Mr Landen Has No Brain. Stephen Walker
tape from a roll. It tasted foul.
‘I’d like to thank you for putting me up for the night.’ Teena lay on the top deck of Sally’s bunk bed, having refused the bottom one.
‘Don’t mention it.’ Sally stood beside her, on the bunk’s ladder. She took Teena’s right wrist, the one nearest her, and wrapped tape around it. She yanked the wrist against the nearest bed post, held it there, and bound wrist to post.
Teena said, ‘Only, some women seem to find my presence intimidating.’
‘You know, that’s how they feel about me.’ She bit off another strip then leaned across and wrapped the tape round Teena’s other wrist.
‘Sally?’
‘Yeah?’
‘What’re you doing?’
‘Strapping you down.’ Having to stretch to reach, she pressed the wrist against its nearest bedpost and bound them together.
‘Sally, it’s not that I’m actively opposed to bondage. As a social scientist I appreciate its therapeutic value. Lesbianism has its place also. However, as we’ve established that you’re not attractive and I’m engaged–’
‘Engaged. Engaged. You’re always saying you’re engaged. For someone who claims she’s a man magnet, you seem remarkably impressed with yourself for having pulled. My God, even I’ve been engaged once. It’s not that big an achievement.’ She’d been engaged to Barry Sping, the paper boy, when they were both eleven. Cthulha’d put them up to it. She’d thought it cute.
Teena said, ‘Look in my coat pocket.’
‘For what?’
‘A wallet.’
Annoyed at the disruption to her work, she finished binding wrist to post then stood up as best the ceiling allowed. Teena’s camouflage jacket hung drying on the bed post. Sally felt in the pocket and retrieved a wallet.
‘Open it,’ Teena said.
She opened it.
‘What do you see?’
‘Credit cards, old tickets, taxi firm numbers, a photo–’
‘Take the photo and look at it.’
She did so.
And … ‘Jesus Christ!’ She almost fell off her ladder with shock. ‘What the hell’s that!?!’
‘My fiance.’
‘But … but he’s huge!’ The photographer (who Sally assumed to be Teena) had only managed to fit half of him into the photo. You could have fitted Barry Sping into a photo and have had room left over for the Brighouse and Rasterick brass band.
Teena said, ‘Huge? He’s positively Olympian.’ It wasn’t clear whether she meant an athlete, a Greek god or the mountain. Sally suspected she meant all three.
‘But he’s got no clothes on!’ said Sally.
Teena said, ‘When one owns a work of art, one doesn’t leave it covered up.’
‘But that … that thing he’s got–’
‘Perhaps now you know why I’m pleased with myself?’
Sally tried to prise her gaze from it. He could have wrapped it round his neck if it had looked in any way shape or form flexible. ‘But … but … there are more important qualities in a husband than a …’ she imagined being on its receiving end, ‘… knob.’
‘I can’t think of one.’
‘What about personality?’ She tried to prise her gaze from it.
‘All men have a personality. It’s their personalities that’re the problem.’
‘But your husband should be your best friend.’ She tried to prise her gaze from it.
‘No. Your best friend should be your best friend. A husband’s job is to satisfy his woman whenever and however she demands it.’
‘And he does?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Jesus.’ Almost feeling sorry for him, and almost afraid to touch it, she slipped the photo back into the wallet. She closed the wallet and put it back in the jacket pocket. Fingers still trembling from the sight of him she took the roll of tape from the mattress where she’d left it. ‘Anyway, I’m not binding you to the bed for kinky purposes.’
‘Then why are you doing it?’
‘For your safety.’
‘My safety?’
‘Look at me.’
Teena looked at her.
‘What do I look like?’
Teena looked non-plussed.
‘I’m an entertainer’s assistant. That’s what I’ve always been.’
Teena studied her bindings. She clenched a fist and flexed an arm to test the tape’s strength but no way was she was getting free. ‘So this is some sort of magic trick?’
‘My last job in entertainment was six months ago. Know what I was?’
‘No.’
‘Assistant to Magic Keith, He Can Outrun Bullets.’
Teena frowned. ‘Magic Keith?’
‘I had to wear the assistant’s costume; you know, with the ostrich feathers and sequins. I looked a total prat.’
‘Your boss could outrun bullets?’
‘No. But I didn’t discover that till I pulled the trigger.’
‘You shot him?’
‘In the back, point blank. The bullet went clean through and lodged in a stage hand.’
‘You killed them both?’ People always used that mortified tone when they said that.
Sally said, ‘The police were very understanding. They accepted it was an accident.’
‘And it didn’t occur to you that this Keith couldn’t outrun bullets?’
‘Of course it did. All the time were were rehearsing – without bullets – I kept saying, “Magic,” he liked to be called Magic. “Are you sure you can outrun bullets?” He’d give a knowing wink, tap the side of his nose and say, “There’s a knack.”
‘What possible knack can there be to “outrunning” bullets?’
‘Acceleration. Jesse Owens could outrun horses over a hundred feet because humans accelerate faster than horses. Keith reckoned it was the same with bullets. That doesn’t make sense does it? Bullets are launched by an explosion, and horses aren’t. But I figured he was the boss, he must know what he’s doing.’
‘And?’
‘Three days later we buried him.’ Roll of tape in hand she descended the ladder then unhooked it from the top bunk’s safety rail. She carried it round to the foot of the bed and hooked it onto the rail there. ‘It was the same with Madam Tallulah.’ After rattling it to check it was safe, she climbed the ladder until level with Teena’s bare feet. She resisted the urge to tickle them while she was helpless.
‘Madam Tallulah?’ Teena asked.
‘The World’s Greatest Escapologist. Except she wasn’t. She was just some idiot. She told me to weld her into an iron casket then tip it in the river. Again the police were understanding but this is a small town, word gets round. Now no decent employer will touch me.’
‘Have you considered leaving town?’
‘You don’t watch ITV?’