Mr Landen Has No Brain. Stephen Walker
to come along?’
No reply.
‘I’ll buy you an ice cream,’ she said.
Still no reply.
Teena sighed. She stood on the front steps of her mobile home, one hand holding the door open, the other holding a camouflage jacket. Gazing in at the locked closet, she called, ‘When I get back I expect to find you out of that closet, the rabbit wearing the hat and your attitude much improved. Remember, no one’s irreplaceable, not even you.’
No reply.
‘Mr Landen?’ She frowned. ‘Are you all right in there?’
No reply.
Resigned to getting no sense from him, she put on the camouflage jacket, closed the front door and left.
Incapable of doing this job? Useless? I’ll show you, Mr Aloysius Bracewell, with your man-eating cooks, low-life whores and stitched up awards.
And you TV types with your smug grins, cameras and free cups of tea; When Jobs Go Good, let’s see you do that one.
Sally slapped her paste-smothered brush up and down her living room wall with enough force to strip paint, all the while imagining it was her uncle’s stupid face she was slapping. She dunked her brush in the bucket between her feet, stirred it round to collect a great thick dollop and slapped more paste on the wall.
The front door creaked open behind her. She ignored it. Unseen feet scuffed, not bothering to wipe on the Welcome mat. The door creaked shut and tea-leaf cigarette smoke announced Cthulha Gochllagochgoch’s arrival before her footsteps had even entered the living room. The footsteps half crossed the room then stopped as though their owner was stood looking around. The settee went flumpf and Cthulha said, ‘So, what you up to?’
Sally pasted on, no intention of looking at her. ‘We’re redecorating.’
‘We?’
‘Me and Mr Bushy.’ Mr Bushy was Sally’s pet squirrel. She’d left him on her TV set with a paint brush for company.
Cthulha said, ‘Sal.’
‘What?’
‘He’s eating his paint brush. Interior designers don’t eat their brushes – not even the ones in Changing Rooms.’
‘So long as he’s happy.’ She grabbed a foam rubber square by her feet and stuck it to the wall, alongside the foam she’d already hung. She pressed it in place then prepared for more pasting.
Cthulha said, ‘I take it this foaming’s for the safety award?’
‘It’s called the Dullness Award. The council felt the word “Safety” might remind people of danger.’
‘Whatever it’s called you’ve no chance.’
Sally pasted on. ‘Within days this’ll be the safest caravan park on Earth.’
‘Sal? How long have you been working here?’
‘A week.’
‘And in a whole week you’ve not noticed anything suicidal about the people who stay here?’
‘Of course I have. I’m not blind.’
‘I am,’ Chulha said.
‘What’re you on about?’ said Sally.
‘I’m of the sightless.’
‘Cthulha.’ Sally pasted on, still not looking at her. ‘You’re not blind.’
‘Shows how much you know.’
‘I know you’re not blind.’
‘Twenty minutes ago, where was I?’
‘No idea.’
‘Outside Davey Farrel’s.’
‘You’re always outside Davey Farrel’s.’
‘So?’
‘Do you fancy him?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
Sally asked, ‘Why’s it ridiculous?’
‘He’s my brother. Dr Steinbeck says all the other stuff’s okay but close relatives are out of bounds.’
‘Cthulha, Davey Farrel’s not your brother.’
‘Course he is. I used to shove him off his bike, as a kid, and ride off with it.’
‘Maybe you did but he’s not your brother. He’s my cousin. He’s no relation to you.’
‘Then why was I shoving him off his bike?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘God, this town. You can’t keep track of who’s related to who in it.’
‘I’d have thought you’d be able to keep track of who’s related to you.’
‘Sally, you must bear in mind that, due to a former hobby of mine, certain aspects of my past are a little vague to me.’
‘Not to mention the flashbacks.’
‘I don’t get flashbacks.’
‘What? Apart from you dropping everything to shout, “Aargh! Lobsters! Lobsters!”’
‘I don’t do that,’ she chuckled. Then, after a lengthy pause; ‘Do I?’
‘Only three times a day.’
‘Jesus.’ Cthulha thought about this. ‘Lobsters lobsters; I wonder what that means.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
Sally said, ‘Tell me about Davey Farrel’s.’
‘I was outside his shop. And what was the wind doing?’
Like Sally cared.
‘It was slapping me from all sides,’ Cthulha said, ‘like I’d done something wrong.’
‘You probably had.’
‘So then what happens?’ Cthulha asked.
‘I don’t know. I wasn’t there.’
‘My hat blows off.’
‘You think it was a punishment from God?’
‘Listen,’ Cthulha said.
‘What?’
‘This is where it gets good.’
‘Cthulha, your anecdotes never get good. They just stagger round till they fall into a ditch.’
Cthulha said, ‘This bloke takes one look at my dark glasses, and my hat on the pavement, thinks I’m a blind beggar and chucks fifty pence in the hat. Can you believe that? From now on, when we’re out in public together, I’m blind.’
‘How dignified.’
‘Every penny helps.’
Sally dipped her brush. ‘Anyway, suicides don’t count.’
‘Who says?’
‘Uncle Al faxed me the rules. They say. Caravan park managers will not be held responsible for suicides. Suicides are committed at guests’ own peril, unless death was initiated at the manager’s request. – like if I say, “Go kill yourself.”’
‘But you’re always saying that to me.’
‘Not for the next few days. Anyway you’re not a guest, you’re an intruder.