Sherry Cracker Gets Normal. D. Connell J.

He nodded and let out another yawning sigh. ‘What name?’

      ‘Bijou Poulet.’

      ‘Jewish?’

      ‘I’m not sure. Poulet is a French word. It means chicken.’

      ‘Chicken!’ He snapped to attention and threw his forearms on to the desk. His expression was fierce. ‘What this chicken business again and every time?’

      ‘It’s the name of the therapist. You told me to find a professional for my head.’

      ‘Head.’ He tapped his temple fiercely. ‘Get into head now and permanently. In world, two kind of people: hero and chicken.’

      ‘I thought it was normal and abnormal.’

      ‘Interrupt, interrupt. Always interrupt! Quiet now!’ Mr Chin waved his hand in front of his face as if shooing a hornet. ‘Two kind of people: hero and chicken. Hero fight always. Brave and good, many sacrifice for family, so on and so on. Chicken sneaky and cunning. Gambler and so on.’

      I nodded but wondered where this was leading. What was it about chickens that inflamed Mr Chin so?

      ‘Sometime stranger come with stick and gun and knife, beat and stab, thieve precious ornament and so on.’ He narrowed his eyes and shook a finger at me. ‘What chicken do in such case?’

      I did not know how to respond, aware that an incorrect answer might put me in the wrong category.

      ‘Chin tell you. Chicken run always.’ He leaned further across the desk and lowered his voice. ‘Do Chin run always?’

      ‘No.’ This was true. Mr Chin never ran anywhere. His way of getting from A to B was either to drive his 1979 lime-green Ford Fiesta or walk. As a walker, he was alert yet relaxed. His head and torso appeared to remain motionless while his legs forged ahead.

      ‘Correct and true. Chin completely not chicken.’

      He exhaled in a satisfied way and reclined his executive chair. It seemed like a good moment.

      ‘Have you seen the notice downstairs?’

      ‘Chin tired now.’ His eyelids closed. He waved a hand as if to dismiss me. ‘Take one hundred per cent free holiday. See expert and so on. Come back Monday for work at normal hour.’

      ‘But the cinema might be pulled down.’ By announcing this information, I made it more real and by making it more real, I made myself more anxious.

      ‘Who say pull down?’ Mr Chin jerked upright again. He looked at me in an accusing way as if it were my idea to demolish the Babylon.

      ‘Roger Bottle wants to tear it down and build a public surveillance centre in its place.’

      ‘Wrong and rubbish!’ His voice was shrill. He brought his fist down on to his desk. The empty glass jumped up and bounced sideways, hitting the bottle with a clink. ‘Chin have lease from council that is foolproof. Why you tell wrong and false information?’

      ‘Roger Bottle is running for mayor and will control the council if he wins.’

      ‘Who say Bottle win such election? Why you talk so?’ Mr Chin’s expression changed from accusing to dangerous, like traffic lights flashing from amber to red. If I had been a motorist, I would have heeded the sign and braked hard to avoid hitting a pedestrian or colliding with another vehicle. But I was engaged in a discussion and the rules of social intercourse are not as straightforward as the UK Highway Code. My next comment was a logical extension of the subject but it was probably the worst thing I could have said.

      ‘Roger Bottle already has a lot of support. The Cockerel says he’s winning hearts and minds with his security and employment promises.’ At this point I should have stopped but I was too focused on Roger Bottle to heed the warning signs on Mr Chin’s face. ‘He wants to create local jobs for local people and is calling for compulsory English tests for immigrants.’

      Mr Chin squawked. ‘Chin one hundred per cent British citizen. Passport foolproof British. English speaking excellent and perfect.’ He slapped his chest in a proud way. ‘You think Chin have wrong English?’

      I thought for a moment. ‘I wouldn’t say it’s wrong English but you often conjugate verbs incorrectly.’

      My comment was like a shot fired from a starter pistol. Mr Chin bolted out of his chair and sprinted around to my side of the office. Before I could move, he had grabbed the back of my chair and yanked it away from the desk, spinning me around so that my nose was almost touching his.

      ‘Incorrectly! What incorrectly?’ He gave my chair an angry shove and pushed himself upright, assuming his full five feet three inches and crossing his arms over his chest. ‘Why Chin employ such peculiar girl as you? Many people want excellent job. Chin too kind and generous.’

      It was true what he said but it was discouraging to hear it stated so clearly. Local unemployment was high. I did not have people skills or qualifications and would be hard-pressed to find another position. I needed my job with Mr Chin. My future depended on it.

      ‘But I can change. I’m determined to crack the normality nut by Monday.’

      Mr Chin threw up his hands and groaned.

      ‘I’m seeing the psychological expert tomorrow afternoon.’

      ‘Go see expert for head. Go see fortune-teller or astrology person. Whatever necessary. Just vacate premise immediately. Leave Chin now. You forbidden here today and weekend.’ He stopped and narrowed his eyes. ‘Come back Monday at normal hour or—’

      ‘—or what?’

      ‘—or Chin find new worker for replacement!’ He made a whisking motion with his hands. ‘Go now!’

      I jumped to my feet and hurried over to the doorway, my heart thumping against my ribs. I turned. ‘What will you do if they demolish the cinema? What will happen to the office?’

      ‘Vacate premise immediately!’

      Mr Chin advanced on me and grabbed the door handle. The door sprang open and hit the wall with a clang. I stepped out on to the landing.

      ‘But I’ve been following the election campaign. Roger Bottle might get elected.’ I started descending the stairs. ‘Do you have a contingency plan?’

      ‘Question, question, question drive me crazy and nuts!’

      My head was whirling when I reached the awning. I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the light. My nostrils flared. The air was heavy with the dry, sickly smell of a mentholated cigarette. I looked around for the smoker but the space under the awning was empty apart from some litter and Nigel’s cardboard square. I glanced across the road to the bus stop. My scalp tingled.

      A man dressed as a cowboy was leaning against the bus shelter. It was Shanks and he was looking at me in a friendly way. He doffed his hat and whistled.

      Without waiting to see what he would do next, I stepped on to the pavement and hurried away. I wanted nothing to do with the cowboy or Mr Tanderhill. The bungalow experience had cost me my purse and left me with a deep fear of hypnotherapy.

      When I finally dared to look back, Shanks was gone and a bus was pulling away. Printed across the back of the vehicle was a large advertisement featuring a woman dressed like the Queen of England. On her head was a jewelled crown but around her neck was a string of deep-fried hash browns. A speech bubble was coming out of her mouth: ‘All that glitters is gold. Nack’s Hash Browns, the majestic snack.’

      I made a mental note of the advertisement and set off again, walking briskly and swinging my arms to chest height to maximise cardiovascular activity. This is called power-walking and is very popular in Australia, a country renowned for sports enthusiasm and Rolf Harris.

      My head was down as I entered the rose gardens and I did not see the man in the fuchsia trench coat coming the other way. We collided with considerable momentum, which is the sum of mass times