10.05am Samedi
‘The way I see it,’ Bert Ramsbottom was saying, ‘We take this dummy to the language learning conference. We speak to the press, we make a little presentation, and we sell his story to the highest bidder.’
‘No!’ protested a voice from the rear of the van. ‘He doesn’t want to sell his story. He’s a very private person.’
Mick glanced nervously over his shoulder. ‘But what are we going to do about the knee nibblers?’ he wanted to know.
‘Yes,’ agreed Charlie. ‘What about them?’ ‘For goodness sake, they’re only children.’ The old man sighed: ‘Dump them at a fair ground with a bit of spending money and you won’t hear another peep out of them.’ And he gave an airy wave of his hand, as if Joe and Gertie were a couple of pieces of rubbish that he was chucking overboard.
‘In the meantime, Mick, the dummy’s your department. Get back there. Interview him. Find out what he likes to eat, his favourite TV programme, all that stuff. We need a bit of colour, a bit of human interest.’
Judging from the way Mick visibly braced himself before climbing over the seat into the back of the van, he might have been a war correspondent entering a combat zone.
It wasn’t that he was frightened of the not-so-dumb one with the screw-off top. No, it was that girl. She was dangerously dishonest, a compulsive liar who would stop at nothing to gain her twisted ends. Mick reminded himself to keep a clear head. He’d better be on his guard with the brother too, though he seriously doubted that you could get two people like that in one family.
There they were, huddled in the far corner, with their backs to the wall. Mick stepped over the pig towards them.
‘Peekaboo, thieving blighter,’ Franklin greeted him. ’ Make yourself comfortable, why not?’
But what with the pig, and the fact that neither of the children would shift over and let him sit down, Mick was forced to remain standing. Franklin wondered aloud whether this was because his bottom was in the wrong place, and Gertie replied that it almost certainly was.
Well if she was going to keep it to the level of insults, he was in the clear. Mick was a journalist; he was used to abuse. ‘All right, cool it kiddies. No-one’s going to hurt you.’ He drew a notepad from his jacket pocket. ‘I’m just going to ask your friend here a few questions…. Like the man says, we need some human interest.’
‘But he’s not human,’ Joe objected.
It was a good point, but not very helpful, thought Gertie. She for one was concentrating her brain power on cunning ruses and desperate stratagems. She knew exactly the sort of thing she was looking for. Something that would flummox the burly brutes.
Why then did she have a horrible sinking feeling that this time talking wouldn’t work? Was it because this wasn’t a slippery trickery situation? Was it because it was really a smash, bang, wallop, ‘take that you beastly baddy’ sort of situation?
Gertie suspected that it was. If only Franklin was less of a cheeky cherub and more of thug, perhaps they’d be in with a chance.
But… and here her eyes fell on the spike, glinting dangerously at the end of Franklin’s left arm. Like Joe said, Franklin wasn’t really human. Like Dad said, he was a fantastic freak of nature. A monster, she remembered, of their own creation. The seed of an idea sprouting in Gertie’s brain suddenly blossomed and bore fruit. When she looked up, her eyes glinted dangerously too.
‘Don’t get too close to him,’ she warned, as the journalist sat down heavily on Mr Ramsbottom’s bacon.
Mick ignored her. All his attention was focused on the dummy. The guy was a surprisingly natty dresser, he reflected, then realised, no wonder, those were his own leather trousers.
He snapped opened his notebook. ‘What’s your name?’
‘He’s called Franklin Stein,’ said Gertie at once. ‘Shall I spell it for you?’
‘Funny,’ growled Mick. ‘I could have sworn he said “Lambkin”.’
The dummy nodded. ‘It’s quite a name,’ he observed smugly. For all they were sweet little sugar plums, Gertie and Joe were far too ‘quick, quick, quick, he’s got a gun’ to sit down and swap long sentences. But this thieving blighter really seemed to want to pay attention this concerns you. Franklin beamed and settled himself down for a good chinwag.
His left wrist, the one from which a screw protruded, dangled by his side. Idly he began to drill a hole in the floor. ‘I’m not a Cabbage Patch doll,’ he confessed.
‘Absolutely not a Cabbage Patch doll,’ retorted Gertie. She cleared her throat. No point being subtle here. ‘More a creature of pure evil,’ she said. At least she managed to wipe the sunny expression off Franklin’s face. He glowered at her. Why was it that every time he had an audience, Gertie had to shove her gob in? ‘Shut up or heads will roll,’ he muttered darkly.
‘See what I mean,’ said Gertie. ‘He scares the pants off me, he really does.’
Franklin wished she’d just go and unwind. He turned to Mick. ‘Mum and Dad are in prison, I’m virtually an orphan,’ he explained and leant back heavily on his left wrist, causing the screw on his arm to pass straight through the floor like a corkscrew though a cork.
‘I’d call him a walking nightmare,’ continued Gertie. Then she nodded to her brother as if to say, ‘here’s the baton; there’s the finishing post; take it away partner.’ Joe gulped.
‘Yes, yes,’ he stuttered. ‘That’s why we dismantle him. You know, like you take the bullets out of a gun when you’re not using it. It’s safer that way.’
‘Look, here.’ Mick Shah was catching on at last. ‘Are you trying to tell me that he’s dangerous?’
‘D’you want to bet,’ yelped Franklin as a rather pleasant vibration suddenly shot through his body. Three inches below the floor of the van, the tip of the metal screw had just grazed the surface of the turning wheel. Mick’s pencil, on the other hand, had barely grazed the surface of his notepad. He wasn’t getting much solid information here. So far he had written just two words, ‘Lambkin’ and ‘walking nightmare’, and try as he might, he couldn’t see how they fitted together.
It was those kids. He was letting them get to him. Mick sighed. Why, he asked himself, were the two Ramsbottoms up front, while he was playing kindergarten in the back of the van? Oh yes, now he remembered: he was the hot-shot journalist gathering facts. Better get on with it then.
‘Where do you live?’ he asked as the pig heaved itself to its feet and tipped him into Franklin’s lap.
‘Land of Nod,’ said Franklin.
‘Castle Frankenstein,’ said Gertie. ‘I thought I told you not to get too close.’
‘Pardon?’ said Mick. If only the girl would stop bending his ear with horror stories about lightening and dead bodies. If only the pig would stop whimpering. Even from this distance he had no idea what the dummy was saying.
What was that about a clumsy whoops a daisy?
Mick got to his feet, gathering the shreds of his dignity about him as he did so. The pig, however, had thrown dignity to the winds. She snuffled and squealed and grew more and more distraught. She at least could smell the pong of burning rubber, even if nobody else could.
As the blue van turned off the main road and into a large carpark, smoke spewed from one of its back wheels; red sparks scattered in the breeze. Several pedestrians called out warning shouts and a motorist sounded her horn.
‘French drivers,’ muttered Mr Ramsbottom, drawing up in front of a large glass and metal building. He killed the engine. ‘We’re here.’
‘Already?’ Mick hurriedly ripped the sheet out his notepad and started on a fresh page. ‘What are your favourite things?’ he wanted to know.
‘Chocolate, sugar plums, coke and crisps.’
‘I don’t think you quite understand,’ yelled Gertie, who had finally run through her scanty store of patience. ‘He’s a Frankenstein’s monster. Don’t faff about asking him about his hobbies. Run for your life!’
There was an intense silence, during which everyone considered the smell of burning rubber, and wondered what might be causing it.
Then Charlie glanced into the wing mirror on his side. ‘Run for your lives!’ he shrieked.
‘The back wheel’s on fire!’
10.15am Samedi
Look up petrified in any thesaurus and you’ll find plenty of words to describe how Mick and the two Ramsbottoms felt when they discovered they were sitting on a bonfire.
Panic-stricken, terror-crazed, appalled and horror-struck – they were all these things. But then, all they had to do to cheer themselves up was leap straight out the van.
There are, however, no words to describe how Joe and Gertie felt when they discovered that Franklin had screwed himself to the floor.
Perhaps Joe captured the mood of the moment most accurately. ‘Uh? Wha? Agg… I don’t believe it!’ he screamed.
But there was no time for talk.
Even the pig had abandoned them, stampeding through the double doors at the back of the van.
They were alone, blinking at Franklin through the gathering smoke. And Franklin was no help at all. ‘Go on now. Look lively,’ he told them. ‘Stop hanging around lowering the tone of my establishment.’
‘You don’t know what you’re saying, you idiot!’ Joe howled. He grabbed the screwed-down arm. ‘Pull, Gertie. Pull!’
It was becoming difficult to see. It was becoming difficult to breathe. Gertie coughed and spluttered and groped about blindly. And all the while, ‘Bye, bye, see ya,’ Franklin insisted, frantically fending her off with his one hand.
At last she managed to get a good grip on his dinner jacket. She braced her feet against the wall of the van and heaved.
‘Get out,’ yelped Franklin. ‘Stop pilfering my goods and get out!’
‘Do you think he knows we’re in danger? gasped Joe. ‘Of course not,’ snapped Gertie, knocking the sweat from her eyes. ‘Listen to him. He’s just copying. He’s no idea at all.’
Suddenly there were flames everywhere, dancing up through the floor like tiny orange ghosts, licking the soles of Joe and Gertie’s shoes. Any second now the van was going to blow.
It was sheer good fortune that Gertie blew first.
She released the dinner jacket. ‘Look Franklin’ she snarled and seized the dummy by the chin.
‘Oh Gertie, get your face out my face,’ he moaned.
But Gertie just bared her teeth. ‘You might be a brainless sausage, but I refuse to leave you to fry!’ she yelled.
‘Now stop gibbering and pull , you dork.’
They all heaved at once.
There was a horrible metallic screech and three bodies slammed against the far wall of the van. Then they were out and running for dear life. People were scattering before them. Some running from the burning van, some from the large sow that was careering across the car park. Everyone was shouting and somewhere in the distance Gertie could hear the sound of a siren. Then the van exploded.
