Looking for Mrs Dextrose Read Online Free PDF

few fumes. ’E drinks the stuff!”
    I began choking, feeling nauseous.
    Quench went on: “So. I reckon that went pretty well.”
    I regarded him from my bent-double position. “Did it?”
    “Sure!”
    “Really?”
    “Well. Last time I visited the Shaman ’e give me some soap, an’ after I used it me face turned black!”

 

    As I followed Livingstone Quench into the bar, knackered and drenched after the walk back, I fully expected to find Dextrose in his usual spot. He did not disappoint.
    Already his table was covered in empty bottles and he looked half-cut, staring morosely into the latest glass neck. I felt a pang of self-pity take shape in my gut. What chance did I have of
getting through to such a sorry mess?
    “Alright, ’Arry!” called Quench, quite jovial, no doubt used to the sight.
    Dextrose noticed him. “More beer!” he called back.
    He didn’t even look at me.
    “Brought your boy, Pilsbury,” said Quench. “Maybe it’s time you two got to know each uver, yeah?”
    “No, it’s OK, Livingstone. But thanks for trying,” I mumbled. “I think I’ll go and lie down.”
    “Bollocks!” said the barman, manhandling me towards Dextrose’s table. “You take a seat and we’ll all ’ave a nice chat. Beer?”
    I wasn’t convinced. “I might have something soft, thanks.” I’d seen what alcohol could do to people.
    “’Ave a beer,” he persisted. “I might ’ave a few meself tonight.”
    It struck me that Quench had not yet taken any money from me, which led to me recalling my financial situation: £175 in travellers’ cheques. Enough for bed and board, I imagined,
though hardly sufficient to get me home.
    Home: England. Familiarity, stability and sweet ennui. What was I even doing in Mlwlw, I wondered, sitting opposite this propped-up dolt?
    I dropped my head into my hands and rubbed my eyeballs so hard that shades of crimson and purple lolled around inside my eyelids.
    A voice broke into my self-absorption. “Cheer up,” it slurred. “Might never minking happen.”
    Dextrose, of all the cheek! He was staring at me, elbows on table, half-sneer on his chops.
    “It already is happening!” I snapped back. “And you’re causing it!”
    “Is I?” He looked baffled. “How?”
    By being revealed as my father – and a useless drunk – frankly. Yet what should I have expected? I’d read his book. I knew what he was like. Had I never picked up the thing,
become so drawn into it, I would never have met him. Then again I’d still be a sofa-sloth back in Glibley. His book had opened my eyes; was it his fault I now wished I could close them? Cause
and effect.
    In the end, the best I could reply was: “You’re supposed to be my father.”
    “Is I?” He blinked. Or tried to; the right eyelid refused to open and he prised it apart with filthy fingers. He peered at me, as if through specs. “Yer know, that rings a
minking bell.”
    Rings a bell! And so it all spewed out: the confusion, the fear, the righteous indignation. “Mr Dextrose, I have spent the last month following in your footsteps. I’ve been
trussed up and imprisoned, I’ve been hung over the edge of a volcano, I’ve been drugged, I’ve been shot at. I feared for my life. But I made it. Which amazed me. Believe me, it
did. And when I arrived here I met you. Out of the blue. My hero . And just to put the icing on the cake, you turn out to be my father! And you know what?” It was obvious from his
expression that he didn’t. “I’m gutted. You don’t remember me, do you? What’s my name, Mr Dextrose? What’s the name of your son?”
    He licked his lips, rested a hand on my forearm, spoke slowly and soothingly. “Would yer like us to sign a book for yer?”
    “You smug bastard, I…”
    “Now-now,” cut in Quench, banging three bottles down on the table. “That’s no way to start, is it? ’Ere, ’Arry, tell us abaht that time you met them fat
lasses in that place… Enzo Island? Elmo