He had to buck up his ideas, and I knew where to start.
“Here, Importos,” I said, “grab a couple of those bottles. We’re going to empty them into the sand.”
Despite his hangover, he must have rumbled the excessive spontaneity of the idea. “No-no-no,” he said. “Head to pain now, no later. We to keep. I to need”
However, I was in no mood for arguing and picked out two bottles of finest Irish whiskey, walked out into the sand, threw one down beside me, unscrewed the top off the other and began pouring. Golden liquid glug-glug-glugged into the silica grains and I smiled with satisfaction.
Casting the empty aside I unscrewed the other bottle’s cap…
It was as if he had smelled the fumes, even as he slept. A great hollow bellow of rage came from within the tin-can sidecar and I turned to see Dextrose’s fat little legs kicking furiously in his pink togs, as if the anti-Santa had become trapped down a chimney.
“NO YER DON’T, YER MINK!” he raged, hollow-sounding, scrabbling furiously to push himself out of the compartment. “DON’TYER MINKIN’ DARE!”
Then, unexpectedly, he fell silent. All anyone around would have heard would have been the dainty ‘blibble-ibble-ibble ibble-ib’ of the final dregs of booze departing their bottle.
Next came a blood-curdling scream. It was terrible to hear. Genuine dread.
“GETUSOUTOFHERE!” he wailed, redoubling his frantic efforts to release himself. But he was well jammed in and his general lack of fitness and blubber-buggered centre of gravity did him no favours.
Importos made a break for it, jogged up the road and sat on the kerb, where he began rocking backwards and forwards. It left me, grabbing handfuls of overcoat, to heave Dextrose out of his hellhole.
He sat up and pointed towards the sidecar. “E-e-e-e-evil,” he stammered.
“What is it?” I asked.
“E-e-e-e-evil,” was all he could utter.
I fully expected something to crawl out over the rim of the sidecar. Something crested or poisonous. We waited for full minutes, but nothing did.
Dextrose curled into a ball and lay on his side in the sand, sucking his thumb. Once again, it would be down to me to take charge. I couldn’t pretend that the idea appealed.
I needed a weapon and had an idea. Crawling close to the ground, as I had seen SAS types do in movies, I returned to Dextrose’s suitcase and slipped out the last two bottles of whiskey. He made no move to stop me. That’s how shaken he was.
Rising to my feet I smashed the bottles together, sending broken glass flying and showering myself in booze. I heard Dextrose whimper, but that was the extent of his protest. What the hell was in that sidecar?
I strode manfully forward at first, then thought better of it and began crawling like a baby. The metal panelling was so hot to the touch that I could not press my ear against it, so instead I pricked up my ears and listened intently. Not a peep.
Must be something small and deadly, I imagined, clutching the broken bottles as Evel Knievel must have gripped his handlebars.
The longer I stayed there, the likelier I was to be attacked, so I knew I had to go for it. Up, peek, down.
What had I registered in that split second? Just a battered old leather seat (empty) and the gloomy depths of the sidecar. Nothing had attacked me and that, at least, gave me heart. Perhaps Dextrose had imagined the horror or had woken from a nightmare?
I rose again, slower this time, and peered over the sidecar’s rim, deep into the shadows. Then I too saw it.
Yelping, I pushed myself away and landed on the ground. Even as that happened I realised what I had seen.
Reaching down into the footwell with fingertips I just managed to grab hold of a leg. I dragged out the ‘evil’ and held it aloft.
Dextrose shielded his face in fear, but gradually realised his folly. “What the mink is that?” he asked.
“It’s the Shaman’s dummy,” I said.
It all came flooding back. I had stolen the dummy in retribution and had lobbed it into the sidecar. Presumably, when I crashed, it had been sent flying forward into that dark recess. So it had been there all along, obscured to Dextrose by his gut – until he’d gone in head-first.
His footprints were all over the dark dinner suit, the top hat was missing – probably crumpled somewhere in the sidecar – the cracked glass had fallen out of its monocle frame, which remained suspended by string from the breast pocket, its face was dirtied and its nose had been knocked off. Yet, even with those injuries, it retained the power to unnerve.
Dextrose heaved himself up, dusted himself down, and said: “Get rid of it.”
He was right. That thing carried with it all manner of bad karma. I clutched the dummy by one of its scrawny arms and tossed it as far as I could into the sands. It flew like laundry and, being so defiantly unaerodynamic, didn’t travel very far, although it did land in a satisfying heap with one leg sticking up like a makeshift gravestone. And that was the end of that.
“Right, now yer can take us back to Gossips,” said Dextrose.
Why hadn’t I seen that coming? “But… Dad. You do know where we’re going, don’t you?”
“Does I look like Einstein?” he shot back.
The hair, yes. The rest of him, no. He looked fucking terrible, like something you’d discover under rubble after a nuclear war.
“We’re trying to find your wife.”
He didn’t seem to recognise the concept, so I added, “Mrs Dextrose.”
He shook his head. “Some other time.”
Not now, not after how far we’d come. “No,” I said. “We have to go.” It was time I stood up to him.
He reached into a tweed overcoat pocket, pulled out a pistol and levelled it at me.
“I said. Some. Other. Minking. Time.”
I studied the gun: an ancient-looking silver, chipped revolver, long-barrelled, perhaps a relic of the Wild West. Though still potentially deadly. Had I known he was armed, I would never have brought him with me.
I forced myself to remain calm. “Where did you get that?”
He shrugged. “Found it just then, in me pocket. Seem to recall one of them hop-sozzled cud-munchers in that bar giving it us, once I’d told them what a devious woman’s mind you possessed. Pilsbury – us own flesh and blood an’ all.”
Wow. First time he’d remembered who I was unprompted. But he was all show, surely? He wouldn’t use it. No chance, not even him, deprived of alcohol and home comforts, kidnapped, brutalised by the elements, dragged through broken glass…
I didn’t dare risk it.
So that was it, then. The game was up. I was returning to Gossips and Mrs Dextrose would remain lost forever… Could I somehow disarm him, I wondered? Given his creaking reactions? Then again, could I disarm anyone?
“OK, you win,” I said. “But I wish you’d reconsider. We’ve done enough drinking. We should find Mrs Dextrose.”
A thought flitted across his eyes. “Not today.” He waved the gun at me. “Get in the sidecar. I’ll drive.”
Having turned the bike around to pick up Importos, I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was going the wrong way when he swung it 180 with an uncharacteristic whoop. As any budding mathematician will tell you, two negatives make a positive.
“Mr Dextrose, can we pick up Importos?” I asked, as we reached the tall man.
“EH?” He couldn’t hear me over the engine.
“CAN WE PICK UP IMPORTOS?”
“WHO?”
Hardly spoilt for choice. “HIM SULKING AT THE SIDE OF THE ROAD.”
“WHY?”
“BECAUSE OTHERWISE HE’LL DIE OUT HERE.”
I couldn’t have the demise of both brothers on my conscience.
Dextrose stopped the bike but kept the engine running.
“Hop on,” I told Importos.
“No. He mad,” he replied, and started jogging away.
I called after him: “I don’t think he meant it.”
Importos o
nly jogged faster.
We caught him up again.
“You’ll die of thirst,” I pointed out.
He slowed down then stopped, glaring at me with intent. His basketball outfit was sand-stained and distressed. Sweat poured off his forehead.
I tapped Dextrose. “DAD, CAN WE STOP, PLEASE?”
He did so. Not only that, but I had referred to him as ‘Dad’ in a very loud voice and he’d neither snorted nor denied the association. More than that, I had developed the confidence unselfconsciously to do so.
While Importos took on liquid, Dextrose turned to me. Though it was hard to tell, in a face that looked like four-cheese pizza, I fancied he was trying his damndest to look tender. “Pilsbury,” he said. “Back there. I wouldn’t have minking shot yer.”
Now that, I thought, is proper parenting.
The bike spluttered, shuddered and ground to a halt. Once again we were out of fuel. One half-can remained, which would just about fill her up. Then that was it. Death in the wilderness: a lonely business. I assumed – prayed – we would hit a petrol station soon.
Dextrose offered to attend to the tank and was as jovial as I had ever seen him. I couldn’t help being suspicious. Had he a hip flask secreted in one of those deep pockets? I certainly hadn’t noticed him taking surreptitious slugs, nor had he touched the beers in his suitcase, now reattached to the machine.
There was but one conclusion: that he was quite simply happy to be heading back to his good friend Quench. (Or so he thought.)
Yes, I did feel guilt, but some people need to be dragged kicking and screaming (or blindly) towards the path of righteousness. It was enough for now to see him smile, even if that did resemble more of a wonky, scabbed-over gash. We were family of sorts.
About to remount our replenished steel steed, Dextrose still commandeering the controls, I felt a hand clench tight around my wrist. It was Importos, blocking out the sun.
“More Importos to zink, more he to zink Senor Alexander to lie.”
He bloody knew. Of course he did. I just stood there, mute, trying to adopt an expression of innocence.
He went on: “Next time to stop, Importos to call zis bad people. Zey to find bruzzer. Senor Alexander to pray not to lie. Yes?” Then he grabbed me by the throat.
The next thing, his hand was swiped away and Dextrose was there between us.
“Who is this minker?” he said to me.
“It’s Importos, Dad,” I said. That guilt hit me once again. “He’s a friend.”
“Funny minking sort of friend,” he pointed out.
Importos squared up to him, resembling an altercation between Little and Large. “What is problem, fat man?”
As far as I was aware, I was the only person to witness Detritos’ final moment. Only I knew for certain that he was dead. So I was safe, surely?… Unless I allowed paranoia into the equation, when all sorts of unlikely though quite feasible options kicked in. What if we had been watched? What if Detritos had left details of his whereabouts with someone? Or SHH! had equipped him with some sort of tracking device? On the positive side, Importos’ bad friends would have a job tracking me down, since the dwarf’s brother knew me only as Alexander, not by my new name.
“D’yer want us to shoot him, Pilsbury?” asked Dad.
Brilliant, I thought. Had he never seen Dad’s Army?
“No! God no! Haha!” I slapped the tall man’s back in a lame all-guys-together gesture. “It’s just a misunderstanding. Isn’t it, Importos?”
Importos shot me a dark look. “Who to know? Importos to make phone after stop. We to see, yes?”
The air had turned sinister.
Having been excited for quite a while, as I watched the approach of another vehicle – the first to pass us on that desolate, endless stretch of tarmac – my tenterhooks were wantonly uprooted when we were finally passed by what turned out to be a farm truck, a rusty old contraption with three tatty chickens in the back. The driver – male, 60s, corn-cob pipe, hat – stared directly ahead as he did so, though I waved and reached across to toot the horn. I could only assume he rode the Nameless Highway as a matter of course and vowed never again to become excited about other traffic.
Around noon, Dextrose started to ask questions.
Why hadn’t we passed Socks ‘N’ Sandals yet (he didn’t know its name; in fact, he called it, “that hick-infested leper colony”, but I knew what he meant)?
How far away was it? And how far from that would Mlwlw be?
The ace up my sleeve was the fact that he had been out cold, so would be none the wiser. In reply I exaggerated loosely: “Took a fair few hours. Don’t worry, we’ll get there!”
As luck would have it, moments later something black appeared up ahead in the distance and I was able to fib gratuitously: “There, bet that’s Socks ‘N’ Sandals.”
I was hoping desperately that it would be a petrol station.
Not long afterwards the sky changed colour bewilderingly suddenly. One moment it was all’s-well-with-the-world Delftware-blue, the next the clouds had converged above us, like opposing armies meeting on a battleground. Electrical in nature, they pressed the air down onto our heads until we could sense it. The sun faded to grey and the world descended into gloom.
We actually saw the rain coming. A curtain of torrential drops appeared before us and we drove into it, as if entering a waterfall, covering our heads and laughing – even Importos. It was an exhilarating experience.
In milliseconds, my safari suit was sodden and clinging to my skin. I raised my face to the heavens and let their contents pour over me, wash away the dust and grime and all the tribulations of the past. Rolling up my sleeves, I used the liquid’s chill as a salve on my sunburnt skin. Water collected quickly in the bottom of the sidecar; many miles away lightning strikes lit clouds up and the thunder rolled in.
Visibility dropped considerably, until I could see but 50 yards in any direction. Either side of the Nameless Highway the sand had darkened and become an extensively pitted paste, each tiny pit the grave of a raindrop.
“HOW MUCH LONGER TO THAT BAR?” called out Dextrose over the downpour’s din, overcoat tails flapping behind him. His silvery curls had been battered down flat. The rain poured through them, transferring via his sideburns to his beard, which had turned pointy; the water flowed from it with the ferocity of a much-needed piss. I wondered how many tiny critters were being washed right out of his hair as it did so. He blinked repeatedly as the rain smacked into his eyes, and his sudden cleanliness only exacerbated how damaged his face was.
Poor bugger.
“NO IDEA!” I replied. “SOON!”
He nodded, smiled, turned to face back into the driving rain; the speedometer needle dared to flicker into 41.
However, despite Mother Nature’s cleansing efforts, my thoughts remained troubled. Those manifold lies would catch me up, sure as dogs were dogs, and then there would be hell to pay.
My emotions were decidedly mixed when I spotted the short signpost – the first in several hundred miles:
Lonely Bush
Gas Station
1km ahead
Can’t miss us!
Dextrose must have seen it, too, as he scowled at me. No, that wasn’t Socks ‘N’ Sandals. And yes, they probably would have a phone that Importos could use.
I had to tell Dad the latest porky. “OH YES!” I shouted. “NOW I REMEMBER PASSING THAT ON THE WAY OUT!”
What else could I say? I would have to string him along for as long as possible, and hope that the truth dawned on him while he was in a very good mood. The prospect made me shudder.
“ANYWAY, WE NEED TO FILL UP! PRETTY HANDY, REALLY. WE WERE IN DANGER OF…” Shut up, you fool, stop talking! He was lost in thought anyway, no doubt weighing up the likeliness of my story.
Importos had retreated into himself. Not a word in miles, no doubt pent-up and brooding.
The Lonely Bush Gas Station comprised a two-storey red-brick house with a wooden shack tack
ed onto the front, serving as the cashier’s office. There was one pump, Art Deco-style in faded turquoise, with pleasing curves and a recumbent white oval perched on top. This may once have been lit from inside, but no longer, with the word GAS painted on it in a kitsch typeface. It was covered by a corrugated-plastic awning on four rusty poles. Out front was a single, lonely bush. Elsewhere: sand, drenched.
As we reached the forecourt, the eye of the storm hit us and the time between lightning flash and thunder clap became negligible. A shadowy figure lurked in the doorway of the office, sheltering from the storm, monitoring our arrival. It was a scene straight out of an old B-movie.
Dextrose guided us beneath the awning, parked the bike beside the pump and turned off the engine. All we heard was the insistent patter of rain on plastic. It was a relief to escape the bombardment.
Just as I was climbing out of the sidecar a vivid flash appeared to my right, accompanied by crashing thunder that battered the eardrums. I physically jumped from the shock. Lightning had hit the lonely bush, which was now ablaze.
“Don’t worry about that,” came a voice. “Happens every time. We’ll plant a new one tomorrow. Always do.” The figure in the doorway.
He stepped towards us, rain instantly tumbling off the brim of his ancient pink baseball cap. He was in his mid-70s, I reckoned, thin-faced, with little round spectacles and silver sideburns, but very dark eyebrows. A black jacket covered his denim overalls and for some reason he was carrying a pitchfork. He looked doleful, perhaps understandably.
“Petrol, please!” I said. “And that can,” pointing at the spare.
“What?” he said.
“Petrol!” I said.
“What?” He was standing beside the pump now, the nozzle in his hand.
“Petrol!” I persisted.
“What?” he replied.
“Petrol!”
“What?”
“Petrol!”
“What?”
“Petrol!”
“What?”
Looking for Mrs Dextrose Page 13
