‘I just turned it around, you imbecile,’ Gaffar explained, smiling, ‘and hid the burn under the sofa.’
Kane glanced up. ‘So you’re from Turkey? You really know about this stuff, huh?’
Gaffar nodded. ‘Turk.’
Then he paused. ‘Kurd,’ he modified.
‘Did you train in this kind of shit?’
‘Are you kidding me?’ Gaffar snorted, haughtily. ‘Do I look like one of those rough-thumbed, short-sighted, carpet-weaving cunts?’
Kane peered down again, feeling the spot with his hands. He was in love with the job Gaffar had done.
‘You’re a genius, man,’ he murmured, gazing up through his lank fringe again. ‘What’s your name? Gaffar? I owe you big-time, Gaffar. You are an unbelievable fucking God-send. You’ve saved my fucking life here.’
Gaffar tipped his head, bashfully (although he found himself a perfectly fitting receptacle for Kane’s panegyric). ‘Uh…an’ look…’ he clumsily stuttered, in his make-shift English, pushing his hand into his suit pocket and deftly withdrawing a small, neat disc of semi-transparent plastic ‘…Under sofa, lid, eh?’
Mrs Dina Broad had a wonderful facility for getting total strangers to do exactly as she wanted. It was something to do with her size, the tone of her voice (at once wheedling yet strident), her filthy tongue, and the considerable force of what a quality horse-breeder might call ‘her character’.
Dina’s manipulative genius was a happy coincidence, because she simply adored to be waited upon (to be bolstered and escorted, indulged and cosseted). In fact she absolutely demanded it. The cornerstone of her ideology was: if you don’t fuckin’ ask, you don’t fuckin’ get – a maxim which she used so often when her kids were young that – during a fit of high-spiritedness while working Saturdays in a print shop – her eldest son had designed her a t-shirt with this, her favourite slogan, emblazoned across the chest.
If Dina’s life was a carousel (which it was anything but), then there was only enough room on the rotating podium (midst the high-painted roses, the mirror-tiles, the lovely organ) for a single pony; and Dina’s was it (there was her name, in exquisite calligraphy, on a beautifully embossed tag around the neck…And just look at the mane: real silk. And see how straight the brow! How flared the nostril! How long the tail!).
Dina flew up and down (as her moods – and her blood-sugar levels – dictated), and the carousel just kept on spinning, with the music (Ah, the lilting music) never seeming to stop. It was Dina’s show, entirely – paying customers could cheerfully go hang (Dina would supply the rope; would even – although it was a great deal of effort, and she hated effort – tie the noose herself. She was good like that).
The Dina Broad Show (like Celine Dion in Las Vegas) was a show that never ended (it just went on and on and on); but this low-budget extravaganza (in perfect Technicolor) by no means ran itself.
Nuh-uh.
There was the buffing and the oiling (to be regularly undertaken); the electrics (the wiring, the lighting, the amplification), not to mention the construction, the deconstruction, the reconstruction (this was a mobile – well, semi-mobile – proposition, after all), the ground-rent, the barkers, the cashiers, the crowd control…A whole battery – in other words – of tedious, time-consuming rigmarole.
Taken in total, The Dina Broad Experience had a technical staff numbering well over a dozen (the doctor, the social worker, the neighbour, the policeman), and Kelly Broad (poor, skinny, weak-boned Kelly) enjoyed the unique distinction of being at the very heart (or – depending on your take on things – deep in the colon) of this hardworking, poorly rewarded, long-suffering division.
Dina would not perform without her: Fin.
By a series of complex, Machiavellian ruses (there were two people in Casualty – aside from her own daughter – who were currently sharing a single crutch between them) Dina had somehow managed to commandeer a ‘spare’ wheelchair in the foyer, and a rather bemused-looking member of the general public (a willowy and slightly effete man in his sixties called Larry who was meant to be visiting his ninety-year-old aunt in an adjacent ward) was making a brave attempt at pushing her around in it.
‘Aw shit, man!’ Kelly gasped, grabbing a tight hold of Beede’s arm. ‘What the fuck’s she doin’ here?’
‘She’s your mother,’ Beede explained patiently. ‘She’s visiting. It’s part of her function.’
Kelly gave him a quizzical look. ‘But she’s never troubled herself visitin’ me in hospital before…’
He stared down at her for a moment, almost with tenderness. It was difficult to decipher from the inflexible set of her gaunt features, but wasn’t there a sudden, tiny gleam of childish delight (mixed in with an overwhelming air of bemusement) at the prospect of this most basic of demonstrations of maternal care?
His heart promptly went out to her.
‘I should probably get on,’ he muttered (not wishing to involve his emotional self any further).
‘Don’t go!’
She tightened her grip on his arm.
‘I’m working, Kelly,’ Beede explained, trying to disengage her claw-like fingers.
‘But you don’t know what she’s like…’ Kelly started off (almost pleading with him now), ‘or how ticked-off she’s gonna be with me…’
‘It’s not real anger,’ Beede counselled, sagely, ‘it’s just worry…’
Kelly rapidly changed tack. ‘Either you stay,’ she threatened, ‘or I’ll tell Kane all about the drugs,’ she reached for her broken phone with her free hand, ‘I’ll ring him. I’ll text him. I swear…’
This was a foolish manoeuvre.
‘Do exactly as you wish.’ Beede coldly shook his arm free.
‘If you go…’ her eyes scanned the surrounding area, frantically, ‘then I’ll…I’ll leg it.’ She threw back her blanket and revealed her injury. He winced at the sight of it. She sat up and shifted her weight, as though fully preparing to hop off.
‘Okay, okay,’ he snapped, flipping the blanket back over again, ‘I suppose I do need to have a quick chat with her about the dogs…’
Kelly’s eyes flew wide. ‘Are you crazy?’
‘Pardon?’
‘She’ll flip. She’ll go spare.’
‘What?’
‘Just…’ Kelly put her hand over her mouth and spoke through a pretend-cough ‘…trust me.’
Dina (now perilously close), had already espied her daughter and was waving her walking stick at her (like a Dr Who Dalek, intending to exterminate).
‘D’YOU HAVE ANY FUCKIN’ IDEA,’ she bellowed, from a distance of 12 or more feet, ‘WHAT IT’S TAKEN TO GET ME HERE?!’ (Her prodigious rage came as a complete surprise to Larry, who’d been chatting with her, perfectly amiably, only moments before.) Several people turned and stared. The less-busy porter glanced up, grimaced, and then quietly sidled off.
‘You shouldn’t’ve bothered, Mum,’ Kelly murmured, all the stiffness disappearing from her backbone (rendering it floppy as a stick of soft liquorice). ‘All’s I did was break my stupid leg…’ (she cuffed the leg, weakly, as if it was the limb’s fault entirely), ‘and I smashed my stupid phone, so I couldn’t even…’
‘SCREW YOUR STUPID LEG!’ Dina yelled (indignant tears already brimming in her curiously mesmerising pipe-tobacco eyes). ‘I’VE BROKE MY FUCKIN’ ARSE GETTIN’ HERE TODAY, KELL. SO WHAT EXACTLY D’YOU PLAN TO DO ABOUT THAT, EH?!’
The whole party was quiet for a moment, as if jointly considering the most feasible solution to this perplexing dilemma (I mean what could Kelly do?). No suggestions were forthcoming, although Beede (for one) appeared to be deriving a measure of laconic amusement from Dina’s proximity. The woman was a legend, after all; she was Jabba the Hut with a womb, chronic asthma and a council flat. She was an old-fashioned bully – that much was clear – but her fury was swaddled by her considerable upholstery; her rage hijacked by blubber and then rapidly redirected into teary vulnerability.
Dina’s la
ser-guided eyes (she could detect independent thinking at 200 paces) quickly alighted upon Beede’s smirking visage. ‘Pay a good price for that front-row ticket, Mister?’ she enquired icily.
‘Not nearly enough, I fear,’ Beede answered smoothly.
Kelly stiffened. Dina sniffed the air, like a stag (he could almost hear her antlers rattling) and then turned to her daughter. ‘That old stiff botherin’ ya, darl?’ she asked, thumbing towards him, rudely.
‘This is Beede, Mum,’ Kelly explained, endeavouring to facilitate a polite introduction. ‘Kane’s dad. I’ve told you all about him, remember?’
‘Nope.’
Dina Broad shook her head, refusing, point-blank, to acknowledge this possibility.
‘Yes I have. He works here…’
Beede stepped forward and offered Dina his outstretched palm. ‘I’m Beede, Daniel Beede. Very pleased to meet you.’
Dina ignored his hand.
‘He on Day Release from the fuckin’ morgue or what?’ she asked, with a sideways smirk.
‘He don’t work in the morgue, Mum,’ Kelly spluttered.
‘You sure?’
Dina gave Beede the once over. ‘Been takin’ the odd nip of embalmin’ fluid, have we?’ she enquired.
Beede smiled, weakly.
She leaned forward and peered down at his feet.
‘What’s up, Mum?’
Kelly leaned forward too, concerned.
‘Eh?’ Dina gazed up at her daughter, her eyes watering slightly with repressed hilarity. ‘I’m just tryin’a read what that tag says on his toe, kid…’
‘But he don’t work in the morgue, Mum,’ Kelly repeated, shrugging hopelessly, ‘he works in the laundry…’
‘Your mother seems a little confused,’ Beede murmured (plainly eager to paddle awhile himself in Dina’s metaphorical slip-stream). ‘Is she operating two rinses short of her spin cycle, perhaps?’
Kelly’s eyes bulged.
Dina’s mirth evaporated.
‘Oh yes? Oh really?’ she exclaimed, straightening her back, her voice taking on a sharp, fluting quality. ‘So you think it’s a real laugh, do ya? A real, fuckin’ hoot, eh? To rip the piss out of a poor woman who’s stuck in a wheelchair?’
Beede mulled this over for a second, frowning. ‘I’m not quite sure. Do you mean literally stuck?’
‘It was the biggest one we could find,’ Larry interjected (keen not to be found wanting in his capacity as Dina’s temporary carer).
Everybody turned to stare at him, Dina with a look of especial ferocity.
He removed his hands from the chair and patted his damp palms on to the front of his jumper, ‘I was only…’ he muttered.
Dina spun back around to face Kelly again. ‘Who is this man?’ she enquired imperiously.
‘I dunno. Who are you?’ Kelly asked.
‘Larry.’ Larry said, ‘I’ve come to visit my aunt.’
‘Then FUCK RIGHT OFF AN’ VISIT HER!’ Dina yelled.
Larry took a quick step back, then paused. ‘But I promised Matron that I’d return the…’ he pointed, limply, to Dina’s chair ‘…just as soon as we…’
Dina flew around and tried to swipe him with her stick.
Larry took yet another step back. ‘There’s no need for that…’ he tried to caution her. She swiped again, this time making contact with his right knee.
‘Ow.’
‘Now GET LOST, DICK!’
The chair tipped, quite alarmingly, to one side.
‘I think you might’ve developed a puncture,’ Larry said (not intending to provoke, but succeeding, nonetheless).
Dina lobbed her stick at him. She missed her target. Larry scarpered.
‘Okay,’ Dina turned back around, snapped her fingers at Beede, and pointed. ‘Go fetch.’
‘Pardon?’
Beede’s thermostat instantly clicked on to freeze (Kelly could almost hear his engine buzzing).
Dina immediately felt his chill (it was three-star), and pulled her coat tighter.
‘Well what else does the old fart get paid for?’ she grumbled, glancing over her shoulder (the stick had just been kicked out of the way by a very flustered expectant father). ‘Oi! D’you MIND?!’
‘Beede’s in charge of the laundry, Mum,’ Kelly gently explained. ‘He ain’t a porter.’
‘Okay,’ Dina smiled, grimly. ‘Well if he won’t fetch my stick for me, who will?’
She gazed up at Kelly, moist-eyed (like an over-bred Pekinese begging pork rind at dinner). Kelly (who’d been virtually weaned on this particular look) started to get up.
‘Just stay where you are,’ Beede barked, immediately setting off to retrieve the stick himself. Dina whistled, appreciatively, as he bent over, then cackled, explosively, as he straightened up.
‘I can’t believe I smashed my damn phone…’ Kelly tried valiantly to defuse the situation with a little light conversation, ‘if I’ve lost all my numbers I’ll go feral, I swear…’
‘Huh?’ Dina squinted up at her, boredly.
‘They reckon it’s a clean break…’ Kelly yammered on, breathlessly.
‘What is?’ Dina interrupted.
‘My leg.’
‘Oh.’ Dina sighed, expansively.
‘And the doc who took the x-ray said I’d be done in a few hours. So if the shop’s still open…’
‘Which shop?’
‘The phone shop.’
‘Good idea,’ Dina conceded. ‘An’ those brown shoes’ll be ready at the cobbler’s. You can grab ‘em while you’re at it. I got the slip here…’ She took her purse from the handbag on her lap and removed the slip from inside it.
Beede was now standing beside her, proffering her the stick.
‘Keep ya wig on!’ she cautioned him, handing the slip over to her daughter.
‘I could grab us some take-away,’ Kelly continued helpfully, ‘for supper. What d’ya fancy, Mum? Thai? Pizza?’
Beede proffered Dina her stick again. She took it this time, with a sultry look.
‘So you work here, then?’ she asked (pointedly ignoring Kelly).
‘I do.’
‘Good. So you can push me over to Outpatients, pronto.’
Beede frowned, confused. ‘But Kelly isn’t even in surgery, yet…’
‘I have an appointment, stupid,’ Dina informed him imperiously, casually inspecting her watch. ‘Blood test. Two-thirty…’
Beede glanced over at Kelly, his lips tightening (her face fell for moment, but then she rapidly rallied. The speed of the rallying – he felt – was almost the saddest part).
‘But of course you do,’ she murmured, scratching her head, ‘Tuesday. Two-thirty. I’d totally forgot…’
‘One of these fine days,’ Mrs Broad informed her, majestically, ‘you might actually appreciate that not every little thing on this fuckin’ planet revolves around you, Kell.’
She prodded Beede with her stick. ‘Oi! You! Uncle Fester! Let’s split!’
Without further ado, Beede promptly stationed himself behind the chair and began to push. Five paces down the corridor – and still within ear-shot – he leaned gently forward and murmured, ‘I must have a quick word with you about your dogs…!
Kelly gasped, ducked her head, stopped breathing, her thin body stiffening (as if preparing for some kind of monumental impact), but Beede kept right on pushing, and before she knew it, they were inside the service lift and the doors were firmly shut. How long had it taken? Twenty seconds? Less?
She took one deep breath, then another. Her hands gradually unclenched. She blinked. She glanced up and peered warily around her. Close by, a woman with second-degree burns on her knuckles was sitting – her head tilted slightly – and gawping.
‘Show’s over, love,’ Kelly hissed.
Then she placed the slip for the cobbler’s into the lining of her bra, plumped up her hair, threw back her skinny shoulders and pouted.
SEVEN
The Dog Warden (whom Beede had phoned from
work with Dina’s express permission – ‘Just stare into my eyes – deep into my eyes. Good. Now does it look like I give a shit?’) was actually so familiar with the Broads and their lurchers that he didn’t even require an excuse, an explanation or a return address, he simply turned up – within the hour – clutching an unwieldy pole with a wire loop on the end of it to facilitate their subjugation.
Kane had seen this Draconian implement before – on one of the countless tv vet programmes – and was extremely keen to witness it in action. But as soon as the front door was opened, the dogs had leapt up and bolted (making a bee-line first for the warden, then his van), both their tails wagging, ten to the dozen.
‘If this were Turkey,’ Gaffar muttered, resentfully (as he and Kane stood listlessly on the front step together), ‘I’d’ve blasted off the big one’s bollocks for what he did to me earlier.’
He took imaginary aim at the now fast-retreating van: ‘BANG!’ (his competence with a firearm apparently uncompromised by his recent mauling), and then congratulated himself (in Kurdish) for the accuracy of his shot.
They trooped back inside again. ‘D’ya hear what that uptight, little turd said to me out there?’ Kane asked, indignantly, as he gave Beede’s sitting-room a final once over.
‘Huh?’
‘The warden. He wanted to know if I’d given the dogs water – water, yeah? To drink? – and when I said that I hadn’t – that I forgot – he completely went off on one. Said in high summer that’d constitute “a deliberate act of cruelty”. Can you believe that crap?’
‘Fascist!’ Gaffar exclaimed.
Kane grabbed his jacket from the sofa and pulled it on. He idly adjusted the collar. ‘Well they certainly won’t be giving him his own cuddly, animal-welfare-based tv show…’
‘Rolf Harris? Fuck off!’ Gaffar snorted.
‘Bingo!’ Kane snapped his fingers. ‘You like Rolf, huh?’
‘I love,’ Gaffar confirmed, emphatically.
‘You love Rolf?’ Kane smirked, suggestively.
‘Oh yes,’ Gaffar deadpanned, performing a painstaking mime in which he repeatedly violated Rolf Harris from the rear, ‘I love Rolf.’
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