Jurassic Car Park Read online

  Instead, John and I pretended we were playing a game. “And to the right,” said John, and we both leaned to the right. “Ah,” said he, because he got to the right before I did, and apparently, them was the rules.

  “Alan,” said Danny, slamming his pint down upon the table.

  “Huh,” said I, wishing I’d used the door while I still had an option. I turned to find The Barry Boys scowling at us; if ever there was a more menacing sight, I don’t know what it was.

  Danny’s scowl turned into something like a grin, and I relaxed a little. “How’s it going mate?” he said, that shark’s grin playing about his face. “Heard anything interesting recently?”

  I couldn’t breathe, and the reason why I couldn’t breathe was because John’s hand was covering my mouth. I smacked it away and said, “I heard that if you yelled for 8 years, 7 months and 6 days, you would have produced enough sound energy to heat one cup of coffee.” I don’t know where I’d heard that – or if I’d just made it up on the spot – but it seemed about right.

  “Anything else?” said Danny, and he was now regarding me warily, and I knew he was giving me one last chance to tell the truth, to admit that we had been eavesdropping upon their plot to steal the abandoned DeLorean. He was, if nothing else, fair, and I knew I had to choose my next words very carefully.

  “All porcupines float in water,” I said. Opposite me, and hiding behind his pint, John visibly deflated.

  “You didn’t hear nothing about an abandoned DeLorean up at Charlie Chaplin Street?” said Willy Barry, and Danny took to slapping him about the head.

  “How long have we known each other?” said Danny to me. “We grew up together, didn’t we?”

  “If you’re from Buckfutt, you always grow up with a Barry Boy,” I said. “And yes, I do believe you were my generation.”

  “Then you know what I’m capable of,” said Danny, and it wasn’t a question, which was fine by me.

  I nodded. “I do indeed,” I said. “And Danny, I can assure you that there is no need to kneecap anyone on this fine afternoon. We’re just having a nice drink, minding our own business, and we know absolutely nothing about a possible carjacking that may or may not take place tonight, after dark.”

  “That’s reassuring,” said Danny. “Because if you did know anything about an abandoned DeLorean – the car made famous by Teen Wolf and Reverend Jim Ignatowski in that film about time travel – up on Charlie Chaplin Street, then I’d have no choice but to exile you from this pub via the window.”

  “Completely unnecessary,” said I, and I was shaking now, like a shitting dog, I believe the expression goes. “Besides, everyone knows that DeLoreans are a myth,” I went on, though I’m not sure why. “Like unicorns…or…platypuses.”

  “Right!” John said, so unexpectedly that the curls dropped out of Marla the Stereotypical Barmaid’s hair. “Nobody has ever seen a platypus, and yet we believe they’re real. Much like the DeLorean.”

  “Yes, thanks for that, John,” I said, shaking my head.

  “That’s what best friends are for,” he said, and I instantly forgave him.

  “So,” I said to Danny Barry. “There’s no problem here, is there?”

  An immeasurable amount of time passed in which Marla redid her curls and a tumbleweed blew through the pub – I’d never seen one before, and I wasn’t sure where this one had come from, but there it was, accompanied by an odd whistling sound.

  “No tumbleweed allowed,” said Marla the Stereotypical Barmaid, holding up a sign that said as much, and the tumbleweed opened the back door and went about its day.

  “We don’t have a problem,” said Danny, finally. “Because if anyone gets wind of this, we’ll know exactly where it came from.” And he made a fork-tongue with his fingers and prodded it toward me and John.

  “Those are lovely fingers,” said John, for he never did know when to shut up.

  “Have a blinding day, boys,” I said, standing. John did the same, although he seemed a little confused as to why. “We’ll be sure to not mention anything that we may or may not have heard here this afternoon to the rozzers.”

  “We quite like our kneecaps,” said John.

  “I like mine,” I said. “John’s are a bit wonky.”

  We picked up our respective pints and made out way to the bar, where Marla the Stereotypical Barmaid was removing curlers. “Same again, fellas?” she said. “Or are you too nervous to drink?”

  “Same again,” I said. “It’s John’s round.” John was about to dispute the fact when I shushed him and whispered, “What do you think?”

  “I think a lot of things,” said John. “Like how come we haven’t been to the moon in the twenty-first century.”

  “About the DeLorean?” I said, under my breath so that The Barry Boys didn’t hear. “What do you make of it?”

  John pondered this for a moment. I knew he was pondering because he had his pondering face on, which involved a frown, cross-eyes, and a flapping tongue. It was a face only a mother could love, and even she wasn’t too keen on it. “I think they’re confused,” said John. “It’s probably a different car. DeLoreans just don’t exist in real life. It’s a myth, like the Loch Ness Monster or the baby Jesus.”

  I considered my best friend’s words, and though they were very good words and in the correct order, I didn’t pay them any heed. “Look, we know The Barry Boys aren’t exactly the sharpest tools in the drawer, but if they know about one thing, it’s cars.”

  “On account that they’ve been nicking them since records began,” said John.

  “And even before that, when they used to rustle horses,” I said. “Cars and horses are their thing, and if they say that there’s a DeLorean up at the abandoned car-park on Charlie Chaplin Street, then I’m afraid to say that I believe them.”

  “Good for you,” said John, patting me on the back. “Now, can we change the subject? I’m not a big fan of cars myself. I like bicycles and Dirty Harry movies.”

  Now, I have been aghast before, when I found out that my father liked to dress in my mother’s lingerie, and this was a little like that, except I was less likely to get a belting for my troubles. “John,” said I. “There is a fucking DeLorean not a mile from here. Don’t you at least want to see it before The Barry Boys nick it?”

  John did some shrugging. “I’d rather not got involved with a soon-to-be-stolen car which may or may not be the one made famous by Judge Doom and the kid from Family Ties in that film where the guy almost ends up boinking his own mother.”

  “Here you go,” said Marla the Stereotypical Barmaid, and she slammed two pints of ale down on the counter, the way they usually do. “That’ll be four quid,” said she, and after a few seconds in which John and I glared at one another, John retrieved four quid from his pocket and handed it to Marla, though I think he only did it so he could briefly touch her hand. As she secreted the coins in the till, John and I continued our conversation, and it went as follows:

  “Come on, John—”

  “No.”

  “Please, it’ll—”

  “Nope.”

  “John—”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’ll put in a good word for you with Marla.”

  “I’ll get my coat.”

  And so we quickly finished our drinks, said our goodbyes to Marla the Stereotypical Barmaid, and left The Fox with Two Dicks with more purpose than when we’d arrived three hours prior, and it felt good.

  But then the dinosaurs…

  5

  The doctor lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. He’d stopped taking notes a while back. I don’t know whether his pen had run out, or if he was just bored shitless, but what I did know was that I was starting to sound like I was in the right place, what with all the talk of mythological automobiles and prehistoric monsters.

  “You can’t just skip to ‘but then the dinosaurs’,” said the doctor, exhaling a blue fug into the room.

  “You told me to cut som
e stuff out,” I said.

  “Yeah, but it’s still got to make sense.”

  “That’s what I told you.” It was a good job my hands were strapped across my chest, or so help me, God.

  “After you left the pub,” said the doctor. “Take it from there…actually, hang on a minute.” He picked up a red telephone which had been sitting on the desk since my arrival. I’d wondered what it was for, and now I knew. Into the phone, and after some frantic dialling, he said, “Oh, hey Claire. Yeah, it’s going to be a long afternoon. Can you send me a sandwich in? No, anything except tuna.” He looked at me as if he was about to say something, and then changed his mind. “No, he’s all tied up at the moment. Proper headcase, this one. Fucking lunatic, yeah. I agree! They should all be shot. Claire, you little devil, you. Okay. Okay. Thanks. Byeee.” And he hung up the phone, and when he saw my face and the way my jaw hung slack, he said, “Just ordered a sandwich.”

  “I heard,” I said. “Can I go on?”

  “Please do,” said the doctor. “And remember, if it’s integral to the plot, leave it in.”

  “Alrighty. So there we were. My best friend and me…”

  6

  “You know back there when I said I’d put in a good word for you with Marla?” I said, for it was playing on my mind, and make no mistake.

  “Yeah, you said you’d put in a good word for me with Marla if I accompany you to Charlie Chaplin Street to see what may or may not be a DeLorean, but what is more likely a souped-up Capri.”

  “I didn’t mean it,” said I.

  “I didn’t think that you did,” said John. “It’s a good job we’re best friends, otherwise I’d have conked you right on the hooter by now.”

  “It’s just that, I’ve always fancied Marla myself,” I said as we crossed the road, passing a chicken who had a slightly bigger role than Sid, but only because there was a joke in there somewhere. “And it would cripple me if I let her go to a balding, middle-aged man with no real goals in life and a sinkful of washing-up waiting for him when he gets home. No offence.”

  “Some taken,” said John. “But I get your point. I know you fancy Marla, too.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course I do. Everyone fancies Marla the Stereotypical Barmaid. She’s stereotypical, and therefore has legs all the way up to her earholes and boobs in all the right places.”

  “They are perfectly placed,” said I.

  “Everyone fancies Marla. Even Sid, and he’s not really part of this story, which just goes to show how fancied she is. The thing is, none of us are ever going to have a chance—”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “And when you’re done differing, you will realise that Marla is out of all of our leagues. She is far too busy being stereotypically beautiful to realise she is being clandestinely wooed by all and sundry.”

  “Then why do we bother?” said I, and it was a damn good question, and one that had me stumped.

  “Because she’s Marla the Stereotypical Barmaid, that’s why,” said John. “It’s expected of us. Casual sexism and mild misogyny is what she expects from us, and by lord if we don’t deliver on a daily basis.”

  “But what if we could change all that?” I said, and I had something akin to an idea, albeit a highly-illegal and extremely dangerous one. “You remember in that film, where the boy almost ends up boinking his own mom?”

  “You sick bastard!” said John, and he spat on the pavement next to my foot.

  “No, I’m not suggesting we…ew…eurgh…no, I’m saying we see if this DeLorean has all the mod-cons – the flux capacitor and all that bollocks – and take it for a little spin before The Barry Boys get their hands on it.”

  “You’re talking about time-travel,” said John, and I nodded. “You do know that time-travel is a myth, like DeLoreans and honest politicians?”

  “But if DeLoreans are a myth, and there’s one parked up at Charlie Chaplin Street, what’s to say that time-travel isn’t real also?”

  “About a million physicists?” said John, and he made a damn fine point.

  “Let’s just pretend, for a moment, that this is fiction. Science fiction, to be precise, and anything is possible. Let’s just pretend that we could go back in time, change the past to suit us better, and emerge in the now as rich bastards with women hanging from our arms and a lot less washing-up waiting for us when we get back to our respective bedsits.”

  “Are you suggesting that we go back in time and employ someone to do our washing-up?”

  “You’re thinking small,” said I, “but that’s okay. It’s a start. What about if we find out what the lottery numbers were for the Saturday just gone, pop back in time to Saturday afternoon, whack a ticket down, and return here to find out we no longer live in bedsits; in fact, we’ve put down a deposit on one of those new Foxky condos next to the river?”

  “What a ridiculous thing to say,” said John. “You’re talking about fraud, and not only that, but also time-travel fraud.”

  “It’s not fraud if you legally buy a ticket,” I said. “We’d be putting our quid in the same as everyone else, ergo—”

  “Terrible film,” said John. “Anything with Affleck is just…just terrible.”

  “Therefore, we wouldn’t be committing a crime.”

  “Apart from when we hotwire a souped-up Ford Capri and try to take it back in time to Saturday gone.”

  I could have punched him. I could have, but best friends don’t punch their best friends, and so I flicked him about the face a couple of times instead. “Just think about all that money,” I said. “You would never have to worry about buying another round again. Your Lamborghini Diablo would be parked right there, outside The Fox for all to admire, and you could come outside every now and then to admire it yourself, and peel the scantily-clad beauties from its bonnet, because we all know women are a sucker for fancy motors.”

  “I’d like to think that if we were rich, we’d drink somewhere with a little more class than The Fox with Two Dicks.” He lit a cigarette and stopped, momentarily, to catch his breath. I stopped too, but not to catch his breath, for it stank to high heaven.

  “We could drink anywhere we wanted,” I said, “although I would miss Marla the Stereotypical Barmaid. Still, she’s stereotypical for a reason. There will be one of her wherever we choose to drink, and the next one might be more susceptible to my charm.”

  “You don’t have any,” said John, and I flicked him some more. “So we could drink at The Fox and Cucumber?”

  I made a face, and it was one of disgust. “We could,” said I. “But we’re still barred on account of the incident with the real cucumber.”

  “But if we’ve got money coming out of our earholes,” said John, “I reckon the landlord would overlook the fact that we accidentally defiled his first-born daughter.”

  “I reckon he would, too,” I said. “And not only that, but he’d give us our own VIP booth, one without chewing-gum on the seat, and a table that doesn’t need a beermat under three of its legs to keep it from rocking.”

  “And darts that stay in the board,” said John. “And…and beer in glasses without lipstick smears about their rims.”

  “We could have it all,” said I. “All we need to do is pop into Sidhu’s, find out what the lottery numbers were for Saturday gone, head up to the abandoned car park on Charlie Chaplin Street, go back in time in the deserted DeLorean, and Bob’s your mother’s brother, we’ll be in The Cucumber by sundown, fighting off fanny and showing off our clean glasses.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” said John, and he marched up the street at a pace toward the corner shop, which was, as one might imagine, on the corner. And I had to run to keep up with him, because my legs were a lot shorter than his and I had a brick in my shoe. But we were only hours away from untold riches, and then the dinosaurs—

  7

  “What did I say?” asked the doctor. “You can’t just skip straight to the dinosaurs. You’re setting the scene al
l very nice, and then you keep ruining it.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I just thought, you know, you’ve finished your sandwich. You might want to pop off home for a bit of kip or something.”

  “It’s eleven in the morning,” said the doctor, which came as something of a shock as I thought it was much later. “Now, you were about to commit the crime of the century—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I said, in that way you do when you hear something you’re not too keen on. “We were about to do nothing of the sort. Didn’t you hear the conversation we’d just had about how it wasn’t fraud.”

  “I did,” said the doctor, “I just chose to ignore it. You see, a crime is a crime is a crime, whether time-travel is involved or not.”

  “And what would you have done in our situation?” I said. “Informed the police about the DeLorean? Grassed up The Barry Boys? My best friend John was down to his last couple of quid. We had to do something, or our drinking day was over.”

  “I would have done things differently, let’s just leave it at that,” said the doctor in that holier-than-thou manner in which doctors do before popping outside for a crafty fag and a nip of scotch. “So, into the corner shop you went…”

  “We did indeed,” I said. “And that was when things began to get really interesting.”

  “Oh good,” said the doctor, stifling a yawn. “Please do tell.”

  And tell I did.

  8

  The bell over the door jingled as we entered the corner shop known affectionately to the locals as Sidhu’s, and it was upon entering that we quickly realised we’d made a terrible mistake, for there was a balaclava-ed man with a sawn-off shotgun standing next to the counter looking menacing as hell. I could only make out his eyes through the mask, but evil eyes they were; the kind of eyes that said ‘I’ve seen things’, and, ‘I’ve killed things’, and things of that general nature.

  Unsurprisingly, John backed into me in an attempt to get back outside where he was a lot less likely to be shot in the face, and I said, “Ow, you prick,” and nudged him back inside.