Mr Landen Has No Brain

He slipped into a deep silence and considered the issue.

She waited, impatient, fiddling with the handset’s coiled lead. She checked on the restaurant again. Still no sign of cooks. She released the blinds. ‘Uncle Al?’

‘Young lady?’

‘Yes?’

‘I suggest you set about stopping your guests from killing themselves, forthwith.’

five

‘I’m going out now, Mr Landen, to collect materials for the Project X you were so excited about. Do you want 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.

six

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. You probably count as a burglar. Burglars are fair game.’

‘Not that I’d kill myself. I wouldn’t want to upset those who love me.’

‘And who’s that?’ said Sally.

‘My boyfriend, you, my mother–’

‘Cthulha, your mother hits you with a stick.’

‘But she must love me. She’s a mother. Mothers love their daughters.’

Sally said, ‘You don’t love me.’

‘Don’t start that again.’

‘You have to accept that when an eight year old loses her real mother, she’ll look for a surrogate one. And you happened to be the one permanent female presence in my young life. When I had my first period, you told me I was dying. When I needed my first bra, you helped me buy it – not that you knew how to fasten it.’

‘Those things are death traps. You can tell a man invented them.’

‘Bras were invented by a woman.’

‘Who says?’

‘She knotted two hankies together then showed it to all her mates who were most impressed.’

‘Were they used hankies?’

‘Why would anyone want to wear used hankies?’ Sally said.

‘Why would they want to wear any sort of hankies? If you’re sat in a restaurant on a date and, halfway through the evening, he declares that he makes his trolleys from knotted hankies, you’re not going to be accepting any invitations into his home.’

‘The point is that with you around ALL THE TIME you were bound to imprint on me. It’s like ducklings that think a pair of wellies is their mother because it was the first thing they ever saw.’

‘I don’t believe this.’

‘Believe what?’

‘I bought you a bra, now you want me to buy you wellies.’

‘I don’t want you to buy me wellies. I want you to love me.’

‘If you ever again sit in the pub on a Friday night, telling the men I’m trying to pull that I’m your mother …’

‘But that’s how I see you.’

‘I’m only four years older than you.’

‘Twelve.’

‘Eleven and three quarters.’

‘Twelve.’ Holding the bucket steady between her feet, Sally dipped her brush in it, stirred it, then spread more paste on the wall. ‘Is your mother still sending you death threats?’

‘Yeah,’

‘I’d go to the police if I were you; remember I’ve met your mother.’

‘Yeah that’s right,’ Cthulha complained.

‘What is?’

‘If you worship a giant space octopus, people always want to think the worst of you.’

‘Well it’s hardly normal is it?’

‘Loads of people must do it. They just don’t admit it. Anyway, I’m sure she doesn’t mean it. It’s probably her idea of a joke.’

‘Yeah. Right.’ Sally hung the last foam rubber square and pressed it in place. She turned to face Cthulha.

Cthulha Gochllagochgoch, thirty one, gangled on Sally’s settee, in an undertakers hat, little round sunglasses, black tuxedo, black jeans and black trainers. Beneath the open tuxedo, she wore a purple bikini top, with a rub-on transfer, IF I’M JUICY SQUEEZE ME, on her left breast. One lace-gloved palm held Mr Bushy while the other stroked him. Sat there she reminded Sally of the reptile aliens in V, the ones who could almost pass for human, till you caught them eating your pets.

Mr Bushy squeaked. Now sat up, Cthulha held him before her and chuckled. ‘Look at this.’

‘Look at what?’

‘If you squeeze this it squeaks like one of those dogs’ toys.’ And she squeezed away, producing a string of random squeaks.

‘Cthulha!’

‘What?’

Sally snatched him from her and stroked him to calm his nerves. ‘Dynamite Pete asked me – if anything ever happened to him – to look after his squirrel. It shouldn’t take a genius to know that treating it as a rubber toy wasn’t what he had in mind.’

‘And as Dynamite Pete’s intended profession involved swallowing a pint of nitro-glycerine then running round a stage till he exploded, it shouldn’t have taken a genius to figure something was bound to happen to him.’

‘I tried to warn him,’ she insisted.

‘Don’t you always?’ Cthulha settled back into the settee and took a drag on her cigarette.

Sally placed Mr Bushy back on the TV, with his paint brush, and continued stroking him. Dynamite Pete’s demise; some experiences were best not remembered – especially when they were your fault.

Mr Bushy started nibbling his paint brush, which she took as a good sign, so she turned to face Cthulha. ‘Do you actually have a reason to be here?’

‘Uncle Al wants money.’ Uncle Al was not Cthulha’s uncle. Uncle Al was not the uncle of most people who called him Uncle.

‘He always wants money.’

‘Now he wants more money.’

‘What’s he want it for this time?’

‘Fifty-six rolls of foil. Personally I think it’s an excuse to get me out of the way. Though why anyone’d want a girl like me out of the way, I don’t know.’

‘Cthulha?’

‘Yeah?’

‘What kind of cooking needs fifty-six rolls of foil?’

She lowered her dark glasses to the tip of her nose and peered over them at Sally, eyebrows hoisted knowingly. ‘Aloysius Bracewell doesn’t do his own cooking – any more than he does his own eating. You know he has servants for that.’

‘So what’s he want tin foil for?’

She prodded her glasses back into place. ‘To add to the roll he’s just wrapped round his head.’

Sally squinted at her, baffled.

Cthulha said, ‘Half an hour ago, some Texan turned up on satellite news. Seems he’s broken the world record for wrapping his head in foil – except they called it “aloominum”. The previous record holder was British. The moment Uncle Al hears that, he grabs a roll and starts wrapping it round his head, declaring his determination to reclaim the record for some place called “Blighty”. He says someone has to restore the dignity it lost when it gave away some empire or other.’

‘By wrapping his head in foil?’

‘And Uncle Al won’t be using “aloominum”.’

‘Then what’ll he be using?’

‘Lead.’

‘Lead?’

‘He says you can get lead foil from nuclear power plants, if you bribe the right women and sleep with the right men. That’ll be my job. He will of course make sure the national media knows all about his sterling act of patriotism and that he owns a chain of caravan parks – prices reasonable. I told him, “Uncle Al, you’re a pillock. Lead foil must weigh a ton. You’ll squash your head.” He said that’d make his achievement all the greater – though guess who’ll get to do all the wrapping? Still you’ve got to hand it to him; fifty-six rolls – no man’s ever wrapped his head in so much lead.’

seven

‘Excuse me?’

‘Yeah, babe?’

‘Where did you get that cow?’

‘I didn’t steal it.’

‘I never said you had.’

‘I found it down there.’ His sucker tipped thumb pointed back guiltily over his shoulder. He said, ‘It jumped out of a tree and landed on me.’

‘And where are you taking it?’

‘The obvious.’

‘Which is?’

‘To wallpaper it.’

In a country lane, fifteen minutes into her walk, Teena’d stopped to talk to a small grey man with a cow. His huge, black, almond shaped eyes blinked up at her from his too-large head. His spindly body wore a black turtleneck sweater and drainpipe jeans. He looked bruised, battered and bewildered, as though something had jumped out of a tree and landed on him. Mouth no more than a slit, he said, ‘It’s my destiny.’

‘What is?’

‘To win the Turner Prize.’ And a sucker tipped finger pointed to somewhere behind her.

A half turn brought her face to face with a field of cows wrapped in beige flock. It didn’t suit them.

Behind her he said, ‘It’s an installation I call Cattle Mootilation.’ She could feel his gaze on her buttocks.

‘But why wallpaper cows?’ she asked.

‘Because gorillas always tried to tear my arms off.’

She returned her attention to him. ‘Well, Mr …?’

‘McDoddy; Roddy McDoddy.’

‘Is that your real name?’

‘No.’

‘Well, Roddy.’ She grabbed his hand in hers and shook it vigorously. ‘I’m Teena Rama. And if you’re an artist, you may have heard of me.’

‘Too right I have!’ Now he was shaking her hand even more vigorously than she was shaking his. ‘You’ve won the Turner Prize three years running.’

‘And I’ll be winning it again this year.’ She yanked her hand free of his and gave it a sharp waggle to restore the blood supply.

‘Wow,’ he told her chest. ‘The Teena Rama. I can only dream of achieving your levels of artistic futility.’

‘Why thank you.’

‘And your bosoms are so pointy.’

‘Thank you for that highly relevant observation.’

He gazed at them some more like he wanted to tell them something. Then he spotted her engagement ring. ‘And you’re a spoken-for woman?’

‘I’m newly engaged, yes.’ She couldn’t resist gloating a little.

‘Wow!’ He told her chest. ‘But I didn’t know they’d even announced the Turner nominations.’

‘They haven’t but my victory’s assured. And I have to tell you that these days it takes something more daring than wallpapering cows to impress the most demanding judges in British art.’

‘It does?’ He stroked his goatee, perplexed, still watching her chest.

‘However.’ She watched the cow beside him. It gazed back at her, chewing an Action Man. Is this beast for sale?’

‘Make me an offer, babe.’

She had no intention of paying money for goods that might have been stolen. ‘Would a kiss do?’

‘Dr R,’ he enthused, ‘You’re a crazy looking chick but get kissing that cow.’

‘Roddy?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I did mean would you like me to kiss you?’

‘Oh wow, man! The Dr Rama would rather snog me than my livestock.’

eight

Late that night, the doorbell dragged Sally away from foam rubbering yet more rooms. Entering the entrance hall, from the kitchen, she could see out through the wire-glass door. A figure stood in darkness, its back to the door, umbrella in hand.

The week’s takings were in the safe in Sally’s bedroom. Thanks to Cthulha, everyone in town knew it.

Or maybe …

… Maybe it was Cthulha’s mother come looking for her daughter.

Sally stopped, and looked around for an escape route. She looked at the living room door and considered running into the room and hiding behind the settee like she and Cthulha had the first time her mother had shown up. They’d had to stay hidden as she prowled the living room, sniffing the air, sniffing objects, pushing over the lamp stand, trying to pick up their scent, before she got bored, decided they weren’t there and left. The moment she’d heard the door slam, Sally’d tried to come out of hiding but Cthulha’d grabbed her wrist and stopped her. She stuck her hand over Sally’s mouth and frantically whispered that her mother had a trick where she slammed the door to make it sound like she’d left but then stayed just inside the door hoping to lure you out into the open. But she always gave up after five minutes and left anyway because she had the brain of a donkey. Sally told her that whatever her problem was with her mother, maybe she should try talking to her about it instead of hiding. Hiding from your own mother seemed a pretty childish way to deal with a problem. Cthulha said you didn’t deal with her mother when she was in a prowling mood.

And five minutes later they heard the door shut again.

Mrs Gochllagochgoch was a woman you could empty an ammo clip into and she’d still keep coming. You’d have to stop her by toppling heavy things onto her. Then, when you thought she was dead, you’d lean over her, seeking a pulse, and she’d come back to life and start strangling you.

Sally checked the Colt 45 she was carrying. Magic Keith had given her it and it weighed a ton because it was loaded. He’d insisted on a Colt 45 because the Shadow used them, and Magic Keith was as elusive as the Shadow – he’d claimed. She removed the safety catch, and stuck the gun down the back of her jeans’ belt for easy access. She pulled the back of her sweater down to hide it, prayed that this wasn’t Cthulha’s mother, and readied herself.

She unfastened the door’s top bolt.

She unfastened the door’s bottom bolt.

She twisted the yale lock and opened the door.

The hissing sound of rain filled the entrance hall. Its back to her, the figure whistled a non-specific tune as the rain pummelled its umbrella.

‘Hello?’ Sally prepared to grab the gun but the figure turned and grinned at her, large droplets dripping from the tips of its umbrella spokes.

And frowning Sally said, ‘Teena?’

Behind her ‘winning’ smile the scientist seemed embarrassed. ‘Ah. Yes. We seem to have got ourselves locked out and were wondering if we could spend the night here?’

‘We?’ She glanced at the darkness surrounding Teena, relieved to see no giant rabbits or that creepy Mr Landen.

A sideways nod of Teena’s head drew her attention to the string in Teena’s right hand. The string’s free end was high in the air, hidden by the top of the door. Sally leaned forward to see what was up there.

And her jaw dropped.

Floating at the end of that string was a cow.

‘What sort of genius locks herself out of her mobile home?’

‘When I said we’d got ourselves locked out, I should have said Mr Landen’s locked us out. I didn’t want to blame him outright because he doesn’t seem to be himself lately.’

‘And you don’t have a key?’

‘It’s bolted from the inside. And, sadly, before I left, I repaired the hole Lepus left – an action taken at your insistence, I should point out.’

‘Teena?’

‘Uh huh?’

‘What exactly is that?’ Sally stood in the rain, holding the umbrella over herself as Teena tethered her flying cow to the offices’ front door. Her mobile home was no more than eight feet away to her left. What was it with her? She couldn’t tie cows to her own front door?

As though to counterbalance the mobile home, a caravan stood at the offices’ other flank. The sign hanging from its doorknob read, THE WYNDHAM FINISHING SCHOOL FOR DAINTY YOUNG LADIES but Sally wasn’t interested in that. She’d seen its occupants.

Teena ignored the rain, tied off with a knot that only seamen should know, took three steps back and stood beside Sally. She smelled of strawberries. Not real strawberries but the strawberry-centre chocolate you always eat first from the box because it’s your favourite. Anyone else wet smells like the Coffee Cream that sits ignored for weeks because you don’t know anyone who likes them then has to be thrown away before it goes mouldy.

Polka dot rags plastered to her cheeks, Teena admired her own handiwork. ‘Sally, meet my latest project.’

‘It’s flying.’

‘Floating.’

‘Big difference.’

‘The moment I came across her I knew she’d be perfect for Experiment X.’

‘Experiment X?’ If this involved boyfriends.

‘My venture into anti-gravity. You see, I’ve done what no one else has. I’ve proven not only that anti-gravity exists but that it’s a force to equal gravity. I will of course be winning a Nobel Prize.’

‘But you’ll be leaving her out here all night?’

‘You’d rather I brought her inside?’

‘No but…’

‘Cows are hardy creatures well used to life outdoors.’

‘But the rain?’

‘Won’t bother her in the slightest.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘How are you sure?’

‘Because she’s indestructible.’

Teena still stood beside Sally in the rain, her strawberry smell starting to make Sally hungry. Sally watched her. She looked so soft and smooth and creamy that Sally wanted to bite a chunk out of her. She’d taste like cake and have no bones just icing, no muscle just sponge cake, no blood just strawberry jam. In all her body there’d be not one human biological substance, just items fresh from the dessert tray. The walking gateau said, ‘On my walk, I encountered a small shop on the edge of town.’

‘A cake shop?’ Sally’s stomach rumbled.

Teena slapped her.

Sally stepped back, shocked, clutching her stinging cheek. “What the hell was that for?’

‘You were thinking of eating me.’

‘No I wasn’t. I don’t eat people. You city types, you’re all the same, always looking down on us, always saying we’re cannibals.’

Teena said, ‘Frankly you’ve lost me. I merely recognized the look on your face. Being beautiful, I’ve seen it so often.’

‘Oh.’ Sally watched the ground, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut.

‘I’m sorry about hitting you but it was the best way to snap you out of it.’ She grabbed Sally’s arm and yanked her back to a position beside her, presumably Teena’s idea of reconciliation. ‘Now; the general store; while there I bought the ingredients needed for the anti-gravity cream.’

Sally still held her throbbing cheek. ‘From a general store?’

‘Anti-gravity cream can easily be made with household materials. After I’d finished, I had some materials left over, so I concocted a quantity of Indestructible Cream and applied it liberally. Clytemnestra’s fully atom bomb proof – the first of many such cows.’

‘Teena?’

‘Uh huh?’

‘Why would you want to make cows atom bomb proof?’

‘So they don’t hurt themselves when they fall from the sky.’

‘Cows don’t fall from the sky.’

‘They will when the anti-gravity cream wears off.’

‘But you’ve only coated one in anti-gravity cream.’

‘Well…’ Her voice tailed away. She gazed skyward.

Sally watched her. ‘Teena?’