Looking for Mrs Dextrose (30 page)

We had driven into sprawling commerce. The once arid, barren swathes of land either side of the Nameless Highway were replaced by stores and eateries in warehouses the size of
aircraft hangars – grey in colour, gaudy of logo – the closer we drew to the city.

Yummy Burger, Scrummy Burger, Best Pizza, Piece-a-Pizza, Pizza Piazza, Fashion Barn, Booze Barn, Shoe Barn, Cut That Barnet!, DIY Town, Toy City, Sofa World, Honest John’s, Pistol
Pete’s, Shirley’s, Garrison’s, Levy’s, Buy APet… And on it went.

Advertising billboards lined the road.

We drove past too fast to read the smallprint on the last one.

There were people everywhere now, milling, mingling, in melees, buying, buying, buying, and vehicles of all descriptions, sweeping past us, honking and jostling in their anxiety to deliver, to
collect, to consume.

I felt like Neil Armstrong, dropped from the moon into the ticker-tape parade through New York City, and wondered how unsettling all that humanity must have seemed to him.

“You’re not really a policeman, are you?”

I believe it was the first question Clemmie had asked me since we had set off.

“No,” I said, having only briefly entertained the idea of fibbing.

“Why’d’you say you were?”

I couldn’t really remember.

“Who’s in the cop car?” she asked.

“My Dad,” I told her. “He was a bit drunk.”

“So what happened? Why the cops?”

This time I threw a marquee-based party for the idea of fibbing. “He got beaten up by some guys in the bar. Got blamed for it – mistaken identity.”

“So where’d the guys go who did it?”

“Dunno,” I said. “Must have done a runner.”

“Too bad.”

“Yeah.”

“What you gonna do?”

I’d lost count of the number of questions she’d asked me! “Bail him out, I guess.”

“That’ll cost.”

“Will it?”

She didn’t reply.

I didn’t blame her – it had been a crap response.

At least she seemed to be warming to me.

Pretanike now loomed before us: ostentatiously high buildings, too many windows, choppers in the sky and a sense of electricity. Something clicked as anticipation coursed
through me. Suddenly anything was possible. The prospect of the city felt thrilling.

This was the end of the road. So much to achieve.

I made another mental list:

It did seem daunting, but I was positive. No, more than that, I was tingling. Pretanike had brought me to life, urged me to expect the unexpected. No holds barred. To dare is to do, my friend!
To dare is to do!

Clemmie turned to me, sunlight glinting off her tortoise-shells. “Nearly there. Worked out your plan yet?”

“Free Dad, then find my Mum,” I said.

“
Find your Mum?
Where is she?”

Tricky one. “Somewhere around the Statue of Charles Partridge?”

“Your voice went up at the end.”

“So does yours. Even when you’re not phrasing a question.”

“Whatever. You mean you’re not sure where she is?”

“No, no, we’re pretty sure.”

Distracted by the conversation, her foot had eased off the pedal. The driver behind honked. “Fuck you!” she shouted at her mirror, flicking a finger backwards. “Hang on, so
you’re telling me you
lost
your
mother
?”

“I didn’t lose her!”

“Then who did?” She wasn’t finding it amusing.

“Really, it’s not my fault,” I said. Then I made my play: “Will you help me?”

“Woah!” she exclaimed. “That wasn’t part of the deal. You’re lucky I drove you all this way. And it’ll cost you. Plus my return fare.”

But I didn’t want her to return. I had to show willing. “Sure, no problem. How much do you want? I can pay you now. With tip! You’ve earned it, hahaha!” (Bit
over-willing.)

When I had handed the notes over – an agreed amount that seemed a tad over the odds – and she had stuffed them into the front pocket of her dungarees, Clemmie said, “So you
want some help?”

My heart palpitated.

A shadow slunk across the bonnet and enveloped the car. Skyscrapers on either side, buffeted sounds of life, caged heat.

We had entered the city.

Clemmie pulled into a car park and stopped the engine. “I’m famished,” she declared. “I need a burger. Do you want one?”

I spotted a Yummy Burger over on the far corner, between Sharpshooter Sporting Guns and Timmy Loves Toys. “Yes I do!” I replied.

“Give us the money, then,” she said, holding out a palm.

“Sure!” I almost dared not tempt fate. “You’re going to help me then?”

She opened her door and stepped out of the car. “Maybe.” Half-smile. And away.

I could barely contain myself. My plan was only bloody working! How unlikely was that? Pretanike: theatre of dreams! The longer I could keep Clemmie in my company, the more she would get to know
me, the greater the chance I stood of…

A man in a black uniform wearing a peaked cap was standing in front of the car, writing in a notebook while peering at the registration number. My neck stiffened.

Although I stared at him, he studiously avoided my gaze.

He slapped a ticket on the windscreen, flicked a wiper over it then grinned at me broadly. He wore unruly, dark stubble and bottleneck glasses. The cap was too small for his head, causing it to
sit at a jaunty angle.

I leapt out of the car, shouting. “
What do you think you’re doing?
”

“Correction,” he said. “You mean: what have I done?”

It was true. “Yes, but… You can’t do that!”

“I can, sir. And I have.” He grinned again. His magnified eyes were giving me the fear and his voice sounded nasal, as if a bigger boy were holding his nostrils closed.

I reverted to pleading. “Look, my friend’s only gone for a burger. Over there.” I pointed at Yummy Burger, but he didn’t look. “We’ll be gone in a minute, I
promise.”

“Yes,” he said. “You will be. With a parking ticket for nonpayment.”

We’d only been stationary for 30 seconds, tops. Bastard must have been crouching behind a nearby vehicle. “I bet you love your job,” I said.

“Yes, sir, I do. If you would like to appeal the fine, the council’s Licences & Appeals Office is two blocks away, right out of the car park, 21-27 Shelby Street. But I
wouldn’t bother, if I were you. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” The git turned to go.

“You speccy tosser!” It just slipped out.

He turned back. I noticed his trousers were too short. In fact, his entire outfit seemed to have shrunk in the wash. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, sir,” trilled the tosser.
“But names will never hurt me.”

As he walked away, I dearly wished I’d had some sticks and stones.

When Clemmie returned I was unable to contain my outrage. “Look!” I blurted out. “You’ve been given a parking ticket!”

She ripped the offending documentation out from under the wiper. “What the fuck?”

“I know!” I agreed.

“No way, José,” snapped Clemmie. “I came here for you! So that’s
your
parking ticket, not mine!”

She screwed up the ticket and threw it across the bonnet at me.

Then she got in the car and drove off.

Clenching my fists as Clemmie’s bumper departed the car park, I shouted at no one in particular. “BOLLOCKS!”

How the hell had that happened?

I snatched the crumpled parking ticket up off the ground and launched it into space, then threw myself to the ground, beating my fists on the tarmac. Seconds later, I noticed a pair of shiny
boots beside my head.

“You seem to have dropped this, sir,” came the nasal voice.

I looked up. He was straightening out the ticket.

“I think you’d better come with me,” he said.

I was frogmarched to the Licences & Appeals Office, a dreary, concrete-and-glass building with no appeal of its own.

Inside, members of the public were queuing at windows, behind which were seated drones wearing joyless expressions. I joined the queue at the ‘PARKING FINES’ window, building up a
head of steam. Eventually, it was my turn to be served.

“Hello,” I said, thrusting my ticket through the gap beneath the window. “I’d like to appeal a parking fine.”

The man behind the counter wore a beige corduroy jacket with a shirt and tie. He had flat black hair that swept over his forehead from a right-hand parting, and a dark, brief moustache. His head
was very long. It looked like a stretched version of Hitler’s.

He ignored me, pretending to write something in a notebook.

“I’d like to appeal a parking fine,” I repeated, a little louder.

He put down his pencil very deliberately, though continued staring at the book.

I peered at him.

After several seconds he deigned to notice me, adopting a supercilious grin. “Yes?”

“I’d like to appeal a parking fine.”

“Would you? Would you now?” he said.

“Yes, I would.”

“Fine not quite right for you, was it?”

“How do you mean?”

“This fine you’d like to appeal. Not quite right for you? Not to your tastes? Somehow offended one’s
delicate sensibilities
, did it?” He enunciated ‘delicate
sensibilities’ very annoyingly.

I put my hands on the counter. “It wasn’t even my vehicle.”

“Do you have
any idea
how many times I’ve heard that one?”

“But it wasn’t! I was just a passenger and the driver had gone to get a burger.”

“Oh,” he said. “How tremendously convenient.” He rubbed his hands together and smiled that supercilious smile again. “Went to get a burger, did he, this driver of
yours? Bit peckish, was he?”

I was quite taken aback. “Yes!
She
was!”

“A lady? I see. No matter. Answer me this. Whom would you say was in charge of said vehicle, while this
lady-driver
was appropriating her repast?”

“Well, certainly not me! I was in the passenger seat!” My voice had become a little too high-pitched.

He was pretending to take down what I was saying in his notebook, moving his pencil across the page without actually writing anything. “The… accused…”

“What do you mean, ‘The accused’?”

He ignored me and continued. “The… accused… claimed… he… was… in… the… passenger… seat… while… the…
driver… comma… a… lady… comma… had… gone… for… a… burger.” He looked up. “Beef or ham?”

“I’m sorry? What?”

“Beef or ham? The burger?”

“
What does that bloody matter?
”

“I’ll put beef,” he said. “Not that it matters really.” Report concluded, he hammered the pencil into the page for the final full stop, breaking the lead, then
glared at the broken point as if it were the pencil’s fault.

“Forget it,” I snapped. “I thought you’d just hand out forms here?”

He shook his head violently as if waking himself up. “Yes, that’s right!”

“Then I would like the form for appealing a parking fine.”

He pointed to his left. “Two windows down,” he said. “I revoke dog licences.”

“But it doesn’t say that above the window! It says ‘PARKING FINES’!”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it would.”

I was dumbfounded. “What?”

“This is the parking fines
window
, but I’m not the parking fines
officer
. No. We like to swap about a bit, you see? Gets very boring sitting in the same seat every
day.”

He’d lost me.

“See Darren there, two windows down, he’s in charge of parking fines.” He went on: “Darren’s in my seat, I’m in his. We swapped seats. At lunchtime. Change of
scene.” Supercilious smile. “So if you wouldn’t mind queuing at that window, I’m sure Darren will cater to your every whim.”

“You’re kidding me!” I snapped. “I’ve been queuing here for…”

“Goodbye!” he said, and pulled down the roll-blind over his window.

“I know you’re still there,” I said.

He didn’t answer.

Dutifully, meekly – pathetically – I joined the other queue, which was naturally the longest in the building, and waited there seething. When the fat bloke in front
of me was finally finished and I heard the “Next!” I walked up to the window.

It was him – the same idiot who had served me at the previous window.

“It’s you!” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “Darren got rather bored with that seat, so we swapped again. Perfectly reasonable, don’t you think? Do you enjoy a change of scene in your
work?”