Looking for Mrs Dextrose (24 page)

As I turned to walk away, she spoke more loudly, battling for defiance. She said: “You know I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth, don’t you?”

As I reached the passenger door Dad was beside it, waiting. “You can get in first,” he said. “I’m not sitting next to that mink.”

I pulled myself inside. The passenger seat was two bums wide, in ripped brown leather with extruding foam. Charlie stared at me – I noticed straggly red hair tumbling from beneath the hat,
and his freckled cheeks were sunburnt. In his mid-twenties, he looked like a little boy, a farm-boy, battered by the weight of the world. He looked nervous and put-out.

No one spoke for a while, lost in an aura of unease. At least we were putting miles between ourselves and the past. The cab was warm and our top speed was a dizzying 55 mph,
though the old crate’s workings mithered.

Then Charlie said, “So, er, what exactly happened back there?”

Dad slid down in his seat and hunched his shoulders.

“Long story,” I said.

“Well, I’m all ears! Haha!” He paused. “I’m not, of course. All ears. That would look stupid! They’d have to call me… no, hang on… got it!
Ear-ic! Eric – geddit?” He really was very nervous.

We did owe him an explanation. I told him: “We stopped at the Lonely Bush Gas Station. The old woman killed our friend there.”

He fidgeted in his seat. “Hell. I wondered what had happened back there. Saw the big hole and the debris, then I spotted the old lady, seen her occasionally, though it’s the old man
who fills up the truck. She was pretty beat-up, but I helped her up, and she said, ‘My boys, I gotta find my boys. Will you help me?’ What could I say? So I kept me eyes peeled and then
there you were in me headlights, down by the side of the road.” Charlie turned to me. “So who was this friend of yours? A good friend?”

I thought about it a little too long. “Yeah.” It didn’t seem right to speak ill of the dead.

“What did she do to him?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Did she blow his head off with a shotgun? I saw a gun back there.”

A thought struck me. “Are there any police around here?” That’d put a stop to her psychopathy, once and for all.

“There’ll probably be one in Flattened Hat. That’s where I’m headed. I’ll drop you boys off there.”

“How far’s that from Pretanike?”

“Last town before it. Well, only town before it!” He nudged me and winked. I had no idea why.

At least our luck was shaping up. After all the perils, we seemed to be landing on our feet.

Charlie asked, “So what happened to the gas station?”

“You’ll have to ask him,” I replied.

A little louder, aiming Dad’s way, Charlie repeated, “So what happ…”

“Mink off!” snapped Dextrose.

“Alright, I’ll tell you,” I said. “He shot it and it blew up.”

Charlie whistled a long whistle.

“By accident,” I added.

“Nevertheless,” he said.

Nevertheless? “What do you mean, ‘
Nevertheless
’?”

“Well, you can’t go around blowing up people’s livelihoods.”

“
She killed our friend!
”

He shrugged. “Like I said: nevertheless. Cops might not see it that way.”

I was gobsmacked. “Is that what passes for justice around here?”

“Pretty much,” he replied.

I would reconsider involving the police.

Charlie sat very close to the wheel due to his lack of height, head extended, alert, ostrich-posed. Dad had fallen asleep and was gently snoring. At regular intervals he would
blow off, moist-sounding with a steamy, rainforest vibe, the stench tangible. We wound down the windows.

I felt so very tired too, but couldn’t sleep. Instead I watched the road ahead, illuminated only so far by all those headlamps, and felt comforted as the sands to either side flowed
past.

Charlie told the occasional lame joke.

“What did Batman say to Robin before they got in the Batmobile?”

I didn’t know.

“Robin, get in the Batmobile!”

At other times, the young driver and I would bat around pitiful conversation.

“How long you had the truck?”

“Ten years. No, maybe eleven. No, ten. D’you like it?”

“Uhuh.”

But generally I gave in to my thoughts.

The recent bonding with my father was playing on my mind. Drawn together in adversity, we had perhaps begun to understand a little of one another. I had felt a warmth from him that a son is
entitled to feel. My concern was whether it would last. Doubts hovered. He had been roughly sober of late, which could surely not continue indefinitely. And then what?

Already he had seemed crotchety since meeting Charlie. Could he cling to that gentler side of his nature? Something in my gut suspected otherwise. No other person I’d met had been so
obstinate, obdurate, melancholic and tough to endure.

If I could only keep him off the booze until we found Mrs Dextrose, perhaps he would see what he had missed and we could all live together as one happy family? I wanted to picture her delight
when we found her, our embrace, but the only photograph I’d seen of her was so dated I couldn’t imagine what she might look like these days.

How incredible if we could find her… A cold flush enveloped me and panic set in. Where was Dextrose’s sketch? And that map of Pretanike given to me by Quench? Did I have them on me?
Or were they among my luggage, toasted back at Lonely Bush? They were key to our search.

Furiously, I patted my pockets, causing Charlie to quip, “Got ants in your shirt?” Then I remembered discovering a secret pocket sewn beneath the safari suit’s collar –
and there they were, tightly furled.

My relief was tempered, however, by the realisation that I had not found my battered old copy of Dextrose’s book.
The Lost Incompetent
had accompanied me not only throughout my
travels, but since the age of 18, since I had become a man, of sorts. As I racked my brain, I remembered with a shudder that I had packed it carefully into my rucksack. The rucksack tied to the
bike.

It was gone. My old companion.

I doubted there was much call for it in the bookshops these days, not 25 years since its publication. Nor with a readership, one suspected, smaller than the average Dead Vole Fan Club AGM. So
that was that.

I slumped down beside Dextrose feeling very sorry for myself, and looked across at his unconscious head with its weeping sores, scabs and pustules. Then I thought to myself: why worry when I
have the real thing?

Conclusively bored.

“So what do you do, Charlie?” I asked.

He turned to me and pulled a stupid boggle-eyed expression, waggling his tongue and going, “Wlwlwlwlwlwlw!”

“I do that!” he said.

I could not bring myself to humour him. “I meant for work.”

“Yeah, I knew.”

“So what do you do, then, Charlie. For work?” By then I didn’t even want to know.

“I tune bagpipes.”

It was the first funny thing he’d said, and I chuckled despite myself. I’d expected him to work on a farm.

Charlie looked hurt. “No, I was serious.”

“Jesus,” I said. “I didn’t even know you could tune bagpipes.”

“Course!” said Charlie. “You can tune anything.”

“Rubbish! You can’t tune…” I plucked something from the ether, “beetles.”

He thought for a bit. “No. But that’s just one thing.”

“Alright. You can’t tune biscuits or gravy or the name Gavin…”

“You’re just being stupid. They’re not instruments. I tune bagpipes. OK?”

“OK. How’s business?”

“It’s fine.”

I could tell it wasn’t.

“How many bagpipes have you tuned?” I asked.

He performed some mental arithmetic out loud. “One… two… thr… no, one. No, two. Two if you count me Pa asking me to tune his bagpipes, but then not paying me
anything.”

“Who was the other customer?”

Dad snorted. (A sarcastic reaction or some part of his sleep process, I couldn’t tell.)

Charlie chose to ignore my question. “In Flattened Hat, where we’re headed, they have a big theatre, so I’m pretty sure there’ll be some work there.”

“Because all the plays are big on bagpipes?”

“Yep.”

I felt a bit sorry for him and wondered whether I could steer his career in another direction. “What did you do before you tuned bagpipes?”

“I sold hair products.”

That sounded more lucrative. “What, like hairdryers and curlers and stuff?”

“Well. It was more hair product, really.”

“Gel and sprays?”

“No, I meant hair product as in just the one hair-related thing.”

I was lost.

“I sold combs, Pilsbury. I sold combs, if you must know. But there was no money in it. Here.” He pulled a plastic blue comb out of his top pocket, the prongs laden with browning gunk
feasted on by nits. “You can have that. I’m done with combs. Fuck combs. Combs are shit.”

I held it by one corner and dropped it into my deepest safari-suit pocket.

“So what do you boys do?” asked Charlie, with a hint of antagonism.

“We’re… we’re explorers,” I said, monitoring Dextrose’s reaction in my peripheral vision. He didn’t stir.

“Wow!” said Charlie, unable to help himself. Then added, “So where you been?”

“All over, really.”

“Anywhere special? Cos I’ve never seen the point of explorers.”

I heard Dad mutter, “Minker,” under his breath. So he was awake.

“Take Captain Cook,” our driver continued. “What use was he?”

“Well…” was all I managed.

“Anyone could have done what Cook did. If they had a boat. Or Christopher Columbus! I’ve never even been to America! So I mean, what use was he?”

That seemed to be an end to the matter, and I was grateful when the conversation dwindled in the aftermath.

As the fat old sun lofted its jaundiced, balding bonce above the horizon, tendrils of light pierced the windshield and I realised I must have fallen asleep. Before us now I saw
flocks of birds and vegetation in clusters. We were closing in on civilisation.

Most amazingly, in this bizarre flat land, where not even a mole had dared to raise a hill, I spotted ahead on Charlie’s side of the road, an actual protuberance. “What’s
that?” I asked excitedly, pointing.