Looking for Mrs Dextrose (17 page)

“Sorry,” I said. “Miles away.” I noticed we had finished our drinks.

As I got up to buy more beers, I stumbled and nearly took a fall. The long day, the sun, my exertions, and now the booze, had all taken their toll. I also realised that I
needed the toilet for the first time since entering Socks ‘N’ Sandals, no doubt a result of dehydration and the previous night’s unusual diet at the feast with the Q’tse.
Importos’ next free beer would have to wait.

Bri, Si and Kai were lost in Dextrose’s latest tale – one I recognised from
The Lost Incompetent
, concerning crewman Shark’s conviction that he had seen the Holy Grail
in a vision – as I hovered behind them, pathetically holding up my hand like a schoolboy, hoping to gain their attention.

“Which way’s the toilet?” I asked, timidly.

Bri, Si and Kai burst into laughter as Dextrose reached one of his inevitable punchlines.

“Which way’s the toilet?” I tried again, louder.

“Mink off!” snapped Dextrose, not even looking at me.

“Yeah, mink off!” went Si, turning and sneering.

“Yeah, you minker!” went Kai, to renewed guffaws.

I gave up. “I’ll find it myself, shall I?”

No one replied.

Well, it couldn’t be that tricky: there were only those two cubicles to choose from.

I made first for the one on the left.

“Not that one,” came Bri’s raised voice. “That’s my room.” Did he mean that he actually
lived
here: in this crapfest, in that tiny space?

As I pulled on the wobbly door-handle of the other cubicle, I was hit by a wave of acrid fumes that made me recoil. Twin urinals, stained and leaking, side by side – fairground attractions
for touristic germs – and sodden wooden flooring, nothing else. No sit-down.

Could I hold it in? I hovered for a moment and decided that I couldn’t. What to do? That which had begun as a desire had elevated to desperation.

I returned to the bar and closed the door behind me, gratefully gulping in the comparatively fresher air. “Excuse me!” I said with feeling.

“
What now?
” wailed Bri, as if I had been pestering him with sanitation-based enquiries all night.

Dextrose slammed a fist on the bar, Kai put his hands on his hips and glared at me, then Si did the same.

“Is there anything more than a urinal?” I ventured.

Kai slapped his knee. “Oh that’s lovely! D’y’hear that, Si? He wants to know if there’s ‘
anything more than a urinal?’
That is
priceless!”

“Yeah, that’s priceless,” agreed Si, slapping his knee.

Kai tapped Dextrose on the arm. “D’y’hear that, Mr Dextrose? He said he wants…”

“I heard what he minking said,” growled Dextrose.

The idiot looked put out. “Yeah, well I was just going to say, you should put that in your next book. That’s all.”

As if there would be a next book, given the state of him. Were any member of the Dextrose family likely to document their travels, it would have to be me. In fact, I decided there and then, I
might even do just that. If he could do it, I was damn well sure I could. The conviction gave me strength.

“Hilarious as my query was, I do need ‘more than a urinal’, so if you’d point me to the sit-down I’d be very grateful.”

Kai winked at Bri. Then Bri said, “Yeah, listen, mate. I never got round to plumbing one in. So we
go
out back, if you get my drift. There’s a hole out there, mate.” He
pointed at the back door.

Socks ‘N’ Sandals’ patrons hooted derisively.

“Mind your pee while you poop, mate!” wheezed Kai. “Wouldn’t want you attracting one of them toads!”

I swallowed, hard, and stared at the back door.

They were all watching, stifling glee with hands to mouths, as I lifted the catch and pulled.

“Go on, mate,” called out Si, the weasel. “It won’t bite –
or will it?
”

The comedy genius.

I had no intention of letting them witness my nerves shredding as I wept freely, so I dived outside, slamming the door shut behind me. Instantly my heart stopped and my senses came alive.

It was quiet out there, disconcertingly so, though the dry, cool night air provided some comfort. My eyes darted from side to side, scanning what ground I could make out under the faint
illumination of a crescent moon. I stood rigid, straining my ears to detect the presence of even the tiniest movement – because one thing was certain out there: I was not alone.

Any fool knows that night-time equals party time for the unconsciously inhuman. Earthly abominations on four, six, eight, ten legs and more, I feared them all. They were all going about their
dastardly business under cover of darkness, smelling the air keenly, seeking person-flesh.

As I feared I imagined the sounds, so they came. A tiny footfall here, a shuffling in the sand over there, the Doppler-effected buzz of insect wings cavorting around my ears. Or was my mind
playing tricks?

…What was that? Over there, perhaps a hundred yards up ahead, out into the gloom. Had that been… a scuttle? It had. What scuttles, I wondered. Rodents? Yes, rodents. Rodents with
their teeth bared, rife with the diseases of carrion. Or lizards: they might easily scuttle. All nasty-scaled and venom-fuelled, with their creepy crests and pensioner-skin.
Arthropods
. The
family of fuckers including the scorpion. Anything with an exoskeleton was not pissing about. Arthropods would surely scuttle.

I backed towards the door, already only a few inches away, shuddering, and marched on the spot, which kept each alternate foot off the ground for a small amount of time. My intention was to
confuse ground-based attackers.

But, wait a second. Hadn’t that sound been more of a scamper? It had. Hadn’t it? A scamper was surely less sinister than a scuttle. Stars of Disney cartoons scampered. Yes, it had
been a scamper, I convinced myself.

Hauling down a deep breath, I relaxed very slightly. Fact-wise, I hadn’t actually seen anything, even with my night vision starting to kick in. I had
thought
I’d heard
movement, but the sozzled paranoid mind is apt to play tricks.

Just maybe I could do my business real fast, if I found Bri’s hole? “Come on!” I told myself out loud.

And then I heard the tiny, high-pitched ‘Ribbit’ – at least, I could have sworn I did. I’d been so worried about non-amphibians that the twinkle-toed toad had completely
slipped my mind. No longer. Thumbnail-sized, the sadistic critters might feasibly have been gathering around me as I cowered in the doorway. Tens of them, perhaps hundreds, barely burrowed into the
sand, only their beady eyes above the surface, gazing longingly at my fly region. ‘Pull down the zip! Pull down the zip!’ I imagined them urging me in toad thoughts.

Or… Sweet Jesus, what was that? Directly to my left, and close enough that I might be able to touch it. I darted my gaze towards the sound, saw nothing. There it was again! Was
that… toad
frottage
?

It was the final straw.

I turned on a penny, grabbed the catch and hurled myself back through the door with such abandon that I tripped on the step and was launched into Socks ‘N’ Sandals, arms and legs
flailing, like Gene Kelly via catapult. As my internal instrument panels went haywire and my gyros worked to right me, I heard the joyous whoops and catcalls of the guys at the bar. I burned with
indignation.

Now I really had to go. The fear had exacerbated my need.

As I picked myself up off the floor, Kai taunted me: “Brought any toads in with yer, Pils mate? If yer know what I mean!”

“Yes, I know what you mean, Kai,” I said. “I’ll use the toilet in here, if that’s OK with you?”

Bri piped up: “Hey, you can’t use that if…”

I cut in: “Don’t worry, Bri. The moment has passed.”

It hadn’t.

I would have to work quickly, since Bri would be suspicious, but I had a plan.

Pulling a bag of Sheep Shavings from my jacket pocket, I emptied the contents onto the floor. Peeing into a urinal with one hand, I held the opened bag beneath me with the other, trousers around
my ankles. The bodily functions were such a blessed relief that I almost failed to hear the footsteps on floorboards – someone was approaching. There was no time to think.

I dropped the filled bag into my trousers, yanked them up and was zipping up my fly as the door swung open and Bri stood in the doorway, brow furrowed, gob agape despite the smell. “Are
you done yet?”

“Sure,” I said, praying the bag had closed by itself. “All sorted!”

He looked down at the floor. “Where’d these Sheep Shavings come from?”

“Those?” I thought fast. “Already there when I came in.”

It confused his tiny mind and he mulled it over while seconds ticked by. Finally he decided: “Yeah. Sounds reasonable.”

Great. Now leave me alone.
Go!

But Bri didn’t go. With the mannered gait of a detective cross-examining suspects on sofas, he walked to the next-door urinal and began very slowly to grapple with his own fly. Though I
felt sure his need was not genuine, what could I do?

So I smiled at him and edged gingerly towards the door, hoping he would not spot me mincing unnaturally. And when I sat down very gingerly
opposite Importos, having exchanged nods with the chaps at the bar, wearing a fixed grin, I made sure my thighs were very far apart and just prayed I wasn’t perched on anything untoward.

“Where beer?” demanded Importos. I noticed he was slurring.

How was I going to get rid of the bag?

When I failed to respond, Importos persisted: “Where beer? You to buy beer.”

What if the contents were already seeping out?

“Hey!” he banged his empty glass down on the table.

It did feel warm down there, but it also felt dry. I reckoned I’d got away with it. Reached a stasis.

“I to talk!”

“Yes, I know you’re to talking! Look, why don’t you get the drinks for a change?” I chucked some cash at him.

He shovelled it up in his great mitts. “OK,” he huffed. “Zis one only.”

I could try to work the bag down my trouser leg and ditch it on the floor, like they did with all that soil in
The Great Escape
. But what if it got stuck? Or someone
spotted me shaking my leg vigorously?

Importos returned with four more beers. My head swam. The alcohol, the wankers at the bar, the tension, the confusion: they were all getting to me.

I made a snap decision, rose and headed for the toilet. I’d extricate the bag and just get rid of it. Anywhere.

But Bri’s voice emerged, among my swirling plans. “No you don’t mate! Bog’s out of order!”

I didn’t even protest. I just turned on my heel and sat down.

Importos’ long, happy face was there in mine, as he lofted his glass toward me. “Hey! As to say in Green Golan: ‘Pingu!’” He had free beer. He was smiling.

I clinked my glass against his. “Yeah, Pingu.”

“I to tell more story,” he said. “You like.”

Dextrose swivelled his corpulent bulk around on his stool – or rather, Duane’s stool – and stared at me. I wondered what was in store: drunken abuse or the
genial ranting of the contented sop?

“Come join us,” he called out.

Wonders would never cease.

He swayed on the stool, reached for his glass and downed the contents. “Got some good news for yer, boy. Harrison Dextrose is preparing ’imself to forgive yer. Anyone who chauffeurs
him to this gent’s oasis can’t be all bad.” He was arseholed, so the ‘this’ came out more like ‘thizzz’. Mind you, I was probably as bad. Like father, like
son.

“Come on, boy, come and join us,” he persisted. “I’ll tell yer about the whorehouses of High Yawl! Priscilla Split and Phoenicia Splay! Feet on the ceiling and baby-oil
by the bucket. I’ll never forget ’em. Or those other ones.” He nudged next-door Si in the ribs. “You’re gonna minking love this one!” he told him, blinking
furiously like Icarus approaching the sun.

I’d read the High Yawl story more often than I cared to remember. Good old Dextrose, rogering his way around the globe. All harmless fun. But things had changed. “You know,
Dad
” – I stressed the word though no one seemed to notice – “I do have your book. I’ve read it many times.” (Yup, that had sounded like
‘timezzz’.)

His blistered, burnt, buggered face somehow lit up. “There! See!” he announced to the room. “A fan! An’ where is we? In the middle of minking nowhere. See? Can’t
escape ’em! Is that what yer’ve been after all this time, yer young codger’s coccyx: an autograph?” He nudged Si again. “All he had to do were ask!”

He, Bri, Si and Kai roared with laughter, as if a fabulous joke had been cracked.

Over the din, I tried to explain: “No,
Dad
, I don’t want your autograph. I want…” But it was pointless. He had lost interest.

Importos reached across the table and enveloped me in an extensive hug, smelling of ale, sweat and manliness. “You friend!” he announced.

In my alcoholic haze I decided I was warming to him, though he went on to dominate the conversation. He told me how Detritos had left home at 16, neglected by his parents and dejected, though
the two brothers had supported and loved one other. In the ensuing years their contact had been only sporadic, as the dwarf wandered about the globe finding work and solace here and there.