settled on the latter. "Damn you, Murdoc," he chuckled.

Dr Whinge heard a gasp from the garden next door. His neighbour had stuck her head over the wall between their gardens and had caught sight of the prodigal garden gnome. "Dr Whinge," she cried. "What's happened to Bertie? "

Dr Whinge, stood by his Satan worshipping, adult baby fetishist garden gnome and gave a little shrug. "Bertram of the Worms has been keeping bad company," he said. "But he had a really good holiday. I've seen the photos."