Darkmans

by Nicola Barker

  ‘Why?’ Gaffar shrugged again. ‘For me is make good sense. You lock door if you fear for thief.’

  He pointed to himself.

  She stared at him, quizzically, plainly nonplussed by this sudden show of conscience. ‘Get over it, mate,’ she scoffed, ‘he’s the one who thieved from his own son’s stash an’ then let me take the fall for it, remember?’

  ‘No.’ Gaffar shook his head. ‘Is other reason. I know this Beede. This Beede is good.’

  ‘Looks is Deceivin’, she murmured.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘It’s a reggae song. Looks is deceivin’, man,’ she sang, ‘Don’t underrate no man…’

  Gaffar cringed at the sound of her voice.

  ‘Fuck off, you minge!’

  She slapped him again, this time with the envelope.

  ‘Enough!’ Gaffar pushed the packet away, irritably.

  Kelly was naturally compelled (by his show of irritation) to whack him for a third time. Gaffar clambered to his feet, bolshily.

  ‘Keep your wig on, Guv!’

  He continued to stand. He avoided her keen gaze. He scratched at his armpit.

  ‘Somethin’ fishy’s goin’ on here,’ she murmured, suspiciously. ‘You can’t even look me in the eye, this mornin’. What gives?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Was it Gerry? Is that it? Did you cop off with the little strumpet?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Gerry, you nonce!’

  He stared at her, blankly.

  ‘You did,’ she squealed, clapping her hands, maniacally, ‘I swear to

  God you did…’

  She was almost disappointed.

  ‘What? You think I fuck?’ Gaffar looked horrified. ‘With this Goff?’

  ‘Goth, you idiot…’

  She appraised him, steadily, her cheeks flushing. ‘Can’t you keep it in your pocket, or what?’

  He looked indignant.

  ‘She’s got the pox. Did you know that?’

  ‘Pox?’

  ‘The pox. Disease. Hep A. Like Pammie Anderson does.’

  ‘Pammie?’

  ‘Baywatch. Like Pammie.’

  Kelly described a huge pair of breasts in the air with her hands.

  ‘Did she tell you about this?’ Gaffar demanded, outraged.

  ‘Tell me what?’

  Gaffar continued to look affronted.

  ‘Tell me about the pox? Of course she did. She’s my cuz, you fool.

  She tells me everythin’.’

  Gaffar looked horrified.

  ‘She tell you about this breasts?’

  ‘Whose breasts? Pammie’s breasts? What about ‘em?’

  ‘But where’s the point,’ Gaffar demanded, hotly, ‘in sewing your mouth up, if you’re still going to blab all over town about it?’

  ‘You did the deed at Kane’s, then?’ she asked, crossing her skinny arms across her chest.

  ‘No.’

  Gaffar resolved to deny everything.

  ‘At her place? With her dad sniffin’ about?’

  She winced, fastidiously.

  ‘No.’

  ‘On my scooter?!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Man! That’s filthy! You better disinfect the damn seat, I swear to God…’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I want it bleached.’

  She scowled up at him. He scowled back at her.

  ‘Ah-ha!’ he suddenly exclaimed, throwing up his hands. ‘I bet she texted you! The little Jezebel! How else could you’ve found out so quickly?’

  ‘Did you get me my salad?’ Kelly demanded, changing the subject, plainly disgusted.

  Gaffar nodded. He pointed, sullenly, towards the bag.

  ‘Can I have a look at it or what?’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Whadd’ya mean, “here”? Of course “here”…Pass it over.’

  ‘No.’

  Gaffar shook his head.

  Kelly’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Whadd’ya mean “no”?’

  She lunged for the bag. Gaffar kicked it away from her.

  ‘You’re bruisin’ it. You’re ruinin’ it. Pass it here, you ignorant twat!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I HATE you,’ she bawled.

  ‘Same,’ Gaffar declared.

  Then he leaned in and he kissed her.

  It was after six when she rang, and dark outside. He was still at work, poring over his office computer where half an hour earlier (in the midst of sorting out a VAT wrangle) he’d casually Googled the word Sinjar and one thing had rapidly led to another.

  He picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello? Laundry,’ he’d murmured.

  ‘Danny. Thank God you’re there,’ she gasped.

  His heart flipped.

  ‘Elen?’

  He quickly leaned over and shoved his office door shut.

  ‘Elen?’ he repeated, his neck jarred by the long stretch.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, her breathing erratic. ‘It’s me. I’m here. Sorry…’

  He thought he could pick out the sound of Fleet – wailing dramatically – in the background.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m in Flackley Ash. At the hotel. They’ve let me use the office phone…’

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘It’s Dory,’ she murmured (covering her mouth with her hand as she spoke). ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Gone? Where?’

  ‘He just…’

  Pause

  In the background Beede could hear her conversing quietly with someone…

  ‘No. He’s fine. An orange juice would be lovely. And some crisps. Beef and Tomato? That would be…Say thank you to the kind man, Fleet…’

  ‘Elen?’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. I’m good. Fleet’s just a little bit…’

  Pause

  ‘That’s it, darling. You go and fetch…’

  Another pause

  ‘Michelle will be fine. She’s asleep in the car. All cosy in the car.

  You eat those crisps. Just don’t tip up the…’

  ‘Danny?’

  Beede blinked.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Sorry. Fleet’s a little tired. I’m afraid he’s making rather…’

  ‘Dory’s gone?’ Beede repeated.

  ‘It’s been a terrible day…I mean really almost…’

  She covered her mouth with her hand again (he presumed to stop the boy from over-hearing) ‘…unbelievably bad.’

  ‘And you’re in Flackley Ash? Just outside Beckley?’

  ‘He ran off. We’ve been searching for hours but it’s dark now. And he’s covered in mud. He’ll be freezing. It’s awful out there. Wet and icy. I found some of his clothes caught up in the brambles – a vest, a sock, one of his shoes…He had this…this blanket…’

  ‘Should I come?’

  ‘I can’t call the police.’

  ‘Absolutely not. I’ll come.’

  ‘You’ll need a torch. A strong torch. And wear something warm – a scarf, a hat. I’m not quite…’

  Beede inspected his watch. ‘Okay. I’ll need to dash home. I’ll fill a flask. Get some provisions. I’ll be forty minutes. Will you be all right until then? Can you stay in the hotel?’

  ‘I don’t know. Fleet’s a little fractious. I might wait in the car. I’ll be in the car park…’

  ‘Have a brandy. Have something to eat. There must be a take-away in the area. Have you eaten?’

  ‘Yes. I mean no. That’s a good idea.’

  ‘Just hold tight and I’ll be there.’

  ‘I will. Thank you. And I’m really sorry, Danny,’ her voice shook, ‘I didn’t know who else to…’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ he repeated, a warm glow rising in his stomach.

  ‘Everything will be fine. All right? Just stay strong. Just hold on.’

  Three seconds…four…five. That was all it took. He was struggling to manoeuv
re The Blonde in the busy courtyard – was slowly reversing –

  Mind that old plough…

  – then pulling forward again…

  Uh…

  Whoops!

  Small hole in the cobbles…

  It was dark. Everything was a little close, a little cramped…The Blonde’s headlights were on full, and as he laboured at the wheel (his eyes slightly unfocussed, his hands clenching then unclenching, turning, turning…) they glanced off the tiled facade of the tiny cottage, bouncing against one of the windows, and shining, momentarily, deep into the small room beyond –

  Kitchen?

  Or dining-room, was it?

  – (he saw a roaring fire in the hearth, a table, chairs, an Aga…).

  As his headlights penetrated the room (scything mercilessly through the nets) they briefly illuminated the strangest, the most baroque of tableaux…

  Like in a…

  Like in one of those…

  What’s he called again?

  La…Lu…?

  He blinked.

  Lochner?

  Three people. No –

  No…

  He felt a sudden, not entirely pleasant jolt of recognition…

  Four.

  Four people…

  Peta –

  Naturally –

  Nothing surprising there…

  – standing in an open doorway (having just entered the room, presumably) looking vaguely startled, vaguely…

  Uh…

  – alarmed. And then there was the serving woman –

  Ann?

  Anna?

  – the Northumbrian. She was just to her right, close to the table. She had her hands on her hips. She was shaking her head and speaking. He could see her lips moving.

  Then sitting down in front of her – directly in front of her – was Dory. Isidore.

  Kane recognised the huge German immediately, although…

  But why?

  How?

  – he was filthy and all-but naked (his modesty only preserved by a dirty-looking blanket). He was shivering (violently, uncontrollably). His arms and his shoulders – the skin there – seemed all –

  Ripped?

  Scratched?

  Mauled?!

  Kane shuddered.

  But the most perplexing part of the whole –

  Uh…

  – scenario was definitely the blindfold. He’d been blindfolded. His eyes and ears had been bound up with what looked like a…

  Dishcloth?

  Tea-towel?

  And the fourth?

  What?

  The fourth person?

  No.

  It’s…

  Perhaps it’s just the dark –

  Or a deep shadow…

  Or the flicker of the fire…

  Kane blinked. Almost as if…

  ?

  He blinked again.

  Yes.

  The shadow hung over Isidore. The shadow…it…the shadow wasn’t doing what Isidore did. The shadow –

  Dark

  – was doing its own thing. The shadow was pestering him, it was molesting him. The shadow was spiteful. It was tweaking at the blindfold. And every time it tweaked, Isidore would jump, gasp, slap his hands to his eyes, check that the fabric was still in place, that the folds were still holding…

  Ann finished speaking. Peta seemed to answer her. She was shaking her head. And then…and suddenly…the shadow was gone, or if not gone, exactly – then…then it’d diminished… the light had altered, maybe, or the slant he was at, the angle…

  The shadow was now…it was much smaller, daintier…it was…

  What, though?

  – A moth? A bat? A bird?

  But how…?

  – or was it just a spark from the fire? An errant piece of kindling? A tiny, gaseous flare from a damp piece of coal?

  Kane saw the bird, and yet he did not see it. The bird floated, like a speck, like a piece of smut (a tiny midge, perhaps), which’d been trapped (crucified) in the surface moisture of his eye –

  Ow!

  He tried to blink it out. But it wouldn’t go. It hurt. It niggled him. He stopped blinking. The bird (or the idea of the bird – or the speck, or the bat or the shadow) was angry about something – Kane could feel the creature’s rage, rasping in his throat, like a dry kind of burning –

  Like before…

  Remember?

  The rasp –

  The cut –

  Acrid.

  Like…urgh!

  Like melting plastic…

  And before Kane could stop it –

  Can I stop it?

  Do I even want to?

  – the bird was hurling itself at Dory’s blindfold and tearing at it, wildly.

  Kane gasped, feeling – in that second – as if he were the bird, as if he were the rage, the fire, the attack – and Isidore – in turn (he was sure of it) felt him –

  He feels me

  Isidore threw himself forward, with a yell, his arms flying up, his legs kicking out, somehow managing –

  You fool!

  – to smash his head, blindly, unwittingly, into the corner of the table.

  Crack!

  Isidore froze. He swooned. He fell.

  Peta threw out her hands. Ann ran towards him.

  Kane’s own arms kept on moving –

  Must leave

  Must keep steering

  – and the car kept on turning. Until…

  Chicken shed –

  Old garage door –

  Rusting pile of antique bicycles –

  Dirt track –

  Nothing.

  ‘Albi,’ he found himself muttering, nonsensically, as he drove back on to Barnfield, Ox Lane, Silver Hill…Then, ‘No.’ He shook his head, violently. He was still shaking.

  Al-i-bi.

  The Latin

  Remember?

  I. Am. Not. Here…

  His unconscious mind began tapping out a series of incomprehensible morse-code messages to him.

  Eh?

  He struggled to decipher them –

  I. Am. Elsewhere…

  It said.

  ‘How strange,’ he murmured, just resolving to go with it, to flow with it (like Winnie had always taught him) –

  Relax, now

  Don’t panic…

  How strange, though…

  Almost as if his thoughts were a war drum (or a tom-tom or a bongo) being deftly played by a mysterious hand on the other side of a very distant, very stark and yet beautiful snow-capped mountain.

  ‘So Beede’ – she read, scowling, ‘There’s a whole series of these things (one for each of the various monarchs’ funny-men, although I didn’t get a chance to look at any of the others). Apparently there was quite a vogue for them in the 1600s (and for several hundred years after that – I saw at least two editions of this one – the earlier called Scoggin’s Jests by an Andrew Boord – 1626 – and this one, in which the spelling’s more familiar from 1796 – that’s a 170-year gap!), indicating how popular these guys actually were (plus: note the celebrity publisher…)’

  Kelly returned to the front page again:

  ‘Printed for W. Thackeray at the Angel in Duck Lane, near Weft-Smithfield, and J. Deason at the Angel in Gilt-Spur-Street.’

  She grimaced.

  Eh?

  ‘The information enclosed isn’t considered especially reliable, though…’ she quickly read on. ‘This book was written years after John Scogin’s death. Much of it will be based on either legend or hearsay (would’ve been considered “tabloid”, even at the time of its publication).

  ‘The actual story of his life (and a critique of Andrew Broad, this book’s compiler…’

  Kelly’s eye flipped back…

  ‘The actual story of his life (and a critique of Andrew Board, this book’s compiler…’

  Her eye flipped back…

  ‘…and a critique of Andrew Board, this book’s compiler…’ She qu
ickly turned to the front page of the document:

  ‘Gathered by Andrew Board, Doctor of Phyfick.’

  Phyfick?

  She re-read it: ‘Gathered by Andrew Board…’ then slowly shook her head and returned to the letter. ‘The actual story of his life (and a critique of Andrew Broad, this book’s compiler…’ she grimaced ‘…who seems like a rather dodgy character…’