Buying Llamas Off the Internet

by Ian Edwards

  Amy thought that Jonathon Livingstone matched that description rather well, but thought it wise to stay quiet and not antagonise an already unhappy headmaster.

  ‘To be fair, it does look like it could be a penguin, but I’m not sure how it could have gotten on the coach. And…’ she added, ‘I was with the children the whole day. I am sure I would have noticed if they were walking around with a penguin.’

  Amy knew that she had offered an economic version of the truth. Strictly speaking she hadn’t kept a watchful eye on the children at all. Instead she had been in the cafeteria, nursing a hangover over a coffee and had left the supervision to her assistant.

  ‘Be that as it may,’ Stretton said pompously, ‘the children managed to remove a penguin from the enclosure, sneak it past you and onto the coach where they proceeded to take photographs of it posing with each other.’

  ‘I can only assume that they did it all very quietly. I certainly did not see or hear any activity from the back of the coach. I mean, I did the usual head count as they boarded the coach. There were no extra children.’ Amy explained.

  Again, the truth of the matter was slightly at odds with the version she had told the headmaster. She had slept the entire journey home. The children could have smuggled a lion onto the coach and she wouldn’t have noticed. Amy also knew that the ridiculously large school bags the children were forced to carry around could have easily accommodated several penguins.

  Stretton was fast getting bored of the conversation.

  ‘Listen Amy, it’s very simple. You took your class to the zoo and a few hours later the zoo keeper reported a missing penguin. Somehow the penguin ended up at the school posing for pictures with children who were paying a pound for the privilege.’

  ‘To be fair Stretton,’ Amy said, ‘I don’t think it was posing. In fact I would suggest it had no idea what was happening to it at all. It looks somewhat bewildered.’ Not unlike Jonathon Livingstone, she thought to herself.

  ‘So, where’s the penguin now?’ she asked, finally admitting defeat.

  ‘Downstairs, sitting in the staffroom sink eating pilchards.’

  Amy sighed. ‘Do penguins sit down?’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ Stretton replied.

  Amy didn’t know what he meant at all, but was too tired to argue the point. ‘So what do we do now?’ she asked instead.

  ‘A Mr Morris from the zoo is on his way here to collect it. I’d like you to meet him when he gets here and apologise profusely for all the inconvenience you’ve caused. Oh and one more thing,’ he said, ‘Tell your class they can come and get their mobiles at the end of the day.’

  Amy stood up and made her way to the door.

  ‘And Amy,’ Stretton called out, causing her to turn to face him again. ‘Sort your class out will you? They’re supposed to be educationally challenged and yet they’re running rings round you.’

  Stretton watched as Amy shut the door behind her. Taking his state of the art smart phone from his pocket he scrolled through the menu stopping when he came to the photos. He smiled as he looked at the recently taken picture of himself and the penguin.

  *

  James gripped the bagpipes in the manner described in the book laid open on the table in front of him. He shifted it round slightly and attempted to blow into the tube that was poking in his face. Nothing happened aside from James going bright red in the face.

  He put the bagpipes down and consulted the book again, turning the book round and looked at the diagram from a different angle.

  ‘I’m doing that!’ he exclaimed, as though the book was arguing with him.

  James had been studying the book, described as “the definitive guide to learning to play the bagpipes” for over an hour and he had still not progressed beyond the first chapter, imaginatively titled “Getting Started.”

  He picked up the bagpipes again and, following the diagram, began to blow into the tube. This time he, or rather the bagpipes, made an awful screeching sound, reaching a crescendo before fading away like a punctured balloon flying round a room.

  James sat down in the nearest chair face red after his exertion.

  ‘Nearly got it,’ he said to himself, satisfied that the practice was appearing to pay off at last.

  James was grateful that Amy was out. She had sent him a text message earlier saying that she had had a bitch of a day at work and was going out with some colleagues for a few drinks.

  On one hand, James was glad that his wife was out of the house, as it gave him the opportunity to practice the bagpipes. However, she was drinking far too much these days and had been for a while. He had decided to speak to her about it, but his experience of dealing with Amy told him that he would need to have a drink himself beforehand for Dutch courage, which weakened his position somewhat.

  A bleep from his mobile phone alerted James to a text message. The message was from Amy and simply read;

  Pse pick me up @11 outside Shiny Bar

  James looked at his watch. Excellent, another hour’s practice, he thought. He was sure he would have it mastered by then. Suddenly cheered, he took another deep breath and blew into the tube.

  *

  Amy sat on the small wall outside Shiny Bar, alongside her friend and colleague Beth.

  ‘He’s such a bastard. I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone as much as him,’ she said, gesturing furiously to no one in particular.

  ‘Are you still talking about Stretton?’ Beth asked, although she expected that was the case, as Amy had spent most of the evening moaning about their headmaster.

  ‘Yes, that bastard,’ she replied.

  Before Beth had the chance to feign interest in Amy’s continuing rant, she was interrupted by Amy grabbing hold of her shoulder and pointing down the road.

  ‘Look there’s James,’ she called out.

  A brightly coloured SUV pulled up onto the kerbside. Amy stood up, and wobbled slightly, holding on to Beth for support.

  ‘That’s a lovely coloured car,’ Beth commented, ‘is it pink?’

  ‘It’s cerise,’ Amy said indignantly. ‘It’s lovely.’

  James stepped out of the car and on to the pavement. His wife was clearly drunk and he wasn’t sure if she was leaning on or being held up her friend.

  ‘Hi Beth, have you had a good evening?’ James inquired.

  ‘Pretty good thanks,’ she replied.

  James looked down at his wife’s stockinged feet. He pointed down and asked; ‘Where are your shoes?’

  ‘I took them off…for the dancing,’ Amy replied, not really answering the question.

  Beth picked Amy’s shoes from behind the wall and handed them to James.

  ‘Thanks Beth,’ he said, taking the shoes. ‘That bar doesn’t have dancing,’ he pointed out.

  ‘That’s what the manager told me too,’ Amy slurred.

  James shrugged and turned to Beth. ‘Can I give you a lift?’

  Beth looked across at Amy. ‘Thanks, but no. You should get her home, she’s had a fair bit more than me and I only live round the corner.’

  ‘I’ll drive,’ Amy called out and opened the car door.

  ‘You’re not driving home like that,’ James said moving alongside his wife.

  ‘And why’s that?’ Amy slurred.

  ‘Because that’s the passenger seat,’ James pointed out.

  Shaking his head, James wandered round to the other side of the car and climbed in.

  ‘I’m hungry. Is there anything to eat?’ Amy asked him before he had fastened his seatbelt.

  ‘I think there’s some chocolate in the glove compartment,’ James replied as he started the engine and pulled away.

  Amy rummaged around in the glove compartment. ‘Are you serious?’ she cried out.

  ‘Sorry. What?’ James asked.

  ‘I’m not eating this. Not after the day I’ve had.’

  James looked across at his wife. ‘I thought you were hungry?’

  ‘I’m not hungry enough to
eat this though. Not today of all days,’ Amy said as she put the chocolate bar back in the glove compartment.

  ‘Didn’t fancy the penguin bar then?’ he said.

  Chapter 9.

  Alan pushed the shopping trolley along the aisle, keeping a respectable distance behind Rosie. He knew he had to be close enough for her to drop items in the trolley but far enough away so that he wouldn’t run into the back of her legs.

  Alan considered pushing a shopping trolley an under rated skill. Rather like a runner who spent most of a race deliberately on the shoulder of the leader, only to overtake them on the final bend. A slight misjudgement and he would run into the back of Rosie’s legs, incurring her wrath. He knew from experience this would take hours to subside. He still remembered the time he had clipped her with the trolley causing her to trip over. Rosie’s mood made worse when he accused her of “taking a dive.” He had thought it funny right up to the point she had driven off and left him in the car park holding a Kumquat.

  Frankie wandered a few feet behind Alan, stopping occasionally to study the labels on tins and packets.

  ‘What’s Cous Cous?’ He asked.

  Alan stopped pushing the trolley and turned round. ‘It’s a kind of wheat. A bit like soft grit,’ he explained.

  ‘Oh,’ Frankie said. ‘What does it taste like?’

  Alan paused for a moment, considering the question before answering. ‘Soft grit.’

  Rosie turned round. ‘Who are you talking to?’ she asked, oblivious to Frankie’s presence.

  ‘No one, I’m just singing,’ Alan replied, blushing slightly. Even after several months, he was still occasionally caught apparently talking to himself.

  ‘Well don’t. There’s children present,’ Rosie advised him, before continuing down the aisle.

  Alan left Frankie staring at products that neither of them could pronounce and hurried after her. He eased the trolley to a halt just after the tinned fruit section, but before the unusually shaped bread.

  ‘Are you still going out with all your friends next week?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Are you thinking of coming along?’

  ‘Actually I was,’ Alan told her. ‘I was going to bring James along.’

  Rosie raised an eyebrow. ‘We are going to a club, I did tell you.’

  ‘Are you concerned that we’ll cramp your style?’

  Rosie put something into the trolley that Alan couldn’t decide was either edible or meant to be taken into the shower.

  ‘You’re more than welcome to join us, but you hate clubs. You normally moan that they’re too expensive, too noisy and too hot.’

  ‘I know, but I fancy a night out.’

  ‘You’re always out,’ Rosie said.

  ‘That’s work, not a night out. I just want to go out and have a good time without the pressure of making people laugh.’

  ‘So you’ve got a new act then,’ Rosie teased.

  Ignoring her Alan continued, ‘It’ll do James good to get out too. Amy’s giving him a hard time at the moment.’

  ‘Amy gives everyone a hard time, that’s what we love about her.’

  ‘This is worse than normal apparently.’

  ‘Of course you can come,’ Rosie agreed, ‘but be aware there’s going to be young people there, and dancing.’

  ‘We can fit in with them no problem,’ Alan said confidently.

  Rosie laughed and turned to the shelves to choose between eighty six different varieties of muesli, while Alan did a U turn and went off to find Frankie.

  *

  Rosie watched as the waiter wheeled a serving trolley laden with full plates and bowls to the end of the table where Alan and James sat.

  They were seated in the Masala Mansion. Eight of them sitting on a long table, Rosie at one end, separated from Alan and James by her sister and four friends.

  James lifted his drink away from the table, giving the waiter more space in which to place the plates and bowls of food. Before he had finished, Alan started scooping servings of the food onto his plate.

  ‘Do you think we’ve got enough?’ he asked James.

  ‘We can always order more,’ James mumbled through a mouthful of rice.

  Alan looked along the table. The six women appeared to be sharing no more than a couple of bowls.

  ‘Do you want us to pass some of this down?’ he asked, gesturing at the mountain of food in front of him.

  ‘We’re fine thanks,’ Rosie answered. ‘This’ll be more than enough for us.’

  Alan shrugged and went back to his meal.

  Rosie inwardly sighed. Alan and James clearly had more food in front of them than the average Indian village saw in a week. She frowned as the pair gleefully smashed dozens of poppadums’ with their hands, adding the shards to their already bulging plates. She shook her head and went back to the conversation about the latest carb free diet.

  After several minutes in which Alan wondered whether poppadums’ would make good Frisbees, he called out from his end of the table. ‘Is Alison not coming tonight?’

  ‘She was supposed to be, but she texted me to say she’s tied up at work,’ Rosie replied, wondering how it had taken Alan an hour before realising Alison was missing.

  Alan had met Rosie’s friend Alison at her birthday a couple of months earlier and had been taken by the small bubbly blonde with the bat obsession.

  Jayne rolled her eyes. ‘That boss of hers is really demanding. He must keep her chained to the desk.’

  ‘No Amy tonight?’ Rosie asked James, who had reluctantly conceded that there was no food left and was considering licking his plate clean.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘She’s on a course and won’t be back until later tonight.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Alan whispered across the table at his friend.

  Checking that Rosie wasn’t listening, James replied, ‘No of course not. I didn’t ask her. We’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves and we don’t want her moping around getting drunk and embarrassing us.’

  He picked up his glass drained his lager in one gulp and said, ‘Fancy another?’

  Alan called the waiter over and ordered some more drinks and, after checking along the table, some more poppadums.

  ‘You’ll never guess what I’ve got on at work,’ Jayne announced.

  ‘What’s that?’ Alan asked without any real interest.

  ‘I’m on the team investigating the death of Clive Oneway,’ she said proudly.

  Alan looked at James who stared blankly back at him.

  ‘Who?’ Alan asked.

  ‘Clive Oneway,’ Jayne repeated. ‘You can’t have forgotten him already?’

  Was he one of our Ashes team?’ James asked.

  ‘For crying out loud,’ Jayne cried out. ‘No he wasn’t one of the Ashes team. He was that ghastly developer who wanted to pull down the theatre.’

  ‘Oh that Clive Oneway,’ James said.

  Alan nodded. ‘Didn’t he throw himself off a building or something?’

  ‘That was the original conclusion, but we’ve re-opened the case as it was thought that there were too many unanswered questions,’ Jayne explained.

  ‘I don’t envy you,’ James said, using his fork to pick bits of poppadum from his teeth.

  ‘Why?’ Jayne asked.

  ‘Well, you’ve got your work cut out haven’t you?’ James explained. ‘Developers are just above pond life. There must be loads of people with a motive for killing him.’

  Jayne laughed. ‘Nobody’s saying he was killed. Yet. Besides, we have ways of making you talk. It’s our job.’

  One of Rosie’s friends said something which neither James nor Alan heard but everybody else seemed to find hilarious. Taking advantage of the loud laughter, James brought his fist down on the recently arrived plate of poppadoms’, smashing them into pieces.

  ‘Better get stuck in,’ James said.

  *

  ‘How can you spend £43.37 on Poppadoms?’ Rosie asked angrily as they stood
at the bar in the night club.

  ‘It wasn’t just us. You had some too,’ Alan protested.

  ‘We had about two each, and a couple of the girls wouldn’t touch them because they weren’t organic.’

  ‘Can you get organic poppadoms’?’ Alan asked.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. You and James between you managed to eat £43.37 worth of poppadoms’.’

  That was typical of Rosie, Alan thought. Anyone else would round the price to the nearest pound. Rosie had to say the exact price.

  ‘It was mainly James,’ Alan said, shamelessly blaming his friend for the anomaly on the bill. ‘He’s eating to bury the pain of Amy’s current mood.’

  ‘He ate enough to bury Amy, never mind her pain,’ Rosie paused. ‘Hang on, what pain?’

  ‘I told you,’ Alan said. ‘Amy’s been in a really funny mood recently. James said she’s been giving him a hard time about pretty much everything, and she’s been drinking. A lot.’

  Rosie looked over Alan’s shoulder at James, who was attempting to dance alongside Jayne and her other friends.

  ‘What’s he doing with the girls?’ she asked.

  Alan looked over at his friend. James’ movements seemed to be about half a beat out of step with the song, and everyone else on the dance floor.

  ‘I think he’s dancing to forget the pain.’

  ‘I’m in pain watching him.’

  ‘You could do him a favour and have a word with Amy. Find out what’s going on with her,’ Alan suggested.

  Rosie winced. ‘I don’t think Amy would appreciate that. Me calling her up for a drink and then quizzing her over her bad mood. You know what she’s like.’

  Any further attempt by Alan to persuade Rosie to speak to Amy was interrupted by a sweating and dishevelled James. ‘What day is it tomorrow?’ He asked.

  Alan looked at his watch. ‘Saturday tomorrow. It’s still Friday,’ he grinned.

  ‘That’s good. I couldn’t remember what day it was. No work tomorrow,’ James grinned, took a long pull on his bottle of beer paused for a moment before adding, ‘Is it me or does everything taste of poppadoms’?’

  *

  ‘If you don’t have a hangover, then life’s not fair.’ Amy said.

  James opened his eyes and immediately shut them again.