Stephen Walker - Mr Landen Has No Brain

‘Sally?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Have you ever seen the movie Misery?’

‘Oh my God, that terrible woman. Can you imagine what it must be like to be trapped in a place with someone like her?

‘And what’s this?’ Last thing that night, Archie Drizzle the Dullness Inspector paid Safe Joe Safe’s Caravan Park a surprise visit. He stood in the offices’ bedroom, a middle-aged man with a brown suit, a Bobby Charlton comb-over and a Gladstone bag and watched a man who was bound, gagged and chained to a bunk bed.

Stood beside Drizzle, the manager said, ‘He was passing the camp, whistling. Before he could react, we grabbed him, coshed him and chained him to the bed so he can’t fall over and hurt himself. We at Safe Joe Safe’s are holding numerous people hostage who might otherwise hurt themselves. I think you’ll agree we’ve taken every possible precaution to make this the safest camp not just in Wyndham but in the whole world.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ Drizzle thrust his bag into the chest of the manager, who took hold of it while Drizzle stepped forward and inspected the captive’s bonds. They seemed firm enough, and the gag was tight enough to muffle whatever it was the prisoner was frantically trying to say.

But then …

… Drizzle realized what the man was wearing.

‘You fool. Don’t you realize what this is?’

The manager looked blank.

Drizzle said. This is a scientist.’

He still looked blank.

‘Denied, by you, the chance to express itself through mad experimentation, his subconscious may create monsters from the id which will run loose and destroy us all.’

‘Isn’t that a little unlikely?’

Before the manager could react, Drizzle slapped a sticker on his forehead.

That sticker said FAILED.

Morning woke Sally with the warmth of a rising sun and the twittering of birds. Her eyes opened with a string of tired blinks, adjusting to the light, and she stretched out in a yawn that extended her to her limits.

Then she relaxed, letting herself sink into a mattress that felt like love. She felt great. She felt more than great. She felt harmless. And beside her on the pillow Mr Bushy stretched out in a great long yawn that exactly mirrored her own. He held the pose then relaxed into a ball, snuggling his warm fur against her cheek. And she smiled. Could paradise be any better?

But then a thought struck her. She rolled onto her side, Mr Bushy scampering out of her way. She looked over the side of the bed. And she sighed with relief at not finding Teena on the floor dead.

Another thought struck her. She rolled over and looked over the other side of the bed, relieved at not finding Teena dead.

She rolled onto her back, and again sank into the mattress that felt like love. Smiling she watched the wooden slats of the bunk above and gently, so as not to wake her, asked, ‘Teena? Are you awake?’

No reply. Some people had the luxury of sleeping all day. Sally had no such luxury. She had a job to do; lives to save. She sat up, cast her legs over the side of the bunk, and planted both feet on the carpet. After leaning forward for one last yawn, she stood then turned a half circle. On her toes, hands on the safety rail, she checked the top bunk, ready to see Teena asleep.

Instead, she saw a nightmare.

The bunk was empty.

‘All right, Mr Landen, you’ve had your fun, now let me in. I’ve no intention of spending another night in that madwoman’s home.’ Early morning, Teena stood on her mobile home’s front steps, her knuckles machine-gun rapping its door.

The only reply she got was the rumble of objects being moved around.

She knocked again. ‘I know you’re awake, I can hear you pushing furniture up against the door.’

‘No, Dr Llama.’

‘No?’ She gazed at the door. ‘What do you mean no?’

‘I mean no. You should understand what that means. You are, after all, the expert linguist. You know how to say no in more languages than anyone else alive.’

‘I’m fully aware of the word’s general meaning. What does it mean in the context of you not letting me into my own mobile home?’

‘It means you can’t come in till you let me marry my bunny.’

‘Marry it?’ She frowned at the door. ‘That bunny’s a boy bunny. Since when have you liked boys?’

‘I don’t care. I love my bunny and won’t let you take him off me.’

Lepus called out, ‘Help me, female! Help me! He makes me eat celery.’

She watched the door, non-plussed.

Just to make her morning complete, Landen called, ‘Help me, Dr Llama! Help me! My bunny’s just sat on me.’

‘Lepus, stop sitting on Mr Landen,’ she sighed.

‘Not unless he lets me out.’

‘He can’t let you out unless you get off him.’

‘I don’t care. I’m not getting off him till he lets me out.’

But how’d she done it? How’d she got away? Madam Tallulah hadn’t been able to escape masking tape, and Sally hadn’t bound her with half the vigour she’d used on Teena. And yet, when Sally’d found the tape, its sticky side had collected so much fluff it must have been unpeeled from her flesh for hours. She must have got free as soon as Sally’d climbed into the bottom bunk.

And why’d she escaped? Didn’t she realize Sally was trying to help her? And if there’d been a certain pleasure in seeing Teena in discomfort, a sense of revenge for her rabbit antics, that was just a bonus and shouldn’t in any way be viewed as a major part of her reason for doing it.

She tried to put Teena to the back of her mind and concentrate on her work, sticking another square of foam rubber in place.

‘What’s the hell’s this?’ asked Cthulha, to her left, watching Daisy.

Sally took the final square from the box to her right, unrolled it then pressed it in place. She ran her palms along its edges to make it stick, pressed its centre then stepped back to admire her handiwork.

It stood before her, magnificent, Wyndham’s first ever caravan to be completely covered in foam rubber. You could throw yourself at it all day and never get hurt. Not that the two hippy geeks staring out of its window looked like they wanted to throw themselves at it. They looked like they wanted to throw her at something. But to do that they’d have to leave the caravan and, when she’d called round the other day, they’d refused to do so, pushing the rent out through a slot in the door. The sign on the doorknob might have said WYNDHAM FINISHING SCHOOL FOR DAINTY YOUNG LADIES but, to Sally, they were just two geeks.