maybe because it was low season or because most of the inmates were off on a work party. The enamel hot dog sign squeaking in the wind, the doors banging and the newspapers gusting across the cheap concrete crazy paving lent a strange unsettling air to the place. Like a ghost town, or ... or ... Calamity put her finger on it: 'Everyone's been abducted aboard a UFO.' We walked into a store selling milk and newspapers to ask directions. It was open but empty, no customers and no one behind the counter. We moved across to the amusement arcade. It seemed even emptier, the bingo section shrouded in a gloom that suggested it had been many years since the lights flashed and a river of prizes fell into the excited laps of chip-guzzling families from the Midlands.
In the centre of the Kamp we found a darkened entertainment complex. Rows of seats set in clusters round tables in arrangements intended to disguise the fact that the seats had been bought wholesale from a cinema. There was also a stage with the curtain down. Finally in an adjoining saloon we found some human beings. A clown sat hunched over the bar guzzling glasses of vodka. The barman in a tatty magenta blazer filled it up each time without asking. We sat at the bar, a couple of stools down. They both looked at us with a glare of hostility before returning to their drinks.
'Can I get you men a drink?' I asked cheerily.
The clown halted his glass midway to his mouth and looked inquiringly at the barman. The barman gave a tiny almost imperceptible shrug. The clown slowly turned to me. He wore a filthy lime-green jacket with orange patches crudely stitched on. Underneath there was no shirt, just a grubby vest, with food stains on it. His face had a U-bend of a laughing mouth painted on in bright red, but his real mouth was set in a bitter sneer that went in the opposite direction, as if one of the mouths was a reflection in water of the other.
I gestured to the barman to give the clown a drink. 'And one for yourself — that's if you drink while you're on duty.'
Wordlessly the barman poured the clown a drink, then himself one, knocked it back and washed the glass.
Finally the clown spoke. 'Just because I take your drink doesn't make you my friend.'
I shrugged.
'It doesn't mean I like you.'
'Of course! it means you like to drink.'
'Exactly. If I said no, I would be cutting off my nose to spite my face. You wouldn't want me to do that, would you?'
'You never know, it might be an improvement.'
Calamity nudged me and pointed at a woman passing the window. She walked, almost marched, with military stiffness and wore a Prussian-blue tunic and matching skirt set off by a well-polished Sam Browne belt. The left sleeve of her tunic swung emptily. I said to the barman, 'Isn't that Mrs Bligh-Jones from the Meals on Wheels?'
He pretended to glance over his shoulder and without even looking said, 'No that's Mrs Parker from Mansfield.'
I screwed up my eyes. 'No I'm sure it's Mrs Bligh-Jones. You can tell because she's only got one arm.'
'No you're wrong, mate.'
'But you didn't look.'
'Yes I did.'
She walked up to a chalet and the door opened. A man stood in the doorway in a dressing-gown. It was Jubal.
'Doesn't half look like Mrs Bligh-Jones to me; and that's Jubal isn't it?'
The barman leaned across and grabbed my chin in the vice of his index finger and thumb, jerked my face towards his and said in a cold, bitter voice, 'Are you calling me a liar?'
I snatched my face free and signalled with my eyes to Calamity that it was time to try somewhere else. We walked out and carried on walking into the centre of the dreary Kamp.
We passed a small collection of fairground rides, the horses and miniature spaceships covered with dusty tarpaulins. There was a flash of movement from behind the centre of the carousel. It was a little girl, grubby and bedraggled, her hair long and wild and matted; she must have been one of the feral children said to live on the fringes of the Kamp. On seeing us she darted behind one of the cars. We stopped and I crouched down and called to her. Slowly she moved forward and peered at us from behind a prancing pony.
'Are your mummy and daddy around?' I asked.
She shook her head.
'Are you on your own?'
She nodded.
'We're looking for the clown's Johnny. Do you know what that is?'
She nodded.
'Will you take us to him?'
She considered.
'I'll give you some money to buy a hot dog.'
She nodded and scampered off, assuming without even bothering to check that we would follow. We did.
The colony of Johnnys was located towards the back of the Kamp, in the cages that had formerly housed the animals. There were four of them, sitting idly about on upturned boxes and staring boredly into space. None of them wanted to talk to us, but eventually a man who said I could call him Bert came to the bars. I showed him the picture of the Dean and he confirmed that he had been a Johnny for a while.
'But he had no interest in learning the art,' said Bert morosely. 'He was just a dilettante. Kept going on about the fact that he was a professor and deserved better. I mean, big deal! I used to be an actuary but I don't ram it down your throat —' The man stopped suddenly, his attention distracted. I heard the sound of feet scraping deliberately on the pavement behind me and the miasma of cheap aftershave enveloped me. I turned and found myself face to face with a thin bony man in a black tie and dinner jacket. Next to him stood two Kamp security guards twirling their nightsticks. One of them went up to the bars and ran the truncheon along like a child rattling a stick along some railings. Bert leaped back and joined his friends.
The man in the dinner jacket spoke. 'I'm awfully sorry to interrupt your fun, sir, but it appears your holiday has come to an abrupt end.'
'Really? It's a bit sudden isn't it?'
'That's often the way of it on holiday; it seems like you've only just arrived and already it's time to go home.'
'We
'As I say it can often seem like that. It's a trick the mind plays.'
'And we were having such a nice time. I can't believe it's over.'
'You're not the first, sir, to remark on the fleeting nature of human happiness. If I may be permitted the observation.'
I looked at Calamity and she responded by dramatically stretching her eyebrows and chin in opposite directions. I turned back to the manager. 'Nice aftershave.'
'Thank you, sir, I mix it myself. Nothing fancy, just a few things I find in the garden.'
'Next time go easy on the slugs.'
He winced slightly. 'Most comedic, sir. Now if you would care to make your way to the carpark.'
'Couldn't we just extend our stay by half a day?'
He shook his head in bogus melancholy. 'Sadly not, we're fully booked. No room for any more guests and alas, although you would be highly suitable for the role, we are already supplied with a clown.'
'And if he goes sick you could always recite your aftershave recipe, couldn't you?'
He winced again.
'I want to see the manager.'
The security guard answered. 'You're looking at him, pal, this is Kousin Kevin, he owns the Kamp.'
'Don't sound so impressed, he can't even spell!'
Kousin Kevin took hold of my cuff. 'If you wouldn't mind, sir.'
'What if I do?'
The security guard waved his nightstick. 'Actually, bigmouth, we'd prefer it if you did. We don't like snoopers
