Behindlings

by Nicola Barker

  On escape, Arthur’s frantic hands quietened, and in the calm following the tumult –the peace after the climax –Arthur’s thin face broke into a gentle half-smile. ‘Perhaps,’ he spoke kindly, ‘perhaps you should try and take some kind of comfort from that fact, Dewi.’

  Ah…

  Used the name

  Finally

  Dewi leaned forward and threw another log onto the fire, choosing not to comment on Arthur’s assessment of things, not to give any inkling as to whether he’d accepted or digested the stuff he was telling him.

  ‘When you have sex with Katherine again,’ he murmured (settling back down onto his stool, not changing his tone of voice, not meeting Arthur’s benign gaze, but speaking directly into the fire, almost tenderly), ‘could I ask you to use protection? And to bear in mind the things I’ve said? And to be gentle with her. And to be kind. She has a…’ he suddenly chuckled, fondly, ‘she has a sensitive spot just behind the lobe of her left ear. There’s a small birthmark… I don’t know if you… I don’t know if you… but she always laughs when you touch her there.’

  As he spoke he pushed his hand into his shirt pocket and took hold of something. For a second, for a brief –

  Awful

  – moment, Arthur thought it might be a neat packet of prophylactics –

  With spermicide

  Ribbed

  Unflavoured

  ‘Here’s that money I promised… for Harmony,’ Dewi stretched his arm towards Arthur. There was a roll of notes in it. He did not look at him as he handed it over, but kept his eyes fixed –all the while –on the licking flames ahead of him.

  Arthur stood up to take the money, feeling slightly like a boy who’s been asked to vacate the cub-house after using bad language –

  Akela’s arse is grass

  Baden-Powell’s a knob-head

  – feeling low and vulgar and somewhat flustered.

  ‘That’s very… very generous,’ he muttered, gauging the density of the roll; instinctively weighing up its financial content –

  Significant

  He remained standing for a minute or so, longing to say something –

  To exonerate

  – but this was no time –no place –for justifications. He knew it –

  I am dismissed

  He stood still for a second longer, then moved off, almost sloping (hyena-like) towards the door, shoving the bundle into his pocket, pulling up the collar on his jacket –as if protecting himself, but not from the cold outside so much as something… something

  interior –

  He instinctively knew I could be bought off

  Is it really that obvious?

  Exactly the same way Wesley knew, earlier

  He pulled the door open, stepped through, then softly closed it behind him. Once outside –

  Deep breath

  Deep breath

  – instead of fleeing, Arthur paused for a second on the Welshman’s wide verandah.

  The evening was still foggy. He looked up. He smelled the fruity smoke from the woodfire; saw it hanging in the air. He saw a slip of moon, peeking, just momentarily –undelineated, a fuzz of potentiality –through the moist and whited cloud around him. He observed the green paint on the timber, too, reflected in that nearly-shine –

  Cool mint

  – and he was suddenly caught up and transported on that mild patina –that green – through winter, through spring, to the middle of an unimagined –an unimaginable – summer –

  Yet here I am

  Here I am…

  Imagining

  – found himself reborn, standing tall on that roomy porch, early evening; a loose-limbed boy, full of anticipation –

  Ah yes…

  Possibility

  ‘ his head flung back, his mouth hung open, his innocent eyes roundly gazing as the clouds of fireflies commenced their nightly swarming –rising from the swamps, the high-tide-line, the marshes ‘ and then rapidly descending, en masse (who gave the instruction? Who was it? Who told them?), to candy-coat that smooth, creamy-clean-leaf-ice-green facade into a billion strong, crazy-black-speck-fidget of double-double-chocolate chipping.

  Thirty-five

  She was still –

  Like a corpse

  – for the first hour, at least. He was still, too. Seemed almost unconscious –

  Motionless

  – his breathing shallow but regular.

  They were touching –

  Shoulder

  Hip

  Bottom

  Inside thigh

  Inside knee

  Foot

  His arm was looped around –

  Breath – on – my – neck

  – her scrawny waist, holding them close together –

  For the warmth

  There was –

  Yes

  ‘ a certain pressure –

  A firmness

  ‘ to the back of her –

  No suggestion of impropriety

  ‘ which after forty minutes she realised –

  God

  ‘ was actually the pocket on his jacket, fallen open –

  Fallen back

  - full of stuff, acting as a tiny yet very distinct –

  Push

  ‘ barrier between them. Against her buttocks.

  The front pocket – when she started thinking about it – was directly beneath her left arm – which was slung – light/heavy/mad with tension

  – over the top of his.

  Josephine Angela Bean steadied her breathing and considered that pocket for a very long time. She opened her eyes; the sleeping bag was pulled up and tucked firmly under her chin. Down lower she was covered by it entirely, like a small insect encased in its silky pupa – could see nothing. It was more a question of –

  Of feeling

  ‘ of moving slightly, perhaps adjusting her position. But very –

  Very

  – casually.

  She sighed – a dozy sigh, almost a snore – and shifted sleepily – just those parts that were necessary –

  Shoulder

  Thigh

  Fingers especially…

  – so that her hand was now gently positioned on top of the pocket, her thumb already pretty much pushed inside it. She felt a mixture of –

  Can’t – help – myself

  ‘ intriguing sensations; tantalising objects –

  Paper, foil, loose tobacco…

  ‘ but needed to… to investigate still more thoroughly –

  To pilfer

  ‘ so gradually moved her index finger deep inside to join the other.

  This is my job, she told herself; I am trained for it. I am good at it –

  Talented…

  A vocation to enter

  To pry

  To gain gentle access to those secret recesses

  To check out

  To investigate

  To gauge

  To be firm and calm and unobtrusive

  Between her finger and thumb she slowly gripped a folded wad of… of…

  Like those machines in the Amusement Arcade

  Full of prizes

  The chocolate bunnies

  The cheap watches in bubbled plastic

  The teddies

  The silver pincer; swinging, dipping, tightening…

  She remained still –

  Holding

  – for what seemed like forever. Listened. Wesley’s breath on her neck was exactly –if not more –

  Was that possible?

  – regular than before. She –

  Oh Lord, can’t help it

  – suddenly shuddered –

  The thrill

  ‘ then quickly pulled herself together. Was cautious –

  Excitable

  ‘ as an adder –early evening –public park –hiding under a discarded sheet of corrugated metal –

  Old roof –wall –shed –

  Sharp-edged

  Orange
with rust

  – waiting, only, to slither free –unblinking –frozen –heightened.

  Slowly –

  Slowly

  – she began to withdraw –

  Thumb

  Finger Elbow

  In the slightest coordination

  Many minutes –

  So many

  – passed. Millimetre by millimetre. Until finally –

  YES

  – that papery object was free. She had it.

  I have it!

  ‘No you don’t,’ Wesley leaned a fraction closer (whispering softly into the hairs on the back of her neck), placed his hand firmly over her hand and took the object from her.

  Josephine froze –gave it up readily –

  ‘I was…’ she said, ‘it must’ve just slipped into…’

  ‘Your arse is grass, Bean,’ Wesley murmured (his voice wicked with grin –or vindictive, was it?) into the brushed-cut softness of the hair behind her ear. ‘Give me my jacket back you sneaky little viper.’

  She felt his fingers on her, around her neck. Froze harder –

  Will he kill me? Like he killed his brother?

  – but the hands did not tighten there, merely gripped the lapels of the jacket and slid it firmly from her shoulders. She pushed herself up a little, onto her elbow, to facilitate the coat’s removal. He yanked the sleeves down to just above her wrists then left it there, pulled her down again, roughly –

  Arms all constricted…

  Behind my…

  Cannot…

  – then leaned up onto his forearm, curving around her –like an insinuating sepal, cupping a wildflower –slightly higher now than before, breathing onto her left cheek, his lips close to the line of her jaw.

  Electric tickle from ear to nipple

  Then –even – uh –

  Lower

  He opened his right hand –

  Firm –index-finger

  – and traced the curve from the back of her ear to the tip of her chin –

  As if rehearsing some kind of incision

  – then brushed his thumb over her cheek, to the corner of her lips.

  Her mouth fell open. She breathed through it. A tiny expulsion. ‘Tell me who you are,’ he said –

  No longer a smile there

  ‘I’m just a… just a Follower, like all of the others.’

  Her voice was shaking; more, even, than she’d imagined. Her mouth was dry.

  He chuckled at this, ‘No…’

  Bent in closer, whispered into her ear, ‘… if you were just a Follower I wouldn’t be here. The sugar people sent you. The fat man with his gold-buttoned blazer. They’re panicking.’

  She tried to shake her head, ‘No… I don’t…’

  Her arms were already aching –

  Twisted neck

  – the cuts were stinging.

  ‘My arms…’

  Wesley slid his finger from her mouth, over the contour of her jaw, down her throat, across her chest, around her waist, to her elbow. ‘Boo-noo,’ he whispered, gripping it, hurting. He pushed his face into the nape of her neck. She could feel his lips –

  Tongue

  – tracing an inexplicable pattern there. She felt like a mystical deer –

  Shot

  Bleeding

  – fatally injured by its huntsman-lover.

  ‘Then who?’ his chin –

  Stubble

  ‘ was tucked –

  Rubbing

  ‘ into the curve of her shoulder, making her throat tighten and her chin jerk forward, unintentionally.

  ‘Or is it local industry? Is it the Gas Terminal people? Have they sent you down here to try and bribe me?’

  ‘No.’

  She felt the badger-cold of his nose behind her ear again –

  His breath

  ‘Your friend told me that you’re involved in environmental causes.’

  He gripped her ear-lobe between his teeth, tugged at it, enough to –

  Hurt

  – make her expostulate. He seemed to enjoy the small noise she uttered.

  ‘Is that the sound you made,’ he murmured, ‘when you were fucking the headmaster?’

  No

  She tried to twist her head away, disgusted.

  ‘Poor baby Bean,’ he said, clucking.

  ‘Which friend?’ she asked, angrily –

  Hurt

  – but shaken. Her neck curving away from him.

  He pushed his cheek into it again. Grazed its soft skin. She turned her head back around –a few inches –

  Strained

  ‘ suddenly found her mouth right –

  Right

  ‘ next to his. He kissed her then, but from a strange angle, so that their lips met like two silver sprats tangling together quickly in a fishing net –

  No ‘

  But –

  Uh–

  – his hand was flat on her belly –

  Thumb circling belly button, in a crazy constellation of twinkling

  – then firm on the sharp bone of her thigh –

  Pushed it open

  – brushed over her hip, then moved lower –

  Have to –

  Need to –

  Must turn around, to feel his…

  She pushed herself flat onto her back, her arms still bound and pushing up her chest. His hand was now resting on her opposite hip. She reached her chin up to find his lips.

  ‘The policewoman,’ he said, then kissed her. She could feel his mouth pulling into a smile, and then softening, opening, his teeth snagging the soft, top corner of her lip, pulling it up, his tongue following, like a tiny asp, slithering along her gumline, withdrawing.

  She blinked. His hand –

  Left hand

  – moved from her waist, under the tight material of her vest, over her ribs –

  Wide hand

  – his thumb tracing a firm line through the centre of her diaphragm, the remaining fingers strumming each curving bone like individual harp strings –

  The soft flesh under her arm tingling

  Wind-chiming

  Jangling

  ‘ until those two disparate hand-parts came together again, curling, gently –like a gardener caressing the cool head of his prize chrysanthemum –to cup the tender bulb of her breast –

  Tightening

  ‘ until she winced.

  He kissed her. This time like a grazing animal plucking a mouthful of grass from the pasture –a nuzzle –a brush –soft-faced - almost lipless. Then back again. But on the return movement he pressed into her –shifted his body over –between hers –

  Pushed

  ‘ lifted her. She lifted.

  ‘I’ll be needing to punish you,’ his wet lips warned her burning ear, his flat hand instructed the dip in her spine, his bruising hip scolded her tender thigh, ‘and very harshly, for this.’

  Thirty-six

  What time was it?

  What time was it?

  I am…

  I…

  Jesus bollocks

  A bloody mess!

  A bloody…

  It’d been –

  God. Had to admit it

  – quite the most horrible, the most distressing walk he could ever remember. And there had been thousands of walks –

  Countless

  – and hundreds of night walks, in particular; Arthur Young liked night walking; could often be seen striding along purposefully until late into the evening –

  Often

  – and quite happily (in the summer, mainly, admittedly). But this? This was –

  Absolutely Godawful

  – very different, somehow from other walks: the mud – the sea – the fog – the struggle. The pitch dark, dark, dark.

  The pervasive sense of being… of being…

  Don’t think it

  Of being watched –

  I said…

  – of being…

  Please…

&nb
sp; –of being…

  Don’t…

  – of being…

  Followed-Ambushed-Trapped-Killed-Ripped-Cut-Skinned-Devoured

  – Oh God…

  Deep breath –deep breath –deep breath

  And then the bloody torch –

  Ah yes…

  The torch

  Totally –

  Fucking

  – unreliable. Batteries went dead after approximately fifteen…

  (Katherine’s face. That look she’d pulled when he’d bolted. Got out of there so quick –

  In/out

  Just like that

  – he even overtook the agent on the driveway –still dragging on his jacket, still holding his rucksack open in one hand –laptop inside, all higgledy-piggledy –still struggling to get the lead rolled up, still muttering a pack of inconsequential rubbish about having to get… to get… to get…

  Back

  But for what?

  And Dewi. Standing at his window –

  Indomitably

  – tiger-striped from the front by the thick slats of his wooden shutters, from behind by the flickering, orange-tinged glow of the fire.)

  Arthur shuddered. He felt the torch in his pocket. Blinked. Rewound –

  Dark

  Can you do a special test for n-n-n-night-blindness?

  Is it an actual condition?

  Is it a…

  Could it be a…

  A symptom?

  He was barely past the first oil storage complex before the torch began to weaken, then flicker –barely past the Lobster Smack, in fact (shut) and the caravan sites (dead).

  The want of light had been almost…

  Should fucking sue that battery company

  … almost lethal, in places –

  Fucking rain came down

  Fucking relentless fucking rain

  The later, less well-delineated segments on the muddy bank had been especially treacherous. He’d fallen countless times –

  Countless

  So undignified for a…

  Arthur snatched the offending torch from his pocket and threw it into the soup of darkness, just about as far as he could possibly muster. Tried to hear the sound of it landing. The plop. Couldn’t. Only the gentle splat of the rain. Swore.

  But there were so many subsidiary noises; all competing furiously for their place in the darkness –scrabbling to scratch their print into the deep night ink: squeals and whispers, cracklings and rustlings, hoots and splashes –