Stephen Walker - Mr Landen Has No Brain

‘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.’

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.