Looking for Mrs Dextrose (31 page)

“No I don’t! What am I supposed to do now?”

“Up to you, sir.”

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve queued at this window?”

He studied his watch then looked at me. “About 20 minutes?”

“Yes, that’s right. And now what am I going to do, since you’re in charge of dog licences?”

“To be fair, it does say ‘DOG LICENCES’ above the window.” He pointed upwards.

“Yes. I. Know. That. But
you
told me to come here!”

Innocent expression. “Did I?”

“Yes, you did.”

No reply. Just a look.

I went on: “So what am I going to do?”

He slapped his hands on the desk and peered at me incredulously. “It’s all me-me-me with you lot, isn’t it? I’ve noticed that. Do you have any idea how very, very tedious
it gets, handing out the same forms to the same shower of ingrates, from the same seat, day in, day out?
Do you?
”

I shrugged.

“See?” he said, in the manner of one who has proven a point. “That’s what I mean: not an ounce of concern for
my
welfare.”

I’d had enough. “Can you give me a form for appealing a parking fine?”

“No,” he said, adding in a helpful voice: “But if you’ve had trouble with any dangerous dogs?”

“Right then, I’d like to speak to the manager.”

He tilted his head. “My service not good enough for you?”

I was incredulous. “
No, it isn’t!
”

“Because I’ve never had any complaints before.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Very well!” he snapped, and stood up. He rapped on the window with his knuckles and stood on his tiptoes to look over my shoulder.

“Excuse me! Excuse me! Yes, you, the lady behind this git.” (He mumbled ‘this git’, but I heard it.)

I turned around. The old lady was pointing at herself, mouthing, ‘Me?’

“Yes, you,” he said. “Would you say you’ve had received perfectly reasonable service here?”

“Who, me?” she said.

“Yes, you! Are you deaf?” He enunciated very slowly. “Would… you… say… the… service… here… has… been… very…
reasonable? Dear?”

“Certainly,” she said, in an eager-to-please voice.

“But she hasn’t even been served yet!” I pointed out.

He took his seat. “She might have been here before.”

This was ridiculous. “I’d like to speak to the manager.”

“Right!” he snapped, and stormed off muttering to himself.

I waited a full ten minutes while the queue behind me became restless, and I had to avoid catching anyone’s eye – as if the situation were my fault.

Finally, the same man returned, sat down at my window and put his hands on the desk. “Yes?” he said.

“I wanted to speak to the manager!”

“I am the manager,” he said.

“But you’re the same idiot I’m trying to complain about!”

“I’m afraid we won’t tolerate that sort of language.” He was trying to put on a different, more authoritative voice.

“What?
‘Idiot
’?”

He glared at me. “If you use that word again, I shall have to call Security.”

“I’ve told you, I want to speak to the manager!”

He replied through gritted teeth. “And I’ve told you. I. Am. The. Manager.”

“But you’re the same…” I had to check myself. “You’re the same
person
who served me, about whom I am trying to complain.”

He sat there looking pointedly confused, before a huge grin broke out across his face. Dawning enlightenment! “Ah, I see! I see what’s happened here! Yes, we often get confused, me
and him, him and I, that person and this person who is myself. People quite often mistake one for the other. Because, you see, we often wear the same jacket.” He pushed his collar forward, so
I could inspect it more closely.

“You’re the same man!”

“I assure you I’m not. I’m the manager.” Supercilious grin.

“You’re an idiot,” I said.

He pressed a button beneath the counter. Two uniformed security guards appeared from nowhere, put a hand under each of my armpits and carried me away.

I found myself alone in a small, airless office, seated at a bare table. An angle-poise lamp had been plonked in front of me and turned on, interrogation-style; however, since
the room was bathed in daylight, its effect was lost. There were pages pulled from magazines pinned to one wall, each featuring some form of law-enforcement officer puffing out their chest in a
pristine uniform, with the title: ‘
AREN’T COPS SEXY? MAGAZINE
–
THIS MONTH’S PIN-UP
’.

One of the security guards who had carted me away from the Licences & Appeals Office entered the room carrying two Styrofoam cups, sat down opposite and placed one in front of me. He wore a
black uniform with a black-and-white cap (‘SECURITY’ written around its band) and had eaten too many pies. His head tapered outwards from his temples to his shoulders, as if a small
child had fashioned it from slowly melting butter. There was a large sweat patch on his white shirt, hovering over his chest region, and I could tell, despite the hat, that he was bald.

“Are you aware of your crime?” Security Lunk asked, in a voice that was thick and gloopy.

“No, I’m not,” I said, wondering whether he needed a decongestant.

He snatched back the cup previously given to me and downed the contents in one. “I’m not here to play games,” he said.

Neither was I. “As far as I’m aware, I haven’t committed a crime.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said. “What’s your name”?

I sighed. “Pilsbury Dextrose.”

He narrowed his piggy, dark eyes. “Trying to be funny, are we?”

“No,” I said. “That’s my name.”

“Alright, where’s your ID card?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Everyone in Pretanike has an ID card,” he said. “That’s the law.”

“I’m not from Pretanike.”

“Not from Pretanike?”

“No.”

That seemed to stump him.

He heaved himself up and began pacing the room, thoughtfully rubbing the area where his chin should have been.

“Can I go?” I asked.

“Not until the police arrive,” he said.

I couldn’t believe it. “The
police
? What have I done to involve them?”

The door swung open and a uniformed, 30-something woman walked in, wearing a face chillier than a Yeti’s toes.

“Ask them yourself,” said Security Lunk.

The police officer sat down opposite me.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” the lunk asked her. His voice had risen a couple of octaves, all smarm, though still gloopy.

She ignored the question. “What’s the charge?”

“While appealing a parking fine, ma’m, he twice referred to a licensing officer as an ‘idiot’.”

“Leave!” she snapped, waving him away with a hand and eyeballing me.

Her lips barely existed. Her face looked as though it had never experienced laughter; it was pointy like a ferret’s, and she wore her bleached hair tied back in a bun beneath her police
hat. She sat with both hands on the table in front of her, leaning forwards, ready to strike.

She stared at me, never blinking.

“
CALLED-A-COUNCIL-OFFICAL-AN-IDIOT-DID-WE-SIR?
”

It was a high-pitched shriek, emitted so quickly that the words rolled into one. I nearly fell backwards over my chair in a bid to escape it.

“Christ!” I yelped.

“
DO-YOU-HAVE-ANY-IDEA-OF-THE-PENALTY-FOR-BEING-IDIOTIST?
”

I didn’t. Even had I done so, I wouldn’t have been able to speak.

The officer stood up, walked to the door and peered through its little window. When she returned to her seat, she looked different. Less tense. She picked off her hat, reached back and pulled
out the bun, shaking her head to let the hair fall. She replaced the hat.

“Sorry about that,” she hissed.

What the hell was going on? Good cop/bad cop featuring just the one cop?

She leaned forward. “Sometimes they listen in.”

“Sorry?”

“Don’t be,” she said. “I’m Halo,” she added, holding out a hand.

I was too shaken to shake.

“It’s OK, I won’t bite,” she said.

Pulling a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, she offered me one and lit her own. “I hate being a fascist,” she said. “But we’re in a recession so I took what work I
could get. Soon as there’s a vacancy at the garden centre, I’m outta here. So, what’s your plan?”

I accepted the cigarette even though I didn’t smoke, choked on it and stubbed it out. I explained how my plan of sorts had already been ruined by the parking-ticket fiasco.

She listened intently, then said, “I’m guessing you’re something to do with the tramp they just brought into the station.”

Tramp? It had to be. “Drunk old man, face messed up?”

“That’s him.”

“Well… yes. How did you know?”

“You have the same eyes and nose.”

I didn’t. “He’s my father. Can I see him?”

“They’re deporting him. Next flight out.”

“
What?
” I yelped.

Halo leaned forward and clamped a hand over my mouth. “Shhhhh!”

“Bllwn?”

She released her hand.

I tried again. “When?”

She looked at her watch. “On the 17.50 flight to London, England. He’s sobering up in the cells and being driven to the airport at 15.40. You want to join him?”

“Well. Yes. Please. I suppose I have to. But I have to find my mother first.”

“Why? Where’s she?”

I explained as succinctly as possible, interrupted only by her sharp intakes of breath. “Your father’s a moron,” she said, and I nodded. “The Statue of Sir Charles
Partridge is about a dozen blocks away. You’ll make it in ten minutes in a taxi.”

“Can I call one from here?”

“You got an ID card?”

“No.”

“Then you can’t get a taxi.”

“What? You can’t get a taxi without an ID card?”

“You want me to write it down for you?” She sighed, flicked her cigarette butt onto the floor and lit another. “You gotta move. If you run you’ll just have time to look
for your mother. But be back at the cop station next door by 15.15. I’ll make sure we get you on the flight with your father.”

“What if I find her?”

Halo raised an eyebrow. “You really think so?”

“I have to try.”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Thanks,” I said, and got up to leave.

She began tying her hair back into a bun. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Am I?”

“Parking fine,” she said.

“Do I have to?”

“No way round it.”

As I was about to shut the door behind me, a thought struck me. I leaned back into the room. “Is there such a crime as being idiotist?”

“Sure,” she said. “How do you think the people making the laws protect themselves?”

Having feverishly studied the map of Pretanike torn from Quench’s book, I attempted to memorise the route and ran.

The pavements were teeming with people, many dolled up for work, others ambling with shopping bags. I zigzagged between them as fast as I could, breathing noisily. I was trying to stay calm,
planning my next moves like a chess player, estimating speed and direction of those heading towards me, shimmying this way and that. It reminded me of my rugby-playing days at school. How I had
hated that game.

Always at the back of my mind was the thought that I was wasting my time. For so many reasons: