Looking for Mrs Dextrose

by Nick Griffiths

  Not all gangsters are unlovable, I decided.

  “Nah, go on, quick, ’fore that lanky fella catches up wiv you!” (And Gdgi’s people, and the Shaman, I thought, glad I had failed to mention them to him.)

  Dextrose belched in his coma. Livingstone Quench and I shook hands, mine feeling so much smaller than his.

  “Good luck, lad,” he said. And he turned, walked back into Gossips and shut the door behind him. Not a sweat patch on his back.

  Boy, was I going to miss him.

  As I gunned the engine, on the verge of getting away with it, Importos came haring outside, his gangling limbs waving around like windsocks in a squall. “Hey! Senor Alexander! You to forget Importos!”

  There had been one road out of Mlwlw, left towards the southern coast instead of right into the jungle. It was strewn with nature’s debris, causing Dextrose’s head to jerk up and down violently. Importos clung on behind me, towering over my head. Anything he tried to say to me was swept away by the rushing air or drowned out beneath the engine’s thrum.

  I felt happy to be on the road, welcomed the miles strewn before us. This was freedom and let it last, cutting through the breeze, between the verdant sentries guarding the roadside, as we… not exactly hurtled along, though it was progress… out towards new lands, fresh experiences.

  Let the Shaman come after me. And all of the villagers! They would not catch us, not while I was in this mood!

  The trees became shorter and more sparse, the further from Mlwlw we travelled, as the rainforest began to peter out. The route became smoother. Occasionally we would pass people on the road: women with bundles or baskets on their heads, men carrying tools, shooting us uncertain smiles, children jumping and waving excitedly.

  I held my face up to the sky, let the sun’s rays rain down on me, took my hands off the handlebars, flung them out wide and opened my mouth to pour out my joy. I spotted the black blob hurtling towards me too late, swallowed the large flying insect, heard its panicked buzzing inside my head as its wings beat dementedly on the roof of my mouth. Jamming my hands back onto the handlebars, I spat violently while retching and, when I was sure the dastardly bug had been ejected, felt around my mouth with a doctorly tongue, paranoid that I might have been stung. Behind and above me Importos laughed with abandon, his stomach pulsing against my spine.

  After an hour or so I spotted our first sign up ahead, partially concealed by vegetation to the left of the track. As we drew closer I saw it was a hefty wooden construct nailed between two poles. On it was written, in two languages:

  NTHULU HNKUTA TMBALA

  YOU ENTER NAMELESS HIGHWAY

  And as we chugged past it, I noticed that someone had sprayed a graffiti figure beneath:

  Which hardly inspired a satisfying dollop of confidence.

  Still, here we were. I was in one piece, there was no one on our tail, as far as I could see, and we had sufficient supplies, Quench having packed sarnies ad infinitum as well as a vast water can. As we approached a bend in the track beyond which I hoped the Nameless Highway would come into view, my heart was beating like a cantering nag. What would it look like?

  Our home for the next few days, its name evoked in my mind’s eye scenes from Clint Eastwood movies, cowboys in hats chewing on tobacco, toting pistols the length of savaloys, bar brawls and prostitutes in petticoats. But were names deceptive?

  Then we turned the bend and the answer lay spread before me: the Nameless Highway looked like nothing on earth. Literally nothing on earth. It were as if a god with a giant vacuum had sucked up every last feature, from one side to the other. Desolation. Sand, sand, sand, as far as the eye could see, deep orange in colour. This could have been the surface of Mars. And bisecting it, fashioned in pristine tarmac, the road. The Nameless Highway, as straight as a python eating a pool cue, stretching out towards the far horizon.

  Sand and a road. Not a bush nor a cactus nor another soul in sight. Certainly no Clint.

  Just sand. And a road.

  The Nameless Highway.

  Our home for the coming days.

  I stopped the bike, exhaled deeply, and stared. “Fuck.”

  Beside me, Dextrose continued to doze. Behind me, Importos moaned.

  “We in big shit,” he said.

  At least there was a breeze rolling in over the sands from the south, from an unseen ocean that I imagined I could taste. It calmed the intensity of the sun dipping behind us and tousled my blonde hair, overgrown and untended since the start of my travels. When had I last shaved,’I wondered? When had I last even looked in a mirror? Vanity and real travel functioned poles apart, I realised, running a hand over the curves of my face and through patchy bum-fluff. Any self-respecting 33-year-old back home would have been ashamed to call that a beard. I wore its untidiness with honour – to me it said ‘explorer’.

  According to the map, the first stop on the Nameless Highway would be a settlement imaginatively named First Stop. It was about half an inch in, on a road that went on for roughly five. According to the scale, that meant a journey of perhaps 250 miles before we would hit civilisation. We dared not even consider roadside camping, so would have to make First Stop that night, which was pushing it given our top speed of 45 miles per hour. (On heart-stopping occasions, when the motorbike and sidecar seemed possessed by a devil-may-care spirit, the speedometer needle would crawl over the 45 mark, like a pensioner negotiating an obstacle course, then oscillate wildly either side of 46, dancing on hot coals, appalled and elated by its own temerity. Then it would backfire – the machine version of shitting itself – and normal service would resume.)

  I checked my watch, the lovely Timeco Z112.2 XG, too many buttons and space-age face, purchased in High Yawl. It was sold to me, in that Utopia for the commercially minded, by the delightful Mimsy Flopkins, who had mourned my leaving her emporium with the phrase, “Your premature departure has left a hole in my soul.” I hadn’t necessarily believed her, though it did stick in my mind. The Timeco Z112.2 XG was a lovely watch, which she promised would flash red if I stopped breathing.

  It was 18.42. Time to get going. Importos and I glugged down some water, and I managed to tip some into Dextrose’s upturned gob without him stirring.

  “Hold on to your hat!” I called over my shoulder and upwards to Importos, though of course he wasn’t wearing a hat. “Next stop, First Stop!”

  “To whoppy-do!” he called back drily.

  Meanwhile, Dextrose snored: a crackly, hacking sound.

  The ride quickly settled into a rhythm, with the engine as soundtrack. With no features to speak of, not even a white line down the middle of the road, it sometimes seemed we weren’t moving, so I had to trust to the speedometer’s insistence and the blurred rotation of the front wheel. It was as if we were perched atop a rotating drum.

  I could sink into it, my mind wandering, picking up random signals from the cosmos and turning them over. Inevitably, though, my thoughts veered towards family.

  Harrison Dextrose was my father, that much I had accepted; however, the implications had not fully sunk in. The situation felt true yet unreal. My only memories of him came secondhand, from the contents of The Lost Incompetent. That was how I knew him, though the boorish drunk I had encountered in the flesh bore only a minor resemblance to his own recorded take on himself – which tended to gloss over the negatives and blame everyone else. I had to assume that encroaching old age – more spare time and the alcohol to fill it – had narrowed his mind, and that the Dextrose of his writings, the curmudgeonly but playful character, had he existed at all, lay dormant. Just needed a nudge or two to emerge, I hoped… Nay, felt certain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Uhuh?” I replied warily.

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

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

  “Maybe,” said Importos.

  I could tell that he wasn’t convinced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Stillness. Silence.

  Nothing to worry about.

  Pretty sure.

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

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

  “Shit,” I whispered.

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

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

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

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

  “GBL-GBL-GBL-GBL-OINK!” Closer still.

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

  Importos’ teeth chattered.

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

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

  “W-w-what ze to fuck?” stuttered Importos.

  It stopped and stared right at us, its beady eyes boring right through me as its horrible, dangly, red beard-thing wobbled like disturbed entrails.

  “GBL-GBL-GBL-GBL-OINK!” it went.

  Then it shuffled off the side of the road and into darkness.

  The last we heard of it was its receding cry: “GBL-GBL-GBL-GBL-OINK!”

  I breathed a sigh of relief and continued towards First Stop, wondering what other horrors might lurk out there.

  I hadn’t been able to decide whether the distant, faint lights were the headlights of another vehicle coming towards us, or stationery lights from some kind of building; such was the disorientating perspective of this strange, lonely road. But, as we drew nearer, I became convinced: First Stop.

  When we pulled off the road I will admit that I had expected more: somewhere to stock up with supplies; a petrol pump, perhaps; soft-lit accommodation, in which to rejuvenate travel-sore limbs; even a caravan selling tea and burgers wouldn’t have gone amiss.

  Instead, First Stop comprised just one building: Socks ‘N’ Sandals Bar. And ‘Bar’ was pushing it. Socks ‘N’ Sandals Glorified Shack would have troubled the Trades Descriptions people less. Which isn’t to say that I wasn’t delighted and relieved to have made it thus far, and for the chance to unwind. I was just a tad underwhelmed.

  My watch read 22:39 – prime drinking time, even in a place as remote as this, yet ours was the only vehicle out front. Was the dive even open? The lights were on in the two unusually small windows either side of the entrance, and from somewhere around the back there came the ugly moan of what I assumed to be a generator.