Arthur didn’t want –how to put this, exactly –he didn’t want to feel like this strange man had alarmed him (startled. Yes. That was more like it. The man had surprised him, had… had startled…) but when he subsequently considered the intense and –in all honesty –rather curious interlude that had taken place between them –straight after, and only briefly, because events then rapidly took on their own… their own momentum – Arthur decided (he rationalised?) that it was mainly the stranger’s… his… his impertinence that had left him feeling…
Impertinence?
Was that it? Or was it something marginally less aggressive, something marginally more… Not impertinence. Audacity? Yes. Yes? No.
No, it was his disconnectedness. It was his… his aura of detached familiarity. Was that coherent? Did it make any kind of…?
Arthur had been standing in the kitchen (back to the door, just a couple of feet along from the small window which afforded him a view of all-comers from the Benfleet direction), messing around with his mobile phone (was totally embroiled in what he was doing. Hadn’t seen the man approaching. Hadn’t even the slightest notion…) when this swarthy, medium height, medium build, medium everything kind of person walked on board (the door had been closed. He’d shown some… well… some affinity with the broken door mechanism. Arthur had experimented –several times, in fact –to find a way to open and close it without needing to shove himself against it, bodily. It was warped. It was rather prone to jamming).
This man had entered the boat (casually tipping his head so as to avoid knocking it into the door frame –indicating, Arthur surmised, that he was about 5′8″ or over. Was that… Could that be construed as medium?), shut the door calmly and firmly behind him, then just stood there, rubbing his two gloved hands together (because of the cold, Arthur presumed. It was minus three on the thermometer), staring jovially across the galley at him, smiling.
Full teeth, gums, even a tip of tongue.
Flirty.
‘Can I help you?’ Arthur was startled.
The man paused a while before replying, his eyes glancing around the boat, as if hunting out something in particular. They focussed, briefly, on the gas canister (currently burning), then alighted on Arthur’s laptop computer. The computer (on the sideboard) was open and operational. He was working on a document entitled Agreement of Sale. Underneath this heading Arthur had written; I’ve had a change of heart. Let’s proceed…
The mobile phone Arthur held was connected to it by a wire. Arthur was either sending this document somewhere, or possibly receiving something.
The stranger casually inspected the computer’s ‘batteries running down –save your document and switch to your mains supply’ notice, which was temporarily flashing, and also took in (his head tipped, like a bird’s) a tiny, unobtrusive beeping; the audio-warning it was also issuing. His eyes finally tightrope-walked the wire, to the small black phone in Arthur’s hand.
‘The batteries…’ Arthur murmured, balancing the phone carefully onto the windowsill, walking over towards the computer and abruptly banging the lid down. The computer squawked, enraged.
‘Uh… Can I help you?’ he repeated.
The man put all his fingertips to his lips. Both hands. An impulsive movement (like he’d just tasted something exceptional and wished to congratulate the cook on it: Ah delicious! In that European way –that gesture the French had. The Italians –or like he was a tiny mouse, gnawing, determinedly, on a juicy wild strawberry).
Seconds later, he moved his hands away. ‘I have no English language,’ he spoke softly, his voice higher than Arthur had expected it to be –almost fluting, almost feminine –but his accent so heavy that his words were pretty much indecipherable.
French, was he?
‘Have you come about Wesley? Is that it?’ Arthur asked, cautiously.
This man speaks no English, Arthur, so why are you still talking in it?
‘Ah…’ the man considered this question for a moment (as if it was entirely frivolous, utterly irrelevant, totally inexplicable).
‘Wesley?’ Arthur repeated. ‘Is it about him?’
(To be saying the name. To be so embroiled. It just felt… it was just… it was madness.)
The stranger widened his eyes, then nodded, ‘Ah, oui,’ he smiled, ‘Oui. Precis, monsieur.’
He seemed at ease with French, but by no means fluent in it.
He was still looking about him.
‘Puis-je… uh… Puis-je, peut-être… uh… vous aider?’ Arthur asked, haltingly.
The man ignored this question and instead pointed genially towards the computer, ‘Wah! Pas d’electrique, huh?’
(‘Wah’?!)
‘Uh…’ Arthur shook his head, slowly, ‘Uh… non. Non.’
But before he’d quite finished speaking, the man was on the hoof again, was walking over to the window (increasing their proximity by a considerable margin. Arthur did not flinch as he brushed past him, no, not flinch so much as move, very quickly, very efficiently, into the furthest recesses of the bright green galley).
The man stood squarely in front of the window, staring through it intently, his gloved hand resting on the glass.
He’d moved over there so suddenly –Arthur surmised, from his sanctuary behind the cooker –with such unexpected speed, such determination, such energy, that it was almost as if this manoeuvre represented some kind of… some kind of resolution; as if it prefaced some sort of… some sort of notable… no… fundamental plan of action. Like he was all fired up and ready for something.
Or was it –Arthur swallowed, nervously –was it just a sound? A movement? Had he been alerted –frighted – by something external, maybe?
Arthur struggled to hear this something. But he heard nothing. Just the river outside, gurgling. The heater. The computer. Of all his senses, his hearing was the weakest.
Much to the stranger’s obvious irritation, his cautious instincts had proven entirely founded. ‘Merde,’ he muttered. ‘Quel qu’un arrive.’
He rapidly withdrew, moving backwards, slipping effortlessly –without even looking –towards the door, grabbing the handle behind him, twisting it, opening it –damn him –moving back and beyond it. A cine-reel, rewinding.
On his way through, though, he suddenly remembered… He suddenly recollected… Ah, yes. Arthur. Him.
He held the door open for a second longer, shrugged apologetically (Was there really an apology in it?), grimaced, closed the door quietly and strode off down the walkway (Arthur listened. Couldn’t hear a sound), turned a sharp right (not clambering up the embankment, but opting to walk along the bottom of it –a rather perilous route: the mud was still slippy, the tide was gushing in), turned a swift left into the river bending, and disappeared.
The sky was getting dark and still darker. Arthur craned his head, watching the final movements of his visitor through the broken glass in the door. He’d been intending to fix it earlier –had tried to, ham-fistedly –but the cardboard he’d tacked up there had already fallen off and onto the floor. He pushed at the door (bugger. It stuck. Hadn’t quite acquired the knack yet. Tried it again. That was it) and moved cautiously out onto the walkway. It remained foggy in his section of backwater. Couldn’t see far.
Was it always foggy here?
Quel qu’un arrive
In the distance… An old… The Old Man. Arthur drew a sharp breath, ducked his head, turned abruptly, walked back inside the boat, closed the door, gently, and crouched down behind it. His heart was pounding.
Jesus. The Old… Hadn’t…
But was there any question of him having…?
No.
But was… But…?
No.
Keep your wits, Arthur. Keep your wits. Wesley never speaks to the people following. Not even the Old Man. Not even him.
After a couple of minutes, Arthur slowly arose and peeped out through the broken pane. The other side of it –
Fuck
– stood a dre
adful looking hippie and another man with white irises. A blind man. They made a maverick pair.
‘Sorry to disturb you, but we saw the light,’ the hippie spoke first, stepping –rather nervously –onto the walkway, then reconsidering and stepping off again, all the while trying (and failing) to disguise his surprise at Arthur emerging so very eccentrically from his crouching position.
Fat Hippie
Gracious me
Look at the damn state of him
Arthur finally materialised –in all his entirety –from behind the door, and stood straight and tall at his end of the walkway. Just pretend you were doing DIY or something
He felt his stomach fluttering, but forced himself to grow bold again.
Don’t even think about the old fella
Don’t even…
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ the Hippie repeated, ‘but did you happen to see another man pass this way? Brown hair? In his thirties?’ Right.
‘D’you mean the Arabic gentleman?’ Arthur asked, placing his palm onto what remained of the handrail, tentatively.
The Hippie frowned at this description, ‘Arabic?’
‘Or Iranian. The Iranian gentleman. He just left here.’
‘An Arabic gentleman?’
‘Or Iranian.’
‘Two gentlemen? Both Middle Eastern?’
‘No. No, there was… No. There was only one person. Arabic. Or Iranian. Only one. They just this minute…’
‘I see.’
The Hippie nodded and then turned confidingly towards the blind man, as if in some doubt of his having heard the exchange between them, ‘He’s now saying that it was only one gentleman, Herbie, and that he just this minute left here.’
The blind man tossed his head –like a newly-harnessed pony –thereby implying that either he’d heard the conversation himself (and needed no interpreter –he was only blind, after all) or that he didn’t –for some unspecified reason –feel like Arthur’s testimony was entirely trustworthy.
Arthur frowned. He had the distinct feeling that the piss was being taken out of him. Either that or the Hippie was an absolute fool.
The Hippie paused –thinking deeply for a moment –then half-turned to consult the blind man again, ‘An Arabic gentleman, Herbie. Would you describe Wesley as looking –in any way –like a person of Arabic extraction?’
‘I’m blind, you damn Hippie imbecile…’
Arthur smirked to himself.
Exactly
‘And anyway,’ the blind man continued, ‘if somebody had just left this vessel, we almost certainly would’ve seen him…’
He lowered his voice slightly, ‘Bear in mind, Shoes, that the stranger may well be lying.’
‘I have no reason,’ Arthur sharply interrupted, ‘to lie about a man having just left this craft. He left along the bottom path. You mightn’t’ve seen him from where you were. It’s foggy…’
You’re blind
‘and it’s already getting dark out. I have no idea which direction he originally came from. It may well’ve been Canvey.’
‘Good point,’ the Hippie conceded, perhaps just a touch too easily (Shoes did not enjoy conflict. He was a hippie. It was more than a fashion. It was a philosophy). Arthur growled to himself, under his breath, then half-turned, as if intending to retreat into the cabin.
‘Just by-the-by,’ the Hippie stopped him, before he could escape them, ‘it might be helpful for you to know that Herbie here got slightly peed-off clambering down your embankment. He’s blind. It’s steep and very slippery. I had trouble with it myself, although obviously I’m…’ he smiled, humbly, ‘I’m lucky enough to be fully sighted.’
While he spoke, Arthur was staring –
Discreet
Be discreet
– at the Hippie’s bare toes, but once he’d gleaned the basic gist of what he was saying (and the casual censure implicit in it), he glanced back up at his heavy, pale face, deeply affronted.
‘It would certainly be rather foolish…’ he spoke, somewhat harshly (as was his way), ‘to somehow imagine that this particular piece of rural wilderness was now, or ever would be, in any way adapted to the special needs of the mentally or… or vi… vi… visually impaired.’
Jesus Christ what a swine I’m being.
Jesus Christ his feet must be freezing.
‘I think it would be fair to say that the man we are looking for is of Caucasian stock…’ the Hippie elucidated, preferring –under the circumstances –to show the cruel wit of Arthur Young a Christian cold-shoulder.
The blind man nudged the Hippie, ‘Ask the little turd how long he’s been staying here. Ask him if he knows who owns this craft.’
Arthur –stiffening visibly –heard the blind man’s comments first hand but even so, the Hippie took it upon himself to repeat them again, but slightly modified, for the sake of diplomacy. ‘I don’t know if you’ve been staying here long,’ he began tentatively, ‘or what your connection to this craft might be exactly, but the man we are looking for had a camp –or at least, he did do, yesterday –in that clutch of bushes, over there…’
The hippie pointed.
‘Yes,’ Arthur’s lofty gaze returned –irresistibly –to the hippie’s toes. The nails were so long that they were almost curly. And the width, the thickness, the dirt. Arthur didn’t consider himself to be –not at heart, anyway –a fastidious person, but even he…
‘Yes?’ The Hippie looked slightly confused, ‘You did see him?’
Arthur nodded, composedly.
Hah
‘And when would that’ve been?’
‘Well…’ Arthur considered this question, at his leisure, ‘let me see… he started camping here on Wednesday, and I’ve seen him around just about every day since then. But today? I guess approximately half an hour ago –or an hour. I can’t be totally sure.’
The hippie turned to consult the blind man, ‘How long ago do you reckon it must’ve been, Herb?’
‘Half an hour, max,’ the blind man assured him. Then he crossed his arms –not a little aggressively –and fixed Arthur firmly with his fluttering white stare, ‘You weren’t here yesterday,’ he stated baldly.
Are you calling me a damn liar?
‘I suppose you must be a couple of those…’ Arthur chose his words disdainfully, ‘those Following types.’
‘Yes we are, mate,’ the blind man answered.
Mate?
‘And as it happens,’ Arthur continued, ‘I was here yesterday. This is my boat. I’ve had permanent tenure of it since January 1970.’
So screw you.
The blind man snorted. He was having none of it.
‘Let me see…’ Arthur pondered, provocatively, ‘yesterday… uh… Wesley was setting some traps. I believe he ate gull for lunch –caught at the dump. We had a rather interesting discussion about bio-diversity… and later…’ Arthur paused, haughtily, ‘I think he said that later today he would be…’ The Hippie seemed mesmerised. The blind man was still glaring (but foiled, disgruntled), ‘breaking up camp and meeting with a librarian. Drinking lemonade. That was it. We made lemonade, earlier.’
‘Lemon slices from The Hotel,’ the Hippie spoke excitedly to the blind man, ‘I told Hooch he was mucking about finding lemons in the trash back there.’
Arthur’s expression was briefly a picture –
The trash?
The blind man suddenly raised his right hand. He was holding a white stick in it. The stick was splattered with mud. The hippie ducked slightly to avoid being swiped by it.
‘Somebody’s coming.’
The blind man seemed certain.
Arthur glanced up behind the two of them and along the embankment. In the middle distance (wading through the fog like it was a palpable entity) he saw another man approaching. Another stranger. Tall. Suited. Holding a briefcase.
The Hippie twisted around to try and look himself, but because of the acuteness of his angle at the base of the embankment, he was obliged to
wait a little longer to get a proper sighting. When the man finally came into focus, however, the Hippie appraised him but didn’t show –or not so far as Arthur could tell –any sign of recognition.
He turned back around to face the blind man. ‘Suit,’ he muttered disparagingly (Arthur saw the blind man baulk at this description. He was wearing a suit himself, and a heavy grey crombie).
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he added, ‘before Doc gets away from us completely.’
He took the blind man’s hand, turned him, then slowly began guiding him back up the bank again. They were whispering as they clambered. Sharing confidences. But Arthur wasn’t interested. He couldn’t hear them, anyway, and he wasn’t bothered. He was already distracted by the approach of the fourth stranger. The fourth arrival to this icy, darkening, godforsaken hole in under an hour.
‘Wesley chose him,’ the Hippie whispered, ‘for the negotiation. He lives here. A little frosty, admittedly. But definitely not a Follower. He doesn’t have the Following… the Following odour…’
‘You’ve got it all wrong, Shoes,’ Herbie shook his head, ‘he said he’d been here since 1970, yeah? Well that’s absolute rubbish for starters. And then there’s the computer…’
‘The computer?’
‘Didn’t you hear it bleeping?’
The Hippie gave this some thought, ‘I suppose I did. But what about it?’
‘There’s no bloody electricity.’ ‘Are you sure?’
‘Can you see any wires?’
‘Uh?’
‘Overhead. There aren’t any. I’d’ve heard them buzzing. I’m not hearing anything at the moment except the clink of the Power Station, and that’s still-a couple of miles away.’
The Hippie peered up into the sky.
‘If you want my opinion…’
‘I do,’ the Hippie interjected.
‘I think this guy’s a plant. He’s from the company, probably. Or a pressure group. Or the papers. Shall I tell you how I know, Shoes? Shall I tell you why?’
The hippie licked his lips, like an oversized cat, waiting fatly for a delicious portion of free cream. The blind man rarely disappointed him. The blind man was keen. The blind man was a blade –his sharpness was legendary.
Behindlings Page 19