Behindlings

by Nicola Barker

  ‘Candid Camera,’ Katherine said.

  ‘Yes. Yes,’ he bounced back, ‘I think that’s right.’

  ‘It is right. I loved that programme.’

  ‘Yes,’ Arthur paused for a moment, confusedly –

  Need to change tack, quick

  ‘Yes, well… I suppose he was an interesting figure. I was just looking through his… his autobiography. And apparently after he left university he took out an ad in the personal columns of The Times, advertising himself as a practical joker. He didn’t…’

  As he spoke Arthur was focussing principally on Ted.

  ‘He didn’t feel like he was fit for much else… which, uh, I suppose says a lot about what people consider a top flight… uh… education…’

  Ted glanced up and caught his eye at this point, then rapidly looked down again, wincing, ‘But he had a novel way of looking at things and he… uh…’

  Arthur peeked over at Dewi. Averted his eyes –

  Quick-smart

  ‘And people… people would…’ Arthur reached out his arm and pushed his plate towards the casserole pot, ‘people would actually pay him to play these… these practical jokes on… uh…’ Why does this feel so familiar?

  He gazed up at Katherine, almost beseechingly. Katherine shrugged and delved into the pot.

  ‘But he always said that the… uh… the only reason to play a joke on someone –or a hoax or anything –was to create an atmosphere of bewilderment and men-men-mental confusion. It’s never a moral … uh… morality doesn’t… for the real practical joker morality doesn’t ever enter into the… uh…’

  Arthur glanced towards Dewi again, ‘But Wesley would say –and wrongly, in my opinion –because of his reading of pop-sociological works like those of, say, Alvin Toffler…’ he half-inclined his head, ‘I don’t know if you’re… you’re familiar with … uh… with…?’

  Katherine snorted.

  Dewi remained perfectly still, staring quietly at Katherine, saying nothing. Katherine pulled some burned skin off the top of the casserole (placed it onto Ted’s plate) then proceeded to delve inside again.

  ‘Well…’ Arthur was slightly discombobulated by this (his eyes flying from one person to the next). ‘Well, anyway, Toffler –did I say Toffler before?’

  Ted nodded, still refusing eye contact.

  ‘Yes. Well, Toffler talks about how change is achieved by the combination of confusion or chaos and… uh… natural… natural disaster…’

  Dewi suddenly turned his head and stared at Arthur, frowning (as if he’d only just noticed him again). ‘What kind of charity?’ he asked.

  Arthur stared back at him blankly, then held out his hand, ‘I don’t think we were formally introduced before. I’m Arthur Young.’

  Dewi ignored his hand.

  ‘What kind of charity?’ he repeated.

  Arthur paused, withdrew his hand. Katherine filled the pause by pushing Arthur’s plate back towards him. ‘I served you first,’ she whispered, ‘because we had such a first class fuck.’

  ‘A… a… a children’s charity,’ Arthur swallowed, hard –

  Was she insane?

  – and took the plate. ‘Thanks. You were saying earlier that Dewi here was a talented carpenter, weren’t you, Katherine?’

  She looked over at him, smiling, ‘Huh?’

  ‘You… you were saying that Dewi here was a brilliant carpenter, weren’t you?’

  ‘He is a carpenter,’ Katherine confirmed, pushing aside the burned stuff on Ted’s plate then ladling out some of the unburned, ‘but I don’t know when we’d’ve had time to discuss it…’ she frowned, ‘although I suppose we did squeeze in a couple of minutes’ small-talk directly before the second blow job.’

  ‘Not too much,’ Ted murmured, hoarsely.

  ‘And that’s just what I said when you showed me your sweet, little dick last October, eh, Ted?’

  Silence

  ‘Because in the same book…’ Arthur began speaking again, ‘the same book I mentioned before… uh… Toffler says… I did cite Toffler, previously, didn’t I?’

  Ted nodded.

  ‘Yes. Yes. Well Toffler said that it’s the people who live slower and more practical… uh… lives who will ultimately reap the benefits of… uh… of our accelerated… uh…’

  What am I doing?

  What am I saying?

  Arthur scooped up a spoonful of food and pushed it into his mouth, chewed, swallowed.

  ‘That’s very good,’ he said, ‘in actual fact.’

  ‘Children’s charity?’

  Dewi had finally re-connected.

  Arthur scooped up a second spoonful.

  Dewi was staring at him again, pointedly, ‘You said a children’s charity?’

  Ted pushed his spoon into his mouth and nodded, ‘Yes.’

  He spoke through the casserole.

  Katherine dished herself up a tiny portion and sat down. She removed a feather from the edge of her plate.

  ‘What kind of children’s charity?’ she asked, nonchalantly.

  ‘Eh…?’ Arthur glanced up, ‘for… uh… for…’

  ‘Children,’ Katherine filled in. ‘I do believe we’ve all fully grasped that difficult concept.’

  Arthur pulled himself straight. He pushed his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out his wallet. He opened it. He closed it again. He un-poppered the back section, turned the wallet over and drew out a clutch of business cards and credit cards. Mixed up between them was a tiny photograph. He removed it; a little girl, about seven years old, thin, anxious-seeming, brown eyed, wearing a plain jumper and a matching pale blue alice-band to pull the loose wisps of brown hair away from her face.

  Arthur pushed the picture over the table towards Dewi.

  ‘My… my…’ he said, stammering, swallowing. ‘She has a condition called Cystic Fibrosis. It means her body produces excessive amounts of… of…’ he cleared his throat, ‘of phlegm which tends to settle on her chest. She finds it difficult to…’ he filled his lungs, ‘to breathe.’

  Dewi put out his hand and picked up the picture. He cradled it inside his huge hand, gently.

  ‘Some other… complications,’ Arthur continued, ‘I… I raise money to increase awareness of the condition in Britain. We… we’re saving for a h-h-h-heart and lung transplant. In America…’

  ‘What’s her name?’ Dewi asked.

  Arthur started at this question. ‘Harmony,’ he stuttered. ‘She’s not a… a transplant priority over here because she has other… other problems. Which is…’

  He scrabbled for the word.

  ‘Sad,’ Dewi said.

  ‘Wrong,’ Ted said.

  ‘Crap,’ Katherine said.

  All at the same time.

  Arthur nodded.

  ‘Yes.’

  He smiled shakily.

  Dewi suddenly stood up. ‘I have a bundle of cash from a job I did today. I want you to have it,’ he said. ‘Come over and get it. I live directly opposite.’

  Arthur was shocked. He put down his spoon.

  ‘Right now?’ he asked, glancing anxiously towards his computer, towards Katherine, his dinner plate, ‘this very minute?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Dewi was already pulling at the door and walking through it.

  ‘Uh…’ Arthur stood up. ‘Fine,’ he said, looking towards Katherine again, hoping for reassurance –finding none –then Ted. Ted was biting his lip and pushing aside a piece of the burned stuff on his plate.

  Arthur took a deep breath, pushed back his deckchair, turned and followed the Welshman –slowly at first, then gradually picking up speed –like a boy who’d just casually released his grip on the string of a balloon, and yet suddenly longed –once more –to feel the reassuring tug of it.

  Thirty-two

  Doc was hardly five yards from the car before Wesley had yanked himself straight and tossed off the blanket. His hair was ruffled, his T-shirt pulled skew –one sleeve pushed right up (over
his shoulder, under his armpit) and the remaining bulk concertinaed rather fetchingly across his midriff (Jo caught a quick glimpse of his skinny stomach –an object lesson in unswerving muscularity

  – and felt her ears –

  Ears?

  – tingling in a bizarre response). His face was no longer swollen, but definitely pinkened in places, his chin –

  That determined chin

  – grazed very slightly. Not too bad, though, really, all things considered.

  ‘Sleeping bag,’ Josephine murmured, turning her eyes away from his belly and towards the ceiling. It was rolled up, fatly, on her lap. She put her arms around it. Squeezed it, furtively. Rested her head on top –

  My cover’s blown

  It’s over

  He knows for sure now that I’m a real Follower

  Wesley gave her a curious look, almost as if he could read what her thoughts were –

  Mustn’t think

  – then he turned his head away and stared (although there was no view, only moisture) at his side window. A few seconds later he turned and gazed at her again, his expression not so much hostile as profoundly heedful; like a too skinny dog sitting hard and fast against a well-laden trestle table.

  ‘There’s a flask,’ Josephine added, somewhat fatuously (as if he hadn’t heard her conversation with Doc perfectly well himself), ‘something hot.’

  ‘Seems like we’re all very well set up, then,’ Wesley responded, stretching (confinedly) –

  Being sarcastic… (Was he?)

  – pulling down his T-shirt, then brushing his good hand through his hair –

  We… (Did he just say?)

  Josephine nodded, modestly. They were well set up. She felt a brief glow of optimism. Perhaps misguidedly.

  ‘Good old Doc,’ Wesley added, his tone prodigiously jocular.

  Jo nodded again, but slower this time, as she watched his –

  False…

  Had to be…

  – grin turn into a scowl.

  ‘He admires you a great deal,’ she said, ‘if that helps.’

  Oh God, just listen to me

  ‘I mean they all do –for the most part.’

  ‘It doesn’t help,’ Wesley snapped, ‘and it isn’t true. You plainly have absolutely no conception of what Following represents, what it consists of, in real terms.’

  Not so much aggressive as… as… well, yes aggressive.

  He snatched the flask, which was almost rolling from her lap, unscrewed the cup and then the lid.

  ‘It might seem novel to you,’ he said, ‘all this… this unexpected solidarity. But I’ve had four solid godforsaken fucking years of it.’

  Josephine stared straight ahead, her shoulders rolled forward defensively –

  I screwed up

  ‘Note,’ Wesley continued, jiggling the flask at her, ‘this is the kind of flask I have.’

  He suddenly chuckled to himself, as if she wasn’t actually there and he was quietly partaking in a perfectly cheery yet despicably below average interior monologue.

  ‘My flask,’ he murmured.

  ‘What’s in it?’ she asked brightly.

  Is mundanity the answer?

  Avoidance?

  ‘I predict…’ Wesley sniffed, ‘yup. Oxtail. That devious old prick virtually lives on the stuff.’

  Josephine grimaced.

  ‘What’s with the face?’ he snapped.

  She stopped grimacing.

  ‘You loathe oxtail, is that it?’ he asked. ‘You were force-fed it as a kid. Thought it’d put hairs on your chest, but they never actually sprouted… at least,’ he shrugged, gazing at her flat breasts, provokingly, ‘I don’t think they did, anyway.’

  She slowly untied the sleeping bag.

  ‘I thought,’ she eventually muttered (utterly composed), ‘we weren’t meant to be talking about all that.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Wesley congratulated her, perhaps a little too robustly.

  He tipped some soup into the cup, still talking as he poured, ‘So what did Shoes do to you exactly in that cosy pub toilet? Did he show you his piercings? His etchings? Did he…’ he stopped pouring, glanced over, mischievously, ‘did he fuck you senseless? Did he shit you up?’

  ‘You were right. I’m not a great fan of oxtail,’ she said primly.

  ‘Not a great fan,’ Wesley repeated.

  He blew on the soup then knocked it back. He poured her a cup.

  ‘Did you see his tattoos, Josephine Bean?’ he asked, offering it to her, cordially. ‘Weren’t you terribly impressed?’

  Josephine took the soup. She sniffed it. She nodded. Her affirmation was suitably non-specific. Wesley grabbed the sandwich container. He pulled off its tupperware lid.

  ‘For your information, Josephine,’ he said, ‘I have a tupperware container exactly like this one in my rucksack.’

  Josephine took a sip of the soup. Almost burned her tongue on it (it was extremely salty, but wonderfully hot). Then she took another sip, cradled her hands around the cup and allowed its steam to warm her nose, her chin, her cheek.

  Wesley snaked out his hand and plucked a stray dock leaf from her lap.

  ‘Dock,’ he said, ‘I was about to go out and gather some of that.’

  He screwed the soft leaf up, menacingly, and tossed it at the windscreen. Her side.

  He was –

  Bully

  – intimidating her.

  And quite successfully –

  I don’t care, I don’t care, just so long as he stays here

  She cleared her throat. ‘He had… he… Shoes had a strange one on his stomach,’ she said, struggling to maintain a rather puny sense of decorum, ‘a very… very strange tattoo.’

  ‘Really.’

  Wesley wasn’t interested. He was inspecting the sandwiches.

  ‘Salmon paste,’ he muttered, peeling one open. He pushed it into his mouth, whole, and peeled open a second. ‘Chocolate spread,’ he said, through his mouthful.

  She turned to look at him, her eyebrows raised.

  ‘Not together,’ he clarified, sensing her sudden interest, ‘obviously.’

  ‘Obviously,’ she echoed, still watching him, pointedly.

  ‘What?’

  He scowled at her, his jaw working resentfully.

  She shrugged, ‘I just… I only thought they might be exactly like the kind that you eat, usually, or… or something like that.’

  Wesley jumped back, sharply, as if she’d burned him with her wit. Her sarcasm. ‘You’re a fucking razor,’ he said.

  They were both quiet for a while. Wesley devoured the second sandwich.

  ‘Hangman,’ Jo eventually continued (once she’d mustered the requisite stamina).

  ‘Pardon?’ He glanced at her, still chewing.

  ‘Two words. Seven and five. Like in the game you play on paper. And the little figure hanging there on the gallows with everything intact but a…’ she paused, swallowed.

  Wesley picked up a third sandwich and took a bite. Spoke with his mouth full, ‘But a what? My God it’s like squeezing blood from a stone with you, Bean.’

  ‘But a hand,’ she said, ‘a right hand.’

  She glanced towards his –held hers up –took a final sip of the soup then passed it back. He delivered a scorching glance as he grabbed the cup, ‘You really love all this stuff, huh? All this fatuous, this… this pointless riddle-puzzle cack.’

  Jo didn’t answer.

  He shook his head, ‘I never thought anyone would fall for it –least of all anyone remotely intelligent. A girl for fuck’s sake…’

  He burped.

  ‘Pardon me.’

  ‘Fall for what?’

  ‘Look at you,’ Wesley suddenly guffawed, pointing at her, ‘you really are one of them. You’re slotting in, Bean… Bean from Southend. I mean Doc bringing you some soup and a fucking…’ he pointed, ‘for Christ’s sake, a fucking sleeping bag.’

  He rolled back in his seat, then rocked ene
rgetically forward again, as though fuelled by his piss-taking. ‘Waah!’ he yelled, waving his hands at her and smiling gummily like a black and white minstrel caught mid-ditty.

  Josephine looked stiff. Hurt. She embraced the bag tightly again.

  ‘Man, it’s like a disease with you people…’

  He peeked at her, hugging himself –grinning, plainly delighted by his own psychological acuity. She looked crushed. She was shivering again.

  Cold

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ Wesley’s cheer evaporated, ‘I gave you my jacket didn’t I? We’re having a conversation, aren’t we? I could be…’

  Having sex with the white skinned girl in that disgracefully hot kitchen, the bird well cooked, full of brandy

  ‘I know I must seem rather ridiculous to you,’ Josephine murmured softly, ‘and that I made a real fool of myself, earlier, in the bar. It was a… an unnecessary complication – like you said –a distraction –a misjudgement. I can see that now. But I felt so…’ she shrugged, poignantly, ‘so terrible for Dewi. All that hurt –all that upset – it’s all been so unnecessary.’

  Wesley’s eyes widened a fraction, ‘You felt sorry for the moose?’

  He was taken aback.

  Josephine nodded, ‘He’s the most decent man.’

  Wesley put a tentative hand to his jaw, his cheek, ‘For some inexplicable reason,’ he growled, ‘I hadn’t really considered it from his side before.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s actually harder hitting than just being… just being a… a target,’ Josephine continued, her confidence growing.

  ‘And did anybody ever punch you in the face before?’ he asked, forming his bad hand into a fingerless fist, as if seriously considering trying it out for himself.

  (Down on his lap, however, his good hand was quietly sneaking its way over towards his bad, pulling it back, loosening it up and then gently touching the scars there –as if they represented a novel kind of braille which he never tired of reading; the primitive topography for a beloved journey.)

  ‘No,’ Josephine shook her head, ‘and anyway, we’re not meant to be talking about all of that,’ she smiled, ‘are we?’

  She stared ahead of her, at the windscreen, staunchly.