Looking for Mrs Dextrose (14 page)

Authors: Nick Griffiths

As I gazed around me, witnessing the sheer expanse of sand on every side, I realised how far I had come – physically and mentally – and was reminded of my childhood beach
holidays.

Our family breaks were invariably a disaster. Father and Mother refused to go abroad – allegedly too concerned about the dangers of sunburn; in reality too tight – so we had endured
a variety of homegrown resorts, once a year in August. The old family photograph albums were packed with shots of miserable people sheltering from thunderstorms under plastic hats and
umbrellas.

It hadn’t helped that I had been the only child, that Father was such a killjoy and Mother his lapdog. It was he who had told me, aged five, that Santa didn’t exist, and who had
squashed a moth on my pillow one night, claiming in the morning that I had rolled over and killed the tooth fairy.

There were times when I sensed that my very presence annoyed him. Rarely on those seaside holidays would he join in with my building of sandcastles, so I remember being surprised when he once
offered to bury me in the sand. One is supposed to leave the head showing but Father just kept on shovelling, until I spluttered and Mother urged him to stop. When he did, he was breathing heavily
and his face was flushed.

Another time I had made a little friend named Timothy, and we’d played in the hotel grounds together. Timothy had guns that fired caps, friction-driven racing cars and a cowboy outfit; I
had a hoop that could be rolled along the ground with a stick. Timothy’s parents showered on him the usual seaside treats: fish and chips, sticks of rock, outsized lollipops, the sort of
fripperies of which Father disapproved. He actually mocked up candyfloss using cotton wool and a stick, so that I could wander the promenade without looking neglected of confectionery to
passers-by.

Whenever tension arose between myself and Father, I would retreat into Mother’s bosom, where she would silently stroke my hair. He taunted me as “Mummy’s boy”, which
seemed to him the worst of insults.

Though she sometimes dared to call him Humphrey, he always referred to her as ‘Mother’. I was knocking on puberty before I discovered she had a name, too: Mildred. (There had been an
awkward moment during one school holiday, when I had been unable to sleep and had overheard my parents indulging in what I imagined was a rare night of passion. In between rhythmic squeaking,
Father had clearly said, “Not there, Mildred”.)

I knew nothing about their past together, because the subject was off-bounds. What drew them together, I could only assume, was the attraction of opposites. What had possessed such a stiff,
soulless couple to adopt a child, I doubted I would ever know.

Importos had been tapping repeatedly on my bonce, and when I stopped he informed me that he needed a wee. As he loped off to the side of the tarmac, grumbling to himself, I
noticed that Dextrose’s face was looking rather red, and I wondered whether I shouldn’t have left it angled directly towards the sun.

Panicking mildly, I found an oily rag among the ancient toolkit beneath the saddle, soaked it in water and laid it over his face. Once I could no longer see his damaged skin, I felt much
better.

“I been to zink of my bruzzer,” said Importos, when he had concluded his business.

“Uhuh?” I replied warily.

“When he to call Importos, say I to help Senor Alexander, he to tell will call also Gossip, for to say OK. This call, it does not happen…”

“Maybe he’s just not near a phone?” I suggested, quelling a facial tic.

“Maybe,” said Importos.

I could tell that he wasn’t convinced.

The sky had changed colour, from the watery blue of a baby’s eyes to the red of blood dripped in water; the deepening tones of the sand and the sky merged almost as one.
The sun was directly behind us but I was keen to witness its setting, so turned the bike 180, switched off the engine and sat there in silence. I believe even Importos was taken aback, because he
too said nothing.

Clouds had appeared in strata above the horizon, in so many burnt orange hues. I stared at the sun, unable to resist its lure, until its white glow became tinged with blue and it seemed suddenly
to become a perfectly circular window, through which one might gaze into the outer reaches of space. Focused thus, my mind expanded. It might have been the end of the world we were witnessing.

The sun dipped gradually further, the sky turning shades of purple, until just the tip of an arc of whiteness remained, then the lights went out. Importos exhaled a whistle.

In that moment I was aware just how insignificant we were, we humans perched on a pebble among the heavens.

I had been driving in a trance, locked into the dim thrown cone of light of our wonky old headlamp. Above us the sky was pitch black, and I had never seen stars shine so
intensely; indeed, I’d had no idea that there were so very many of them. Occasionally, in the periphery of the headlamp’s glow I spotted a spiny blotch of vegetation, as if there might
be actual features among the landscape, this far along the Nameless Highway. Once, I swore I saw two pinprick glows up ahead that turned to black and were gone – perhaps the first sign of
animal life?

Dextrose remained unconscious, Quench’s potion having more than done the trick, and I encouraged myself to believe that we’d kidnapped and drugged him for his own good.

By my reckoning, we were tantalisingly close to First Stop when suddenly the engine coughed violently. The bike juddered, the noise ceased and we ground to a halt. According to the petrol gauge
the tank was full, which was impossible. Its pointer had previously languished either at zero or full, nowhere in between, perhaps offering an expression of the machine’s mood rather than the
fuel situation in its tank. Ignoring it, I faced the fact: we had run out of petrol.

No panic. Quench (again) had foreseen the prospect and had lashed to the rear of the sidecar a jerry can of petrol.

As I climbed off the bike, Importos cursed in his native tongue before demanding to know, “Is zere yet?” His voice emerged crystalline from the silence, then was obliterated by the
vast emptiness.

“Shhh!” I replied, and in a hoarse whisper, “You’ll wake Dad!” The longer he slumbered, the easier our progress would be. Indeed, I was absolutely dreading him
waking.

It was pitch black around the back of the bike, which made finding and removing the spare fuel can – as quietly as possible – tortuous. However, I managed it eventually, while
Importos monitored me as if he were conducting a time and motion study.

As I filled the petrol tank, the fuel glug-glug-glugging, quelling the urge to whistle, I swore I caught movement up ahead. Importos must have sensed it too, because he suddenly stared towards
the headlamp’s beam. Dust and insects were lit up in the glare as tiny random flares, like the imperfections in yesteryear’s celluloid.

Neither Importos nor I dared to breathe as we directed our eyes and ears towards the hazy, dim extent of the glow, some 20 yards ahead, sensitive to the slightest movement or sound.

Stillness. Silence.

Nothing to worry about.

Pretty sure.

By millimetres I eased my fear-frozen limbs back into action and resumed filling the petrol tank, the echo sounding deeper as the volume rose, until I could tell the liquid was
near to overflowing and the jerry can was half its original weight.

It was while I was reattaching the can to the sidecar that we heard it: a shuffling – as if someone were dragging a corpse. Coming from up ahead. And the sound was getting closer,
travelling down the Nameless Highway towards us.

“Shit,” I whispered.

“To get fucking out!” snarled Importos, through clenched teeth.

I slid my right leg over the leather seat and felt for the key.

That was when we heard it: “GBL-GBL-GBL-GBL-OINK!”

It was a sound like no other and it struck fear into my heart.

“GBL-GBL-GBL-GBL-OINK!” Closer still.

And then something appeared at the far reaches of the headlamp’s glare. A shape, crossing the road.

Importos’ teeth chattered.

The creature was a mutation, an abomination, a sin. It had the head of a turkey, the body of a flat fish and the tail of a pig. As it moved, its fishy body curved into a wave, propelling it
forward and making that disturbing dragged-corpse noise. It was big: larger in size than any of its respective elements as nature intended. I’d say it was about five feet long, three feet
wide, and its head stood four feet off the tarmac. It was a monster.

Forgive my lack of artistry, but it looked a little bit like this (only far more vicious):