What did it matter?
It wasn’t a bad boat. High-ceilinged. No need to stoop in the galley. Painted a kind of nautical lime throughout –quite recently, by the look of things. Jaunty. Running water (drinkable but metallic-tasting). Bedroom in the bow. Hard bunk, old mattress –skinny and stained and rather dirty. Four books on the tiny bedside table. Arthur’d picked them up, one by one…
Dickens’ Bleak House, Origami 3; The Art of Paper Folding (by celebrated ‘Master of the Paper Arts’, Robert Harbin), How to Survive in the Desert (written by some nutty American lone wolf in the early 1970s), and finally, some crazy autobiographical thing called Making an Exhibition of Myself, by a man named Jonathan Routh –a legendary practical joker from the 1960s.
Arthur flipped through the last book, frowning, read the opening two pages, then tossed it down onto the bunk, dismissively.
There was a cupboard, though, under the bunk. He’d slid back the door. Inside were a pile of clean sheets, folded with a military precision and a pile of National Geographics (ah, those familiar yellow ribs; like meeting a dear old friend at a funeral wearing a bright daffodil buttonhole).
He’d checked the dates: 1976–1983. And pretty much all entirely there (must be worth something). Then two stray editions –right at the bottom –dated 1999. March and February. He pulled these out for perusing later, his own long-term subscription (he’d been collecting these magazines since he came of age) having finished a full seven years previously: round about the time he started saving up seriously –the time he gave up drinking –smoking –the time he gave up a whole load of… the time he gave up everything. Everything except spite and bile and shite and walking and walking and…
Enough.
Arthur clenched the canister between his knees and applied more pressure to the nozzle area. A short hiss, then nothing. Needed more light. Back was hurting again. And he was hungry. He glanced through the galley window. What was the weather doing? Still quite foggy. But he was dressed in his outdoors gear, felt warm.
He grabbed an apple from the sideboard, a quarter of soda bread, a chicken leg, then headed outside with them. Turned back at the threshold –remembering the nozzle –debated whether he could manage his lunch and the canister in his other hand. Decided he could. Went back for it. Grabbed the canister. Remembered the National Geographics. Saw them on the drainingboard. Put down the canister (gracious, that was heavy), picked them up, rolled them, stuck them firmly into either pocket. Shoved the chicken leg and the other stuff –where to put it –yes, in the hood of his jacket. Canny. Bent down to retrieve the canister again –felt the food rolling around so kept his shoulders straight to avoid a catastrophe –grabbed it again, lifted…
Left hand Geographic slipped out of his pocket and onto the floor. Slid part-way under the refrigerator (not working).
Bugger
He staggered forward, anyway.
The canister was incredibly heavy. He’d rick his neck if he wasn’t careful. So he was careful. Bent from the knee.
Crossed the creaking walkway and headed up the embankment. Made it to the top without too much difficulty (had set his heart on this lunching location –sheer perversity, really –but there was the view up here and everything) relinquished the canister, took the magazine out of his pocket…
Where the heck was his lunch? What on earth had he…? Couldn’t for the life of him… couldn’t…
Arthur sat down, looked at his hand –all scrunched red-white from the pressure of the canister, his fingers temporarily locked into plump, pink talons –then opened the magazine and began working his way through it.
So… February edition. Licked his thumb. Held the pages up close to his eyes. Needed his glasses for small type but had left them… had…
God… awful letter on the Cossacks and one –now this was interesting –about how civets weren’t really cats. They were actually the biggest and most canine of the viv… the viver… the viverridae. A genus which included mongooses and genets.
Mongooses? Mongeese?
Then finally, a whole, damn ream of information about biodi…
‘Excuse me.’
How much time had escaped him?
It was still bright. Still foggy. His arse was numb.
‘Excuse me.’
A man was standing almost directly behind him. How the…? How on earth did he…?
Arthur corkscrewed his top half, nearly dropping the magazine.
‘I think you’ll find,’ the man courteously informed him, taking a final, languorous drag on the cigarette he was smoking and then tossing the end away, ‘that you’re sitting on an ants’ nest.’
‘What?’
‘An ants’ nest.’
‘Are you kidding?’ Arthur threw down the magazine and leapt to his feet. As he swung around something dealt him a light blow on the back of his neck. It startled him. For a moment he thought the stranger had hit him, but that same instant realised he was being irrational. The man was at totally the wrong angle, logistically.
‘Uh…’ the man spoke again, ‘a piece of chicken…’ He was bending over, retrieving something, ‘and an apple just fell out of your…’
The apple was rolling gaily down the embankment. Arthur went after it. Skidded twice, but caught it decisively once it’d reached bottom. He glanced up towards the man again. He had the winter sun behind him, like a halo. His face was an eye-burning blur of dissolving skin.
‘Is this your craft?’ the man asked.
‘No,’ Arthur answered instinctively, blinking suspiciously, then, ‘Yes. Yes it is, actually.’
The stranger quietly processed this answer, seeming to find no contradiction in it.
‘I set some of my traps around here,’ he told Arthur, ‘in case you sensed anything awry. I’ve been knocking about since Wednesday.’
‘No I didn’t,’ Arthur answered, looking gingerly about him, ‘no I didn’t sense…’
Awry?
‘Just string,’ the man continued, ‘string traps. Nothing to worry about…’ he paused, ‘for humans,’ he added, as an afterthought. Then he paused again, tangled, ‘Not for humans. The traps are for rodents is what I mean.’ His voice was smiling.
Arthur headed back up the embankment. When he reached the top, the man was bending down, picking up the magazine.
‘I bought this edition myself,’ he said, dusting some mud off it, ‘when it first came out. I remember it very clearly.’
He checked the date, ‘February ‘99. That’s the one. I got so infuriated by it I nearly wrote them a letter…’
‘You did?’
‘Yup. There’s this whole fucking tirade about the ecology of biodiversity –did you read it yet?’
Arthur nodded.
‘Yeah, well the main story,’ the man continued, almost as if Arthur hadn’t nodded, as if he hadn’t read it, ‘involves some excruciatingly fat-headed scientific twat making his way through a rainforest and spraying the trees, willy-nilly, to gauge the number and variety of insects in that particular jurisdiction. Spraying with fucking pesticide. In the name of research. In the name of biodiversity. A million dead insects, just like that. And what about the birds who feed upon the insects? What about them? And what about the animals who catch the birds? Jesus wept, it bugged me.’
The man glanced up.
Oh my God. It was him. It was him. It was him. It was Wesley.
‘Chicken leg,’ Wesley said, slicing through the sudden silence between them with the cold and succulent hen’s limb; proffering it to Arthur, cordially.
‘Thanks.’ Arthur took it from him. Saw the hand. The hand. Fingers missing. This sight so familiar in his imagination it was like a poem or a favourite song or…
A poem?!
His eyes filled with liquid. He thought he might sneeze (what a painfully ineffectual reaction. Was he Man or Mouse? Was he trapper or trapee? What was wrong with him?).
‘Couple of ants on it,’ Wesley said, gazing –with a half-frown –at th
e cuddly creature on the baseball cap Arthur was wearing.
Arthur looked closer at the chicken leg.
‘Turn around,’ Wesley continued, ‘and I’ll try and get the rest off the back of your jacket.’
Arthur turned around, hesitantly, almost not believing in the ants. Perhaps the ants were imaginary. Perhaps Wesley was imaginary. But when Wesley drew near him and swatted at his back a few times, iron-handedly, there really was no disputing his status as a solid entity.
‘A-ha,’ he expostulated, ‘it’s no bloody wonder they’re crawling all over. You still have a hunk of bread stashed in there.’
He removed the bread from Arthur’s hood. Passed it to him.
Went back to rigorously swatting him again.
‘Couldn’t believe that thing about civets not being a part of the cat genus…’ he muttered.
‘Actually,’ Arthur suddenly intervened, stepping forward –and downward –out of harm’s way, ‘I’ll take the coat off and do it myself, if you don’t mind.’
He thrust the food he was holding into Wesley’s hands, ‘Have this if you want it. I haven’t touched it.’
‘Are you serious?’
Wesley was delighted.
‘Yes.’
Arthur was embarrassed.
He yanked his jacket off. He couldn’t think straight. He felt… he felt, well, ridiculous. Must’ve stood up too suddenly, he told himself, knowing it was bogus as soon as he’d thought it.
Wesley took a few steps back, crouched down onto his haunches –one knee in front of the other, solid as a rock, like a Navaho –and began devouring the chicken.
‘I’ve been eating gull since Friday,’ he said. ‘Loathe all that plucking. My thumbs are still raw with it.’
Arthur flapped his hand –rather ineffectually –against the jacket. He said nothing. Couldn’t see any ants there. Couldn’t see anything.
‘But I’ve grown very adept at catching them lately. I’m in the gull-zone.’
‘Catching what?’ Arthur glanced over at him.
‘Seagulls. At the dump. The lorries all come thundering in around one-ish. That’s the best time to nab ‘em.’
‘I suppose…’ Arthur said –
Don’t let him draw you in, Arthur,
Don’t let him reel you in
– ‘I suppose they must taste rather like chicken.’
‘No. They taste like seabird. But this…’
Wesley brandished the drumstick, ‘this tastes rather like chicken.’
Arthur grimaced. Walked straight into that one.
Wesley indicated towards the heater with the chicken leg, then took another big bite of it, ‘That thing empty or what?’
Mouth crammed as he spoke.
‘It’s full. But the nozzle’s dented. It got knocked over.’
‘I can fix it for you. I’m good with nozzles.’
‘No. I’m… that’s fine. I’ll be fine.’
Wesley studiously ignored Arthur’s protestations. He stood up and went over to the canister. He circled his way around it a couple of times –as if stalking it –then stuck the chicken leg between his teeth, placed the bread and apple onto the ground, removed a knife from his trouser pocket and crouched down. After continuing to gaze at the canister for a while, he carefully inserted the knife and painstakingly dug around inside the mechanism.
Arthur slowly put his coat back on again.
Before he’d fastened the zip, the canister was hissing. Wesley turned it off, then on, then off.
‘There.’
‘Thanks.’
He put the knife away and delicately ripped the last strands of flesh from the chicken leg with his teeth. His eyes were unfocussed as he chewed on it. He was considering something. When he’d swallowed, he stood up and tossed the bone over the river. It hit the opposite bank. Disappeared inside the long grass there. He had an impressive arm.
‘Do you have any drinking water on board?’
Wesley wiped his hands on his trousers.
‘Yes.’
‘Great. I’m gonna show you something amazing. Just hold on a minute.’
He grabbed the bread and apple and headed off towards a nearby thicket. In twenty seconds he was back again, a large rucksack slung over one shoulder and a plastic bottle (its neck roughly severed) held firmly in his good hand.
He slung the pack onto the floor and offered Arthur the bottle, ‘Go inside and fill it.’ Arthur didn’t move. He didn’t appreciate Wesley’s tone. It was peremptory.
‘Almost to the top,’ he added.
Arthur took the bottle and carried it inside –
Why am I doing this?
– he filled it at the sink and then returned outside with it.
Wesley was kicking at the ridge on top of the embankment, then scuffling his trainer into the fine soil he’d loosened. After a while he kneeled down and began scooping gently at the soil with both hands.
Arthur drew closer, breathing heavily as he crested the slope again.
Ants. Thousands of them.
He recoiled.
Wesley noticed, even from his kneeling position, ‘It’s only ants,’ he said, grabbing hold of the water bottle and quickly tipping several dark handfuls inside; some soil, but ants, mostly. The ants swam around in the liquid. Wesley shook off his hands expertly, then put his palm over the bottleneck and violently shook the whole.
‘In my rucksack, the side pocket, on the right, you’ll find a thermos. Bring it to me.’ Arthur went for the thermos. Side pocket. On the right. There it was. Red-topped. Tartan patterned. He pulled it out. Wesley’s thermos. Had one quite like it himself, actually. In green.
‘Okay,’ Wesley said, standing up –his bad hand still blocking the neck of the bottle –‘let’s move over here a-way, before the rest of these insects get their heads together and come after us for a revenge attack.’
They walked several yards along the bank, then Wesley sat down. ‘Take this,’ he proffered Arthur the bottle, ‘and try and keep it still so that the sediment can settle.’
Arthur took the bottle.
‘Sit down.’
Arthur didn’t want to sit down. But after five seconds he sat down anyway.
Wesley was digging around inside his pockets. From the right one he removed something small, wrapped up in tin foil. He unfurled the foil carefully and revealed some dehydrated-looking lemon slices. Next he unscrewed the plastic cup and lid from the top of his thermos, placed the lemon slices inside it, then delved back into his pocket again. This time he removed what Arthur could only characterise as a home-spun toy. Made from a big, hairy pip of some kind. Wire legged. Pearl eyed.
‘Mango-stone creature,’ Wesley calmly enlightened him, pulling an old handkerchief out of his pocket and a crumpled packet of Wimpy coffee sugar, then replacing the toy gently back inside again.
‘Bottle.’
Arthur passed him the bottle. Wesley neatly wrapped the handkerchief over the lip of it then slowly tipped it up and began pouring the ant-liquid, nicely sieved, from the first container, into his thermos.
When this was done, he tore open the sugar, poured it in, screwed the lid back onto the thermos and shook it for a while, smiling over at Arthur like a roguish barman preparing something incendiary.
After a minute or so he stopped shaking, opened it up, grabbed the plastic cup, poured a portion of this foul-seeming concoction into it and handed it across.
‘There you go.’
Arthur stared into the cup, worriedly. He was not a happy bunny.
‘Cheers,’ Wesley said. ‘You won’t regret it.’
Arthur took a sip. Wesley was wrong. He regretted it immediately. He squirmed and then swallowed, grimacing.
‘Ant lemonade. The stings give it bite.’
Arthur took a second sip out of sheer perversity, swallowed. It certainly had… uh… piquancy.
‘Clever, eh?’
Arthur half-nodded.
‘Can I try?’
Arthur passed the cup back again. Wesley took a sip himself.
‘Hmmmn,’ he sucked his teeth, ‘but is it sweet enough for a lady?’
Arthur scowled, ‘A lady?’
‘A librarian.’
‘Ah,’ Arthur’s lean face slipped effortlessly into a knowing smile. ‘Of course,’ he said, then he abruptly stopped smiling –Can’t give anything away
Wesley gave him a straight look. He took another sip, squinting –distractedly –towards the houseboat.
‘Let me ask you a question… uh…?’
He stared at Arthur enquiringly. Arthur stared back at him, blankly.
‘Your name?’ Wesley asked.
Arthur continued to stare at Wesley, still blankly, but his mind was racing.
‘Art,’ he said finally. It was uninspired. But he’d suddenly remembered a boy at school with the same name as him, yet smarter than he was, and better liked. The other kids’d called him Art.
‘Art?’
‘Yes.’
‘The point is, Art, I want to use this address,’ Wesley indicated towards the boat. ‘In actual fact, if you’re cooperative, I’d quite like to use you, too.’
Arthur’s back straightened –perceptibly –with sheer hostility.
Wesley grinned, seeming either to notice or not to notice (it was impossible to tell), and offered Arthur his good hand. ‘My name is Wesley,’ he said, ‘and some time soon –if I’m not very much mistaken –a man will come calling at your houseboat to ask you some questions about me. When this happens I want you to negotiate a deal on my behalf. Tell him I asked you to. Tell him that you are my broker. If he questions your authority, tell him –and this’ll be the main thing –tell him,’ Wesley spoke with special emphasis, ‘that I never speak to the people Following, that you are the negotiator, the go-between. He’ll know what you mean.’
Arthur was confused. He felt almost… what was it? Nauseous? To be… to be implicated in this whole thing. And so quickly, so readily.
‘But what…’ Arthur paused for a second, ‘what would I be negotiating exactly?’
Wesley shrugged. ‘That’s entirely up to you. All I know is that this man will come –trust me –and he’ll want to make a deal. I want you to broker it however you see fit…’ he paused. ‘I like you, Art,’ he continued, ‘you shared my lemonade with me. I fixed your canister. You gave me some chicken. We exchanged some thoughts on biodiversity. I think we have an understanding.’
Behindlings Page 14