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‘Moo?’
‘Because only special people get a Spooder Yo-Yo. That’s what humans get to do. We get to sprawl naked across our car at sunrise and kiss it till it hurts. Cows just get to stand around chewing grass. It must look pretty flash to you.’
Sally assumed she meant the chrome-tube tangle that jutted from it at seemingly random angles.
Cthulha told Daisy, ‘My boyfriend’s souped it up with some weird technology of his. Now it does six hundred miles an hour and a thousand miles to the pint. How fast can you go?’
‘Cthulha,’ Sally said. ‘Not many people bother asserting their superiority over cattle.’
‘Says a woman who works for squirrels.’
‘I don’t work for squirrels.’ Suddenly she was looking everywhere but at Cthulha.
Cthulha looked upwards.
Sally looked upwards.
Mr Bushy was on the edge of the caravan roof. He looked down at them, wearing a little red crash helmet, with knicker elastic tied to his tail.
He bungee jumped off the caravan, boinged just above the ground, recoiled several feet into the air, plummeted again then hung there by the tail.
Sally turned red.
Cthulha said, ‘Even I can figure out what you’re doing.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Training it to do death defying stunts because you’re so desperate to be an entertainer’s assistant you’d even accept being assistant to a squirrel.’
‘And why shouldn’t I?’ she protested. ‘No one else’ll work with me, and I happen to be the best damn assistant this town’s got.’
‘Apart from that bit where you kill the turn.’
‘This is a showbiz town. I have to be in showbiz.’
Cthulha lowered her little round shades to the tip of her nose. She looked over their rims at her. ‘Sally, the fact that Charlie Williams once played a venue within ten miles of the place doesn’t make it a showbiz town.’ She prodded her sunglasses back into place. Hands in pockets, she watched the squirrel dangle. ‘Are you leaving this here?’
Sally said, ‘He likes hanging there.’
‘Says who?’
‘I can tell he does.’
‘Does it pay rent? I can’t see Uncle Al letting it stay for free.’
‘Mr Bushy pays three pence a week with dropped coins he finds under caravans.’
‘And Dobbin?’
‘Daisy.’
‘Does it pay rent?’
Before Sally could answer, Teena appeared from round the far side of her mobile home. Gaze fixed on the offices, jaw clenched, she strode towards them. If she’d been a bull (and not just engaged to one) she’d have been snorting.
Sally took it that things hadn’t gone well at the mobile home.
Hands in pockets, Cthulha watched Teena all the way; ‘Jesus. Imagine that spread naked across your car.’
‘I take it you mean Dr Rama.’
‘That’s a doctor?’
‘And she’s not a “that”. She’s a woman.’
‘Oh yeah. You’re still into that hardline feminist “women aren’t objects” crap aren’t you? No wonder you never have any fun.’
Sally rolled her eyes.
Teena reached the offices, pulled open the door and entered. Its lax spring pulled the door to behind her.
Cthulha watched the door, imagining getting up to God knew what. ‘So, what’s the story?’
‘That big mobile home.’
Cthulha glanced across at it.
Sally said, ‘Her assistant’s locked her out of it. So she spent the night with me.’
Suddenly impressed, Cthulha twisted her head round to stare at her, ‘You gave her one?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m heterosexual.’
‘Jesus.’ Cthulha shook her head in disbelief and again watched the offices.
Sally said ‘I thought you were into men now. Only two days ago you were boasting about this great new boyfriend you’d found in a ditch.’
‘I have, and he’s okay. But you know there are times when you need a woman. No matter how hard they try men don’t understand our needs. No man’ll ever know what it’s like to have your head swell up eight times a month.’
‘Cthulha?’
‘Yeah?’
‘What’re you on about?’
‘Women’s things.’
‘Cthulha?’
‘Yeah?’
‘What’re you on about?’
‘Your head. You know?’
‘Cthulha.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Women’s heads don’t swell up eight times a month.’
‘Course they do. It’s a woman thing.’
‘No it isn’t.’
‘Doesn’t yours?’
‘No.’
‘Then why does mine?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘What about the Beloved Catherine?’
‘What about her?’
‘Her head must swell up fifty times a day at least.’
‘The Beloved Catherine’s hardly a typical example of womanhood, is she.’
‘No but–’
‘And in her case it’s down to air pressure, like a barometer.’
‘Do you think that’s what it is with me? Air pressure?’
‘Cthulha, I long ago stopped trying to explain anything about you. And who says your head swells up? I’ve never seen it swell up.’
‘Ninety-six times a year, you know what happens?’
‘What?’
‘My hat gets too tight.’
Sally glanced at the undertaker’s hat. Its black ribbon flapped in the breeze.
Cthulha said, ‘I can’t get the thing off some nights. I have to sleep in it. First thing next morning, it’s so loose it falls down over my eyes.’
‘Then don’t wear it.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘What is the point?’
‘My head must be swelling.’
‘Who says it’s not your hat that’s shrinking?’
‘I measured it. It’s always the same, twenty inches round.’
‘Then you must have a problem that’s unknown to medical science.’
Cthulha still watched Sally’s offices. ‘Do you think Dr Rama’d give me a medical?’
Sally reached into her jeans’ pocket, found an object among the handful of coins and retrieved it. It had been screwed up into a ball. Taking care not to rip it, she smoothed it out against her upper leg, then held it for Cthulha. ‘You see this?’
Cthulha cast a glance back at it and shrugged. ‘It’s a sweet wrapper.’ She returned her attention to the offices.
Sally said, ‘Daisy collected it first thing this morning and gave me it – along with two others.’
‘So?’
‘So what’s it made of?’ Sally angled it to glint in the sunlight.
Cthulha turned, and frowned at it. ‘It’s foil.’
‘Exactly. She’s collecting foil for Uncle Al’s campaign.’
‘Is it lead foil?’
‘They don’t wrap sweets in lead.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s poisonous.’
‘But how could it know about Uncle Al’s campaign?’
‘Animals sense things. They’re not too bright but they sense things.’ Unlike Cthulha who was not too bright and sensed nothing.
‘And she thinks a sweet wrapper’ll impress him into letting her stay?’ Cthulha shoved her face into Daisy’s. ‘Bye bye, Dobbin. You and your sweet wrappers are on a one-way trip to the abattoir.’
ten (#uf5c3aa7d-a1b0-5a85-91b1-4e66d1afeee9)
