Darkmans

by Nicola Barker

  ‘Here…’ his resolve quickly weakened, ‘let me see…’

  He took her hand and inspected it, drawing it close to his face in the half-light, trying his best to be business-like. But the hand was so small and so soft…

  ‘He’s drawn blut,’ Beede murmured thickly, his chest tightening as he inhaled the roses on her, then he frowned. ‘Blood,’ he repeated.

  She didn’t speak. He continued to inspect her hand, almost hypnotised by it now, following the line of the scratches with his finger like they were the path of a river on a map. She drew a step closer and pressed the back of the injured hand against his cheek. He held the hand there, staring at her, in silence, for what seemed like an age.

  ‘I’m seeing Dory at ten,’ he murmured, finally, as if uttering the name alone might save them.

  ‘I have a client to see then,’ she said.

  Neither of them moved.

  ‘What time is it now?’ he wondered.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  He heard her voice speaking and then echoing, like a trickle of water falling into a deep pool.

  ‘Do you hear that?’ he asked, tipping his head slightly towards the sound.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I hear it.’

  Then he let go of her hand – suddenly – almost like it was some kind of experiment to see if it would stay aloft. If it could stay. The hand remained suspended, quite effortlessly, against his skin.

  He reached out and took a hold of her two plaits, running his fingers down them as if they were bell-pulls, then his grip changed and tightened. ‘Braid,’ he murmured softly, thinking of a horse’s tail, sensing the gloss and slide of horse-flesh ‘…Bridle…’

  He rapidly twisted the plaits around his knuckles as if they were reins – and yanked them in towards him, cruelly, as if to pull her up short, to bring things to a halt, but this sharp movement had quite the opposite effect. It pulled her still closer. He felt the soft pressure of her body against him. He frowned, confused, his hands dropping to her shoulders. Her own hand flipped around now and her palm caressed his cheek, then slipped down lower, to his mouth where she followed the outline of his parted lips with her index finger. Her touch felt liquid. He felt subsumed in it. He could hardly breathe. He felt dizzy. He closed his eyes.

  BOO!

  A man leapt out at him; sharply etched, brightly lit, fully dimensional against the heavy black curtain of his eyelids; a lean man with a shaved head, a tattered, yellow coat, an inquisitive stare. Beede gazed back at him, quite amazed.

  Who are you? he heard a voice whisper. It was his voice. The man didn’t answer, but he smiled.

  ‘Oh God,’ Beede said. He knew that smile. He peered over his shoulder, panicked, hearing Elen suddenly calling –

  ‘Hello? Hello?! John? Is that you?’

  – her voice a strange, somewhat disquieting combination of apprehension and longing.

  ‘What happened?’ Laura demanded. ‘Was there an accident or something?’

  She seemed a little hysterical.

  ‘I’ve been waiting outside in the car…’ Kane brushed past her, dismissively, ‘just twiddling my thumbs until your other visitor left.’

  He strolled through a grand, split-level entrance-hall towards a full-size, oriental-style mirror, caught his reflection in it and drew to an abrupt halt. He stared at himself, confused.

  ‘Oh bugger…’ she was still peering outside, nervously. ‘Did you walk across the lawn, Kane? I see footprints on the lawn. Never step on a lawn when it’s frosty. Didn’t you know that? The grass blades snap and the lawn turns brown. Tom’s really fussy about his lawn. It was only put down last summer…’

  She turned, slamming the door shut. ‘Did you wipe your feet?’ They both stared down at his boots. He hadn’t wiped them.

  ‘I need to wash my face,’ he said, glancing back into the mirror again, bemused. His skin was blackened with charcoal and his cheeks were streaked with tears.

  ‘Was there a fire?’ she asked, trotting along subserviently behind him as he opened a selection of doors in search of a cloakroom. ‘Are your hands clean?’

  He looked down at his hands. His hands were spotless.

  ‘Tom’s incredibly houseproud…’ she wittered on. ‘It’s kind of a show-home, really. Tom – my brother-in-law – built it himself. He’s a contractor. He used to be involved in all these big, commercial projects – factories, stations, that kind of thing, but lately he’s expanded into housing. Cedar Wood was his first major development, and this is his first attempt at the luxury end of the market. He built all the properties on this road…’

  Kane finally hit pay-dirt. He walked into a magnificently fitted cloakroom, located the sink and tried to turn on the tap. He couldn’t get it to work.

  ‘The fittings are all Italian,’ Laura said, bustling over and operating it herself, ‘they take a little bit of getting used to.’ Kane leaned over and began rinsing his face. Once he was done, he blindly reached out for a towel.

  ‘Not the towel!’ Laura all-but squealed, ‘They’re 100 per cent Egyption cotton. Just use some of this…’

  She quickly unravelled a handful of toilet-roll. Kane took it from her and gingerly dabbed at his face with it. It flaked on to his stubble. He grimaced. Laura immediately moved in to help.

  ‘It’s good quality paper,’ she assured him, plucking away at his jaw.

  ‘Quilted. It really shouldn’t break up so easily…’

  ‘This house is crazy,’ Kane observed, peering around him, perplexed. ‘Kind of too-much, almost.’

  ‘Everything’s top of the range,’ Laura insisted. ‘I think it’s a dream home – just beautiful, just perfect – but poor Pat really hates it and she actually has to live here…’

  ‘Pat?’

  ‘My sister-in-law. She says she’s almost afraid to fart in case she dents or scratches something…’

  Kane inspected himself in the mirror above the sink. ‘That’s better,’ he said.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’ Laura asked, unable to resist the urge to straighten his collar.

  Kane frowned. ‘I’m actually in quite a rush today, Laura…’

  Her face crumpled. He sighed, ‘Okay. Sure. Why not? But just a very quick cup…’

  She beamed, delighted, and led him back out into the hallway.

  ‘So why are you hanging around here?’ he asked.

  ‘No reason,’ Laura shrugged, ‘I just popped over to feed the cat. Normally they have a professional in to do it – a security guard who also keeps an eye on the other empty properties – but he didn’t turn up last night. It’s Tom and Pat’s Wedding Anniversary – they’ve gone to Miami for a week. Tom actually has quite a few business interests there…’

  ‘How romantic,’ Kane interjected, dryly.

  ‘Yes…’ Laura paused for a moment next to a badly framed photograph on a small table in the hallway.

  ‘Look – that’s Pat, there…’ she pointed. ‘She’s my best friend as well as my sister-in-law. This was taken in Durham last year when their oldest boy – Max – graduated from university…’

  ‘Lovely.’

  Kane barely even glanced down.

  ‘I took it,’ Laura said proudly, ‘but then Pat framed it.’

  Kane homed in on the photograph again. It consisted of three people sitting companionably around a table in an upmarket restaurant: a middle-aged woman, a young man and an older man who was cheerfully toasting the photographer with a glass of champagne.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Kane asked, pointing to the older male. ‘He seems kind of familiar…’

  He picked up the picture and scrutinised it more closely (knocking a small, slightly incongruous china donkey in the process).

  ‘That’s Tom. Tom Higson – from Power and Higson Ltd, the contractors?’ Laura darted out a quick hand to rescue the donkey. ‘He’s quite a well-known businessman in the Ashford area.’

  Kane stared at the man for a little longer.

&nbs
p; ‘And he’s called Tom, you say?’

  ‘Yes. And that’s Pat. And that’s Maxwell…’

  She took the photograph back from him and carefully arranged it on the table again.

  ‘There…’

  ‘So he built this house himself?’

  Kane peered around him, ruminatively.

  ‘Yes…’ she paused. ‘I mean…’ she paused for a second time, somewhat apprehensively, ‘I mean I helped with some of the fittings – I chose the hardwood floors and the sink and the cabinets in the kitchen…Pat’s not really interested in that kind of thing. Tom’s spent a fair bit of time in Saudi. He got a few of his main design ideas from the hotels there…’

  ‘There’s certainly quite a palatial feel to the place,’ Kane remarked as they walked through to a huge, well-equipped kitchen where the first thing his eye alighted upon was an ugly, pine mug-tree placed – somewhat conspicuously – in the middle of one of the work-surfaces.

  ‘Well that’s a classy touch,’ he grinned, running his hand over the counter-top.

  ‘It’s made from a special kind of marble,’ Laura volunteered (getting her wires crossed), ‘Greek marble…although I can’t remember the actual name of it…’

  She went to grab the kettle. Kane removed two mugs from the tree. One was chipped, the other bore the legend: The World’s Best Fisherman.

  ‘The devil’s in the detail, eh?’ he joked, carrying them over to the table.

  Laura turned as he placed the two mugs down. ‘Let’s not use those,’ she protested, ‘there’s a whole new service…’

  She opened a cupboard to reveal a smart, white tea set. ‘Tom bought it for Pat’s birthday. It’s from Selfridges. I helped him to choose it.’

  ‘But I like these,’ Kane insisted.

  Laura snatched up the chipped mug and stared at it, frowning. ‘They’re Pat’s favourites. It’s not that she doesn’t have any taste, as such, it’s just that all the things they had before – in the semi – from when the boys were small, and from her parents’ old home, somehow look so out of place here. Tom was all for throwing everything away and starting afresh but Pat wouldn’t have it. She says she won’t live her life like it’s an article in some stuck-up design magazine…’

  Laura glanced over at Kane as she spoke, trying to gauge his reaction, plainly still not entirely resolved on this issue herself.

  ‘That’s fair enough, I guess,’ Kane shrugged.

  ‘Yes.’ Laura nodded violently as she plugged in the kettle, ‘Yes…I mean that’s such a typically male way of going about things, don’t you think?’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘To want to just throw everything out and start afresh…’

  Kane smirked. ‘God. You should meet my dad – he’s the total opposite. He never gets rid of anything. He’s stuck in a complete time-warp. He lives like a refugee from the late 1950s…’

  ‘I have met your dad,’ Laura observed, testily.

  ‘Oh…yeah,’ Kane winced, ‘of course…’

  ‘And he seems very nice,’ Laura emphasised, her cheeks flushing as she pulled a thick, slightly broken cork stopper from an ugly-looking red jar with TEA written on it and removed two bags from inside.

  ‘Like I said on the phone,’ Kane murmured, ‘I’m really sorry about Gaffar – he was totally out of line…’

  A cat came trotting into the kitchen as Kane spoke, its arrival heralded by the jangling of a small bell. Kane glanced over towards it, distractedly. ‘He should’ve been more discreet. I had a stern word with him about it…’

  The cat was a Siamese. A blue-point.

  ‘No. No. I’m the one who should apologise,’ Laura sighed. ‘I shouldn’t have got so upset earlier,’ she shrugged, ‘it’s just a tricky situation, that’s all.’

  ‘How so?’

  The cat commenced winding itself, somewhat feverishly, around Kane’s ankles.

  ‘Well Pat’s set up this little group, this little committee, to try and put pressure on the Council to get this road crossing built…’ While Laura spoke Kane subtly tried to push the cat away with his foot, but it was extremely persistent. He glanced down at it, irritably.

  ‘Wow…’ he suddenly exclaimed. ‘This cat’s just like Beede’s. In fact it’s almost identical…’

  Then he frowned.

  ‘It’s wearing a bell,’ he added, his voice falling strangely flat.

  ‘I know. I just caught Dora – the security guy – putting that on him,’ she grumbled. ‘I mean he feeds him and keeps an eye on the place when Tom’s away, but putting a bell on someone else’s cat is taking things a little far, don’t you think?’

  Kane stared down at the cat again, without comment.

  ‘I really should’ve said something at the time,’ Laura continued, ‘but I chickened out.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ Kane asked.

  ‘Dora. He’s German.’

  Kane stared at her, blankly.

  ‘Oh – you mean the cat. He’s called Manny.’

  ‘I see…’

  Kane nodded, feeling a slight twitching sensation in his foot, like a bad case of pins and needles, or a mild case of cramp.

  ‘It’s short for Chairman Mao…’ she frowned. ‘Which I’ve always thought was rather an ugly name for such a sweet, little thing…’

  Kane smiled, thinly. ‘I think it’s meant to be a joke,’ he explained. ‘It’s the name of a famous, Chinese dictator…’

  ‘Really?’ Laura looked amazed. ‘How strange. A dictator? But what’s so funny about that?’

  ‘Nothing, in principle. It’s just a play on words…’

  ‘But how’s that any different…’ Laura scowled, confused, ‘from calling the poor animal Adolf? Or…or Thatcher?’

  ‘It isn’t…’ Kane glanced back down at the cat again ‘…Although – now you come to mention it – Thatcher’s probably quite a good name for a cat.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  Laura seemed horrified by the notion.

  ‘So you were telling me about this road crossing thing, this committee…?’ Kane tried his best to return to their former subject, but Laura was having none of it.

  ‘I mean if he was so concerned about the poor creature he should’ve turned up last night and fed him, don’t you think?’

  ‘Uh…yes,’ Kane nodded. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And did you notice that awful bruise?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘That awful bruise he had? On his forehead?’

  ‘No,’ Kane lied, ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Well it was huge. All purple and pink and swollen…’ she grimaced, gazing down at the cat again. The cat shook himself, vigorously, and his bell jangled accordingly.

  ‘I’m going to take that stupid thing off,’ she huffed, bending down and snapping her fingers to attract his attention. ‘Manny? Come over here, my love…’

  No reaction

  ‘Manny, baby, come here, come to Aunty Laura…’

  The cat continued rubbing himself, lasciviously, up against Kane’s calf.

  Laura gently clapped her hands together.

  ‘Hey! Gorgeous! Remember me? Come on! Come over here!’

  The cat sat down and began licking his shoulder.

  ‘Do you like cats, Kane?’ Laura asked, finally straightening up.

  ‘No,’ Kane admitted, ‘not especially.’

  ‘It’s strange, but they really seem to sense it when a person doesn’t like them,’ Laura beamed. ‘It’s a kind of special power they have. Cats are always drawn to the one person in a room who isn’t actually keen on them…’

  ‘I’m not sure if it’s a special power as such,’ Kane demurred, ‘I think it’s just a body language thing. In cat psychology if you turn your head away then that’s a sign of respect. If you stare, a cat interprets that as a show of hostility. Dogs respond in basically the same way…’

  Laura gazed at him, wide-eyed.

  ‘So why d’you think he stuck the bell on him?’ K
ane wondered, keen to return to less contentious ground.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Laura shrugged, ‘I just walked into the room and there he was, fastening it on. He said something about it being “better for the bird”. He said it was a “warning” for the bird. But I don’t think it’s really his place to make a decision like that, do you?’

  ‘No,’ Kane agreed.

  ‘Which bird, anyway?’ she wondered. ‘Tom and Pat don’t even have a bird.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘We have a bird – a parrot – but Manny isn’t my cat, obviously. And our bird lives in a cage.’

  ‘Perhaps he just meant birds in general, wild birds…’

  ‘Wild birds?’ Laura looked frightened. ‘Which wild birds?’

  ‘I mean the wild birds outside, the garden birds…’

  ‘Oh…’ Laura considered this for a while and then shook her head. ‘But Manny’s a house cat. Always has been. Pat’s last home was near a main road so she never risked letting him out…’

  ‘Maybe his English isn’t quite up to scratch,’ Kane suggested.

  She shrugged. ‘Maybe…’ then turned towards the kettle as it came to the boil. ‘I’m actually quite fed up with him, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘The security guy?’

  She nodded, grabbing the kettle and pouring boiling water into an old, brown teapot. ‘Everybody just loves him around here – Charlie thinks he’s wonderful – and he and Tom go way back. They worked together on the Channel Tunnel…’

  Kane watched as Laura stirred the pot and then popped on the lid.

  ‘Sorry…’ he suddenly said, ‘they worked together…?’

  ‘On the tunnel. The Chunnel. That’s how they first met. But now he’s gone and stuck his oar in over all this road crossing stuff – insisting on bringing your dad on board because of the influence he apparently has with the Council…’ she paused, scowling. ‘And I’m sure if he hadn’t stuck his nose in then Pat might’ve just dropped the whole thing. I mean Tom knows we’re not terribly keen on the idea. He tried to have a word with her, but once Pat has a bee in her bonnet…’