Jo shrugged, burning inside, burning outside, utterly mortified, yet still silently mesmerised by the layers of dust which –close up –coated Dewi’s features and hung above either eyebrow like precarious hunks of soft, pale honeycomb.
‘Why should the kid belong to anybody?’ Hooch butted in –observing Doc’s temporary state of disquiet and feeling bad for him. ‘Why can’t he simply be here under his own steam?’
Dewi loosened his grip on the child –he couldn’t be much past eleven, at best, Jo calculated –and slowly drew closer to Hooch. Soon he stood only inches from him. He was a good foot taller, even hatless (if they’d suddenly begun slow-dancing, Jo couldn’t help imagining, then Hooch’s flat pate would’ve fitted with a reassuring snugness under Dewi’s jutting chin).
As it was, Hooch’s mean streak of a nose pointed with an almost stoat-like determination towards Dewi’s left nipple. Eye contact was not maintained –it was not desirable –it was barely even feasible.
Patty, for his part, instantly busied himself in trying to eradicate a large smear of dust from the arm of his cheap, shiny green bomber jacket. He slapped away at it, vigorously.
Doc, in turn (and somewhat to his discredit, under the circumstances), stared fixedly off to his left, towards the distant smudge of sea at the road’s end, as if he’d just received urgent word of an Armada.
Dennis –who’d stood up, initially, to sniff at Dewi’s trouser leg –sat down again, glanced up at Doc, tightened his eyes, drew his lips back into an apprentice snarl, shook his head and then sneezed.
‘It’s very plain, my friend,’ Dewi murmured softly into the crown of Hooch’s slightly dented beanie, the curling vine of a Welsh accent suddenly twisting into audibility and looping with an almost unspeakable sincerity around each and every syllable, ‘that there are some things, some important things, which you don’t yet seem to know about Katherine Turpin.’
He inhaled deeply. ‘The first of these,’ he continued calmly, his voice deep and smooth as a stagnant loch, ‘is that I am her friend. I am her guardian. I am her self-appointed foot-soldier. It is a service that I perform for her out of loyalty and love and veneration. And while you’re at liberty to interpret my guardianship in any way you please,’ he smiled (it wasn’t friendly), ‘you might benefit from knowing that my name is Dewi and that I live in this bungalow…’ he pointed (somewhat gratuitously), ‘directly opposite her bungalow, and that if she ever troubled to ask me I would happily break my own two arms for her…’ a significant pause followed, ‘or anybody else’s,’ a further pause, ‘for that matter.’
Dewi took a small step backwards, down into the gutter, and nodded his head curtly, as if in parting. He half-turned. But then he thought better of it, stuck out his square chin and moved back up close again.
‘I trust,’ he intoned gently, his eyes still not meeting Hooch’s but focussing approximately a foot above his head, ‘I hope that you will refrain from pestering my Katherine. Or maligning her. Or troubling her. Because there has been far too much of that already. And I am very, very tired of it…
‘But if you do,’ he continued, his voice barely audible now (just a cool gust, an icy imprint), ‘then trust me when I say that I will hunt you down, that I will find you, that I will take you, that I will hold you, that I will squeeze you, that I will smash you. Because it would be no bother to me. It would be no trouble. It would be… it would be like plucking a stray feather from a duck-down pillow… see?’
Dewi held his dusty hands aloft. Huge hands. His index finger and thumb pinched lightly together. He blew an invisible feather into the air. Sawdust lifted from his lips and the tip of his nose. It was a beautiful gesture. Excessive. Baroque. Infinitely tender.
Hooch’s wise eyes followed those capable fingers, keenly, moistly, from behind their thick but clear bifocal lenses. He swallowed hard. He said nothing.
Only Josephine –who was slightly more observant than the others –saw that Dewi’s huge hands were shaking. Not with fear. Nor passion. Anger? No. And not rage, either… It was something else. Something softer. Restraint, maybe? No. Not restraint. Not exactly… Her eyes widened, suddenly. Could it be? Could it be sympathy?
Sympathy?
‘Oi. What’s that, then?’
Josephine started, surprised by the sudden, unexpected proximity of the small boy, Patty, who had silently materialised at her shoulder. And while she could barely stand to drag her eyes away from Dewi –his sandy brows, his smooth voice, his magnificent fingers –Patty seemed hardly to have noticed the intense altercation between the two other men.
‘What’s that?’ he repeated. ‘Is it food?’
Jo looked down. In her right hand she still held the grease-stained paper bag from the bakery. ‘It’s a doughnut,’ she stammered. ‘Hand it over,’ the boy ordered.
She passed it to him, silently. Patty snatched the bag and rammed his fist inside of it. He was hungry.
Dewi, meanwhile, in that slightest –that shortest –that briefest of interludes, had swiftly taken his leave of them. Jo turned and stared after him, her whole heart scythed. Beautiful, beautiful Dewi, she murmured, her chin lifting, her pupils dilating; beautiful, beautiful Dewi, standing right there, just in front of me, and as the cruel winter sky above is my witness, he didn’t even know.
‘If you love to sew so much, why are you working as an estate agent?’
‘What?’ Ted did a double-take.
They were crossing the road together, strolling directly towards the four people on the opposite pavement.
A fifth was just joining them. Another man, grossly overweight and wearing thin, green, tie-dyed trousers with a black and red striped mohair Dennis the Menace jumper. His name was Shoes. Wesley knew him well, but as he approached, his face showed no inkling of recognition. Not for Shoes. Not for Doc. Not for any of them.
His eyes hiccoughed slightly, however, at the sight of Hooch’s hat; the incongruously cuddly logo, then they focussed straight in on the girl. He stepped up onto the kerb.
‘Who said anything about sewing?’ Ted asked quietly. Wesley didn’t answer. He was standing directly in front of Josephine.
‘Someone must be paying you,’ he murmured silkily, inspecting her face which was plain –like he’d imagined –but with something about the mouth, the chin, that seemed oddly exceptional. A firmness. A roundness. She was a Jersey Royal, he decided. Not your average potato. She was small and smooth and seasonal. Her hazel eyes were liquid, like a glass of good cask whisky mixed with water.
‘Pardon?’ She looked quite astonished to see him. So close.
‘Someone must be paying you. You don’t look like the others. You aren’t like them.’
‘I’m Jo from Southend,’ Jo found herself saying.
‘I don’t care where you live,’ Wesley said, ‘you’re wasting your time here. You won’t find what you’re looking for. Go back to Southend…’ his voice dropped, unexpectedly, ‘while you still can. D’you hear?’
He turned –not even waiting for an answer –then he paused, ‘You have jam,’ he said, ‘on your sweatshirt.’
Jo looked down. ‘I was eating a doughnut,’ she muttered, trying to lift off the worst of it with her thumb.
Wesley was already walking.
‘How did you know?’ Ted asked, quickly catching up, ‘about the sewing?’
‘Ah,’ Wesley touched the tip of his nose mysteriously with his glossy stump. ‘You smelled it?’
‘When I picked up your jacket,’ Wesley demurred, ‘I noticed the handmade label. Beautifully finished. Just like the original. And you were comforting yourself,’ he continued, ‘earlier, when we were walking, by rattling that bunch of keys. It reminded me of the sound of a machine…’ he paused, ‘and I couldn’t help noticing how you felt the curtain fabric in Katherine’s house. Almost without thinking. And the material on the cushion covers. Plus you have two strange calluses on your index fingers. It all seemed pretty… well, pretty conclusive, really.’
‘Nobody knows that I sew,’ Ted whispered, at once amazed and conspiratorial, ‘except my Great Aunt who taught me. You’re the first. You must promise not to tell.’
‘Tell?’ Wesley chuckled. ‘Who would I tell? More to the point, why would I tell them?’
Ted held on tight to his briefcase, saying nothing, but with his knuckles showing white, his lips silently enunciating, his nose gently shining. He was panicked, for some reason.
Wesley glanced sideways at him and felt a sudden, fierce glow of satisfaction –as if a blow torch had just been lit inside of him. This is how I become powerful, he thought, turning, casually, and glancing back at the girl again.
She had her jammy thumb in her mouth and she was sucking on it. But she wasn’t –as he’d anticipated –staring after him. Instead she was looking behind her, towards a small, scruffy, ivy-covered bungalow with an inappropriately large wooden verandah to the front of it.
On the verandah stood a huge, square man, staring straight back at him –eyes like arrows, poison tipped –with the kind of crazy intensity which implied not only dislike –or pique –or bile –or irritation, even, but hatred.
Hate. Pure. Clear. 100% proof. Strong as poteen.
Perhaps it was a mistake to return here, Wesley mused idly. He glanced over at Ted whose lips were still working feverishly.
He smiled. What shall I give this man, he pondered, his mood instantly lightening; and what, I wonder, shall I extract from him?
He chuckled to himself, cruelly, then pulled his two hands from his trouser pockets, wiggled his four remaining fingers –it was cold, it was too damn cold –puckered his lips, swung out his arms and walked boldly onwards, expertly whistling the chorus to When the Saints Go Marching In, while gradually –almost imperceptibly –speeding up his pace, so that he might stride along jauntily, in time.
Six
She was cycling on the pavement. At worst, Arthur mused tightly, an illegal act, at best, wholly irresponsible. And that, in fact, was the only reason he’d troubled to notice her. He was not, by nature, an observant man when it came to women. In all other respects his observational faculties were keen, although in general, if he looked for things, then it was mainly for the stuff that interested him: roadsigns, landmarks, industrial centres, museums, farm machinery, traditional breeds. He had an inexplicable soft spot for Shetland Ponies.
She jinked past him. He’d been walking –strongly, cleanly –since sunrise. Her sweet perfume assaulted his olfactory organs as she clattered by. It tickled his nostrils, but crudely. She smelled of cigarettes and dog violets.
Twenty minutes later he caught up with her again. It was a long road, the A127, north of Basildon. She was on her knees, cursing. The traffic whizzed past them. Its speed and its volume were mentally trying. But he was a veteran.
‘Something wrong?’ he asked, his voice (he couldn’t help it) fringed with a facetious edge.
‘Nothing earth-shattering,’ she grunted, as if instantly gauging the true nature of his gallantry. ‘Flat tyre.’
Her voice was so low that he almost started. Husky didn’t do it justice. His mind struggled to think of another canine breed –even more tough, even more northerly –to try and express it with greater accuracy. He could think of none.
‘You have a pump?’
She looked up, took her littlest finger, stuck it into her ear and shook it around vigorously.
He watched her, frowning, unsure whether this was an insulting gesture of some kind which he –because of his age, perhaps, or his sheltered upbringing –had hitherto yet to encounter. She stared back at him, quizzically. He was all sinew. Grizzled. He reminded her of a dog chew. Tough and yellow and lean and twisted.
‘Sorry,’ she said, removing her finger, ‘I’ve got water in my ear.’
‘So you do have a pump,’ he pointed at the pavement to the right of her. She raised her eyebrows, picked up the pump and gave it a thrust. The air blew out of it like the tail-end of a weak sneeze.
‘Yes I do have a pump, but I also have…’ she paused and then spoke with exaggerated emphasis, ‘a fast puncture.’
He pushed his baseball cap back on his head.
‘Cute,’ she said, pointing at the little, squidgy koala-like creature smiling out from the front of it.
He stared at her, blankly. Then something registered.
‘I lost my…’ he scowled, defensively. ‘It’s new.’
She half-shrugged.
As her shoulder shifted he noticed –and it was difficult not to –that instead of a dress she seemed to be wearing some kind of long, antique undergarment. Not see-through. But fragile. An apricot colour. Over that, two pastel-coloured silky pearl buttoned cardigans, half-fastened, and over these, a thin brown coat featuring a tiny but anatomically complete fox-fur collar.
As he watched, she shoved her hand into the pocket of her flimsy coat and withdrew some Marlboros. She offered him the packet.
‘Smoke?’
Arthur shook his head. She shrugged, knocked one out and stuck it between her lips, feeling around deep inside her other pocket for a light. She withdrew a large box of kitchen matches, opened the box and carefully removed one. It was at least three inches in length. She struck it and applied its bold flame to her cigarette, inhaling gratefully, then blew it out while still keeping the cigarette in place. A complex manoeuvre.
Arthur continued to gaze at her. For some reason he found the blowing pleasurable. He watched closely as she replaced the remainder of the match back inside the box again.
She was possibly the palest woman he had ever seen. Her hair was bright white. Shoulder-length. Thin. Straight. Most of it shoved under a small, round hat fashioned from what looked like dark raffia. With cherries. The kind of hat old women wore in fairytales.
But she was still young, if jaded; crinkling gently at her corners, like a random, well-worn page of an ancient love letter. She had disconcertingly pale blue eyes. Eyes the colour of the exact spot where the winter sky brushed the sea. Eyes the colour of the horizon, he supposed. Trimmed with white lashes, and topped by two haughty brows. A phantasm’s brows; cold and high and light and spectral. Barely there. Just a suggestion of hair.
Puffy underneath… the eyes. He thinly smiled his recognition. Oh yes. A drinker. He knew the signs. And he warmed to her, then, but it was a warmth imbued with a profound contempt.
‘It’s portable,’ he noted.
She nodded, and spoke with the cigarette still dangling, ‘Yes. An absolute bloody miracle of engineering.’
Her tone troubled him. ‘How far?’ he asked.
‘What?’
Smoke trickled ineluctably into her right eye. The eye filled with water. She blinked it away.
‘I said how far?’ he repeated, pointing ahead of them. ‘Canvey.’
‘Oh. Far enough.’
He nodded sympathetically, looking down the road again, then he checked his watch. It was only eleven-fifty.
‘Second hand?’ she asked curtly. ‘Pardon?’
‘Do you have a second hand?’
‘Uh…’ he finally caught up with her, ‘yes…’ he blinked, ‘yes I do.’
‘Give me the exact time.’
He checked his watch again then paused for a moment. ‘It’s now eleven fifty-one,’ he said, ‘precisely.’
‘Right.’ She began to fold up the bike. Her hands flew from wheel to seat to crossbar, inverting, twisting, unscrewing. She knew what she was doing. Her hands were small and bony and chalky, but she was impressively adroit. It was quickly done.
‘Finished,’ she exclaimed, slamming the seat down and tapping it smugly, ‘and the time now?’
He inspected his watch. ‘Eleven fifty-one and twelve seconds,’ he said.
She smiled, then stopped smiling. ‘Dammit,’ she cursed, ‘I forgot the sodding pump.’
She grabbed the pump and clipped it into position.
‘The manufacturers say it should take twenty seconds,’ she explai
ned, standing up and dusting off her knees, ‘but I can halve it.’
‘Right. Good. I’m actually heading towards Canvey myself,’ Arthur informed her, deigning not to comment further on the fold-up phenomenon but staring down the road fixedly. He loved the road. He loved roads.
‘On foot? Are you crazy?’ she scowled over at him. Smoke in her eye again. ‘It’s a piss-ugly walk. Nothing to see.’
‘I like to walk,’ he said, ‘I like the fact of walking.’
He found the pale flash of her lashes fascinating.
‘It’s miles.’
‘I know exactly how far it is.’
She spat on her hands and rubbed them together. Then she thought of something and stopped what she was doing.
‘I get it,’ she said, a teasing tone suddenly hijacking her low voice as she removed the cigarette from her mouth and held it, half-concealed, inside her moist, milky palm, ‘you’re one of those…’ she scrabbled for the word, ‘those following people. A Back-ender. You walk places.’
‘Behindling,’ Arthur corrected her, looking disgruntled, but nonetheless refraining from either denying or affirming her assumptions.
She chuckled dryly (sounding, Arthur couldn’t help thinking, like a territorial squirrel: a base, clicking, gurgling), then she focussed in on him again, ‘It’s been all over the local papers because of the clue mentioning Canvey in that stupid, chocolate bar treasure-hunt thingummy.’
‘The Loiter,’ Arthur interjected impassively.
She nodded. ‘Clue three, I believe. Daniel Defoe once called it Candy Island,’ she grimaced, ‘whoever the fuck he is.’
‘Robinson Crusoe,’ Arthur’s eyebrow rose disdainfully, ‘he wrote it.’
‘Oh…’ she shrugged, ‘and what with that poor man dying, obviously.’
Behindlings Page 6
