Mr Landen Has No Brain. Stephen Walker

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      ‘Why not?’

      ‘I’m heterosexual.’

      ‘Jesus.’ Cthulha shook her head in disbelief and again watched the offices.

      Sally said ‘I thought you were into men now. Only two days ago you were boasting about this great new boyfriend you’d found in a ditch.’

      ‘I have, and he’s okay. But you know there are times when you need a woman. No matter how hard they try men don’t understand our needs. No man’ll ever know what it’s like to have your head swell up eight times a month.’

      ‘Cthulha?’

      ‘Yeah?’

      ‘What’re you on about?’

      ‘Women’s things.’

      ‘Cthulha?’

      ‘Yeah?’

      ‘What’re you on about?’

      ‘Your head. You know?’

      ‘Cthulha.’

      ‘Yeah?’

      ‘Women’s heads don’t swell up eight times a month.’

      ‘Course they do. It’s a woman thing.’

      ‘No it isn’t.’

      ‘Doesn’t yours?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Then why does mine?’

      ‘I’ve no idea.’

      ‘What about the Beloved Catherine?’

      ‘What about her?’

      ‘Her head must swell up fifty times a day at least.’

      ‘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.’

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