Kitabı oku: «Mr Landen Has No Brain»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

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seventeen

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fifty

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fifty-eight

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Keep Reading

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By Stephen Walker

About the Publisher

one

‘Quiver, female, for I am Lepus, master of the night, and soon you shall be my rumpy-pumpy boing-boing toy. Carrots. Carrots. Must have carrots.’ And the ‘master of the night’ crashed out of Teena Rama’s mobile home, leaving behind a huge, rabbit-shaped hole in the wall.

From where Sally Cooper stood, just inside the front doorway, she could hear him knocking wheelie bins over in his quest for carrots.

Across the room from her, Teena gazed out through the hole and watched his rampage. Still holding the shroud she’d had him hidden under before his grand unveiling, she enthused, ‘Is he the best boyfriend you’ve ever seen or what?’

Mobile home? Sally’d been in smaller mansions. ‘Teena, he’s a rabbit. He’s a seven foot, talking rabbit.’

‘A super-evolved talking rabbit,’ Teena corrected her.

‘He referred to me as “female”, called me his rumpy-pumpy boing-boing toy–’

‘Which some would find flattering.’

‘–and is more interested in carrots than in me. And you think that’s a great boyfriend?’

Teena rolled up the shroud and cast it aside. ‘His attitude leaves a little to be desired but whose boyfriend’s doesn’t?’

‘Yours, according to you.’

Teena raised a suggestive eyebrow. ‘Sadly not every woman can have a Man Who Does.’

‘Just how desperate do you think I am that I’d go out with a giant rabbit?’

‘At the risk of sounding insensitive, Sally, you must face facts.’

‘What facts?’

‘You’re not an attractive woman and can’t afford to be choosy.’

‘Piss off,’

Knuckles on hips, Teena gazed at the floor and smiled bitterly to herself. She was five foot ten, nineteen years old and – according to her – sex on legs. She was wearing cut-off-at-the-knee jeans, and a red vest cut just high enough to bare her pierced navel. If she had hair, Sally’d never seen it. It was hidden beneath the mass of starched polka dot rags that now hung half-obscuring her oh-so-lovely face. Teena said, ‘Well, how’s that for gratitude.’

‘Gratitude?’ Sally’s mind boggled.

Teena looked across at her. Her perfect left hand dragged the polka dot rags away from her perfect face and tucked them behind a perfect ear. ‘I slave away during my holiday, super-evolving life forms for you–’

‘Life forms? Plural?’

‘I also have a cockroach and a rubber plant I’d like you to meet.’

‘Good God.’

‘But you throw it all back in my face. Yes, as men go, they’re not that great, and in the rubber plant’s case it’s not all that male, but you have to appreciate that my techniques are not yet perfect. I’d love to create a Brad Pitt for you but I’m no goddess, I have my limitations. I did my best for you and that’s all that matters.’

‘Teena, for the last time, I’m happy as I am. I don’t want you trying to make me boyfriends.’

Teena rolled her eyes in a way that suggested disbelief.

‘You really want to help me?’ said Sally.

‘I only do these things for your benefit.’

‘Then repair that hole and recapture that rabbit. Then un-super-evolve it and its mates back to how they should be.’

‘But–’

‘And if you make one more attempt to find me a boyfriend

‘Yes?’

‘I’ll kill you.’

Sally slammed the mobile home’s front door behind her and stood on its top step, counting every conceivable way of killing Teena. There were a hundred and eighty seven. She looked at her surroundings; the caravans, mobile homes and wailing seagulls that made up Wyndham-on-Sea’s largest caravan park. Just nineteen, she was its youngest ever manager. And, apart from one highly noisy resident, there wasn’t a soul in sight.

Three days earlier there’d been souls in sight, two of them, when the world’s biggest mobile home had pulled into camp, a gleaming white double decker the length of a Eurostar, the sort of thing the Rolling Stones would refuse to take on tour because it was too ostentatious. In the passenger seat, all long limbs and gleaming shark grin, had sat Teena.

The driver was her assistant, Mr Landen, a small man who made vroom vroom noises as he drove.

He’d said Teena was the world’s greatest scientific prodigy all grown up, engaged and determined to have one last week of dullness before settling down to a life of marital excitement. And this particular stretch of North Yorkshire coastline had struck her as being as dull as they come.

Teena had said she was a total babe. The last four years running, she’d won the New Scientist Playmate of the Year Award. And while she didn’t approve of such things – they demean women and trivialize their contribution to science – that didn’t stop her pulling on her shortest, lowest-cut dress and turning up to collect them.

Now she was out to find Sally a boyfriend. It was to do with pity; it wasn’t fair for other women not to share the pleasure she’d found. Teena never used the word love.

Resigned to another five days of the woman, Sally descended the mobile home’s three metal steps, turned left and headed for her managerial offices, a low flat roofed building that incorporated her living quarters. On the way, she ignored that one resident in sight, the giant rabbit whose front-half was now trapped in a wheelie bin. For a master of the night it didn’t seem too bright but few people in this place did.

She reached her offices and grabbed the door, ready to enter.

But then, reflected in the door’s wire-glass, she saw them …

… the spinning moose heads of Bab’s Steakhouse.

‘Hello?’ Sally stuck her head round the front door. ‘Anyone here?’

No reply.

So she entered the dining area and took a look around. The moose heads of Bab’s Steakhouse, a low, purple building directly facing Sally’s offices, had only spun once before. She hadn’t expected to see them spin again before the restaurant’s grand opening, which wasn’t for another five days.

According to her Uncle Al (the caravan park’s owner), when those heads started spinning, the public would gasp in awe at their majesty. No one would be able to resist going in.

But at the try out, as soon as the heads had started up, the antlers had flown out with such force they’d decapitated the grinning shop window dummies meant to represent enthralled bystanders.

When she’d last talked with her uncle, he’d said that after a long and involved search he’d just hired the cook, a sterling woman with a wealth of experience – some of it involving cookery. And, though the steakhouse wasn’t technically a part of the caravan park, despite being slap bang in the middle of it, Sally felt she should introduce herself.

But this was the most disturbingly decorated restaurant she’d ever been in. She tugged at one of the chains hanging from the violet ceiling. It rattled. She imagined its manacle around her wrist and pulled an appropriate face.

And what was that by the window? An iron maiden?

Sally pushed open the black, round windowed door that linked the dining area to the kitchens. ‘Hello? Anyone here?’

Still no reply.

She saw a small, white kitchen kept in a state of psychotic tidiness but she saw no cook.

She stepped into the kitchen.

Then someone hit her over the back of the head.

two

‘Touch your toes, female, and you shall learn what it is to be brought to ecstasy by a supreme master of love making.’

‘Thank you for your generous offer but since I’m an engaged woman and I forgot to give you any genitals, I don’t think I’ll bother.’ Having finally got him back into her mobile home, and out of the wheelie bin, Teena stood Lepus before her. Mr Landen was hugging the rabbit’s right leg. He was four foot tall, his flat head was as wide as his shoulders, and he had no neck. His one huge eye and one tiny eye gazed adoringly up at the rabbit as he stroked its leg a little too fondly for her liking. Still, she should have been grateful that someone was taken with the thing.

And perhaps Sally did have a point about Lepus but the situation might yet be saved. She said, ‘If you’re going to impress Sally into wanting you as a boyfriend–’

‘Oh, no, I don’t want to be her boyfriend,’ said Mr Landen in a voice half Peter Lorre, half childlike, ‘I’m happy with my bunny.’ And he rubbed his cheek against its fur to prove it.

‘I was talking to the “bunny”,’ she said.

‘Oh.’ He stroked on.

She told Lepus, ‘If you’re to be her boyfriend, you’ll have to smarten up your act.’

‘Smarten up–?’

‘No more sexual boasting. And a little more style.’

‘Style?’

‘Young women like style. It shows a man’s more than an animal. And to help you achieve that style, I bought you something to put on your head.’

‘Is it a carrot?’

‘Generally speaking, wearing a carrot on your head isn’t stylish.’

‘In rabbit circles, only the king rabbit gets to wear a carrot on the head. The rest of us must watch in envy as, once a week, he parades before us beneath his carrot.’

‘How quaint. But I think you should settle for this.’ From behind her back, she produced the black fedora she’d been hiding.

He studied it, nonplussed. ‘And what is this?’ He sniffed at it.

‘It’s a fedora.’

He nibbled its edges.

She said, ‘If you want to be a master of the night, you could wear that and a monocle, and perhaps carry a silvertipped cane. Let’s see how it fits.’ She stepped forward, yanked it from him, made sure the nibbled side faced the back and, stretching on tiptoes, attempted to place it on his head at just the right tilt.

‘Run, bunny, run!’ Mr Landen urged. ‘She’s trying to strangle you!’ And, half barging the startled rabbit over he pushed it toward the closet in the far wall.

Teena watched them flee. ‘Mr Landen, you can’t strangle someone with a hat.’

Half pushed, half running, Lepus said, ‘Quiver, female, quiver, for I am heading for a cupboard.’

‘Mr Landen?’ she asked still holding the hat.

They ran into the closet.

They slammed the door.

And she heard them lock it from the inside.

Then there was silence.

She watched the closet door, baffled. If she hadn’t known Landen was Britain’s leading brain scientist – herself excluded – she’d think him a complete moron.

Lepus’ door-muffled voice said, ‘Quiver, female, quiver, for now I am in a cupboard.’

Some days weren’t worth climbing out of bed for.

three

Why did her head hurt like a squashed melon?

Why could she smell cooking?

… And why could she hear a knife being sharpened?

Bleary eyed, Sally pulled her hair away from her face then checked her watch. Slowly, slowly it came into focus.

Two hours?

She’d been out cold for two hours?

And where was she?

She raised her head to look around. She recognized those white walls and that psychotic neatness, those gleaming utensils and polished cupboards. She was in the restaurant kitchen, lying face down on its table. Above the sizzle of simmering liquid a woman’s voice trilled,

‘Some day my prince will come.’

Then Sally noticed; each of her own fingers wore the tiny chef’s hats that self-satisfied people put on chicken legs to make themselves look like real cooks. She looked down. Her shoes were gone and her toes had been decorated like petits fours.

And her face …

Her face had been basted?

She looked up again and winced, the movement making her head hurt even more.

Five feet away, in red PVC boots, a G-string and PVC corset, a woman stood over the cooker. Her back to Sally, she stirred the contents of a deep pot, her black hair hanging down to her waist. Finished stirring, she tapped the ladle three times on the pot’s rim then placed it beside the biggest meat cleaver Sally’d ever seen. She took a box of salt, broke it open and emptied it into the pot. Her velvet voice told Sally, ‘Don’t mind me, naughty girl. I’m just here to cook you.’

That was what she thought.

Before the woman could react, Sally was off the table and out the door.

four

‘Uncle Al?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s me; Sally.’ The moment she got back to her offices, before she’d even got her breath back, she was on the phone to him.

And he’d better have a good explanation.

He said, ‘Sally who?’

‘Sally Cooper. Who do you think?’

‘I may know numerous young ladies of that name.’

‘Like who?’

‘Sally Dunstable.’

‘And who’s Sally Dunstable?’ she asked.

‘It doesn’t matter who she is.’

‘Whoever she is you don’t know her. You don’t know any young ladies.’

‘I know Miss Go-La-Go-Go,’ he said.

‘Cthulha’s not famous, young nor a lady. And she works for you.’

‘So?’

‘So she doesn’t count.’

‘Then what about my beloved Catherine?’ he asked. ‘Does she work for me?’

‘No.’

‘And are you saying she’s not a lady?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Because if you were–’

‘She’s a Japanese sniper.’

‘I find your attitude wounding. And so would she if she were here.’

‘She is there. And she’d find nothing. Speaking of wounding–’

‘Yes?’

‘Your new restaurant.’

‘I have two; one in town and–’

‘The one facing this building.’ Now sat at her desk, she prised open the Venetian blinds and peered out at it. It stood there in all its purple gory, no sign of a madwoman coming after her.

Her uncle said, ‘Young lady, only three factors matter in business; location, location and location. That restaurant fails on all three counts.’

‘Then why …?’

‘Mr Dunnett assures me its losses will lop substantial amounts off my next tax bill.’

‘Your cook’s just tried to eat me.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘She was about to stick me in the oven.’

‘Were you on her table?’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘If it’s on her table she cooks it. She was most insistent on that at the interview. For five years she was a school dinner lady.’

‘So?’

‘So that’s how they do it in schools. With hundreds of mouths to feed there’s no time for fussing over ingredients. Each year numerous school boys disappear in such a manner.’

Sally pressed the bump at the back of her head and winced at the pain it produced. ‘Uncle Al, she knocked me out to get me on that table.’

‘A woman of initiative.’

‘She wears S+M gear.’

‘That’s right.’

‘What kind of school was this?’

He said, ‘I’m not at liberty to say but it produced half the British Cabinet.’

‘You don’t think you should sack her before she kills someone?’

‘I’m counting on her killing someone.’

‘What!?!’

‘Oh, no one important, just one of your more socially challenged guests; old Mr Johnson perhaps, the one with the pervert dog.’

‘Transsexualism’s not a perversion. It’s–’

‘Dogs didn’t do things like that in my day.’

‘No one did anything in your day.’

‘I did,’ he said.

‘I know you did. My God, you never stop regaling us with the full sordid details. But I was talking about real people.’

‘Regardless, if Barbara kills someone, I won’t have to pay her redundancy when I close the place down the day after my tax year ends.’

‘And you’re saying Charlie Dunnett suggested this?’

‘Well no. He doesn’t know about that part. And I suggest you don’t tell him – or Barbara won’t be the only one seeking a new job.’

‘Uncle Al?’

‘What?’

‘You don’t think she was involved in that scandal last year?’

‘What scandal?’

‘You know perfectly well what scandal.’

‘Sally, I know how much that incident upset you. It upset us all but you mustn’t go seeking scapegoats. Barbara’s merely a woman who was attracted to the town by its subsequent reputation and should not be implicated.’

Then Sally realized; ‘That’s why you hired me.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You’re hoping I’ll kill someone!!’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘You don’t think I can do the job!!! You’re hoping I’ll accidentally kill someone. Then you can sack me without paying compensation.’

‘I may be planning to close the park at a similar time to the restaurant, yes.’

‘I don’t believe this!’

‘Never mind that.’

‘Never mind that!?! You don’t want to pay your own niece compensation!?!’

‘Well perhaps I’d want to pay her compensation if she hadn’t been such a let down.’

‘And what does that mean?’

‘You know.’

‘No, Uncle Al, I don’t.’

‘You want me to spell it out for you?’

‘Why don’t you?’

‘C-H-I-E-F C-H-I-R-P-A.’

‘Uncle Al, I won’t apologize for not having grown up to be king of the Ewoks.’

‘Some girls would.’

‘No girls would.’

‘Miss Go-La-Go-Go would.’

‘She probably thinks she is king of the Ewoks.’

‘And you could be, if you’d only meet those genetic scientists I told you about.’

‘What kind of man adopts his niece in the hope she’ll grow up to be a warrior teddy bear?’

‘Chief Chirpa of the Ewoks happened to be the cutest character in all science fiction. Some girls would be proud to be him/her/it.’

‘You don’t even know what sex it was.’

‘Sex isn’t a factor in the magical world of George Lucas.’

‘Do you know how sad you are?’ she said.

‘Do you know how disappointing you are?’

‘Shut up! she said.

‘Getting back to the point,’ he said.

‘Which is?’

‘The reason I wanted to know just who you were was because you might be Sally Dunstable pretending to be you.’

‘And why would this Sally Dunstable want to be me?’

‘To get her hands on what you’ve got.’

‘What’ve I got? And if you say the love of a good uncle–’

‘News.’

‘What news?’

‘The kind that’ll make you think God loves dull people.’

‘I’m not dull.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘I have a busy and active social life.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘I have friends.’

‘Piffle.’

‘I have fun.’

‘Never.’

‘And, though I may currently be sans boyfriend, I’ve been known to have sex.’

‘With a face like yours?’

‘With a face like mine.’

‘How can men sink so low?’

‘Clearly some can.’

‘This “fun” thing,’ he said.

‘What about it?’

‘Stop it at once.’

‘I’m not ruining my social life for you. I–’

‘Ruin it for a million pounds.’

‘What’re you on about?’

‘That’s what’s on offer to the safest caravan park in Wyndham.’

‘That’s us buggered,’ she said.

‘I’m not sure I like your attitude.’

‘Uncle Al, half the people who stay at this camp are suicidal. That’s why they come here, to sit alone in their caravans listening to Radiohead.’

‘I prefer to call them characters.’

‘And have you seen the latest two?’

‘They had tea with me last week.’

‘Who did?’

‘A delightful young lady and her pet chimp.’

‘The chimp was Britain’s leading brain scientist,’ she said.

‘Then why did he eat my cushions?’

‘Now do you see my point? They don’t strike me as being the safest people to have around.’

‘Nonetheless I have faith in you.’

She’d noticed. ‘And if I win I get a million pounds?’

‘The Council feels the huge death rate among tourists is damaging Wyndham’s reputation as a fun place to be – not to mention that scandal last year. So, as a publicity stunt, they’re offering the reward. I’m offering you a one percent commission.’

‘Offer me fifty.’

‘Fifty?’ he said.

‘Sixty.’

‘Sixty!?!’ He sounded like he was about to have a seizure. Good!

She leaned forward in her chair. ‘Uncle Al, without my help you get nothing. With my help you get four hundred grand.’

‘I could easily hire someone else to do your job.’

‘And have me spill the beans about “Barbara” and your little scheme? Or maybe I should tell her about it and she can come and get you. Have you seen the size of her meat cleaver?’

He slipped into a deep silence and considered the issue.

She waited, impatient, fiddling with the handset’s coiled lead. She checked on the restaurant again. Still no sign of cooks. She released the blinds. ‘Uncle Al?’

‘Young lady?’

‘Yes?’

‘I suggest you set about stopping your guests from killing themselves, forthwith.’