Wesley didn’t say anything for a while. Then he pulled his hands apart, reached forward and drew a series of short lines into the moisture on the windscreen. Seven, a small gap, then five
‘So how many letters did Shoes have in place?’ he asked. ‘Can you remember?’
Josephine straightened slightly, peeked at him, side-long.
Is this a test?
Should I dare answer?
She quietly tried to visualise it all in her head; Shoes’ prodigious dough-rise stomach; that inescapably sensuous blue-pale hillock of unassailable flesh.
Wesley drained her cup, meanwhile, then screwed it –and the cap –back into place.
‘He had one D, I think, and two Ns. G at the start. Maybe an E somewhere…’
She leaned forward in her seat, reached out her finger and wrote the letters into the requisite gaps.
G –D – – N –EN – –
Wesley stuck out his lip and mulled this over. ‘I think you’ll find it’s two Ds,’ he said, pointing to the penultimate letter in the second word, ‘not one. And no E either,’ he added, scratching it out with his thumb.
G – – D – – N – – ND–
Josephine frowned, then reconsidered, ‘You could be right…’
‘Oh I am right,’ he butted in.
‘Really?’ she smiled. ‘Have you seen it yourself, then? Did he show it to you? Wasn’t it amazing?’
Wesley shook his head (he smirked at amazing, though).
‘So how do you know?’ she asked, plainly bewildered, ‘and what’s the answer? Is it something clever? Or…’ she wrinkled up her nose, suspiciously, ‘or something dirty?’
Dirty
Wesley smiled again at her choice of vocabulary. She was so clean, this Bean. ‘It’s just a little joke,’ he said. ‘It’s like your name written on his arse. About the same league as that.’
‘And it has something to do with you, presumably?’
Wesley shrugged. He paused. ‘Do you remember the sound of his toenails tippy-tapping on the tiles from behind you?’
She nodded. She did remember. She almost shuddered.
Wesley nodded, ‘Yeah. Well I hear that sound constantly. I hear that sound in my dreams. I’ve been Followed by fuck-ups quite a bit. It goes with the territory. But he really shits me up sometimes with his gentleness and his fatness and his infernal fucking tippy-tippy-tap.’
He leaned forward (Jo sunk back, instinctively) and wiped the screen clean with his palm. ‘Pass me the leaves,’ he said, observing her retreat with a half-smile, ‘and give me your arm.’
Josephine did as he asked, then stared at the smudged windscreen again, deep in thought. ‘Here’s a sandwich,’ he said. ‘Eat.’
She took the sandwich with her spare hand while he rolled up her sleeve. Underneath, the flesh was still icy. He found a wad of toilet paper half-covering the cut which must’ve been shifted back when he’d stared at it previously. He carefully unwound it. Then he pulled her arm nearer to his face and inspected it closely.
Josephine’s glazed-over eyes flickered left. She could feel his warm breath. Her skin goose-bumped. She stared down at the sandwich –
Salmon paste
– and took a bite –
No. Tuna
Wesley turned on his side-light. ‘Think you need stitches?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘Well I suppose you’re the expert.’
The sandwich was halfway to her mouth. She halted its simple trajectory.
‘Pardon?’
‘You’re the nurse.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Your nails told me. And your hands. And the way you made the cut. And the way you’ve cleaned it up.’
She blinked.
He’d barely finished speaking when he pushed his lips up close to the first wound and… and…
Licked
Not impetuously. Not sensuously. But gently and determinedly, like a well-trained cat.
Jo’s arm stiffened.
‘I’m an expert,’ she said, her voice slightly huskier than normal, ‘in the subject of female gynaecology. I campaign for…’ she took a deep breath, ‘for a more environmentally responsible… uh… use of sanitary…’
Her arm relaxed –
Like a neat-mouthed, clean-tongued…
‘Your professional life is of fuck-all interest to me,’ Wesley murmured, ‘and you have a real pig of an iron deficiency.’
He reached out his good hand, rested it lightly on her cheek and pulled down her left eye’s lower lid. She did not resist, merely gazed at him, passively.
‘Bingo,’ he said, returning to her arm again.
The cuts were now all sting and prickle, but she wished he’d lick her forever, just the same.
Everywhere.
He released her arm for a moment and rubbed each dock leaf roughly between his palms (to release the sap, she presumed) and then applied them, individually, to the cuts.
She closed her eyes. She drew a deep breath. The sandwich fell from her hand.
‘So which of the books was it Shoes gave you before?’
Her eyes flew open again, ‘Sorry?’
(She hadn’t realised that she’d closed them. That was half the shock.)
‘The librarian told me what he took out. But he’s not a great reader, Shoes.’ Wesley grabbed the discarded tissue paper and gently wound it around her arm again. When he’d finished, he carefully pulled her sleeve down over the top.
‘So which book was it?’
Josephine pushed her hand down the side of her chair. She retrieved the book. He took it from her. She stared at his face –
Looking for clues
Can’t…
Can’t help myself
– but he gave nothing away.
‘There’s this ridiculously prevalent myth about Louis L’Amour…’ he said, flicking idly through it, ‘that his whole existence as a writer-hero of the American West has been fabricated. That he isn’t American at all. That he’s English. That he lives in Stansted or Woking or somewhere. All complete bullshit, by the way. Because he was the real thing; hobo, writer, marine, cattle rancher, explorer. Entirely self-educated. Bare-knuckle boxer. I love all that stuff.’
He slapped it shut and passed it back to her.
‘Good choice,’ he said.
She took the book and pushed it back down the side of her seat. ‘I don’t know much about Westerns,’ she said, ‘but apparently the Estuary is meant to bear a strong resemblance to the American…’
‘It’s the English psyche,’ Wesley interrupted, ‘we love to devitalise –suck out the sap –it’s our most fundamental instinct. We mistrust passion. We think it’s a sign of weakness or deviance. And we loathe sincerity. It makes us uneasy…’
He shrugged, ‘It’s an automatic gut reaction, a knee-jerk thing. And it’s only because we don’t actually know who we are, because we’re all spent as a nation. Even a cow understands its own essence better than we can –understands its cowness – but we don’t have a clue. We don’t know what it is to be human. And we sorely resent all those creatures, those nationalities, those non-conformists who do.’
‘D’you reckon L’Amour would be less of a hero if he did write all his stuff in a bedsit in Woking?’ she asked, idly touching her arm where he’d touched it before.
‘That’s a bullshit question,’ he yawned, ‘you obviously haven’t been paying attention.’ He scratched his head then collapsed back on his seat. ‘I’m going to sleep,’ he said, ‘turn off the heater, put my jumper and coat back on, unzip the sleeping bag, we’ll need to share it.’
Then he switched the light off, shifted onto his right hip and turned slightly to the left. ‘I’ll take on the doorhandle,’ he told her, grudgingly, ‘if you don’t mind the gearstick.’
Thirty-three
‘It’s so damn Catholic,’ Katherine told him, ‘the way you always clean your plate off like that.’
Te
d put down his fork, looked up. ‘I don’t always,’ he said, a hint of childish rebellion entering his voice, ‘and it has nothing to do with being…’
‘Yes you do,’ she interrupted.
‘Not if it’s cabbage or broad beans,’ he said.
‘You really need to cast off those shackles, Ted. The permanent stain of the armed bloody forces, the infernal, strangulating noose of the papacy. Cast them off! Stop being so ridiculously compliant. It’s so boring for everybody.’
‘Navy,’ he murmured obdurately, glancing over towards the door.
‘Same thing,’ she said.
‘No,’ he said.
She gazed down at him, opened her mouth and covered it with her hand in a demonstration of faux-shock.
He shrugged
‘Let’s face it, Teddy, once the church and the army have had their portion,’ she continued, like a puppy worrying a discarded sock, ‘there’s only a very tiny little piece of the original Ted left. And this significant part is defined entirely by its absolute rejection of the broad bean.’
Ted shook his head. She was always like this. Would never leave things where they were. He glanced over towards the door for a second time.
‘Why’s the door suddenly so fascinating?’
‘If you must know,’ he said (as if seeing the door had somehow given him confidence –the certain confirmation of a quick exit, maybe), ‘I didn’t entirely like the way that you…’
Entirely
Such a compromise word
Wesley wouldn’t use it
Wesley wouldn’t compromise with his words like that
‘I didn’t at all like…’
Nope
That’s just not me
He tried to push himself away from the table (eating at such an acute angle had given him indigestion. His neck was aching. He was slightly worried about Arthur –and Wesley, too, for that matter, however gratuitously).
Katherine put out a restraining hand, grabbed a firm hold of his arm, stopped him. ‘Hates broad beans, loves the door,’ she announced. ‘That’s almost a manifesto, Ted. You could run for political office on it. It’s a fucking platform.’
‘True,’ he said.
‘And that’s a good one;’ Katherine smiled, ‘agrees with anything to avoid conflict. It’s just got to be a central plank in your electoral strategy.’
Ted shrugged.
‘So what…’ she tightened her grip on his arm, ‘what was it that you didn’t like before?’
Ted cleared his throat. Now he was in for it.
‘And where did Wesley get to, anyway,’ she continued, picking up her plate, stacking it on top of his and then leaving it there. ‘Nobody’s filled me in yet.’
Ted half-smiled to himself –
Off the hook
He straightened his head.
‘Your cryptic smile,’ Katherine informed him, ‘is pissing me off.’
‘I’m worried about Arthur,’ he said, wiping his smile away, jiggling his stiff shoulder, ‘I’m worried Dewi might be…’ he paused.
‘Might be what?’
‘Dewi thinks he’s one of the Behindlings. He thinks it’s a question of taking sides. Or that’s what he told me.’
‘I can see why,’ Katherine concurred (somewhat unexpectedly, Ted thought, considering), ‘and I thought he was, too, to begin with, but not any more,’ she put her finger to her nose, ‘he doesn’t smell like someone who’d Follow. He smells of boot polish and resin. Like repression. He smells like a leader of men, but all kind of… kind of stunted… misdirected… ’
Ted was frowning –
Resin?
‘All the charity stuff,’ Katherine continued, ‘was absolutely inspired. And he fucks like a wolf. He’s fantastically sinewy.’
Ted winced at this.
‘God. You and your damn wincing,’ Katherine muttered, pulling her hair away from her face, ‘let’s see…’ she counted each thing off, on her fingers, individually, ‘so we’ve got wincing, broad beans, love of the door…’
‘Talking of… uh… I saw…’ Ted put his own hand to his neck, his tie.
‘Pardon?’ Katherine didn’t like being interrupted, especially by him.
‘I saw the Bean girl, earlier. She was in the bar. And I’ve seen her outside here, twice, with the Followers…’
No reaction from Katherine.
‘You still haven’t clarified what you meant,’ she said, screwing up her eyes, ‘when you said I didn’t like the way that you… ’
Ted pulled himself up from his deck chair, grabbed their two plates and walked over to the sink.
‘It tasted like pheasant,’ he said, tipping them in and turning on the tap (no hot water, dammit), ‘don’t you think?’
‘It tasted like heron,’ Katherine said, scowling, debating her options. Either she could sulk it out of him or launch a full-frontal attack.
Ted peeked over his shoulder (almost as if sensing that she was preparing an assault).
‘If you must know,’ he said, but very hands-off, very conversational, without –he hoped –a trace of criticism…
Remember how he took that punch?
Remember?
‘I didn’t like the way that you behaved with Dewi, earlier.’
‘How did I behave?’ Katherine was unrepentant.
Ted almost lost his nerve (his nerve was like a go-cart on a sharp corner. It needed handling).
‘Slightly cruel. And a little bit…’ he tried to find the most appropriate adverb. ‘A little bit provocative… Provocative-ly,’ he added, as if suddenly uncertain of the grammar.
‘But it’s my long-term project, Ted,’ Katherine patiently explained without a hint of humour, ‘to injure him as much as he injured me. It’s my life’s work. I thought you already knew that.’ She was serious. But mocking. Like she always was.
‘That’s a very…’ he scratched his neck –
Collar chafing
‘I just think you should maybe consider…’
Moving on
‘If you dare say “moving on”, I’m going to rip off your insignificant little prick,’ she said, standing up and walking over to Bron’s cage, ‘and feed it to the damn chinchilla.’
Bron was asleep in his box. Blissfully vegetarian. His water bottle was empty again.
‘Don’t forget that you were the person who got us into this shitty situation in the first place. If you hadn’t peeked into my Dad’s office that day and mistaken me for… for…’
‘But I didn’t spread anything,’ Ted mumbled, ‘that was Bo. Bo thought it’d be funny…’
‘An innocent hug,’ Katherine bellowed, ‘with his own daughter.’
Ted nodded, submissively.
‘And if Dewi feels the need to take some kind of crazy stance on Following,’ Katherine continued, ignoring him, ‘or on Wesley, for that matter, then he should look to his laurels. The man’s an out-and-out stalker – he’s a pest –a betrayer. And he causes me more mental anguish per inch than two thousand stunted, bifocal-wearing weirdoes ever could.’
‘That’s harsh,’ Ted said.
‘I think Bron may be too hot,’ she grunted. ‘Open the back door, will you? I’m going to carry him through to the conservatory.’
Ted did as he was asked. Katherine removed the rodent’s water bottle, meanwhile, and walked over to the sink to fill it up. On her way across, she paused in front of Arthur’s computer. She put down the bottle and expertly opened the lid.
Ted walked over himself. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m just looking.’
‘Why?’
Katherine was bending over to inspect the side of the laptop for its on-off switch.
‘Because I can, Ted.’
‘I really don’t think…’ Ted tried to sound dynamic, ‘I really don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s private.’
‘If it’s so fucking private, Teddy, then he shouldn�
��t just have left it in my kitchen, should he, using up all my bloody electricity?’ She located the button and turned it on. The machine zipped into life. She inspected the keyboard intently as it downloaded.
‘A nipple,’ she said, ‘instead of a mouse. Ah. Must’ve been breast-fed.’
She touched her finger to it. ‘And so responsive.’
Ted grimaced, stepped back.
‘So do you trust him, Ted?’ she asked, apparently preoccupied by what she was doing.
‘Arthur? Yes,’ he answered, almost without thinking.
‘Really?’
Ted thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know. Yes. I mean I can’t really… I don’t really understand all this trusting/not-trusting…’
‘Well that’s good then.’
She balanced herself neatly on the good side of withering.
‘Why?’ Ted was daunted. ‘Don’t you trust him?’
She chuckled, ‘Absolutely not.’
Ted stared at her for a while, frowning.
‘I mean…’ he conceded, ‘… well, he did seem slightly…’
‘What?’
She was inspecting his desktop. She seemed very interested in it.
‘He was saying some stuff to me –back at the office when he was helping out with the computer –he was saying some stuff about how I was in a perfect position to… I mean he said that I was well placed. And he said that the Bean girl was well placed too. I didn’t know what he meant by it. But he gave me a very distinct look, like he was trying to make a… as if he thought we might be in some kind of…’
‘Collusion.’
‘Yes.’
No
That wasn’t the word
Ted frowned, ‘He seemed to want to find things out that I wasn’t entirely at ease with. Stuff about Wesley…’
‘Fuck Wesley already,’ Katherine murmured, turning from the computer to look at him. ‘So where does he think the Bean girl fits in? I mean what does the Bean girl have to do with anything?’
‘The Bean girl…’ Ted rubbed his hand over his face, tiredly, ‘the Bean girl was in Saks when Wesley and I went in there to meet up with Arthur. But before we’d even made it to the bar, Dewi’d charged in and knocked him for six.’
‘He hit Wesley?’
The computer beeped. Katherine turned back around to inspect it. ‘That was probably my fault,’ she mused, ‘come to think of it.’
Behindlings Page 35
