what’ll he be using?’
‘Lead.’
‘Lead?’
‘He says you can get lead foil from nuclear power plants, if you bribe the right women and sleep with the right men. That’ll be my job. He will of course make sure the national media knows all about his sterling act of patriotism and that he owns a chain of caravan parks – prices reasonable. I told him, “Uncle Al, you’re a pillock. Lead foil must weigh a ton. You’ll squash your head.” He said that’d make his achievement all the greater – though guess who’ll get to do all the wrapping? Still you’ve got to hand it to him; fifty-six rolls – no man’s ever wrapped his head in so much lead.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Yeah, babe?’
‘Where did you get that cow?’
‘I didn’t steal it.’
‘I never said you had.’
‘I found it down there.’ His sucker tipped thumb pointed back guiltily over his shoulder. He said, ‘It jumped out of a tree and landed on me.’
‘And where are you taking it?’
‘The obvious.’
‘Which is?’
‘To wallpaper it.’
In a country lane, fifteen minutes into her walk, Teena’d stopped to talk to a small grey man with a cow. His huge, black, almond shaped eyes blinked up at her from his too-large head. His spindly body wore a black turtleneck sweater and drainpipe jeans. He looked bruised, battered and bewildered, as though something had jumped out of a tree and landed on him. Mouth no more than a slit, he said, ‘It’s my destiny.’
‘What is?’
‘To win the Turner Prize.’ And a sucker tipped finger pointed to somewhere behind her.
A half turn brought her face to face with a field of cows wrapped in beige flock. It didn’t suit them.
Behind her he said, ‘It’s an installation I call Cattle Mootilation.’ She could feel his gaze on her buttocks.
‘But why wallpaper cows?’ she asked.
‘Because gorillas always tried to tear my arms off.’
She returned her attention to him. ‘Well, Mr …?’
‘McDoddy; Roddy McDoddy.’
‘Is that your real name?’
‘No.’
‘Well, Roddy.’ She grabbed his hand in hers and shook it vigorously. ‘I’m Teena Rama. And if you’re an artist, you may have heard of me.’
‘Too right I have!’ Now he was shaking her hand even more vigorously than she was shaking his. ‘You’ve won the Turner Prize three years running.’
‘And I’ll be winning it again this year.’ She yanked her hand free of his and gave it a sharp waggle to restore the blood supply.
‘Wow,’ he told her chest. ‘The Teena Rama. I can only dream of achieving your levels of artistic futility.’
‘Why thank you.’
‘And your bosoms are so pointy.’
‘Thank you for that highly relevant observation.’
He gazed at them some more like he wanted to tell them something. Then he spotted her engagement ring. ‘And you’re a spoken-for woman?’
‘I’m newly engaged, yes.’ She couldn’t resist gloating a little.
‘Wow!’ He told her chest. ‘But I didn’t know they’d even announced the Turner nominations.’
‘They haven’t but my victory’s assured. And I have to tell you that these days it takes something more daring than wallpapering cows to impress the most demanding judges in British art.’
‘It does?’ He stroked his goatee, perplexed, still watching her chest.
‘However.’ She watched the cow beside him. It gazed back at her, chewing an Action Man. Is this beast for sale?’
‘Make me an offer, babe.’
She had no intention of paying money for goods that might have been stolen. ‘Would a kiss do?’
‘Dr R,’ he enthused, ‘You’re a crazy looking chick but get kissing that cow.’
‘Roddy?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I did mean would you like me to kiss you?’
‘Oh wow, man! The Dr Rama would rather snog me than my livestock.’
Late that night, the doorbell dragged Sally away from foam rubbering yet more rooms. Entering the entrance hall, from the kitchen, she could see out through the wire-glass door. A figure stood in darkness, its back to the door, umbrella in hand.
The week’s takings were in the safe in Sally’s bedroom. Thanks to Cthulha, everyone in town knew it.
Or maybe …
… Maybe it was Cthulha’s mother come looking for her daughter.
Sally stopped, and looked around for an escape route. She looked at the living room door and considered running into the room and hiding behind the settee like she and Cthulha had the first time her mother had shown up. They’d had to stay hidden as she prowled the living room, sniffing the air, sniffing objects, pushing over the lamp stand, trying to pick up their scent, before she got bored, decided they weren’t there and left. The moment she’d heard the door slam, Sally’d tried to come out of hiding but Cthulha’d grabbed her wrist and stopped her. She stuck her hand over Sally’s mouth and frantically whispered that her mother had a trick where she slammed the door to make it sound like she’d left but then stayed just inside the door hoping to lure you out into the open. But she always gave up after five minutes and left anyway because she had the brain of a donkey. Sally told her that whatever her problem was with her mother, maybe she should try talking to her about it instead of hiding. Hiding from your own mother seemed a pretty childish way to deal with a problem. Cthulha said you didn’t deal with her mother when she was in a prowling mood.
And five minutes later they heard the door shut again.
Mrs Gochllagochgoch was a woman you could empty an ammo clip into and she’d still keep coming. You’d have to stop her by toppling heavy things onto her. Then, when
