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‘The Beloved Catherine’s hardly a typical example of womanhood, is she.’
‘No but–’
‘And in her case it’s down to air pressure, like a barometer.’
‘Do you think that’s what it is with me? Air pressure?’
‘Cthulha, I long ago stopped trying to explain anything about you. And who says your head swells up? I’ve never seen it swell up.’
‘Ninety-six times a year, you know what happens?’
‘What?’
‘My hat gets too tight.’
Sally glanced at the undertaker’s hat. Its black ribbon flapped in the breeze.
Cthulha said, ‘I can’t get the thing off some nights. I have to sleep in it. First thing next morning, it’s so loose it falls down over my eyes.’
‘Then don’t wear it.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘What is the point?’
‘My head must be swelling.’
‘Who says it’s not your hat that’s shrinking?’
‘I measured it. It’s always the same, twenty inches round.’
‘Then you must have a problem that’s unknown to medical science.’
Cthulha still watched Sally’s offices. ‘Do you think Dr Rama’d give me a medical?’
Sally reached into her jeans’ pocket, found an object among the handful of coins and retrieved it. It had been screwed up into a ball. Taking care not to rip it, she smoothed it out against her upper leg, then held it for Cthulha. ‘You see this?’
Cthulha cast a glance back at it and shrugged. ‘It’s a sweet wrapper.’ She returned her attention to the offices.
Sally said, ‘Daisy collected it first thing this morning and gave me it – along with two others.’
‘So?’
‘So what’s it made of?’ Sally angled it to glint in the sunlight.
Cthulha turned, and frowned at it. ‘It’s foil.’
‘Exactly. She’s collecting foil for Uncle Al’s campaign.’
‘Is it lead foil?’
‘They don’t wrap sweets in lead.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s poisonous.’
‘But how could it know about Uncle Al’s campaign?’
‘Animals sense things. They’re not too bright but they sense things.’ Unlike Cthulha who was not too bright and sensed nothing.
‘And she thinks a sweet wrapper’ll impress him into letting her stay?’ Cthulha shoved her face into Daisy’s. ‘Bye bye, Dobbin. You and your sweet wrappers are on a one-way trip to the abattoir.’
ten
Long after Cthulha’s departure, Sally fixed the last foam rubber square to the last caravan. She ran her palms around its edges and pressed its centre. She held the pose then checked her watch; nine-thirty and daylight fading.
She dismounted her step ladder and stepped back to admire her handiwork. Perfect. She looked left. She saw caravans. She looked right. She saw caravans. She turned half circle. She saw caravans.
And she’d done it. Every caravan in that park, all fifty-eight of them, was now covered from top to bottom in green foam rubber.
She looked down. The ground was too hard. Tomorrow she’d have workmen dig it up and replace it with foam rubber; likewise the trees that dotted the camp, and the perimeter fencing. Soon this would be the softest, bendiest, bounciest caravan park on Earth.
And the hanging baskets some guests had hung up to make their drab lives more bearable, she’d confiscate them in case someone got tangled in their chains and strangled to death.
And the caravan whose tyres were a dangerous shade of black; first thing tomorrow she’d paint them grey.
And that nervous-looking cat needed tying to something.
Barely able to wait for tomorrow, she untethered the cow from the ladder. ‘Come on, Daisy.’
‘Moo?’
‘Let’s see if your mistress has had as great a day as we have.’
‘And what’s this?’ Archie Drizzle stood outside the offices of Flaccid and Placid’s Caravan Park.
The manager stood beside him, a young man far too pleased with himself for Drizzle’s liking. Drizzle decided he must be Flaccid, though there was no sign of Placid. Flaccid said, ‘As you can see, we’ve covered the entire site with foam rubber. I’m sure you’ll agree this is the safest park, not only in Wyndham but the whole world.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ He thrust his Gladstone bag into the chest of Flaccid, who took hold of it while Drizzle stepped forward to inspect the nearest caravan. It was indeed completely covered in foam rubber; green foam rubber. A nice safe colour.
As Drizzle tugged the foam to check it was properly glued, Flaccid said, ‘Take as long as you like. We’ve nothing to fear from close inspection.’
And it seemed he was right.
But then …
… a thought struck Drizzle.
He stepped back and took in the entire view; a whole caravan park covered in foam – not just caravans but offices, trees, the ground.
‘You fool,’ Drizzle demanded. ‘Don’t you realize what you’ve done?’
Flaccid shrugged blankly.
Drizzle said, ‘You’ve turned this entire camp into one big sponge. If an asteroid were to hit this site, immediately after heavy rainfall, the impact could squeeze out a tidal wave so huge it would deluge the entire North Yorkshire coast, drowning us all.’
Flaccid frowned. ‘Isn’t that highly unlikely?’
Drizzle slapped a sticker on Flaccid’s forehead.
It said FAILED.
‘No, Gary. No one could be having a worse time than I am. I’ve been locked out of my mobile home, my assistant’s out of control, I’ve a giant rabbit sitting on him, my host’s a psycho. How could you be having a worse time than me?’ Teena paced Sally’s kitchen, arguing with her cell phone.
The phone said bzz.
‘Baboons?’ Teena said. ‘How can you have been kidnapped by baboons? There are no baboons in Blackpool.’
The phone said bzz.
‘Tanzania? How the hell did you get from the Pleasure Beach to Tanzania?’
Bzz.
‘What giant squid?’ she said.
Bzz.
‘Captain Nemo?’ she said.
Bzz.
‘Jules Verne?’ she said.
Bzz.
She stood still and frowned. ‘Gary, are you making this up?’
Bzz.
‘All your holidays are like this?’ she said.
Bzz.
‘Then why do you keep taking them?’
Bzz.
‘Gary, there is such a thing as taking optimism too far.’
Bzz.
‘Right! That’s it! If this is what holidays are like, you can keep them! I won’t be taking another!’ She prodded the phone’s Off button like it was the eye of her worst enemy then held the phone like she was about to throw it at the wall. She thought better of it and placed it on the table. She stood fuming until she noticed Sally leaning against the doorpost, watching her. ‘You heard that?’ Teena asked.
‘Every word.’ As far as Sally’d been able to work out, Gary was Teena’s lodger. He was also her bridesmaid. She’d wanted him as her best man but the vicar wouldn’t stand for it. He’d said it might cause confusion if both bride and groom had a best man. She’d said that was easily solved. She’d have a best man and her fiance wouldn’t. But the vicar had insisted – even after a prolonged bout of finger proddings and Do-You-Know-Who-I-Ams. He’d said it would be the same at any cathedral. It was a standard part of the wedding ceremony.
So now Gary Yates was her bridesmaid. She’d said it would do him good since he was totally besotted with her. Seeing her marry another man would give him a sense of closure and finally convince him there was never going to be anything between her and him. He might blub now but he’d thank her for it later.
‘I take it you’ll be staying in a hotel for the rest of your holiday, what with your host being a psycho!’ Sally said.
‘And not be able to keep an eye on those two? No chance. I’m staying right here.’
Daisy doggie-paddled upside down between the two girls.
Teena glared at it as though ready to punch it. ‘And what’s that doing in here?’
‘Because she’s been such a good girl, helping me foam rubber the camp, I’m letting her live indoors from now on.’
‘And do I get a say in this?’
‘None. You don’t live here, remember?’
Teena fumed some more. She opened her mouth to say something then thought better of it. She opened her mouth again then thought better of it. She glanced around as though seeking inspiration. Then at last she said, ‘His reputation’s built entirely on me, you know.’
Sally frowned. ‘Your bridesmaid has a reputation?’
‘Not Gary – Landen.’
She frowned deeper. ‘Mr Landen has a reputation?’
‘Because he was my first college lecturer, the scientific press said he’d discovered me – like I was some lost tribe. I wasn’t lost. I knew precisely where I was – Oxford. And I’d discovered myself long before he came along. He thinks he’s so clever. Well … well …’ Her clenched knuckles turned white by her sides.
‘Well what?’
She just stood there, anger stopping her conceiving the revenge she thought he deserved. Then she spotted something, something on the worktop by the sink. She headed for it, ravenous strides devouring the ground between her and it.
At the worktop she unplugged the TV aerial, opened the window, shoved the TV out then shut and fastened the window. She clattered aside unwanted items, the electric tin opener, the whisk, the coffee blender. Each hit the floor with a clank until at last she lifted the one object she wanted. A yank at its cable tugged its plug free of the wall socket.
‘Could you treat my property with a little more respect please?’
‘Never mind that.’ She eagerly studied the object’s black plastic. ‘Let’s see how clever he is when this gets through with him.’
‘Teena?’
‘What?’ Her gaze was fixed to the thing like Cthulha’s had been fixed to her.’
‘That thing you’re holding?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Your deadly revenge?’
‘What about it?’
‘You do know what it is?’
‘Of course.’
‘And it’s …’
‘A sandwich toaster.’
Just so long as she knew.
Teena?’
‘Uh huh?’
‘What’re you doing to my sandwich toaster?’
‘The usual.’
‘Which is?’
‘Making a mind control machine.’
Sally sat facing Teena across the kitchen table as Teena reassembled the sandwich toaster. She’d already reassembled it five times, none of which had produced whatever result was desired. Each time, she’d point the thing at Sally, press its ON switch then look at her like she was a major let down. Then she’d start scrabbling away at the thing again. Frankly, Sally didn’t think she knew what she was doing.
In order to scavenge parts for her mind control machine, she’d dismantled every piece of electrical equipment Sally had and left it in pieces around them on the floor; her fridge, her microwave, her coffee blender, her radio, kettle, electric blanket, video recorder, her plastic flower that danced when you shouted at it – and the rest. If she wasn’t determined to be the best caravan park manager on Earth, Sally would have swung for her.
At a table covered with cogs, wires and assorted circuitry, Teena held a screwdriver to the sandwich toaster. Daisy watching intently over her right shoulder, she said, ‘It’s a simple yet complex device incorporating one connection for each connection of the human brain. Much as I’m loathe to take such action, finding it a plain nuisance, drastic steps are required if I’m to re-enter my mobile home.’
‘But mind control?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Is it really that urgent you get back inside?’
She stopped screwdriving and watched Sally across the table. ‘Have you seen my face?’
‘It looks okay to me.’ Sally shrugged.
‘It looks okay? Do you know how beautiful I am?’
‘I’m sure you’re gorgeous.’
‘Yesterday morning I was one hundred and forty-seven per cent too beautiful. A burden but bearable. Now, according to Browning’s Attractivity Index, I’m two hundred and ninety-three percent too beautiful. Three hundred percent is the figure at which female beauty would kill.’
‘How can you be getting more beautiful? We’re all stuck with what we’ve got.’
‘Adversity makes a woman more attractive. Once I’m back in the mobile home and my adversity level retreats, so my beauty levels should normalize.’
‘You’re not a nuclear reactor, you know.’
‘Some forces are stronger than any nuclear explosion, Sally.’ She resumed screwdriving. ‘This sandwich toaster will turn Landen into a walking robot. Then I’ll make him open the door.’
‘And then?’
‘I’ll hit him.’
‘?’
Teena tightened a screw deep within the machine. ‘Concussion therapy’s a valid part of any psychiatrist’s toolkit.’
Sally watched the weedy device which looked like it couldn’t even toast sandwiches anymore. ‘And this thing could do all that?’
‘No brain can resist its waves – apart from mine.’
‘What’s so special about yours?’
‘I’m too strong-willed. Its rays would simply bounce off my cerebellum and hit bystanders.’
‘Isn’t there an obvious flaw in this plan?’
‘None. I’ve thought of everything. I even have the right sized fuse.’ She held up the plug as proof. ‘A luxury in mind control circles.’
‘But how could it work on a man with no brain?’
‘It couldn’t.’
‘But Mr Landen has no brain.’
‘Nonsense.’ She tightened a screw deep within the device.
‘No, listen to me.’ She reached across and held Teena’s arm to stop her working. ‘He’s got no brain. You know that wing nut on top of his head?’
‘What about it?’
‘When you first arrived, and you told him to pay the week’s rent while you went veil buying, he unscrewed the wing nut and removed the top of his head. I almost passed out. Then he reached inside and pulled out a wad of notes. Teena, I’ve seen inside his head. There’s nothing in there but a tub of margarine.’
Teena shook her arm free but kept working at the machine. ‘Mr Landen has one of the finest brains in England. I’ve seen it myself.’
‘When?’
‘Whenever he’s removed it.’ She tightened another screw.
‘Removed it?’ Sally’s gaze scampered all over her.
Then Teena stopped work. Then she did nothing. Then she put the screwdriver down. Then she stared at the far wall. Then she said, ‘Ah.’
‘Ah what?’
‘To enliven his lectures, Mr Landen often removes his brain. For demonstration purposes he passes it round his students. As a joke, one of them must have substituted a tub of margarine for his brain and he placed it back in his head; an easy mistake for a brainless man to make.’
‘What sort of idiot would play a trick like that?’
‘We shouldn’t be too hard on the students. I’m sure they were just being high-spirited.’
‘But they’d have to be complete morons.’
Teena said, ‘I remember hearing once about a young student who played the same trick using a goldfish she’d won at a funfair. Of course, in her case, she was very young and very sorry for any harm she’d caused and wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing now.’ She turned red and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. ‘That goldfish was swimming round in there for two months before anyone got suspicious.
‘That may explain his odd behaviour since coming away with me. I’d been putting it down to lust but total brainlessness would provoke identical behaviour in a man.’
‘Teena?’
‘Uh huh?’
‘How can a man live without a brain?’
‘Many people live without a brain.’
‘No one I know does.’
‘Are you sure?’
Uncle Al leapt to mind. She pushed him aside.
Teena said, ‘When autopsied, one in thirty people are found to have had little or no brain function in life. It’s a mystery of modern science. Statistically speaking, you know someone with no brain.’
Cthulha leapt to mind. Sally pushed her aside.
Teena said, ‘The media exaggerates the brain’s importance. For a woman such as myself, a brain’s indispensable. But for an average person, like you, its main use is as ballast whilst swimming.’
‘So your invention won’t work.’
‘No.’
‘And you’ve ruined my sandwich toaster.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve ruined my washing machine.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve ruined my TV.’
‘Yes.’
‘And I can’t have coffee.’
‘No.’
‘And I can’t watch TV.’
‘No.’
‘And I can’t do the washing.’
‘No.’
‘So what can I do?’
Teena shrugged. ‘Is there anyone you know whose brain needs controlling?’
‘Only yours.’
eleven
Last thing that night, Teena lay on the top bunk, reading Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time and scrubbing out the wrong bits. One of these days she was going to have to have a word with Mr Hawking.
‘Teena?’ Sally appeared in the doorway. Clearly hiding something behind her back she beamed, ‘I’ve been thinking.’
‘Yeah?’
‘As you don’t like being sellotaped to your bunk at nights, I’ve thought of a better way to keep you safe.’
Teena squinted at her distrustingly. ‘And that’d be …?’
From behind her back, looking far too proud of herself, Sally Cooper produced a full set of, ‘Chains!’
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