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By the time George reached the pedestrianised centre with its red, rectangular, and regrettably rather fragile paving stones, People Town was completely empty.
Downhearted, he made his way along to Farmer Fred’s feel-good, local, family, fair-trade, organic wholefoods store and stooped through the door, scuffing the frame only moderately with both shoulders, a knee, and quite a lot of his rear spines.
The place, like everywhere else, was deserted. All around, the shelves lay bare with only a few stray items scattered on the floor in the aisles. Had the shop been looted during the evacuation? George pondered. Was this something else for him to feel guilty about? Surely no consumer of ethical wholefoods would ever act in such an immoral way? Suddenly, it came to him: It must be the last shopping day before a public holiday. Of course!
Carefully, George made his way over to the wall of chillers, ducking to avoid snagging his head on the brown ‘Don’t panic, it’s organic!’ bunting, while simultaneously trying to avoid crushing spilt brazil nuts under his massive feet and putting in a real effort not to knock-out the central supporting pillar with his precariously swaying tail.
Not holding out much hope, he pulled up one of the chiller blinds.
They were still full!
Surveying the packed shelves, George felt himself brightening up a little. But one, two... eleven different varieties of hummus! Blimey! They didn’t make it easy for you, did they? For a moment, George weighed up the difficult but enjoyable decision and eventually managed to settle on two flavours – original (you couldn’t improve upon perfection) and carrot and coriander (a bit more taste but still firmly in digestive martyrdom territory).
Collecting three pots of each, George stacked them in his leathery palm and then set about examining the contents of the ‘Daily Specials’ box in the bottom of the chiller. “Vegan brie with walnuts?” George mumbled. He turned over the pack suspiciously and watched as a stream of cloudy liquid tried to escape from the cellophane. “Reduced to 4.44 People Pounds, eat by yesterday. Hmm, maybe not.”
A rustling sounded from behind.
George spun around, accidentally dropping the rubbery cheese which bounced across the floor before coming to rest alongside a rack of Ye Olde Rustic-brand country cottage-style elderflower and damson preserves. “Hellooo?” called George. “Is there somebody there? Mr Fred? Is that you?”
No answer.
Looking around, everything seemed quiet. It must have been the wind.
George replaced the now-leaking brie in the specials box and went back to his digging. “Now then, what do we have?” he muttered. “Ta-hin-i paste? Olives stuffed with pim... pimen-toes? Ooh, mung beans! I know what they are! Delicious!” George licked his lips. According to the label, he would need to eat them today, but then he would have anyway. Winner! George collected up the slightly misshapen container and balanced it on top of the hummus tubs. All sorted. It was time to get paid-up and then home to his pittas!
Wandering over to the counter, George set down his items and began to tot up the prices. So 5.45 PP for each hummus, times by six, plus 4.05 for the beans, no wait! That’s got a reduced sticker, now 3.75... so it comes to... 36.45 in people money. Instinctively, George scowled and then forced himself to stop. No, that was very reasonable considering everything was supposedly one-hundred-percent organic. Premium quality didn’t come cheap and you couldn’t put a price on your health, after all, despite what the insurance companies said.
George began to rummage in his dragon bag and seconds later, placed his claws on a stained fifty Desmond Dollar note which bore on one side, a grotesque image of Desmond, the incredibly plus-sized Dragonville mayor, and on the other side, an even less flattering picture of Desmond’s gargantuan wife, Doris, the lady mayoress. “Nothing smaller, I’m afraid,” said George, shrugging as he thumbed the note. Still, I bet they can do it. Plus, in any case, I haven’t a clue what the exchange rate is. I’ll assume it’s one to one, that seems plausible. Doubt they’ll complain.
Once again, George looked around to see if anyone was in sight. Somehow it just felt wrong serving himself but in the circumstances, what was he supposed to do?
“Hellooo!” George called one last time, now craning his neck in a very exaggerated fashion in case he was secretly being watched. “Paying customer here! Anybody home?”
No response.
Leaning over the counter, George looked for the till. “Oh!” It wasn’t there. Just a square shape on the bench where the wood was slightly darker and a border of dust. He looked from side to side. Maybe the shop had been robbed, after all?
George glanced around a further time. “Well, I’m not leaving a whole fifty!” he muttered. “The place is already ransacked; doubt they’ll even notice the few bits I’ve take—”
“YAAAAAAAAAAHHH!” A thin man with long hair and a beard burst from beneath the counter, brandishing an air rifle.
“Aaaargh!” In a somewhat-belated reflex action, George threw out his arms in defence, flapping up his poncho and accidentally launching the six hummus tubs at the ceiling. SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT! “Good grief, you startled me!”
George and Julian stood facing one another.
“Good day,” said George softly, fighting the urge to tip his non-existent hat and trying to ignore the clods of beige goo that were raining down onto the countertop in front of him. “Mr Fred, I presume. My name is Geo—”
SNAP! PING! The gun jolted slightly and a lead pellet ricocheted off George’s forehead before tinkling playfully against one of the jars in the Current Trend section (This week: goji berries).
“Aaaargh!” Seeing his weapon was useless, Julian dived sideways, smashing into a revolving leaflet rack – the one he hadn’t been able to fit into his office – and then through the remnants of a pumpkin seed display before scrabbling out of the door on his hands and knees.
“Wait!” called George. “Please, wait!” But it was too late. He had disappeared.
Standing all alone, George felt like weeping. Farmer Fred had tried to kill him – in cold blood, no less. Of all the people he had wanted to get to know, Farmer Fred was at the top of his list. And the chaos he had created in the possibly-already-plundered shop – no structural damage as such but there were pureed chickpeas on four of the ceiling tiles and the countertop badly needed a wipe. It was a complete disaster.
Taking a breath, George steeled himself. There was no use in crying over spilt hummus. He had made a mess and knew what needed to be done.