Jurassic Car Park

by Millard, Adam

  “Isn’t this place guarded by Rottweilers at night?” said John, pressing himself against the industrial unit and panting for air.

  “I wouldn’t have thought so,” I said.

  “What about the signs then?” asked Billy Barry, who was doubled up and pulling thorns from his shins. “The ones with the Rottweiler faces on?”

  “What signs?” I said. “I didn’t see any signs.”

  “There’s one right next to your head,” said John, and he pointed at the sign which did, in fact, portray an angry Rottweiler face. Beneath the face were the words TRESPASSERS WILL BE MAULED TO DEATH BY TERRY AND FINED £50.

  “Well,” I said, “I can’t see Terry anywhere. Reckon we’re okay for now. Just need to get our bearings.”

  I glanced about the place, taking in our surroundings and trying to figure out how we were going to make it to the police station, and therefore the impound, from here.

  “I can’t believe I just let three of my brothers die,” said Danny. “Mom would be turning in her grave right now if we hadn’t scattered her ashes across Aston Villa Football Club’s pitch.”

  “We were severely lacking in the choice department,” said John. “I’m sure your mother would be proud of you.” I could tell, by the tone of my best friend’s voice, that he didn’t mean it. How anyone, even their own mother, could be proud of The Barry Boys was a mystery.

  “We’re still alive,” said Mister Sidhu. “That is what matters right now. Does anyone have any chewing gum? Perhaps a polo mint?”

  “Can everyone just be quiet for a second?” I said, licking my finger and holding it up to the wind. “That is south.” I pointed toward south.

  “That is north-west,” said Mister Sidhu. “That has always been north-west, and will probably be north-west long after we’re dead and gone.”

  “How can you be sure?” asked John.

  “Directions Monthly Magazine,” said the shopkeeper. “January’s issue came with a free compass. As a shopkeeper, it really pays to strip the free gifts from the unsold magazines before returning them to the distributor.”

  “So if that’s north-west,” said I, “then that would be the direction we need to be moving. The station is on Judith Chalmers Road, right?”

  “Part of it is,” said Danny Barry. “It’s on the corner, so some of it falls under Saddam Hussein Drive.”

  “If we go over that fence there,” and I did pointing at the fence, “we should come out on Barry Manilow Lane. There’s an alleyway at the bottom of the lane which leads onto Saddam Hussein Drive, which means—”

  “That whoever named our streets is an absolute plonker,” said John.

  “It means that as well,” I said. “But it also means that, barring further problems, we can make it to the station in five minutes or so.”

  “Well, what are we waiting for?” said Billy Barry. “Our brothers are probably suitably chewed up by now. Best not to leave them like that for too long.”

  “On three,” I said. “We run for that fence.”

  “Why three?” said John. “Why can’t we just go now?”

  “Because everything is done on three,” I said. “That’s how the world functions. Without rules, everything would go to shit. We go on two, there’s a damn good chance one of us will twist our ankle.”

  “He’s right,” said the shopkeeper. “I read something about it in Synchronicity Magazine.”

  “Can somebody count us down?” said Danny, and he slipped into his brass knuckles and gritted his teeth. “None of this is getting Maggie Thatcher unshagged or our brothers uneaten.”

  “One…” I said. “Two…” I stooped down into my best ‘get set’ position. I was about to say three when I realised that John, the shopkeeper, and the two remaining Barry Boys had already set off and were halfway across the industrial estate. “What’s the point in counting to three if nobody ever sticks around for it?” I raced after the rest of the group, mindful that we had all gone on two and that a twisted ankle was on the cards for at least one of us. The trick was to make sure it wasn’t me.

  “Ouch, me flipping ankle!” said the shopkeeper, and he stumbled forwards a few steps before sprawling face down in the gravel. The shotgun clattered to the ground and skittered away from Sidhu. Fortunately it was unloaded and therefore, as Ronald Reagan once said, as useful as a chocolate teapot.

  I stopped beside the fallen shopkeeper and attempted to yank him to his feet. The sound he made as his floppy foot connected with the ground was enough for me to realise that he was going nowhere fast.

  “It’s no use,” said the shopkeeper. “It’s busted.”

  “Did you read about it in A+E Weekly?” said I.

  “No, the bone’s sticking out, you fucking pleb!”

  I glanced down, and indeed, there it was. Covered in flesh and fat was Mister Sidhu’s tibia, piercing through his shin. “Ooooooh,” I said, and I was terribly queasy all of a sudden. “That’s going to need a plaster.”

  Just then, Mister Sidhu’s protruding ankle bone was no longer the object of my attention, for a terrifying barking began to sound in the darkness and echo around the industrial estate. It fairly set my teeth on edge.

  “Al!” said John. He was perched upon the fence, a leg either side, which I’m pretty sure now gave me the upper hand when it came to Marla the Stereotypical Landlady, unless she was partial to squashed nuts. “Hurry up! That’s Terry!”

  “We can’t leave Sidhu!” I said. “He’ll be mauled to death and fined £50!”

  “You have to go on without me,” said the shopkeeper. “I’ll only hold you back.”

  “Okay then,” I said. I did think about talking our fallen comrade out of it, but it made perfect sense. I patted the shopkeeper upon the back. “We’re going to make everything right again,” I told him. “None of this is really happening.”

  “Fucking feels like it,” hissed the shopkeeper.

  “Al, I can see the Rottweiler!” said John as he scrambled down the other side of the fence and fell in alongside Billy and Danny Barry. “Over there! Terry’s a big bastard, ain’t he?”

  I saw Terry as he skidded around the steel wall of a factory at the other end of the industrial estate, and came to the conclusion that, yes, Terry was a very large dog indeed. More of a pony than a dog, one would say. A pony with a steroid problem. I couldn’t help but wonder what was kept on the industrial estate which required such a ferocious beast.

  “Right, I’m off,” I told the shopkeeper as I scrambled to my feet. “If you lie completely still, he might not notice you.”

  “Probably notice the smell, though, won’t he?” said Mister Sidhu.

  “Ah, yes, that’s unfortunate,” said I. “I have to say that, in your situation, I, too, would have shit myself.” And I took to my heels, focusing on the chain-link fence not twenty metres away.

  “Run faster!” said John. “Terry can shift for a big ‘un!”

  I was running as fast as I could, and was suffering a terrible stitch for my efforts. Behind me, I could hear the snarling, growling, slavering, heavy-breathing of the nearing Rottie, and for some strange reason, my legs decided to start playing me up, crossing over one another as if it was the first time they’d run before and were making a right pig’s ear of it.

  “Why are you running like a spanner?” said Danny Barry. “The dog’s going to catch you if you keep that up.”

  I managed to convince my legs that we were all part of the same team at about the same time that something exploded behind me and an incredible heat singed the hairs off the nape of my neck. I turned to find a fire, ten feet high, had erupted in the middle of the industrial estate. Of course, fires like that just don’t start of their own accord. I turned around to find John preparing a second Molotov cocktail, holding his lighter to the napkin protruding from a bottle of WKD.

  A howling caused me to turn back to the fire. Terry came flying through the flames in slow-motion, though not slow enough to catch fire, unfortunately
. I took to my heels once again, and couldn’t help feeling as if these twenty metres were turning out to be a lot more.

  “Throw it, John!” I said, for I hadn’t survived a multitude of dinosaur attacks only to be eaten by man’s best friend.

  John did as I said, which was a pity as he hadn’t quite lit that one properly, and it exploded to very little effect – broken glass and spilt alcopop – in front of the slobbering beast. The dog went around it lest it find itself with glass splinters jutting from its paws.

  “Try one that you’ve lit!” I said.

  “I can’t!” said John. “My lighter’s knackered. I think the flint has gone. You’re just going to have to run for it!”

  Running for it was something that I was already doing, and therefore not much of a push. I reached the fence, leapt up, and dug my toes into the mesh. I had one leg over when Terry arrived, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that my trailing leg had gone into spasm, the Rottie would have bit the damn thing off. Instead, my leg kicked out involuntarily, sending the beast of the industrial estate away with a whimper. John and Danny pulled me down on the right side of the fence, where I lay breathless and aching and staring up into the eyes of my saviours.

  “That was a bit close,” said John. “Just think, if we hadn’t gone on two, you wouldn’t have made it.”

  I managed to get to my feet and regarded the snarling, barking demon on the other side of the fence with something akin to disgust. “I did go on three,” I said. “It was you lot that jumped the gun. Poor Mister Sidhu’s got an exposed bone because of it.”

  “We seem to be doing a lot of running away from things tonight,” said Billy Barry. “Is this how you envisaged this heroic expedition?”

  I shook my head. “I thought there would be more fair maidens,” said I. “And I didn’t think I’d lose half my team almost immediately.”

  “This wouldn’t have happened if we were hobbits,” said John, hands on hips and matter of fact.

  “Well, we’re still here, alive to tell the tale,” I said. “And what a tale it will be to tell in the pub. We could charge an entry fee, make it all dramatic and suchlike.”

  “We could get one of your ex-girlfriends to play Terry,” said John. I cuffed him lightly around the head. “Speaking of which, where did the fucking beast go?” He turned and motioned toward the fence and the spot where Terry had, only a moment ago, been making a right fuss.

  “Ouch!” came a cry from the distance. “Bloody ouch!”

  Beyond the fire, Terry was mauling the shopkeeper, dragging him from pillar to post. Mister Sidhu looked like a ragdoll, or one of those things that lonely people fuck. I couldn’t bear to watch and so turned away and swallowed the bile rising in my throat.

  “Come on,” said John. “I don’t want to be here when the shopkeeper gets his £50 fine.”

  30

  “Are you falling asleep?” I asked the doctor. “Are you bloody falling asleep?”

  The doctor cleared his throat and thrust himself forwards in his chair. “Resting my eyes, is all,” he said as he blinked himself awake. “It helps me to, erm, visualise the plot if I have them shut.”

  “You were snoring, you prick,” I said. “You were snoring and muttering something about your mother.”

  The doctor sighed heavily and reached for his scotch. “Also a method I picked up to assist with the picturing of your predicament. I assure you that I heard every sentence of your story.”

  “What happened to the shopkeeper, then?” I said.

  “I should imagine he died,” said the doctor. “I should imagine that Trevor ate him.”

  “Terry,” I said.

  “Indeed.” The doctor slurped thirstily at his drink. I could see that his eyes were heavy and sleep-filled, and so decided to try my luck.

  “If you’re in need of a kip,” I said, “why don’t you let me look after those keys on your belt? One would imagine they should be in the hands of an alert person.”

  The doctor considered my proposal – to the point of actually reaching for the loop hanging from his belt – before straightening up and insisting, “I’m fine. These keys will remain upon my person for the time being. Please do continue with your rendition of such a far-fetched tale.”

  It was my turn to do sighing, and sigh I did, with some aplomb, might I add. “Well,” I said. “I guess there was just John and I and the two Barry Boys remaining. Four of us, like the musketeers or the Spice Girls, if you take out the pointless tomboy one.”

  “Porthos?” said the doctor.

  “I don’t know their names,” I said. “Anyway, we four knew we had to get a wriggle on, and so with further ado—”

  31

  We arrived on Barry Manilow Lane, and all was relatively quiet, if you could overlook the distant screams of a shopkeeper being nibbled to death and the excited barks of a feeding savage.

  “I don’t like this,” said John. “It’s far too quiet, and I expected there to be more dinosaurs.”

  “That’s the thing about real life as opposed to fiction,” I said. “Sometimes, absolutely nothing absurd happens, and it’s all very boring and eventless. If this were a book or film, I should imagine we’d be overrun with thousands of prehistoric bastards by now, but because it’s real life—”

  “Is that a rabid weasel?” said John, and he pointed at the creature dragging itself across the road looking more than a little worse for wear.

  “It certainly is,” I said. “See. In real life, the most you can expect is a rabid weasel. I quite like this little respite. It’s giving me a good chance to catch my breath.”

  “I wouldn’t,” said Danny. “It pongs.”

  I ignored him and savoured the air as I pulled it into my lungs. “I really do think that everything is going to turn out alright in the end,” I said. “We’re so close now, I can practically taste Marla’s bubblegum.”

  “Didn’t that one get used earlier?” said John. I shook my head. “I’m pretty sure it did. It was when we were in the pub, and you were looking at Marla’s ti—”

  “We really ought to get a move on,” I said, glancing down at my watch, or where a watch would have been if I could afford one. “This way.” And I led my ragtag band of brothers along Barry Manilow Lane. “Step over the rabid weasel,” I said. “But be careful. We’ve not had much in the way of luck thus far tonight. It wouldn’t surprise me if the thing was actually a werewolf masquerading as a rabid weasel.” It wasn’t, but that’s just the way my mind works.

  “Are you sure that alleyway leads to the station?” said John as we approached the dark passage. “It looks like something out of a horror film. The kind of place you would go only if you were suicidal and wanted to be put out of your misery.”

  “Ha,” I snorted. “Not afraid of a dark, little alleyway, are we John?” I patted him upon the back (and also moved him a few steps in front of me, for I wasn’t about to go in their first – it looked like something out of a horror film).

  “We used to stab people in this alley, didn’t we, Billy?” said Danny.

  “Only the ones what didn’t give us all their money,” said the youngest Barry Boy. “And that didn’t happen very often. Maybe once or twice a week…if that.”

  “See!” I said to my best friend. “The people responsible for the stabbings in this alleyway are with us.” It made sense in my head, though not so much when it came out as actual words. I decided to embellish. “If anyone is going to do any stabbing in there,” I said, “it will be these two, who are notorious for it.” I should have quit while I was ahead.

  Into the alley we went, and the first thing that hit me was the absolute darkness of the place. Perfect place for stabbing, I thought. No wonder The Barry Boys used it. The second thing that hit me was John, though it wasn’t much of a hit – just a little unexpected.

  “What was that for?” I said, holding the back of my head.

  “For bringing us into this pitch-black alleyway with a pair of stabby brothers,
” said John. “I’ve known you for many years, and in those years you’ve got us into some crazy scrapes, but this…this is possibly the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever done.”

  “If it’s any consolation,” said Danny Barry, “we don’t stab people we know.”

  “That’s right,” said Billy Barry. “Also, we’re a lot less likely to stab a person if they’ve ever bought us a drink in The Fox.”

  “Wouldn’t be right,” added Danny. “No, we’re all about community.”

  “Mainly stealing from it,” said Billy. “But I can assure you now that there will be no stabbing in this alleyway tonight.”

  “None whatsoever,” said Danny. “To be quite honest, I’m thinking of turning over a new leaf, so to speak. Once we put all this right, and Buckfutt goes back to normal, I might change my ways.”

  “That’s really good,” I said, even if I didn’t believe a word of it. Once a scoundrel always a scoundrel, as my Grandfather used to say before he was run over by a vanful of scoundrels. “I will go on record to make sure every single resident of Buckfutt knows of the sacrifices you made on this, our most testing night.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” said Danny. “Reputation to uphold, and all that.”

  We made it through the alleyway in one piece, and without feeling the blade of our comrades in our backs, and emerged onto Saddam Hussein Drive, a street so bleak it wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Dickens novel.

  “This is a bleak street,” said John. “And that’s a bleak house.” He pointed.

  “Very clever, John,” I said. “However, I don’t feel this is the right time for literature-based wordplay.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Danny, scratching his head with one hand and his stubbled chin with the other. “And, if you don’t mind, that’s not a bleak house. That house belongs to my sister-aunt, Crystal. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of her, I can tell you that now.”