21 Wet Wipe
“Why don’t you come too?” shouted Chloe to Annabelle over the thunderous noise of the blades.
“No, this is your day, Chloe,” her little sister hollered back. “This is all because of you. And besides, that helicopter’s tiny. It’ll absolutely whiff in there…”
Chloe grinned and waved goodbye as the helicopter slowly ascended, flattening most of the plants and flowers in the garden as it did so. Mother’s bouffant danced around her head like candyfloss on a windy day at the seafront as she attempted to hold it down. Elizabeth the cat got blown across the lawn. She tried desperately to cling on to the grass with her claws. But despite meowing for mercy the wind from the blades was just too strong and she shot across the garden like a furry cannonball and into the pond.
Plop!
The Duchess looked down from the helicopter window, smirking.
As they glided up and up and up Chloe saw her house, and her street, and her town get smaller and smaller. Soon the postal districts were packed below her like squares on a chessboard. It was unutterably thrilling. For the first time in her life, Chloe felt like she was at the centre of the world. She looked over at Mr Stink. He was getting re-acquainted with a toffee bon-bon that, from the looks of it, had been in his trouser pocket since the late 1950s. Apart from his jaw working desperately to chew the ancient confectionery he looked perfectly relaxed, as if taking a helicopter ride to see the Prime Minister was something he did most days.
Chloe smiled over at him, and he smiled back with that special twinkle in his eye that almost made you forget how bad he smelled.
Mr Stink tapped on the pilot’s shoulder. “Are you going to be coming round with a trolley service at any point?” he asked.
“It’s just a short flight, sir.”
“Any chance of a cup of tea and a bun then?”
“I am very sorry, sir,” replied the pilot with a firmness that suggested this conversation was about to be over.
“Very disappointing,” said Mr Stink.
Chloe recognised the door of Number Ten Downing Street, because it was always on those boring political shows she was allowed to watch on Sunday mornings. It was big and black and always had a policeman standing outside. She thought, If I joined the police I would want to be chasing baddies all day, not standing outside a door thinking about whether or not I should have spaghetti hoops for my tea. However, she wisely kept that thought to herself as the policeman opened the door for them with a smile.
“Please take a seat,” said an immaculately dressed butler haughtily. The staff were used to playing host to royalty and world leaders at 10 Downing Street, not a little girl, a transvestite tramp and his dog. “The Prime Minister will be with you shortly.”
They were standing in a big oak-panelled room with dozens of gold-framed oil paintings of serious-looking old men staring out at you from the walls. The tinsel round the frames did little to counter their severe looks. Suddenly, the double doors flew open and a herd of men in suits approached them.
“Good afternoon, Mr Stinky!” said the Prime Minister. You could tell he was in charge as he was walking at the front of the herd.
“It’s just Stink, Prime Minister,” corrected one of his advisors.
“How are you doing, mate?” said the Prime Minister, trying to downplay his poshness. He offered out his perfectly manicured and moisturized little hand for Mr Stink to shake. The tramp offered his own big dirty gnarled hand and, looking at it, the Prime Minister quickly withdrew his, preferring to give his new best friend a mock punch on the shoulder. He then examined his knuckles and noticed they had some grime on them.
“Wet wipe!” he demanded. “Now!”
A man at the back of the herd hurriedly produced a wet wipe and it was passed forward to the Prime Minister. He quickly wiped his hand with it before passing it back to the man at the back.
“A pleasure to meet you too, Mr Prime Minister,” said Mr Stink without conviction.
“Call me Dave,” said the Prime Minister. “Gosh, he does smell like a toilet,” he whispered to one of his advisors.
Mr Stink looked at Chloe, hurt, but the Prime Minister didn’t notice. “So, you made quite a splash on Question Time, my homeless pal,” he continued. “Ruddy hilarious. Ha ha ha!” He wiped away a non-existent tear of laughter from his eye. “I think we could use you.”
“Use him?” asked Chloe suspiciously.
“Yeah, yeah. It’s no secret it’s not looking good for me in the election. My approval rating with the public right now is…”
One of the herd hastily opened a folder and there was a long pause as he flicked through pages and pages of information.
“Bad.”
“Bad. Right. Thanks, Perkins,” said the Prime Minister, sarcastically.
“It’s Brownlow.”
“Whatever.” The Prime Minister turned back to Mr Stink. “I think if we had you, a real life tramp, take over from Mrs Crumb as candidate it could be brilliant. It’s far too late to rope anyone else in now, and you would be the ideal last—minute replacement. You’re just so funny. I mean, to laugh at, not really with.”
“Excuse me?” said Chloe, feeling very protective of her friend now.
The Prime Minister ignored her. “It’s genius! It really is. If you joined the party it would fool the public into thinking we cared about the homeless! Maybe one day I could even make you Minister for Soap-Dodgers.”
“Soap-Dodgers?” said Mr Stink.
“Yeah, you know, the homeless.”
“Right,” said Mr Stink. “And as Minister for the Homeless, I would be able to help other homeless people?”
“Well, no,” said the Prime Minister. “It wouldn’t mean anything, just make me look like a fantastic tramp-loving guy. Well, wadda you say, Mr Stinky-poo?”
Mr Stink looked very ill at ease. “I don’t…I mean…I’m not sure—”
“Are you kidding me?” laughed the Prime Minister. “You’re a tramp! You can’t have anything better to do!”
The suited herd laughed too. Suddenly Chloe had a flashback to her school. The Prime Minister and his aides were behaving exactly like the gang of mean girls in her year. Still stumbling for words, Mr Stink looked over to her for help.
“Prime Minister…?” said Chloe.
“Yes?” he answered with an expectant smile.
“Why don’t you stick it up your fat bum!”
“You
