Mr Landen Has No Brain

‘Or When Escapology Turns Bad.’

‘No.’

‘Or The World’s Worst Welding Incidents.’

‘No.’

‘Or When Hang Gliders Collide.’

‘No.’

‘Or When Big Things Fall On Small Entertainers.’

‘No.’

‘Or When–’

‘All right, Sally. I get the idea.’

She wrapped tape around Teena’s ankle and pressed it against the safety rail. She bound one to the other. ‘Every job I do, someone ends up dead. And those shows make sure everyone knows it. But I’ll prove them all wrong. I can go two weeks without killing anyone. I know I can. That’s why I’m strapping you to the bed; you might roll over in your sleep and fall to your death.’

‘From a bunk bed?’

‘You might land on your head.’

‘With safety rails in the way?’

‘You might roll over them.’

‘Isn’t that unlikely?’

‘You can’t be too safe.’ She bit off more tape and bound Teena’s other ankle. ‘Rest assured that while you’re staying here I’ll be doing all I can to keep you alive.’

‘Sally?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Have you ever seen the movie Misery?’

‘Oh my God, that terrible woman. Can you imagine what it must be like to be trapped in a place with someone like her?

‘And what’s this?’ Last thing that night, Archie Drizzle the Dullness Inspector paid Safe Joe Safe’s Caravan Park a surprise visit. He stood in the offices’ bedroom, a middle-aged man with a brown suit, a Bobby Charlton comb-over and a Gladstone bag and watched a man who was bound, gagged and chained to a bunk bed.

Stood beside Drizzle, the manager said, ‘He was passing the camp, whistling. Before he could react, we grabbed him, coshed him and chained him to the bed so he can’t fall over and hurt himself. We at Safe Joe Safe’s are holding numerous people hostage who might otherwise hurt themselves. I think you’ll agree we’ve taken every possible precaution to make this the safest camp not just in Wyndham but in the whole world.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ Drizzle thrust his bag into the chest of the manager, who took hold of it while Drizzle stepped forward and inspected the captive’s bonds. They seemed firm enough, and the gag was tight enough to muffle whatever it was the prisoner was frantically trying to say.

But then …

… Drizzle realized what the man was wearing.

‘You fool. Don’t you realize what this is?’

The manager looked blank.

Drizzle said. This is a scientist.’

He still looked blank.

‘Denied, by you, the chance to express itself through mad experimentation, his subconscious may create monsters from the id which will run loose and destroy us all.’

‘Isn’t that a little unlikely?’

Before the manager could react, Drizzle slapped a sticker on his forehead.

That sticker said FAILED.

nine (#uf5c3aa7d-a1b0-5a85-91b1-4e66d1afeee9)

Morning woke Sally with the warmth of a rising sun and the twittering of birds. Her eyes opened with a string of tired blinks, adjusting to the light, and she stretched out in a yawn that extended her to her limits.

Then she relaxed, letting herself sink into a mattress that felt like love. She felt great. She felt more than great. She felt harmless. And beside her on the pillow Mr Bushy stretched out in a great long yawn that exactly mirrored her own. He held the pose then relaxed into a ball, snuggling his warm fur against her cheek. And she smiled. Could paradise be any better?

But then a thought struck her. She rolled onto her side, Mr Bushy scampering out of her way. She looked over the side of the bed. And she sighed with relief at not finding Teena on the floor dead.

Another thought struck her. She rolled over and looked over the other side of the bed, relieved at not finding Teena dead.

She rolled onto her back, and again sank into the mattress that felt like love. Smiling she watched the wooden slats of the bunk above and gently, so as not to wake her, asked, ‘Teena? Are you awake?’

No reply. Some people had the luxury of sleeping all day. Sally had no such luxury. She had a job to do; lives to save. She sat up, cast her legs over the side of the bunk, and planted both feet on the carpet. After leaning forward for one last yawn, she stood then turned a half circle. On her toes, hands on the safety rail, she checked the top bunk, ready to see Teena asleep.

Instead, she saw a nightmare.

The bunk was empty.

‘All right, Mr Landen, you’ve had your fun, now let me in. I’ve no intention of spending another night in that madwoman’s home.’ Early morning, Teena stood on her mobile home’s front steps, her knuckles machine-gun rapping its door.

The only reply she got was the rumble of objects being moved around.

She knocked again. ‘I know you’re awake, I can hear you pushing furniture up against the door.’

‘No, Dr Llama.’

‘No?’ She gazed at the door. ‘What do you mean no?’

‘I mean no. You should understand what that means. You are, after all, the expert linguist. You know how to say no in more languages than anyone else alive.’

‘I’m fully aware of the word’s general meaning. What does it mean in the context of you not letting me into my own mobile home?’