D.J. Connell
Sherry Cracker Gets Normal

To my funny, remarkable mother Marion and her accomplice,

my excellent sister Jocelyn.

Contents

1

I can now safely say that nothing in life is…

2

I must have had expectations because I was disappointed when…

3

I have seen the man in the fuchsia trench coat…

4

The idea of normality was flashing in my mind’s eye…

5

Someone had been busy while I was in the café.

6

Saturday afternoon began in a damp way with light drizzle…

7

‘Nigel!’ I said, turning. ‘I didn’t expect to see you…

8

The scene I had witnessed replayed over in my mind…

9

‘Your future lies in my hands,’ called the woman from…

10

I stopped under the streetlamp at the corner and looked…

11

I awoke with a start, my heart racing. My eyes…

12

‘Old golfers never die. They just lose their drive,’ read…

13

Roger Bottle did not notice me walk up to his…

14

The bus was moving off when a familiar shade of…

15

Jocelyn stopped outside the door of the Mandarin restaurant and…

16

Nigel nudged me as the number two bus approached the…

17

I circled the pole several times and came to the…

18

As the bus reached the centre of town, I pushed…

19

I felt strangely invigorated as I strode away from the…

20

I looked around but saw no sign of the Dutty.

21

I put my ear to the door and heard a…

22

Herb Alpert’s barks were reverberating inside the stairwell as I…

23

Nigel poked his head in the office and looked around…

24

‘So it is true,’ I said. ‘You do have a…

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Other Books by D.J. Connell

Copyright

About the Publisher

1

I can now safely say that nothing in life is random. Everything that occurs is connected to whatever has gone on before. If I had not visited Industry Drive I would not have seen the sign and taken an interest in the mayoral campaign. The cardboard square had been stapled to a wooden stake: ‘Visit the site of Roger Bottle’s proposed factory. Globcom – providing safe, efficient cleanup solutions.’ I did not follow the arrow because this would have taken me back the way I had come and that was the last thing I wanted to do. The sign had aroused my curiosity and I made a mental note to follow it up.

I did not always understand the non-random principle. I had to learn it the hard way through a process called the Learning Curve. Apparently, the Learning Curve is a normal part of human experience. This is a comforting fact because, at least in this, I am like other people.

When I apply the non-random principle to the events of my life, I see them as a linear series of theatre scenes connected by an orange electrical cable that charges the dramatic incidents with confusion and opportunity. To get to the present day, the current has to run through all the earlier scenes, which means the decisions my mother made for me as a child still affect the way things work now.

It was my mother who chose our family dentist and it was the dentist who put me off power tools for life. The dentist must have been careless because as a young man he lost three fingers to a whirling chainsaw. I do not know how many times I have imagined this accident. I am thinking of it again right now. It happens very fast. The dentist attempts to pick up the power tool by its chain. There is a soft, dirty sound as his fingers fly off. The chainsaw slows and its motor stops. Then there is silence. The dentist looks at what is left of his hand and is very surprised.

The strange thing about the Learning Curve is that negative events seem to have the most impact. A cup of tea makes me smile but a bump on the head will make me think. That is what I have been doing a lot of lately, thinking. I think something big is going to happen soon. Julius Caesar probably felt the same way before he got a knife in the kidneys. Something is going on in the town. People are disgruntled and restless. There are signs and messages.

I found another message this morning on my way to work. I was an hour early and had stopped at the Kenneth Williams Memorial Rose Gardens to pass the time. I often go to the gardens before work because my employer does not arrive at the office until nine sharp and I do not have a key. He is very particular about office security and finances and does not believe in giving employees keys or paying overtime. If he finds me waiting in front of the office before nine, he calls me the ‘early cuckoo bird’. It is his habit to repeat this several times as he unlocks the first door’s three German locks while shaking his head. It is not my place to complain or answer back or even to make suggestions. My place is to do as I am told with maximum efficiency and minimum discussion. I understand the necessity of office efficiency but I find the non-discussion rule quite challenging at times.

My employer’s name is Mr Chin and he was not born in Great Britain. He came here from Hong Kong after the territory was given back to the Chinese government and he has been very disappointed ever since. He says the chicken chow mein you find in this country is slop and that the so-called Chinese responsible for producing it should have their shirts removed in public and be beaten with green bamboo. ‘No mercy is best policy,’ he says. ‘Must beat on backbone many time or fool never learn.’

That is how he talks. He has strong opinions and is very direct about voicing them. I appreciate this frank manner of speech and respect Mr Chin because he never promises anything he cannot deliver. Neither does he contradict himself. He likes to say that his word is gold and, as I have learned, there is truth to this.

On my first day at work, he told me that I would be employed on a project basis for a limited period of time. I signed no contract but according to my calculations there will be enough work to see me through an Open University degree in Criminology and Psychological Studies. I have chosen this course of study because criminology is a vocation with a future. Crime is on the increase in Britain and job security is high on my agenda. I have already paid the course fees and am looking forward to commencing studies at the end of summer.

This morning I found another person in the rose gardens when I arrived, a grey-haired man in a long fuchsia trench coat. It was the coat that caught my eye. Fuchsia is an unusual colour on a man. I watched him circle the memorial walk with a small yellow dog. He did a lot of shuffling and spent a long time examining the floral clock. Its hands are planted in a white succulent and are impressive against the blue forget-me-nots of the clock face.

I turned to watch him leave and noticed a new message scrawled in pink on the brick wall near the entrance. I did not know who had left the graffiti but it must have been someone with a civic conscience because it had been written in chalk: ‘THE TIME HAS COMETH FOR ALL THE GOOD MEN.’ Each capital letter had been written in a very firm hand and the choice of ‘COMETH’ was unusual. The author was clearly a passionate, even biblically–minded person.

This was the second message I had found in the rose gardens within two days. The first was a piece of paper with a single word, ‘Beefeater’, written in curly handwriting and attached to the mesh fence outside the urinal. The paper had been pleated lengthways and neatly tied to the wire with a single, flattened knot. It is a custom in Japan to leave such paper messages outside Buddhist temples. This is done to invite good fortune or ward off bad luck. The Japanese are a very pragmatic people but they are also highly superstitious. This is called a paradox and cannot be easily explained.

Another person might not have noticed the messages in the rose gardens but the written word has uncommon appeal for me. When I enter a building, I read ‘Push’ on the door handle out loud in my mind. I have seen people idly step over a crisp bag on the pavement while I pause to read ‘Enjoy the tongue-curling pleasure of tangy salt and vinegar.’

I have a file for FOUND WORDS in a subsection of my OBSERVATIONS ring binder. This binder is organised in chronological order and begins with an entry on December sixth of last year: ‘Mr Chin changed the locks today. The newsagent put up a new window display of birthday cards decorated with pressed flowers. No one knew it was my birthday.’

My mother would have described a window display of birthday cards on someone’s birthday as a coincidence. I have stopped using that word because it implies chance events in a random existence and, as I have already noted, life does not follow a random or even logical course.

The author B. Sigmund Pappenheimer believes that the meaning of life is to find the meaning of life, which is one of those ideas like infinity that I find difficult to grasp. If I think about it too long I get an empty feeling behind my sternum, which is the long flat bone located in the centre of the chest. You should avoid being punched on the sternum because the bone can shatter and puncture the lungs. Professional boxers take this risk every time they enter the ring. Boxing is a dangerous activity, like riding a motorcycle without a helmet. It is not something I plan to take up in the future. I think punching does more harm than good.

I am a big fan of B.S. Pappenheimer’s series ‘Nuggets of Life’, and own all eight of his books. These I bought by mail order from a PO box address. The books have a small paragraph inside the back cover, which explains that B.S. Pappenheimer is a Troubadour Philosopher with a PhD in Philosophology from an American university. It also says that he is a recluse and lives at an unknown location. It is unfortunate that B.S. Pappenheimer does not have a real address. I would like to meet him or at least write to him and discuss his theories. His ideas are challenging for someone without training in philosophology but his writing is very compelling.

Here is a quote from his latest book, Wheels Within Wheels: ‘Seen from above, the world is a swirling ball of dust. Its inhabitants, a wriggling swamp of DNA curls.’ His writing is very poignant and I would not be surprised if he won a Nobel Prize one day. He certainly makes me put on my thinking cap and that has to be a good thing.

The world was a lot more confusing for me before I created my OBSERVATIONS ring binder and began organising my thoughts. At least now I recognise certain patterns in human behaviour. But recognising is not the same as understanding or engaging, as well I know. For as long as I can remember, I have felt suspended over human society in a Perspex pod. This is quite an isolated position, and while my separateness poses no obstacle to observation and information-gathering, I still have a long way to go in terms of understanding human nature.

I have now compiled substantial character profiles of nearly everyone I know and it makes me aware of just how unusual people can be. I have learned that everyone has at least one tic that would be considered unusual if you read about it in an encyclopaedia. For example, Mr Chin likes to clean his ears with a paper clip. He does this at least once a day with his eyes closed and his lips pursed into a point. I have seen the paper clip he uses. It is always the same one and it has been half unbent to allow deeper penetration. This may sound like a strange if not dangerous habit but Mr Chin is a successful businessman and is not the least bit self-conscious about cleaning his ears this way.

One of my mother’s tics was to take on a completely different personality when she visited Mr Da Silva’s butcher’s shop. As she entered, her top lip would stop moving and she would use only the bottom half of her mouth to talk. This made her sound like Marlon Brando’s Don Corleone but she never did anything violent or illegal like the cinematic character. When she was in the butcher’s shop, she would act in a very respectful manner and give the various meats the same attention that a nun would give the Bible.

I have not heard from my mother for over half a year since she left to marry a sheep farmer in New Zealand called Barry Bunker. They met through a dating service for bachelor farmers and enjoyed a whirlwind romance over the telephone. Pastoral life has its advantages but it can be a lonely and isolated existence. Mr Bunker sent photos of his farm to my mother who was impressed with its acreage and sheep population. The farm was located in hill country and a one-hour tractor ride from its closest neighbour.

My life has been a lot simpler since my mother left. She was a fierce woman and believed she knew best about raising a child despite having never received formal training or supervision. When I was five years old, she launched a campaign to stop me biting my nails. Her method involved creeping up behind me and slapping my hand away from my mouth. This approach did not stop my nail biting but it did prompt a twitch to develop on one side of my face. The twitch went away once she lost interest and ceased her campaign.

Nail biting has always given me genuine pleasure but like all good things, you can take it too far. It was Mr Chin who pointed out that the habit had gone on long enough.

‘This chew, chew, chew get on my nerve,’ he said.

‘It’s a nervous habit,’ I said. ‘From childhood.’

‘Rolling of drawer not from childhood. Rolly, rolly, rolly always and constantly get on my nerve.’

He was referring to my habit of opening and shutting my large file drawer at least one hundred times a day. I knew it was one hundred times because I kept a written tally. Again, this was something that gave me pleasure. The metal drawer was heavy but extremely well-designed. Its small plastic wheels made a delightful whir as they moved quickly along their metal guide rails, never catching or jamming.

‘Sorry.’

‘Sorry not enough.’ Mr Chin shook his head and handed me a copy of the town’s free newspaper, the Cockerel. ‘You need a kind of hurdy-gurdy man with pendulum that swing. Best quality gurdy man from Hong Kong. But beggar not chooser.’

On the back page, he had circled an advertisement in the Classifieds: ‘Harrison Tanderhill, Registered Hypnotherapist and Master Chakraologist Imperial Grade A. Put yourself in the hands of an expert. Will cure addictions, perversions and overeating.’

I was interested in the addictions part.

2

I must have had expectations because I was disappointed when I arrived at the address. Mr Tanderhill lived on a service road running parallel to Industry Drive. This was not a very attractive setting for a professional therapist. His brick bungalow looked rundown and lonely beside all the warehouses, car-sales yards and showrooms.

In the days when Britain used to produce things, Industry Drive was the pride of the town and was called the ‘Golden Mile’. You can see how it once looked at the photo display in the council annexe building. The photos show smoke pumping out of chimneys and busy conveyor belts inside battery and bottle factories, men in overalls inspecting labels and working levers connected to cogs. One photo dated 1949 is entitled ‘A Hive of Industry’, and shows the mayor handing a large wooden key to the town planner, the Right Hon. Eric Rogerson. It was the town planner’s idea to consolidate industry along the road and start the Blue Line bus service to and from the area. This period in the town’s history is known as the Reconstruction Years. The mayor is wearing a large ceremonial chain in the photo and has his hand resting on the Right Hon. Rogerson’s shoulder. His fingers are small and look like miniature party sausages.

Many of the factories had already closed by the time I was born. As a child I would sit at the window and watch the last of the workers as they headed to the bus stop each morning. They wore rough woollen clothes and walked with their heads down, carrying lunch boxes and thermos flasks. As I grew up, I saw fewer and fewer of them. Some bought popular cars like Honda Civics and did not use the bus service any more but most were eventually laid off as the factories closed down. People like my mother blamed the recession on the European Union, particularly on the French. Others said it was Margaret Thatcher’s fault. These days, people blame bankers and many say the Chinese are the cause of Britain’s problems. They argue that if Chinese labour was not so cheap, industry would not have relocated. I think we should not blame the Chinese. It cannot be pleasant to sew handbags for a few pence a day. Here in Britain you cannot even buy a sandwich for less than a pound.

Most of the former factories along Industry Drive have now been converted into warehouses for imported products, which is something I do not understand. Britain is rich by world standards but does not produce or export much of anything any more except weapons, of which it produces quite a lot. It is a surprising fact that the United Kingdom is one of the world’s top arms exporters. How can Britain buy so many products from other countries when it does not have much to sell except armaments? This goes against the supply and demand principle of capitalism, a popular socioeconomic system based upon the ruthless control of the means of production.

Mr Tanderhill’s house was wedged between two former factories. One had been converted into a carpet showroom while the other appeared to be a storage facility. Many of this warehouse’s windows had been broken and wooden pallets were strewn over the pavement outside its large double doors. On the side of the building someone had used green chalk to write ‘TRUST’ in large capital letters. This was an unusual message to leave on a wall and I paused to consider its meaning. I was still considering when a loud noise sent a shiver up my legs to my sacrum, which is the triangular-shaped bone at the base of the spine. Somewhere inside the warehouse, a chainsaw had been started.

I quickly entered the gate of the bungalow. To get to the front door, I had to walk around a yellow Ford Escort without wheels. The car was sitting on blocks with its windows open. Someone had painted ‘FOR SALE’ on the windscreen from inside so it read back to front. The lawn had not been mown for a long time and was littered with things like old shoes and food wrappers. There were several wine bottles on the front steps.

The doorbell had a small chrome arm. I pulled it but did not hear a ding. I tried knocking but my knuckles produced only a dull sound on the door’s wooden panel. I picked up an empty bottle of Australian Cabernet Sauvignon and used it to pound the door several times. The sound was loud and had an immediate effect. I heard running from inside. The door was yanked open.

A tall man appeared in the doorway. He looked at me, blinking. ‘What?’ he said. His manner was unfriendly.

‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘Mr Tanderhill?’

He nodded and then seemed to think better of it and shook his head. His eyes were large and bulbous, which made me wonder about the condition of his thyroid gland. I might have become preoccupied with this gland if I had not noticed another unusual facial feature. The area between his top lip and nose was expansive and made me think of Robert Mugabe. I took a step back and realised the man was dressed in a blue towelling bathrobe open in a V at the chest. My mother would have described the hair on his chest as a ‘thatch’. She believed that hair on a man was a sign of virility and was partial to Portuguese men for this very reason. It was her opinion that hairy men have classic good looks. I am not sure that I agree but body hair must be a comfort in winter.

‘I don’t live here,’ he finally said.

‘I’ve come for my treatment.’

‘Treatment?’ His expression changed. He glanced at a large gold watch on his wrist. ‘But you’re an hour early.’

‘Correct.’

‘I’m in the middle of a business meeting.’ He hesitated, noticing me glance at his bathrobe. ‘It’s a conference call. I’m an internationally busy man. You’ll have to wait in the vestibule until I’ve finished my affairs.’

I was led into the entrance hall and told to sit on a guest stool, which was a wooden box with several newspapers on top. Mr Tanderhill went out another door at the far end, leaving me alone in the dark. The hall was narrow and in the gloom I vaguely made out several other boxes and belongings stacked along the opposite wall. From the far end, I heard a door shut and then silence, and then the flush of a toilet. This was followed by footsteps, which moved in an arc to the room behind my back. I heard movement, a click and then a bang. It sounded as if furniture was being rearranged.

Five minutes later, a door opened to my right. Mr Tanderhill appeared with his hands in prayer and said, ‘Namaste’, which is a word derived from Sanskrit and a popular salutation among practitioners of yoga. He was dressed in a wrinkled grey Indian caftan with matching trousers. The grey did nothing to flatter his complexion, which had the puckers and dull veneer of a smoker. I averted my gaze and found myself looking at his feet. These were clad in sandals and on each of his toes was a bristling tuft of hair. Noting my interest in his appearance, he patted his chest.

‘I’m an Indian and a Hindu. This is my garb.’

I am no expert on the people and religions of the Indian subcontinent but Mr Tanderhill did not look like someone from that part of the world. His skin was pink and his eyes were murky blue. What was left of the hair on his head was sandy with grey around his ears. He did not speak with an Indian accent.

He tightened his lips in a determined, businesslike way. ‘Kindly follow me to the therapy room.’

I was waved into what must have originally been the house’s living room. It was furnished with a brown couch, a wooden chair and a battered vinyl massage table. There was nothing on the walls and no curtains. The room smelled of human beings and mentholated cigarettes. All the windows were closed. Outside I could see the Ford Escort and the warehouse wall with the graffiti. The car was not an attractive sight but it did block the view from the street, which was of some comfort to me. The couch rolled back and clicked as I sat down. Something blue was sticking out from under its base. It looked like towelling.

Mr Tanderhill remained standing with his hands behind his back. He bent in my direction and opened his eyes wide, revealing his irises in their murky entirety. I took this to be the look of a professional hypnotherapist and reminded myself that I had come to him with a purpose. My bad habits were interfering with my work. Something had to be done about them.

‘Tell me about yourself.’ He moved his hands forwards and up the sides of his legs as if drawing pistols from holsters. He pointed his index fingers at me. ‘Clear the air. Purge your chakras.’

‘I did already on the phone.’

‘It’s natural to feel embarrassed.’

‘I’m not embarrassed. I’ve come here because of Mr Chin.’

‘I bet you have.’ Mr Tanderhill smiled and closed his eyes, rubbing his hands together several times. He said, ‘Hmm, hmm, hmm,’ and then fell silent. He remained standing with his eyes closed, swaying on the balls of his feet for a full minute.

I coughed and his eyes flicked open.

‘Climb on to the massage table. We’ll get to the bottom of this Chin business.’

‘I don’t want a massage. I’ve come for hypnotherapy.’

‘I know that! I’m a certified professional. Royal Academy.’ He rolled his eyes impatiently and pointed to the table. ‘If you would feel more comfortable in less clothing, go ahead and remove it. I’m not averse.’

‘I’d prefer to keep my clothes on.’

‘It’ll make my work a lot harder.’ Mr Tanderhill sighed and held out his long fingers for me to view. ‘God has given me golden fingers. If you keep your clothes on I’ll have to send my healing rays through the layers.’

I did not want to displease Mr Tanderhill, especially not before receiving hypnotherapeutic assistance. Reminding myself that he was there to help me, I removed my cardigan and climbed on to the massage table, which wobbled in a disconcerting way. I then lay back stiffly with my arms at my sides. To take my mind off the possibility of the table collapsing, I imagined myself as a soldier on duty outside Buckingham Palace. These soldiers are called Grenadier Guards and wear a controversial headdress called the busby, which is made from the fur of the Canadian black bear. I was trying to guess the weight of one of these large, impractical hats when Mr Tanderhill told me to shut my eyes; he was going to perform a ‘Chakra Flush’ in preparation for hypnotics. As I closed my eyes, I told myself that all my bad habits would be flushed out of my system forever.

I remained still with my eyes closed for several minutes listening to the swish of his movements until the desire to know what he was doing got the better of me. I opened an eye and was surprised to find him making circular motions in the air over my torso. He could have been polishing a Ford Escort or, the thought occurred to me, doing an air massage over my chest. I opened the other eye and crossed my arms over my chest.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

‘I was working your higher chakras but you’ve ruined it now,’ he replied with a sigh. His shoulders sagged. As he bit his top lip, I noticed that his teeth were stained and uneven. ‘We’ll have to skip the flush. I only hope you’ll be more cooperative with the hypnotics.’

‘You were standing very close.’

‘I’m a professional!’

‘That’s reassuring.’

‘When I look at you I don’t see a nondescript young woman in an unattractive woollen top and tartan trousers. I see unhappy chakras. I see spiritual blockage, corporeal malfunction, psychological disarray. To my professional eye, you’re a soul in a sac and your sac is leaking energy. It’s called soul fatigue.’

‘I do get tired in the evenings. I thought it might be iron deficiency. I’m a tea drinker and tea is known to rob the body of iron. Do you think you can help?’

‘Friends are angels who lift us to our feet when our wings have trouble remembering how to fly.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Listen this time, for God’s sake! Friends are angels who lift us to our feet when our wings have trouble remembering how to fly.’

‘We’re not friends.’

‘I’m thoroughly aware of that. Strict professional distance is part of my creed.’

‘Perhaps it would be better for me to sit on the couch.’ It was unsettling to lie on a table without a cardigan.

‘Stay right where you are. The soul is more receptive when the body is prone.’

He leaned over and stared with his bulging eyes into mine. A shiver travelled up my spine and tightened my jaw. My face became hot. Either I was alarmed or Mr Tanderhill’s hypnotherapy was taking effect. Again, I reminded myself that he was a certified professional and tried to relax.

‘I am now removing this valuable Hindu medal from around my neck. I want you to keep your eyes on it. Concentrate, and keep your eyes on the medal.’ His voice was firm and his movements were slow as he removed a chain with a metallic disc from around his neck. He began swinging it over my face.

‘Concentrate! You are going to feel sleepy, so sleepy that you will fall asleep. You will hear my voice and remember only what I tell you to remember. You will tell me all there is to know about this Chin and I will cleanse your mind of its psychic toxins. When I say, “Hello, anybody home?” you will wake up and feel that no time has passed. Now concentrate on the medal.’

I willed my body to relax and my pulse rate to slow. I concentrated on the disc swinging above my face. It was the size of a thumbnail and the colour of aluminium. My eyes moved up the chain to Mr Tanderhill’s fingers, which were thin and hairy. His nails were grimy and short enough to be those of a nail biter. I thought of Mr Chin and blinked before bringing my eyes back to the medallion, willing myself to concentrate on its movements. On its surface was an embossed pattern that made me think of Mr Da Silva. The butcher had been a serious Catholic who closed his shop on Fridays and kept plaster figurines of the Virgin in the meat display of his window. At Christmas, he would create a full nativity scene with mounds of sausages and rows of lamb chops as a backdrop. My mother was a big fan of these displays and called Mr Da Silva an artist. She also said it was a shame he was Catholic and a tragedy that he had married. He was a swarthy man with very hairy forearms. I brought my attention back to the medallion and reminded myself to feel sleepy.

Mr Tanderhill noticed my restlessness. ‘For God’s sake, just concentrate on the medal! I haven’t got all day.’

‘Sorry.’

‘The medal. Watch the medal. You’re feeling sleepy, very sleepy.’

Strangely, I did feel sleepy. My body seemed to sink into the massage table. As my eyelids fell shut, an image of Mr Chin flashed before me. He was sitting in his Komfort King executive chair, shouting. When I tried to work out what this unsettling image could mean, my thoughts would not align. I struggled to stay alert but sleep, like one of those enormous Hawaiian surfing waves, knocked me down and pulled me under.

‘Hello, anybody home?’ The words were like an alarm clock going off in the centre of my brain. This area is known as the third eye and is the seat of the pineal gland, a small endocrine gland shaped like a pine cone.

The question had come from a strange man in the doorway. He was of medium height and wiry, and had the sharp features of an operator of a sideshow shooting gallery. He was dressed in flared blue jeans, cowboy boots and a John Wayne hat. His checked shirt had press-studs and pointed pocket flaps. He could have passed for a country and western singer if not for the haloes of grease around his pockets. There were dark smudges on his hands and face, which made me wonder whether he was a bicycle mechanic. He winked at me. I looked away.

Strange!

I was no longer lying on the massage table but seated on the couch next to my handbag. Its zipper was undone and the bag was open. I could not remember opening it or getting off the table. I pushed my knuckles into my eyes and rubbed hard until neon points of light appeared. When I opened them again Mr Tanderhill was striding over to the cowboy.

‘How dare you!’ He was trying to whisper but the absence of furnishings gave the room excellent acoustics.

‘Didn’t know you were entertaining,’ said the cowboy. He called out to me. ‘Howdy tooty, darling.’

‘Get out, Shanks!’ Mr Tanderhill made a wild pointing gesture. ‘You’re interrupting a professional session.’

‘I can see that.’ Shanks howled like an American coyote, which was appropriate given his Wild West clothing.

‘Get out!’

‘Well, pardon little ol’ me.’ He winked at me again and flattened a hand against his greasy chest in the manner of an apologetic duke. He smirked at Mr Tanderhill. ‘I need your professional opinion on some merchandise. A van load of very nice Husqvarnas.’

Mr Tanderhill threw the balls of his palms on to Shanks’s chest and shoved him into the hall. Shanks was still protesting as the hairy hand of the hypnotherapist snaked around the door and pulled it shut. I could hear them talking loudly as I hunted for my cardigan.

‘You’re ruining everything!’ Mr Tanderhill’s voice was shrill.

‘They’re very nice Huskies. He says he’ll take them somewhere else.’

‘You’re not listening, you fool! I’m telling you, I’ve struck gold.’

I stopped moving, my stomach gripped by the urgent feeling that accompanies vomiting, an upward rushing sensation from my duodenum to the base of my tongue. I had to get out of the bungalow. I pushed myself to my feet and realised my hands were damp with perspiration.

Outside the door, there was scuffling.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Shanks sounded surprised.

‘Look at this. It’s a valuable Hindu medal.’

‘Looks like crap to me.’

‘Take a closer look.’

‘How can I look with you waving it about like that?’

‘For God’s sake, just keep your eyes on the medal.’ Mr Tanderhill’s words were followed by a slap.

‘Ouch!’

‘Concentrate. Keep your eyes on it. You’re feeling sleepy, very sleepy.’

I heard a loud thud followed by confused movements. A door opened somewhere. There was shuffling and dragging. I found my cardigan rolled up next to the arm of the couch and stuffed it in my bag. I could feel my heart beating in the back of my throat as I opened the door and peered into the empty hall before slipping out of the therapy room. Taking care not to make any noise, I pulled open the front door and stepped outside. The day was still overcast but the sun had moved higher behind the clouds. A chunk of time had elapsed. I felt disoriented as I stepped over the wine bottles and around the Escort to walk swiftly down the path.

At the gate, I glanced at the side of the neighbouring building and saw something I had not noticed before. ‘TRUST’ was only the first part of the message. Below in smaller letters were the words, ‘NOT THE FALSE PROPHET’.

A stocky man in overalls was leaning against a white van parked next to the warehouse. As I broke into a run, he called out: ‘Ten quid on the chestnut nag. Ha, ha.’ I did not look back and kept running until I reached the bus stop on Industry Drive. There I opened my bag and removed my cardigan.

Strange!

My purse was gone. I rummaged inside the bag, taking out my notebook and pens, two multigrain cereal bars, town map, lip balm, tissues, three hair clips and the large colourful handkerchief I carried for rainy days. My passport was still tucked in the side pocket but the purse had disappeared. There was only one place it could be but the thought of returning to the hypnotherapist’s bungalow made me feel nauseous.

I held out my hand as the number five Blue Line bus approached the stop. The bus door opened but I did not move. The driver gave me an impatient look.

‘I’ve lost my purse,’ I said, shaking my head.

‘You mean you’ve got no money,’ he said, revving his engine.

I nodded.

‘Take a bloody hike then.’ The door closed with a hiss.

As the bus pulled away I noticed a large banner advertisement printed along its side. It showed the head and shoulders of a man in a tuxedo resembling Sir Winston Churchill. He was holding up a hand and flashing Sir Winston’s famous V sign but instead of regular fingers he had two fried fish fingers. Coming out of his mouth was a speech bubble: ‘Nack’s Fish Fingers. The winner’s gold medal dinner.’

As I walked home, I tried to make sense of what had just happened. Something had occurred between Mr Tanderhill’s massage table and the couch. Time had passed, at least half an hour. But the harder I thought, the more elusive this period of time became and the more uncomfortable I felt. There was a blank where there should have been a memory of events. I had no recollection of what had occurred or what had been said.

Industry Drive is a long road and I was quite disheartened by the time I reached my flat.

3

I have seen the man in the fuchsia trench coat every morning this week. He must be quite public-spirited because he always brings a plastic bag to pick up his dog’s droppings at the rose gardens. Many dog owners do not bother with such precautions, which is not very responsible. Excrement is unpleasant but in the worst-case scenario, it can kill. In France, thousands of people slip on it every year. Most victims are mildly injured but some actually lose their lives. The government of France publishes annual statistics on such tragedies. The figures do not speak positively about French dog owners.

For several decades, Laos was part of the French empire and probably had a problem with dog excrement until the Japanese arrived during the war and created other, more complex problems. Japan does not publish statistics on dog-related deaths and is by all accounts a very clean if not severe nation. I imagine the footpaths of Laos were reasonably clean until the French briefly reclaimed the country after the war. When the Americans started bombing Vietnam decades later, they also bombed Laos for good measure. From 1964 to 1973, the American air force dropped two million tons of bombs on Laos. This is twice the amount of bombs dropped on Germany during World War II, which is quite a lot when you consider the small size of Laos and the fact that the Americans were not actually at war with the country.

This morning, after cleaning up his dog’s business, the man in the fuchsia trench coat stood looking at the floral clock for a long time. The minute hand moved from seven to ten while he shuffled his feet and the dog sniffed at the flowerbeds.

The clock is a very attractive timepiece and a legacy of the Beautification Drive pursued by the town council during the Benevolent Years of the fifties. According to the information panels at the council photo display, it was during this period that many trees and flowerbeds were planted around public facilities to ‘enrich the lives of residents with verdant niches’. You can still find traces of garden structures near the old library building but very few of the original trees remain standing. Beautification was not a priority under Jerry Clench who was mayor throughout my childhood and adolescence and might have kept the post if he had not bankrupted the council. He was sacked last week for gross financial mismanagement. His black Range Rover was impounded and his personal financial assets were frozen.

This weekend an election will be held for a new mayor. The Cockerel has dubbed it the ‘Ballot of the Bloody Knight’ because of the ancient bylaw on which the town’s unique electoral system is based. The bylaw is the only one like it in Great Britain and dates back to the thirteenth century, which is quite a long time ago when you think about it. It gives the townspeople the right to hold a weekend election to elect their own mayor and was enacted during the ill-advised Crusade of 1271 when the local lord and all the churchmen rode off to the Middle East on the town’s finest horses. The bylaw was supposed to be a temporary measure but remained in place when the town leaders were ambushed and killed before they reached Jerusalem. Two of these unfortunate knights are featured on the town’s coat of arms. One has an arrow through his chest and the other is missing his head. Both are bleeding profusely.

For the first time in my life, I am old enough to participate in an election. But voting is a civic responsibility and I do not feel ready to accept this mantle. It does not seem right for me to participate in choosing a leader when I am not a bona fide member of the local society. Observing is not the same as engaging, as well I know.

At five minutes to nine, the man turned to leave, pausing as he passed my bench. ‘Time is a like a fowl,’ he said. ‘But does it fly towards us or do we fly towards it?’ He did not wait for a reply but turned on his heel and headed for the gate with the dog trotting after him and a delicate floral fragrance lingering in his wake.

As I stood and prepared to leave the gardens, I was surprised to find new graffiti on the pavement below the CCTV camera. The message had been scrawled around the base of the pole in green chalk. By now, I recognised the bold hand and capital letters. Removing the notebook from my bag, I copied down the words under today’s date.

This new chalk message and the man’s poignant comment about time were on my mind as I waited for Mr Chin to unlock the office door at the foot of the stairs. It is my habit to talk to him as he does this and I found myself repeating the man’s words. Since Mr Chin is not a native speaker of English and I did not want a misunderstanding, I substituted the ‘fowl’ with ‘chicken’ to avoid confusion with the word ‘foul’. I had not wanted to upset Mr Chin but that is exactly what occurred.

‘What you mean?’ he asked.

‘It’s a comment about time,’ I said.

‘Not just comment! Very intelligent and wise. Even tricky twist at end.’ His eyes narrowed and he stared at me without moving. ‘Someone tell you Chin is chicken?’

‘No.’

‘You visit Mandarin?’

‘No.’

‘You visit Jade Dragon?’

‘No.’

‘Chin not chicken!’

‘Correct.’

I could not explain about the man in the gardens without admitting that I had been too early for work. I tried smiling but Mr Chin did not smile back. He observed me as I sat down at my desk and went through the motions of opening the phonebook and turning on my computer.

It is difficult to avoid Mr Chin’s gaze because our desks are directly opposite each other. Mine faces the window and on the wall behind it hangs a large mirror that provides Mr Chin with a view of my back. There are only two of us in the office but we have enough furniture, computer equipment and telephones for ten. These furnishings were purchased in a liquidation sale and are arranged at one end of the large room like a circle of covered wagons on a prairie. In the centre of the circle is a decorative wooden table with a floral arrangement of silk flowers. The only other ornamentation in the room is a large fish tank with a bubbling oxygenator. The tank sits on tall metal legs against the far wall and contains several aquatic plants but no fish. Next to this is a standard lamp with a pink conical lampshade. The fish tank came from a Chinese restaurant that closed down but the lamp was in the office when Mr Chin moved in.

He was still watching me as I dialled up my first customer of the morning, a dentist from Dundee with the faint, whispery voice of an elderly person. The dentist was not friendly at first but warmed up once I explained our business and made my proposal.

I find this is often the case with dental professionals. Dentistry is a respectable profession and dentists are often proud and standoffish as individuals. You have to approach them in the correct manner or you get nowhere. The technique I use is called the Honey Trap and was invented and taught to me by Mr Chin. It is a simple yet effective technique: if the dentist is a man, which is often the case, I use a very soft voice and take a big gaspy breath every ten or so words. By the eleventh word I usually have his attention. With female dentists, I simply introduce myself and immediately start talking about financial incentives. The Honey Trap involves a strict set of prompts and responses and I am not permitted to diverge from this formula. This technique works over the phone but it would not work in person because I do not have a convincing personality. Mr Tanderhill was correct when he described me as nondescript. People often do not recognise me, even after several meetings. An effective salesperson needs recognisable charm and a winning smile. I do not smile often and I have never won anything in my life. Small talk is another thing I have yet to master. It is on my ‘To Do’ list along with most other social skills.

The Honey Trap is an effective business tool but will not be helpful once I finish calling all the dentists in the UK and Republic of Ireland and must find a new job. That is when I will need a university degree to launch a new vocation.

Since I joined Mr Chin’s office, I have called virtually every dentist in the lowlands of Scotland to the city of Dundee. According to The Greatest Cities of Great Britain, Dundee was founded on the three J’s: jute, jam and journalism. Today it is a vibrant modern city and popular tourist destination. The guidebook says the people of Dundee are naturally generous and among the friendliest in the world: ‘Gracious and polite, the charming folk of this bonny wee city greet you with dazzling smiles and open arms. Forget the old adage about the Scot being a stingy hoarder. The hearts of Dundonians are warm and their sporrans are deep and generous.’

My work is always easier when dentists respond positively to the Honey Trap. It can be upsetting when someone shouts in my ear or hangs up abruptly. I came across quite a few disgruntled dentists when I first tried calling clinics in London. The manners I encountered certainly put me off having any dental work done there.

The official title of my job is Gold Purchase Consultant. Mr Chin says we make a lot of dentists very happy and I believe he is right. We take unwanted gold off their hands and give them cash in return. I have noticed that people appreciate cash, especially dentists who nearly always have some gold in a drawer or cabinet. The dental industry’s attachment to this precious metal is historical. For centuries, gold was the best tooth filling money could buy. People even used to insert chips in their front teeth for decorative purposes but these days it is mainly rap music enthusiasts who seek this kind of dental augmentation. The most popular fillings are now made from composite materials or high-quality ceramics. Unfortunately for Mr Chin, these have no resale value.

Nearly all the gold I purchase comes from crowns in teeth that have been extracted. Dentists often keep this gold because most people are too upset after having teeth pulled to ask about it. I doubt that I would remember to ask about mine. Tooth extraction can be painful and is often traumatic for the dental patient.

As a gold purchase consultant, my job is to make the first contact and break the ice using the Honey Trap. Once I have established the existence of surplus gold and the dentist’s willingness to sell it, Mr Chin takes over and handles negotiations. We are a team but the relationship is strictly a boss-assistant one. Mr Chin has very fixed ideas about business and has no interest in my opinions. I am forbidden to take initiative or deviate from the Honey Trap. This arrangement is ideal for me because I work best within set parameters. Decision-making is something I find difficult, especially when I am dealing with an aggressive dentist.

Mr Chin had kept his eye on me while I talked to the Dundee dentist and was still watching when I pushed the hold button and signalled for him to pick up the phone. The elderly dentist had just agreed to sell a shoebox of gold crowns. He told me he had been collecting them since 1958, which is the year the first parking meter was installed in England. The dentist said he would be happy to get rid of the box. It was taking up cupboard space and was now too heavy for him to lift.

I thought the purchase would make Mr Chin happy and I was right. When he got off the phone he took his personal chopsticks from his drawer and drummed on the desktop for at least thirty seconds. He was smiling with his mouth open and I could see the glint of gold fillings in his molars. The smile was still there when he left to eat an early lunch at the Mandarin restaurant.

There are two Chinese restaurants within walking distance of our office, which is located near the centre of town above the old Babylon Cinema. The Babylon was closed down in 1981 because of an electrical problem but had been a popular venue in its heyday. Its entrance is very ornate with a large metal awning and pillars designed to resemble the façade of a Roman bathhouse. I know precisely when it closed because you can still see the faded stills for Cat People in the display case on the wall next to the cinema entrance. The showpiece of the display is a length of dusty fake fur with the caption: ‘Actual replica of tail worn by Nastassja Kinski.’ I never saw Cat People but apparently it was a popular movie with nude scenes about people who turned into large cats. It was released before I was born.

The door to the office stairs is located behind one of the ornate pillars and is reinforced by steel rails to prevent access with a crowbar. Mr Chin had another steel door with a powerful spring hinge installed at the top of the stairs. He monitors the doorway from where he sits which happens to be directly above the trapdoor to the old projection room. This trapdoor is locked and covered with a colourful Chinese carpet square. Mr Chin’s desk and chair are positioned on top of the carpet. He says the projection room is dangerous and has forbidden me to go anywhere near it. I obey his instructions but do not understand his decision to sit above an unsafe trapdoor.

By the time Mr Chin returned to the office, I had called two more dentists and set up purchases of several more crowns. Mr Chin looked very different after his early lunch. His cheeks were red and shiny and his eyes were bloodshot. In his hand was a plastic bag from the Mandarin restaurant. It clinked as he placed it on his desk. Licking his lips, he circled the furniture, saying, ‘Yes, yes, yes.’ The only time I had seen him so agitated was during the Chinese New Year celebrations when he won a bottle of plum liquor in a raffle. I had not been working at the office very long and was quite surprised by the sudden liveliness of his manner. He was now showing the same vivacity and looking very pleased with himself.

‘Today now holiday. Chin require rest and relaxation,’ he said, waving his small hand around. He sat down on his Komfort King and pushed his head against its vinyl cushion. ‘Go home. Go shopping. Go find boyfriend. Do what normal girl do.’

‘Normally I work,’ I said. ‘Today is Friday, a normal working day.’

‘Normally, normally, normally. What normally? You not normal girl. Very abnormal in fact.’

‘Abnormal?’ I sat up straight and made a mental note to record the word in the COMMENTS subsection of my OBSERVATIONS ring binder. It is the Chinese custom to criticise and I have learned to take such criticism as encouragement. Mr Chin’s assessment was like a red flag.

‘Certainly abnormal. No friend. No boyfriend. No dog. Not even small dog that is high-quality Pekinese. You very peculiar girl.’

‘Peculiar?’ Another word to file away.

‘Peculiar. Abnormal. No matter what.’ Mr Chin closed his eyes and smiled to himself. Opening them again, he pointed a finger at me. ‘You come to office too early, work too late. Never complain. Never thieve ballpoint pen. Never make private phone call and email. What English girl do such? Certainly not normal English girl.’

‘But as you said, I have no friends to call or email. And you don’t supply pens so I couldn’t steal one even if I were that way inclined.’

‘Crazy and nuts. I supply petty cash box of ten pounds sterling in rolling drawer. Normal person buy pen with petty cash then thieve. That is most regular English solution.’ He looked at me and shook his head. ‘You like house of too many window. Wind blow through house always. Take force and energy. House too empty. You too yin, too damp-cold. Need yang.’

‘My feet do get cold in winter.’ In fact my feet were cold as I spoke and it was not even winter. ‘Is there a cure?’

‘Eat meat of pork and so on. Take more yang force. Warm up feets.’

‘I couldn’t eat pork and so on. Modern animal husbandry is not humane and mass-produced meat is full of chemicals. You never know what you might find inside a sausage.’ I did not bother to tell him that my mother believed sausages were stuffed with sweepings from the floor of the abattoir.

‘Abnormal.’ Mr Chin pursed his lips into a point and shook his head. ‘Sausage is traditional English. Normal English love sausage and so on.’

‘Correct.’ Despite my mother’s beliefs about their contents, she bought pork sausages every week from Mr Da Silva. ‘I am partial to vegetarian sausages.’

‘You need professional expert. American Jewish make highest-quality expert for head. Go find such person.’ He hesitated a moment, as if thinking over something important. ‘I give you present of one hundred pound liquid cash.’

‘One hundred pounds! That’s a very handsome gift!’ I was stunned by the offer. Mr Chin never gave money away, ever. My condition had to be a lot more serious than I imagined.

‘One-time only investment.’ Mr Chin lifted his heavy money belt out from under his shirt. It was made of flesh-coloured leather and perfectly camouflaged against his skin. He removed a wad of banknotes, counting five twenties across the table in a fan. With a thumb and forefinger, he then pinched each note to make sure it was a single. Mr Chin was a great believer in the power of money and liked to say that ‘cash is king’.

‘Here, take as bonus. Now leave premise. Come back Monday for work at normal time. Come back more normal. Normal girl with friend and so on.’ He leaned back in his Komfort King and patted his chest with authority. ‘Order of kind and generous boss.’

I felt a jolt. The chalk message from the gardens flashed through my mind: ‘HAIL TO THE KING OF KINGS. HE IS THE KINDEST BOSS.’

‘One-time offer only.’ Mr Chin zipped up his money belt and tucked it back inside his shirt where it protruded like the stomach of an Australian lager drinker. He looked at me again but with an expression flickering between kindness and irritation. From experience, I knew that irritation was the more dominant of Mr Chin’s moods and sprang into action before it could settle over him.

I slipped on my cardigan and, leaning down, opened my file drawer, taking care to roll it slowly. The hypnotherapist had not cured me of my bad habits but I had discovered that with concentration, I could control my impulse to yank the drawer open. I had also been training myself to chew my cuticles instead of my nails. This habit gave me almost the same pleasure as nail biting but allowed my fingernails to grow. In the week since my visit to Industry Drive, my nails had developed a ridge and I was now able to pick up coins and even scratch my forearms where the wool of my cardigan rubbed. It was a new sensation and thoroughly enjoyable.

Mr Chin nodded as I removed the fan of twenty-pound notes from his desk and folded them into my new vinyl purse. Neither of us spoke but I had no illusions about the gravity of the moment. He had set me a formidable task and had given me the means to achieve it by Monday. It was a challenge and I knew from reading about Sir Edmund Percival Hillary that challenges were an integral part of character building. I wanted to be a better person and win Mr Chin’s approval. Indeed, my future depended on it.

It was Sir Edmund who once said, ‘It is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves,’ which is quite a profound statement when you think about it. He certainly knew what he was talking about. He was the first person to reach the summit of Mount Everest, the highest mountain in the world. Mountain climbing is a rigorous activity and carries considerable risk. I would not like to die on a mountainside or lose a nose or fingers to frostbite. Fortunately, Sir Edmund never lost any facial features or extremities. After his adventures, he returned to beekeeping, which is a job that requires considerable manual dexterity.

4

The idea of normality was flashing in my mind’s eye like the rotating beacon of a lighthouse as I made my way down the office stairs. The stairwell was pitch dark but I knew the width and squeak of every stair by heart. I used to run up and down the stairs until Mr Chin forbade it: ‘This run, run, run get on my nerve. Walk up stair at normal human speed or forget interesting and exciting job.’

The stairwell lights do not work because their electrical supply is connected to the faulty circuitry of the cinema. It would cost hundreds of thousands of pounds to rewire the Babylon and make the building fireproof, which had been the original plan when the council purchased it from its bankrupt owner in 1990. The Babylon was going to be refurbished and turned into a centre of local culture and history with photo panels and audiovisual displays. This plan was one of the first things to go when Jerry Clench became mayor. Mr Clench was not interested in the cinema’s architecture or its historical value. It was an eyesore and a fleapit, he said. He not only refused to allocate funds for its renovation but also said there was no budget to have it pulled down.

Mr Chin is more than happy with the dark stairwell because it discourages people from visiting the office. He had the reinforced metal doors installed after a boy scout carrying a plastic donation bucket made it to the landing with the aid of his pocket torch. The boy’s arrival had sent Mr Chin into a frenzy. He began screeching and waving a length of green bamboo around his head. After the boy had fled, I asked Mr Chin why he was so upset.

‘Foolish and stupid!’ he shouted, shoving the bamboo back into his personal storeroom. ‘You understand nothing.’

‘About boy scouts?’

‘About criminal people.’

‘Criminal? Boy scouts assist the elderly.’ I had read only good things about scouts and their love of the outdoors. ‘They know their roots and berries.’

‘Root and berry! Ha!’ Mr Chin wagged his finger at me. ‘Never trust such person. Maybe such person is spy and thief.’

‘He was wearing an official uniform.’

‘Uniform mean nothing. Worst crook in Hong Kong that is so-call police and military wear uniform.’ Mr Chin pounded the top of his desk with a fist. ‘Here office for private and personal business. Trespasser and other strictly forbidden.’

‘But—’

‘Enough of but! This but, but, but get on my nerve!’

He chopped the air with his hand to end the conversation. His face had flushed angry red and stayed that way for several minutes. Later that evening, I made a note in the CHIN subsection of my OBSERVATIONS ring binder: ‘Scouts upset Mr Chin. Suspicious of uniforms. To be followed up.’

The door clicked shut behind me and I paused for my eyes to adjust to the dim light under the awning. Out of habit, I turned to examine the old movie stills in the display case but as I did this, my foot touched something solid and organic. I looked down and saw a boy, curled up asleep on a square of cardboard. It is not unusual to find people sleeping in doorways in the centre of town. Unemployment is high and the list for council housing is long. But I had never seen anyone so young sleeping so unprotected.

‘Hello,’ I said.

The boy’s eyes flicked open. He scrambled to a crouch.

‘You’re not a cop,’ he said, looking me up and down.

‘No.’

‘Social services?’

I shook my head. ‘I work in the office upstairs.’

The boy assumed his full height, which was at least a head shorter than me. He was thin and pre-pubescent with fierce blue eyes and a tight lipless mouth. I could not see the top of his head for a dirty red baseball cap but the stubble around his ears was blond. He looked about ten years old. On his cheek was a furry birthmark. It was brown and perfectly round like a two-pence piece.

‘Got a spare fiver?’ He wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

‘Why do you want five pounds?’

‘Why do you think?’ The boy scowled at me from under the cap.

I had just read an article in the Cockerel about boys sniffing industrial chemicals. The newspaper referred to them as ‘feral’ and said they terrorised the town in gangs and vandalised public property. I had never encountered a gang of savage children but I was very familiar with vandalism. ‘To buy paint thinner?’

‘Do I look that stupid?’

‘It’s hard to tell.’

‘Well, you definitely look stupid.’ The boy pointed to my trousers. ‘What the hell do you call those?’

‘Tartan trousers.’ I did not bother commenting on the boy’s grimy, oversized white T-shirt and baggy jeans. Fashion is a matter of personal taste and people can be sensitive to criticism. ‘Do you need money to buy clothes?’

‘I’m hungry, you idiot.’

My purse contained Mr Chin’s one hundred pounds in addition to the one pound eighty I keep on hand for purchasing spiral notebooks. ‘I don’t have five pounds in change but if you come with me I’ll buy you a sandwich and a beverage.’

‘Why should I trust you?’ The boy squinted at me. ‘You could be one of those molesterers. I’m a minor.’

‘I’ll take you to a public place.’ I hesitated. An idea was forming in my mind. ‘And rather than give you five pounds, I’ll employ you and pay you to do something for me.’

‘I’m not nicking anything.’

‘I’m not a lawbreaker and would never encourage a minor to become one either.’ I offered the boy my hand. ‘My name’s Sherry.’

The boy eyed my hand suspiciously. He kept his arms at his sides. ‘That’s not a real name.’

‘It wasn’t my choice.’ I let my arm drop. ‘What’s yours?’

‘Nigel, but that’s not my real name either. And I don’t want a sandwich.’

‘What would you like?’

‘A cup of tea and a cake.’ He thought a moment. ‘And a Coke.’

As we set off down Harry Secombe Parade, the boy hung back, trailing me along the pavement.

‘You don’t want to walk beside me?’

‘Not when you walk like that.’

I stopped swinging my arms to chest height and slowed down but the boy continued to follow several steps behind. I glanced back to check on him as I passed under the old rail bridge. His shoulders were hunched and his hands were in the pockets of his baggy jeans but he was light on his feet and made no sound as he walked. At the high street he paused, scanning it before continuing.

Several people were milling around in front of the council buildings but they took no notice of us as we passed. Ten years previously the town hall square had been furnished with iron benches and rubbish bins stamped with the town’s coat of arms but these had been ripped up under Mr Clench’s drive to give the council a new face. Cobblestones had been imported from Italy and laid in a circular pattern. A marble fountain of a semi-naked woman in a clamshell was installed as a decorative centrepiece. The nozzle of this landmark has not spouted for several years but its clamshell is always filled with rainwater.

As I neared the betting shop, a man stepped out of a doorway and blocked my way. He was my height and looked about thirty-five. His head was small and his dark hair was oily and uncombed. He was wearing a black T-shirt printed with a skull and bones design and blue nylon sports trousers with a mismatched green nylon jacket. His face had an unhealthy pallor and he did not look like someone who practised sport. Smouldering between his fingers was a hand-rolled cigarette.

‘Spare change, love?’ he asked, crumpling his face in a tragic way and holding out his free hand. ‘Down on my luck.’

I turned to see what Nigel was doing only to discover that the boy had disappeared.

‘Are you hungry?’ I asked the man, removing one pound from my purse.

He eyed me as he snatched the coin. ‘Nope.’

‘Why do you need money?’

‘The derby.’ He turned to go.

‘You’re going to bet on horses?’

‘As soon as I get five quid together.’

I watched him slouch off and wondered where he would get the rest of the money. It was not uncommon to observe people asking for cash or cigarettes from townspeople but I did not often see them rewarded.

Nigel was waiting for me on the corner in front of the betting shop. I had not seen him pass me and had no idea how he had got there. He pointed to an electronic signboard hanging in the window of the pawn shop next door. Running across the board in red diode lettering were the words: ‘We buy used gold! Divorcees trade in those wedding bands then double your cash on the nags.’

‘That does not seem very ethical,’ I said.

Nigel laughed. ‘The punterers will be cutting the ring fingers off their grannies.’

There was truth to what the boy said. Gambling is a compulsive activity and can prompt an addicted person to engage in desperate behaviour. Mr Chin had told me he would never employ a gambler. ‘Policy of office strict,’ he explained during my job interview. ‘Gambler forbidden and not permitted. Chin never trust such fool. Gambler worst kind of weak and stupid person. Never care for family. Only care for money and more money.’

I motioned for Nigel to follow and led him down the side street towards Ted’s Famously Fine Coffee and Teas. The café is a small place with colourful plastic tablecloths and solid wooden chairs. It serves an all-day breakfast of fried bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes and eggs on a pool of baked beans. The price of breakfast includes a large mug of tea or coffee. There is a sign above the counter that reads: ‘Our teas and coffees are made the old-fashioned way – by Ted’s very own fine hand’.

For a month now I have been going to Ted’s every Monday and Thursday after work to observe people and collate my notes. I would like to go every day but I do not want to overstay my welcome. This has happened to me before in other places and I have learned to pace myself. Most people are able to pace themselves without thinking but pacing does not come naturally to me. If I like a place, I want to go there all the time. I would spend many more hours in the office if Mr Chin were not so strict.

Twice a week seems about right for Ted because he always raises his eyebrows and greets me with a familiar, ‘You again’. It is not often that I am recognised and greeted as a regular customer. Ted lets me spend as much time as I like in his café but insists I use a small table and buy at least one drink per hour. ‘House policy,’ he says.

This time, however, Ted did not give me his usual greeting. He looked at the boy beside me.

‘I’ve got my eye on you,’ he said.

‘Aren’t I the lucky one,’ replied Nigel. He winked.

‘Don’t try any funny business.’

The boy snorted. ‘A funny thing happened on the way to a funeral.’

‘That’s not funny!’ Ted pushed his large stomach against the counter and tapped its surface with a stubby finger. ‘The recently bereaved come in here.’

‘Did you hear the one about the bishop and the button mushroom?’

‘Watch your mouth! I’ll not have Roman Catholics offended. Buy something or get out.’

‘Keep your hair on, Teddy boy.’ Nigel pointed to me. ‘She’s buying me one of your fine teas.’

‘What the hell are you doing with this delinquent?’ Ted turned to me, shaking his head. ‘I didn’t think your sort had friends, especially not his sort.’

‘He’s not a friend,’ I said. ‘I’ve hired him to help me.’

‘I doubt he helps anyone but himself.’ Ted’s eyes shifted to Nigel and then back to me. ‘So, what will Her Ladyship be having?’

‘I’ll have one of your famous milk coffees and my employee will have a Coke and fairy cake with his tea.’

‘Fairy cake?’ Ted’s thin lips parted in a smile. It was a tight smile that did not reveal any teeth. ‘That’s a turn-up for the books.’

I used one of Mr Chin’s twenty-pound notes to pay the four pounds forty for the order before leading Nigel over to a table for two near the window. As I sat down, I noticed a message had been scratched into the glass with something hard like a diamond ring or glasscutter. Each letter of ‘Chantelle Corby Luvs it’ was made up of multiple scratches. Nigel sniggered at the graffiti.

‘Bet that pisses off old Ted,’ he said.

‘He doesn’t seem to like you,’ I replied, sliding the tray over to the boy. I removed the notebook from my bag and began noting down the graffiti.

‘He’s a prick.’

‘He’s always very welcoming to me.’

‘You call that a welcome?’ The boy took a bite of the cake and screwed up his nose. ‘This must be fifty years old. Probably crawling with salmonellera.’

‘Ted makes all his cakes and beverages by hand.’

‘I don’t want to know that.’ He frowned but kept eating.

‘He says that his coffee is superior to machine-made espresso and cappuccino.’ I took a sip of my instant coffee. It was tepid and weak, just how I liked it. ‘Ted says the steam jets of modern machines destroy the flavour of the beans and can lead to cancer.’

Nigel stopped chewing and frowned at me. ‘Are you really a wally or is this an act?’

‘Wally?’ I glanced over at Ted who was wiping a tabletop with a grey washcloth. ‘I prefer the coffee here. It’s light and remarkably thirst-quenching. Even more thirst-quenching than a glass of tap water. It doesn’t prevent me from sleeping at night.’

‘I bet it doesn’t.’

Ted’s café is one of the few places in town still furnished with a payphone. It is an old pink ring-dial model with a slot for coins. Around its base is a strip of brown tape with the words ‘FOR PAYING CUSTOMERS ONLY’ written in red marker. The phone is often in use and not always by customers. There are not many phone booths left in the town and it is often difficult to find one in working order.

I walked over and brought back the Yellow Pages. The phonebook was dog-eared and its cover had been defaced with doodles and swear words. I opened it at P and ran my eye over the page before sliding it across the table to Nigel, who was unscrewing the lid of the sugar dispenser.

‘I’d like you to choose a psychological expert from this list.’

‘Why can’t you do it yourself?’

‘Decision-making is difficult for me. I have a problem with choices.’

‘That’s not normal.’

‘Correct.’

‘You’ll be wasting your money. All those psychologicalists are pricks.’

I nudged the phonebook closer to the boy. ‘I need to see a therapist as soon as possible. I have no time to lose.’

Nigel finished pouring the contents of the salt container into the sugar dispenser and then screwed the lid back on. He looked up, pleased with himself. ‘You’d better pay me.’

‘Of course I’ll pay you! I’ve been given money to get normal by Monday. This afternoon tea and your salary are my first investments.’

‘Whatever.’ The boy shrugged and ran a finger down the listings, stopping at the name Poulet. He sniggered. ‘Here’s one for you. Pooh-let.’

‘Could you call and make an appointment?’ I did not bother to explain the challenges of telephony without the prompts and responses of the Honey Trap.

‘Give me your mobile.’ He held out his hand.

‘I don’t have one. It’s a personal policy.’

The boy frowned.

‘I don’t want to expose my body to unnecessary radiofrequency radiation. Testicular cancer poses no danger to me but I prefer not to take any risks with my brain.’

The boy shook his head but did as I asked. He was feeding coins into the phone when someone tapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘Excuse me.’ It was the large man from the table behind me. He was wearing overalls with ‘Paradise Plumbing’ embroidered on the pocket. In front of him was an all-day breakfast and a mug of tea. ‘Love, pass me the sugar,’ he said. I did as I was asked but my attention was on Nigel who was talking into the phone.

The boy came back to the table, smiling. ‘Tomorrow at three o’clock.’ He pointed to the name in the phonebook. ‘Bijou Poulet Psy Dram.’

I was about to thank him when a dog started barking loudly behind me. I twisted in my seat again and found the plumber coughing violently over his mug of tea.

‘Give me the five quid, quick!’ Nigel was standing next to me with his hand out. ‘I’ve got to go.’

I had barely removed the banknote from my purse when it was snatched out of my hand. Before I could say anything, the boy was gone. The next thing I knew Ted was thumping the plumber on the back. Once the coughing fit had subsided, he gave the man a fresh cup of tea and a curled-up ham sandwich on a plate. ‘Compliments of the house,’ he said as he put the plate down in front of him. The plumber looked over at me and shook his head. Ted approached my table.

‘Did that little bastard just nick your money?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I replied.

My response did not please Ted who exhaled noisily through his nose. The sharp whistling sound made me wonder about the presence of hair inside his nostrils. Abundant nostril hair is not uncommon in men of a certain age. Quality chemists stock nose-grooming tools but I did not think Ted would appreciate this information. I have found that people are not very receptive to grooming or healthcare advice. Ted’s nostrils made an even shriller sound as he exhaled again. His mouth was a tight line and he was looking at me in a disappointed way as if I had just dropped a bottle of sticky red cordial over his linoleum floor. I decided to change the subject.

‘I notice someone has scratched your window.’

‘Bloody vandalism!’

‘The original Vandals were a Germanic tribe that sacked Rome in 455.’

‘You think I don’t know what a vandal is?’ Ted pointed to a security camera peeking out from a small hole in the wall above the payphone. ‘Cost me a fortune to get that installed.’

‘Many people believe that CCTV surveillance is an invasion of privacy. It might interest you to know that there are at least one hundred and seventy-seven CCTV cameras in the centre of this town, which is a lot of surveillance when you think about it.’

‘Roger Bottle is going to double that number and, if you ask me, he’s got the right idea.’ A crimson flush had gathered around the grimy collar of Ted’s T-shirt, inflaming the shaving rash on his neck. ‘They come in here and rip holes in the tablecloths and write filth over the phonebook.’

‘Who?’

‘Who do you think?’

I surveyed the patrons in the café. At the table next to the plumber were two grey-haired women. I could not imagine plumbers having the time or energy to rip up the tablecloths or scribble on the phonebook. That left the pensioners.

‘Pensioners?’

‘Are you taking the piss?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Two can play at that game, little lady.’ Ted filled his chest and lowered his voice. ‘What’s with the tartan trousers?’

‘I have an affinity for the tartans of Scotland. I’ve made a study of them.’

‘You know it all, don’t you.’

‘Not all, but I do know quite a lot. I have several books on the clan system and own a complete set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. I used to be an active member of the public library.’ I looked down at my trousers. ‘This tartan comes from Angus, an agricultural and maritime district near Perthshire. I’ve never visited either district but apparently they are both very scenic. I’ve just been reading about the jute, jam and journalism situation in Dundee. It’s fascinating.’

‘If you’re so bloody smart you can go drink your coffee in the bloody public library.’ Ted raised a hand from his hip and pointed to the door. ‘I don’t want to see you or the likes of that little bastard in here. Do you understand?’

‘No. Mayor Clench closed the library five months ago.’

‘Piss off. You understand that?’

I understood well enough to know that I was being asked to leave. Ted’s words would have been a blow if I did not have an appointment with a psychological expert. The idea of normality was like an orange lifesaver ring bobbing on the ocean. It gave me hope for my personality and my future with Mr Chin.

The lifesaver image made me smile, which seemed to surprise Ted. He glanced at my hands and moved out of my way as I pushed myself to my feet and left the café.

On another day, I might have crossed the square and visited the council photo display but earlier in the week I had encountered a particularly unfriendly council worker. I had arrived at the annexe during regular opening hours only to find the door closed. When I knocked, the woman had opened it a crack and shouted at me that the building was closed ahead of the election before slamming it in my face. This was not the first time I had experienced unpleasantness at the council. The workers are disgruntled and do not appreciate enquiries or suggestions from the public. This attitude is something I do not understand. Why have a suggestion box if no one is supposed to use it?

I stopped at the corner and glanced inside the betting shop, where several men were clustered in front of a large flat-screen television mounted on the wall. The town is not known for its tolerance but the group watching the horse race was a picture of racial harmony. One thin white man, two Chinese and someone from the Indian subcontinent were standing shoulder to shoulder, united by a common cause. This is called the Dunkirk Spirit and is very helpful in times of war when British soldiers are trapped on a coastline and require the assistance of fellow citizens in small vessels. Dunkirk was a tragic moment in the nation’s history but it did highlight the British capacity for rallying around a common cause.

As I headed towards the rose gardens, I thought of the man in the fuchsia trench coat. His comment about the fowl of time had made me curious and I wondered whether I would meet him again. He had not been unfriendly, which had to be a good thing.

5

Someone had been busy while I was in the café. As I passed back under the rail bridge, I discovered four damp campaign posters pasted along the brick wall of the underpass. The posters showed a man in his late forties with a robust red moustache the size and shape of a hamster. His shoulders were squared in a military manner and his expression was severe: ‘Roger Bottle – a Hard Man for Hard Times.’ Below the mayoral candidate’s photo in smaller print were the words: ‘When the Going Gets Rough, Rog Gets Tough.’

I jotted down the campaign messages in my notebook and as I left the underpass, I discovered that it was drizzling. By the time I reached the Babylon, the drizzle had turned into rain and I decided to step under the awning to wait it out. What I found there took me completely by surprise.

Tied to the double doors of the cinema was a large official-looking notice printed in bold type. My pulse rate increased as I read its contents. I immediately thought of Mr Chin and wondered whether he knew about this new turn of events.

A second surprise was waiting for me when I tried the door to the stairs. It was unlocked. Mr Chin had forgotten to follow me down to lock it after I had left. This was very unusual behaviour for my employer, whose policy was to ‘Lock ruffian and rascal out. Guarantee security and safety for kind boss and office.’

I entered the dark stairwell and quickly climbed the stairs to the landing where I paused to take the door handle in both hands. The heavy reinforced door had a habit of flying open on its German spring hinge and I did not want to give Mr Chin a fright. He does not appreciate surprises as I learned one day when I vacuumed the office and inadvertently shifted the position of his desk by two inches. The reprimand I received must have exceeded the safety guidelines for decibel levels because my ears were still thrumming when I put them on my pillow that evening.

I poked my head in the doorway and found Mr Chin reclined in his Komfort King, sleeping with his mouth open and making a ‘hukka-hukka-hukka’ sound with each exhalation. On his desk were a glass and a half-empty bottle of plum liquor.

I slipped inside and eased the door closed with a faint click before tiptoeing over to my desk. Taking care not to make any noise, I lowered myself on to my chair. It was probably the familiar comfort of the neoprene padding against my buttocks that made me forget myself because the next thing I knew I was rolling the file drawer open at high speed. The heavy cash box inside slid along the bottom of the drawer, hitting its metal interior with a loud clang.

‘Best quality!’ Mr Chin sat bolt upright in his executive chair, shaking his head in confusion. His eyes fell on me, darted to the clock above the door and then flicked back to me. They were watery and bloodshot, red like his cheeks. He blinked. ‘What?’

‘Good afternoon,’ I said.

‘Why you here?’ He rubbed his face in an irritated way and made a long ‘Ahhh’, which was both a yawn and a sigh. ‘Chin enjoy calm and peace, sleeping and so on. Now pop go weasel, here you again. Irritating and most annoying girl.’

‘I’m here within business hours.’ I pointed to the clock and wondered how best to tell him about the notice on the cinema doors.

‘I give you sudden holiday. I tell you vacate premise. Now what?’

‘I’ve followed your advice about my abnormality and have an appointment with a psychological expert. She has Psy and Dram after her name.’

‘Expert best idea. Chin never joke or say nonsense thing. Chin always right.’ He nodded and let out another yawning sigh. ‘What name?’

‘Bijou Poulet.’

‘Jewish?’

‘I’m not sure. Poulet is a French word. It means chicken.’

‘Chicken!’ He snapped to attention and threw his forearms on to the desk. His expression was fierce. ‘What this chicken business again and every time?’

‘It’s the name of the therapist. You told me to find a professional for my head.’

‘Head.’ He tapped his temple fiercely. ‘Get into head now and permanently. In world, two kind of people: hero and chicken.’

‘I thought it was normal and abnormal.’

‘Interrupt, interrupt. Always interrupt! Quiet now!’ Mr Chin waved his hand in front of his face as if shooing a hornet. ‘Two kind of people: hero and chicken. Hero fight always. Brave and good, many sacrifice for family, so on and so on. Chicken sneaky and cunning. Gambler and so on.’

I nodded but wondered where this was leading. What was it about chickens that inflamed Mr Chin so?

‘Sometime stranger come with stick and gun and knife, beat and stab, thieve precious ornament and so on.’ He narrowed his eyes and shook a finger at me. ‘What chicken do in such case?’

I did not know how to respond, aware that an incorrect answer might put me in the wrong category.

‘Chin tell you. Chicken run always.’ He leaned further across the desk and lowered his voice. ‘Do Chin run always?’

‘No.’ This was true. Mr Chin never ran anywhere. His way of getting from A to B was either to drive his 1979 lime-green Ford Fiesta or walk. As a walker, he was alert yet relaxed. His head and torso appeared to remain motionless while his legs forged ahead.

‘Correct and true. Chin completely not chicken.’

He exhaled in a satisfied way and reclined his executive chair. It seemed like a good moment.

‘Have you seen the notice downstairs?’

‘Chin tired now.’ His eyelids closed. He waved a hand as if to dismiss me. ‘Take one hundred per cent free holiday. See expert and so on. Come back Monday for work at normal hour.’

‘But the cinema might be pulled down.’ By announcing this information, I made it more real and by making it more real, I made myself more anxious.

‘Who say pull down?’ Mr Chin jerked upright again. He looked at me in an accusing way as if it were my idea to demolish the Babylon.

‘Roger Bottle wants to tear it down and build a public surveillance centre in its place.’

‘Wrong and rubbish!’ His voice was shrill. He brought his fist down on to his desk. The empty glass jumped up and bounced sideways, hitting the bottle with a clink. ‘Chin have lease from council that is foolproof. Why you tell wrong and false information?’

‘Roger Bottle is running for mayor and will control the council if he wins.’

‘Who say Bottle win such election? Why you talk so?’ Mr Chin’s expression changed from accusing to dangerous, like traffic lights flashing from amber to red. If I had been a motorist, I would have heeded the sign and braked hard to avoid hitting a pedestrian or colliding with another vehicle. But I was engaged in a discussion and the rules of social intercourse are not as straightforward as the UK Highway Code. My next comment was a logical extension of the subject but it was probably the worst thing I could have said.

‘Roger Bottle already has a lot of support. The Cockerel says he’s winning hearts and minds with his security and employment promises.’ At this point I should have stopped but I was too focused on Roger Bottle to heed the warning signs on Mr Chin’s face. ‘He wants to create local jobs for local people and is calling for compulsory English tests for immigrants.’

Mr Chin squawked. ‘Chin one hundred per cent British citizen. Passport foolproof British. English speaking excellent and perfect.’ He slapped his chest in a proud way. ‘You think Chin have wrong English?’

I thought for a moment. ‘I wouldn’t say it’s wrong English but you often conjugate verbs incorrectly.’

My comment was like a shot fired from a starter pistol. Mr Chin bolted out of his chair and sprinted around to my side of the office. Before I could move, he had grabbed the back of my chair and yanked it away from the desk, spinning me around so that my nose was almost touching his.

‘Incorrectly! What incorrectly?’ He gave my chair an angry shove and pushed himself upright, assuming his full five feet three inches and crossing his arms over his chest. ‘Why Chin employ such peculiar girl as you? Many people want excellent job. Chin too kind and generous.’

It was true what he said but it was discouraging to hear it stated so clearly. Local unemployment was high. I did not have people skills or qualifications and would be hard-pressed to find another position. I needed my job with Mr Chin. My future depended on it.

‘But I can change. I’m determined to crack the normality nut by Monday.’

Mr Chin threw up his hands and groaned.

‘I’m seeing the psychological expert tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Go see expert for head. Go see fortune-teller or astrology person. Whatever necessary. Just vacate premise immediately. Leave Chin now. You forbidden here today and weekend.’ He stopped and narrowed his eyes. ‘Come back Monday at normal hour or—’

‘—or what?’

‘—or Chin find new worker for replacement!’ He made a whisking motion with his hands. ‘Go now!’

I jumped to my feet and hurried over to the doorway, my heart thumping against my ribs. I turned. ‘What will you do if they demolish the cinema? What will happen to the office?’

‘Vacate premise immediately!’

Mr Chin advanced on me and grabbed the door handle. The door sprang open and hit the wall with a clang. I stepped out on to the landing.

‘But I’ve been following the election campaign. Roger Bottle might get elected.’ I started descending the stairs. ‘Do you have a contingency plan?’

‘Question, question, question drive me crazy and nuts!’

My head was whirling when I reached the awning. I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the light. My nostrils flared. The air was heavy with the dry, sickly smell of a mentholated cigarette. I looked around for the smoker but the space under the awning was empty apart from some litter and Nigel’s cardboard square. I glanced across the road to the bus stop. My scalp tingled.

A man dressed as a cowboy was leaning against the bus shelter. It was Shanks and he was looking at me in a friendly way. He doffed his hat and whistled.

Without waiting to see what he would do next, I stepped on to the pavement and hurried away. I wanted nothing to do with the cowboy or Mr Tanderhill. The bungalow experience had cost me my purse and left me with a deep fear of hypnotherapy.

When I finally dared to look back, Shanks was gone and a bus was pulling away. Printed across the back of the vehicle was a large advertisement featuring a woman dressed like the Queen of England. On her head was a jewelled crown but around her neck was a string of deep-fried hash browns. A speech bubble was coming out of her mouth: ‘All that glitters is gold. Nack’s Hash Browns, the majestic snack.’

I made a mental note of the advertisement and set off again, walking briskly and swinging my arms to chest height to maximise cardiovascular activity. This is called power-walking and is very popular in Australia, a country renowned for sports enthusiasm and Rolf Harris.

My head was down as I entered the rose gardens and I did not see the man in the fuchsia trench coat coming the other way. We collided with considerable momentum, which is the sum of mass times velocity. He let out a high-pitched ‘Oh!’ His tiny dog started barking. It was a sharp, ear-piercing sound.

‘I beg your pardon!’ I said.

‘O-là-là.’ He wheezed and grabbed the gatepost. The dog stopped barking and sniffed his master’s ankle.

‘I hope I didn’t injure you. I was power-walking at high speed and hit you with considerable momentum.’

He took a deep breath. ‘Don’t worry, my dear, I’m quite accustomed to brutality.’

He released his grip on the gatepost and as I reached out to steady him, I noticed his face was dusted with beige powder. It is not unusual for male actors to wear stage makeup but there was no theatre in the rose gardens, not even a bandstand for outdoor musical performances. I had never seen a man so made up in a public setting. His lips were cherry red and his eyelashes were thick and dark.

‘You spoke to me the other day.’ I removed my hand from under his arm as he righted himself. ‘You said time was like a fowl.’

‘So I did.’

I nodded and waited for him to continue.

‘Time is an elusive bird, my dear. I have less of it every day.’ He coughed in a delicate way, using a floral handkerchief to cover his mouth.

‘Do you suffer from lung cancer?’

‘Not yet.’ He rummaged in a trouser pocket and removed a bag of old-fashioned sweets. They were hard-boiled Everton Mints with black and white stripes. He held out the bag and shook one into my hand. ‘I’m an alcoholic.’

‘I’ve not observed you drinking.’ I did not bother to add that I had seen plenty of other people doing so in the gardens. I put a mint in my mouth and tasted peppermint and pocket dust. My nasal passages cleared with a crackle.

‘Good to know I’m not at it behind my back. I’ve been on the wagon for a week. That’s seven days for a normal person but about three years for an alcoholic.’ He put two sweets in his mouth, clicking them against his teeth with his tongue. He noticed me looking. ‘The sugar, my dear. It’s one of the few thrills left to me since the doctor gave me my orders. No alcohol. No stimulation. Fresh air, moderate exercise and plenty of sleep. I’ve been advised not to get myself worked up. Excitement, apparently, can drive the vulnerable back to the bottle.’ He held out his hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

I shook his hand, which was soft and warm. ‘My name’s Sherry.’

‘Makes my mouth water.’

‘Sherry Cracker.’

‘You must have suffered every Christmas.’

‘I have never celebrated Christmas but it is on my To Do list.’

‘Worth it for the tinsel if nothing else.’ He smiled. ‘I’m Jocelyn.’

This was an unusual name for a man but as I was rapidly realising, Jocelyn was an unusual person. He was polite and spoke in a gentle, reassuring way. Alcoholism is known to afflict sensitive people and often those with artistic tendencies. Francis Bacon was an alcoholic. So was Tennessee Williams. Jocelyn certainly looked like he had an artistic personality. His clothes were brightly coloured and styled for a much younger man or woman. The fuchsia trench coat was over-stitched in orange and had large mother-of-pearl buttons. His shoes were black suede and his trousers were made of a shiny blue-black material. Knotted around his neck was a turquoise silk scarf. These vibrant clothes combined with the soft grey hair he wore tucked behind his ears created the effect of a Roman Catholic cardinal on holiday. Perhaps it was his ecclesiastical appearance that loosened my tongue. As he strolled back into the gardens with me, I found myself confessing my fear of unemployment and explaining my lack of social skills.

‘My problem is that I feel isolated, as though I were suspended over human society in a Perspex pod.’

‘How novel!’ Jocelyn laughed a small tinkly laugh. The powder on his cheeks was thick and made the skin crinkle like crepe paper. ‘I have difficulty picturing you in a pod, my dear, but I do find those tartan trousers rather dashing.’

I felt heat rise in my cheeks as we sat down on a bench. No one had ever said anything complimentary to me before. ‘You have a very agreeable temperament for someone your age.’

‘Thank you, I’ll take that as a compliment.’ He removed a rolled-up copy of the Cockerel from his coat pocket and opened it to page three, which was not difficult because the newspaper only had four pages. ‘Shall we check our stars?’

I nodded and thought of Mr Chin’s suggestion of an astrologer as Jocelyn read his horoscope.

‘Apparently I’m going to meet a stranger.’ His powdered cheeks crinkled again. ‘Someone tall and dark.’

‘Is that a good thing?’

‘At this point, it would be a godsend. What sign are you?’

‘Sagittarius.’

‘How wonderful. You’re also going to meet a tall and dark stranger.’ He laughed and held the page open for me to read.

The column was called ‘Astral Acorns’ and was written by Andromeda Mountjoy, world-renowned stargazer and lunar minstrel. The horoscope for Sagittarius had a frame around it and a title, ‘Nut of the Day’. It was short, half the length of the other star forecasts: ‘Think tall, dark and strange. You’re in for the ride of your life!’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I don’t either, dear, but it does sound exciting. I do find his tall, dark strangers rather thrilling.’

He adjusted the scarf around his neck and beckoned his dog. As he pushed himself to his feet, I found myself wanting to delay him and extend our discourse. I stood, trying to think of an engaging conversation topic but my mind was blank. I had no repertoire and did not know the first thing about small talk.

‘Do you think we could meet again?’

I was not in the habit of asking such questions because I have learned that people generally do not want to meet me more than once. But Jocelyn had allowed me to finish my sentences and had even addressed me as ‘my dear’. My mother never called me by my name, let alone by a term of affection.

‘Mais bien sûr.’ He slid the paper back into his pocket and picked up his dog, tucking it under his arm like a clutch purse. ‘I’m often here. The fresh air keeps me out of the gin bottle.’

I watched him stroll out of the gardens and realised I was feeling lighter, as if I had been relieved of a heavy suitcase or bag of groceries. The lightness had something to do with optimism and I wondered how best to maintain this feeling as I sat down to consider the task before me. Mr Chin had set a goal and given me the means to achieve it. I had to remain positive and keep my eye on the ball. This strategy is called positive thinking and is very helpful for running corporations and battling terminal illnesses.

‘Birdy, birdy, birdy. Ho, ho, ho.’

I sat up straight at the sound of the melodious baritone and saw a tall, dark man heading towards the gate. He was dressed in loose, colourful clothing and walked in a free, relaxed manner. On his head was a hat shaped like a Pope’s mitre, which added another foot to his height. He glanced at me before leaving the gardens and made a fluttering gesture with his hands.

I was wondering what this could mean when I noticed new chalk graffiti on the wall behind the CCTV camera: ‘TAKE COURAGE. THERE IS GOOD AS WELL AS EVIL.’ I was making a mental note of this message for my OBSERVATIONS ring binder when I realised that the lens of the CCTV camera had been masked with duct tape.

Strange!

This was the sixth masked camera I had seen in a week.

6

Saturday afternoon began in a damp way with light drizzle that eased off as I power-walked towards the centre of town. I reached the high street and was moving swiftly past Quality Pies and Confectionaries when a campaign poster caught my eye. I stopped and took a new notebook out of my bag.

The windows of Quality Pies and Confectionaries were boarded up and pasted over with layers of advertising and posters but in its heyday, the bakery was renowned for its ‘Pie of the Day’ specials and ‘fine English baked goods’. The shop had been a favourite of my mother’s who liked to buy herself a celebratory Victoria sponge every benefit day. This she ate from her armchair with a tea towel spread over her knee and a glass of port at her elbow.

The campaign poster was printed on matt, off-white paper with a small horizontal note along the lower right edge: ‘Made from 100% recycled paper.’ The photo was of a man in his forties dressed in a safari shirt done up at the neck. In his breast pocket was a pen and pencil. He was wearing wire-framed glasses and his hair was parted on the side in a three-to-seven ratio, which is considered the ideal hair parting among Japanese businessmen. But Warren Crumpet was not Japanese or a businessman. He was an organic farmer and member of the British Soil Association who was promising to clean up council corruption and put the town’s finances back in the black. One of his more progressive ideas was to turn unused council land into market gardens and grow organic vegetables for commercial sale. His ‘Go Organic’ initiative would employ and retrain local residents and generate income for municipal projects. The poster’s message was simple: ‘Warren Crumpet for Mayor – Because Honesty Is the Best Policy.’ The first thing he had vowed to do if elected was to halve the mayor’s salary.

Mr Crumpet’s political platform made complete sense to me but clearly he had at least one detractor. Someone had defaced the poster with a thick black marker, drawing crude women’s breasts over the pockets of his safari shirt. ‘Tofu eater’ had been scribbled around his head like a halo or crown of thorns. The destruction of campaign advertising was a crime but I had yet to find an undamaged poster of Warren Crumpet.

When I reached the address of Bijou Poulet Psy Dram, I had to remind myself to remain positive. Her office was located in a dilapidated building above a fish and chip shop called the Sea Breeze. This was not a very prestigious location for a psychological expert. The white paint was peeling on the front door and litter had collected in the doorway. The handwritten card next to the buzzer read: POULET Psy Dram Therapeutic Chambers. As I held my finger down on the plastic button I noticed that someone had scratched ‘ITCH’ into the paintwork. The intercom crackled and a woman’s voice shouted, ‘Enough already!’

The door clicked and I climbed the stairs to a scuffed carpeted landing. There I found a second door. This had a peephole and a large framed photograph of a popular American actress. The photo had a caption in gold lettering, ‘Jodie Foster, Hollywood Screen Legend, Etcetera.’

The door opened and Bijou Poulet beckoned me inside. Her nails were long and made me think of the empress dowager Cixi who reigned over China for several decades and earned a reputation as a ruthless tyrant and dog lover. One of Cixi’s diplomatic initiatives was to give away toy dogs as gifts and she once bestowed a Pekinese on the daughter of American President Theodore Roosevelt.

Bijou Poulet was a stout woman with wide shoulders, chest and pelvic girdle. Her hair was very blonde except near the scalp where it was dark and streaked with grey. She was dressed as if for a French cabaret in a ruffled blue synthetic gown and silver shoes with very high heels. Around her neck was a glittery necklace with several of its paste gems missing. She did not appear to be American and I could not tell if she was Jewish but she did have a lot of framed documents on her walls. I could not read their contents but they appeared to have the seals and swirling signatures of academic diplomas. The qualifications would have pleased Mr Chin, who believed in getting ‘bang for buck’.

Bijou Poulet announced that a half-hour session would cost thirty pounds. I was asked to pay upfront before being led to a reclining sofa.

‘Remove your shoes and stretch out,’ she said, putting on reading glasses.

‘Can I keep my clothes on?’ I asked.

‘Do you enjoy nudity with women?’ She stepped back from me, frowning over the top of her glasses.

‘I thought it might be expected.’

‘Uh-huh.’ She pointed again to the sofa with the end of her pen before sitting on a swivel chair and placing a stenographer’s pad on her knee. ‘Ho-kay, I’ll need some background info-data for my files. Are you affiliated with the motion picture industry?’

‘No.’

‘Film, TV, docu-dramas, mini-series, pilots, commercials?’

‘I go to the cinema sometimes.’

She frowned and noted something down. ‘Are you married or homosexual?’

‘I’m single.’

‘So you’re not homosexual?’

‘One never knows, I suppose. I’ve read that people sometimes discover homosexual relief in mid-life.’

‘Uh-huh.’ She wrote something else down. ‘Allergies, phobias, unresolved anger?’

‘I’m not allergic to anything but I am afraid of spiders. Especially those large, hairy bird-eating spiders that live on tropical islands. I have a horror of a bird-eating spider falling from a coconut palm, down the back of my cardigan.’

‘That’s fear of the vagina.’

‘I’m not frightened of the vagina. It’s spiders.’

‘Psy 101: Fear of snakes is fear of the penis. Fear of spiders is fear of the vagina. It’s the ABC of my trade. You’ve probably had a traumatic birth or a brush with a forceful lesbian. Sometimes it’s a distant aunt or over-friendly neighbour. Fear and shame drive the female child to internalise the incident and bury it deep in her subconscious. It takes multiple sessions with a highly trained expert to normalise a traumatised victim. It’s a baptism by fire, catharsis, rebirth. I have a time plan to ease the financial burden of payments.’

‘But I thought most people were scared of spiders. And snakes for that matter.’

‘Leave the thinking up to those licensed to do it.’

This statement was not very encouraging but it was not my place to question a certified professional. It seemed like a good moment to clarify my goals. ‘I’ve been told by a reliable source that I am abnormal. I’m looking for relief by Monday.’

‘There are two types of abnormal, the chronically abnormal and the averagely abnormal. My professional guess is that you’re the former.’ She shook her head and exhaled noisily. ‘I’ve heard it all in my game. Violence, torture, murder, rape, damage to private property. I carry it with me. It’s all up here.’

Bijou Poulet tapped her temple and sighed in a significant way. She had not chosen an easy career path. I knew for a fact that suicide among psychotherapists was uncommonly high. So was suicide among veterinarians. I was glad I had not opted for a career in veterinary science. It cannot be easy giving animals injections.

‘At least you don’t see animals suffer.’

Bijou Poulet seemed startled by my comment. ‘What does the word beaver mean to you?’

‘Dam.’

‘Ho-kay, I’ll take that as a hostile response.’ She folded her lips and wrote a lengthy paragraph on her notepad. She then reread her notes, frowned and scratched her scalp with her long fingernails. When she finally looked up, her expression was serious. ‘Your illness has a name.’

‘That’s helpful.’

‘Joan of Arc complex.’

‘But Joan of Arc was a soldier. She led armies into battle against the British. I don’t agree with fighting. I think it does more harm than good.’

‘That’s only what you think you think. What goes on inside your mind is a different kettle of fish.’ She pointed to her temple again before motioning in the general direction of my groin. ‘You’re a victim of unnatural impulses, dangerous impulses if left unchecked. They’ve got to be controlled, suppressed, suffocated, metaphorically held down and beaten with a stick. Electric shock therapy is no longer available but there are other psychological routes we can pursue.’

‘This is not very good news.’

Bijou Poulet held up a hand. ‘Describe a recent dream.’

I would have liked to pursue the Joan of Arc theme but it seemed prudent to do as instructed. ‘I dreamed this morning that I lost my job. I woke up with pins and needles in my legs. Would you like me to describe it?’

‘No.’

I was taken aback by this abrupt response but reminded myself of the ‘Psy Dram’ after Bijou Poulet’s name. ‘Earlier this week, I had another dream. It was quite strange.’

‘I’m sure it was.’

‘In the dream I was sitting in the therapy room of Mr Harrison Tanderhill, a registered hypnotherapist.’ I looked at her. She nodded for me to continue. ‘I was speaking indiscreetly.’

‘Filth, shame, childhood guilt. The hypnotist takes away your sense of responsibility. You’re under his control, free to pursue sexual fantasy.’

‘Mr Tanderhill then said, “I just love the Neapolitan lifestyle”. That’s the part I don’t understand.’

‘Suppressed sexual feelings for the maidenhead. Textbook case.’

‘He then started asking about money.’

‘Pure greed. It starts at the breast.’

‘I was bottle fed.’

She glared at me. ‘Get on with it.’

‘Then the dream seemed to jump ahead. The hypnotherapist was laughing and doing the Macarena.’

‘Release, sexual freedom, cork popping. You’re frustrated, craving sexual expression. If you dig deep into your subconscious, you’ll find that the hypnotist in your dream was actually a woman dressed as a man.’

‘I’m not sure it was a dream.’

‘The dreaming mind can be compelling but reality is reality, full stop.’ She clicked her fingers to emphasise the full stop. ‘An averagely abnormal person knows the difference. A chronically abnormal person should be put on high-quality psycho-pharmaceuticals to suppress the imagination, to kill it dead in the parlance of psychotherapeutic dramatology. I’m not licensed to prescribe but I can point you in the right direction. For a fee, naturally.’

‘The thing is, I did go to see Mr Tanderhill last week. He’s a certified hypnotics expert.’

‘Poppycock.’

‘I was mesmerised with a small medallion.’

‘In your dreams, sister.’ She raised her eyebrows and made a whistling gesture with her lips without actually whistling.

‘He said the medallion was of Hindu origin but I recognised its image. My mother’s butcher had worn the same talisman. Mr Da Silva was Roman Catholic and Portuguese. He had considerable body hair.’

Bijou Poulet frowned and shook her head at the mention of body hair. ‘We’re wasting time. Have you ever dreamed you’ve forgotten to put your underpants on?’

‘No.’

‘You dream you’re back at school and suddenly realise you’re not wearing underpants.’

‘No.’

‘You’re sitting an exam and panic when you realise you’ve forgotten your underpants.’

‘I have never dreamed about underwear, with or without.’

‘For God’s sake!’ Bijou Poulet exhaled loudly through her nose and slapped her notebook on her knee.

I did not need to be a psychological expert to recognise frustration when I saw it.

She let out a long, irritated sigh. ‘Tell me about your anxieties, worries, qualms. Give them to me in a nutshell.’

I tried to think of something to say. What I was most worried about at that moment was displeasing her but I doubted this was what she wanted to hear.

‘Hurry up!’ She tapped her wrist. ‘You’re over halfway through your session.’

I was thinking how best to describe Mr Chin and explain that my education and career plans were in jeopardy when Bijou Poulet’s words cut through my thoughts.

‘Hello, anybody home?’

I felt a jolt as if an alarm clock had gone off next to my ear and a small flash bulb had popped inside my brain. I started talking rapidly. ‘Dirty washing worries me. If I think about the way it piles up, I get an empty feeling in my chest. No matter how often I wash my clothes, there’s always more. The clothes I wear while doing the washing will be the dirty clothes I wash tomorrow. It’s endless, like infinity, the universe. It makes me feel small and meaningless.’

‘Ridiculous.’ She tilted her chin and tapped her lips with a palm to demonstrate a false yawn.

‘Could we discuss abnormality?’

‘No.’

‘I’d like to talk about how I feel disconnected from the human context, encased in Perspex.’

‘Think of a family member, a key family member with breasts.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Starts with M. Sounds like “other”.’

‘Mother?’

‘It’s like pulling teeth with you.’

It felt good to get something right. I smiled at Bijou Poulet and received a frown in return.

‘Describe a traumatic incident with this woman.’

‘You mean my mother?’

‘Whatever. Just pick up the pace. I haven’t got all day.’ She click-clicked the fingers of one hand and made an upward swirling motion with the index finger of the other.

My mind whirred, went blank, whirred, went blank. There had been many traumatic incidents but at that moment I could not think of a single one. I watched Bijou Poulet tap her pen on the notepad with impatience. I closed my eyes and heard her snort, a long ‘Hnihhh.’

Suddenly I could see my mother’s face. It was poked between the curtains of the fitting booth in the ladies department of Trout and Son and she was breathing heavily through her nose. I was naked from the waist up, struggling with the clasp of a Miss Teen Starter. Perspiration was running between the two things that had brought me there. They were as round and hard as walnuts and burned on my chest under my mother’s gaze.

‘Stop sweating. You’ll soil the thing and I’m not paying for soiled goods.’ She spoke in a hoarse whisper, twisting her neck out of the booth to make sure the shop assistant was out of hearing range.

The plastic clasp, slippery with perspiration, miraculously clicked shut. I pulled up the straps and raised the twin apricot cups over my breasts where they puckered for want of fill. My mother moved in close, breathing relentlessly through her nose. Her eyes were fixed on the cups.

‘Just lean forwards and fall into them.’

I bent at the waist and urged whatever flesh there was on my chest and underarms to fall into the cups. Nothing fell. I had no moveable flesh on my fourteen-year-old body. My mother looked at the empty cups and sucked air between her teeth before expelling it through her nose in a dissatisfied ‘Hnihhh.’ It was clear by the way she frowned that my chest was not good enough and never would be.

‘That’s it?’ Bijou Poulet raised her eyebrows and gave me an incredulous look.

‘Correct.’

‘That story has no entertainment value whatsoever. You need to learn the value of a good punch line. It makes all the difference.’

‘But I wasn’t trying to entertain. I didn’t think it was expected.’

‘What do you think it’s like listening to someone ramble on about personal problems? Psychotherapeutic dramatology is a two-way street. What did you expect from me?’

‘Mental therapeutics. I was hoping you could help me iron out the kinks of abnormality.’

‘I’m not a magician. It’s session number one and we haven’t even scratched the surface. Someone with your psychological profile needs extensive analytical attention. There’s layer upon layer of chronic disorder in your psyche. I’m seeing obsessive-compulsive behaviour and classic female hysteria. Then, of course, there’s the Joan of Arc business, the nub of your psycho-sexual problems.’ She leaned back in her chair and smiled professionally. ‘The good news is, you’re not alone with your psychoses. I treat sick people like you every day. The bad news is that your psychology needs reprogramming from the brain stem up. That sort of overhaul doesn’t come cheap. We’re looking at four, maybe five figures.’

‘I don’t have that kind of money. My funds are limited.’

‘I have an instalment plan with attractive rates for bulk purchase. You’ll need to buy bulk. I can assure you.’ Bijou Poulet smiled in an unnatural way and made a T with her hands. ‘Let’s take some time out. I’ll give you a minute or two to think over my generous offer.’

I should not have been disappointed by Bijou Poulet’s evaluation. Criticism is not new to me. I have heard it all my life and am vaccinated against it to some degree. But what surprised me was the finality of her assessment. I had naively expected some sort of miracle cure. The gift from Mr Chin and the timely assistance of Nigel had convinced me that something groundbreaking was about to happen. I should have known better. The brain is a complex and powerful organ. It consists of one hundred billion neurons and can generate enough energy to illuminate a twenty-watt light bulb. Psychology is not a simple science.

‘I’m afraid I can’t afford more psychotherapeutic dramatology but it would be helpful to know where my central problem lies.’

‘That would be revealed in session seventeen. Not before. Professional reasons, you understand.’

‘I don’t, no.’

‘I’m writing a screenplay, tentatively titled Cat Fight.’

‘About me?’

‘What kind of a psychological professional would I be if I couldn’t keep secrets?’

‘For a moment I did wonder.’

‘The content of my screenplay is private and personal, subject to copyright, patent pending.’ She looked at her wrist. ‘Your session is terminated.’

Without warning, she slipped a hand under my armpit and pulled me to my feet. I was fumbling with the laces of my shoes as I was bundled out of the door and escorted to the bottom of the stairs. The door was opened and I was ejected on to the street, blinking at the sudden whiteness of the overcast afternoon. I turned to protest but the door was slammed in my face. My eyes fell on the buzzer and I saw something I had not noticed before. The word scratched into the paint was not ‘ITCH’ as I had first thought. In front of this was the letter ‘B’.

Something hard poked into the small of my back but before I could react, a familiar voice spoke: ‘Hand over your crocodile bag and make it snappy!’

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