Behindlings

by Nicola Barker

– seemed incalculably perilous.

  He’d been awake for so long now – was so tired –

  Tired

  – that his thoughts were shaping themselves into a repetitive pattern; a sing-song; a nursery rhyme; an exhaustive –

  Exhausting

  – rhythm; until all other noise, all other stimulus –

  Outside

  Within

  – lost its independent significance; became just so much –

  Wholly unnecessary

  – additional percussion.

  Sasha was sleeping.

  She shifted when the boat creaked –

  Then the reindeer shifted –

  The boat shifted –

  It creaked –

  Sasha shifted –

  Arthur flinched, held his breath –

  Expecting the…

  Expecting…

  – then everything, very gradually, righted itself again.

  Or did it?

  Huh?

  He was sure that she must be frozen –

  Wesley’s child

  He was –

  C… c… c… c…

  – so icy. He couldn’t feel –

  Cheeks

  Nose

  Fingers

  Feet

  – hardly anything, in fact, and he no longer understood the angle he was at. How acute was it? How far back?

  He could tell – could sense, somehow – that the door was now rather more like a kind of a lip (a pike’s mouth, on the diagonal, snarling out of the water).

  The mud of the bank seemed further off, and the tide was obviously higher –

  Higher

  – but not quite high enough. He could feel it lapping at the back of the craft, could hear its eager wavelets keenly whispering their perpetual brown commentary.

  It was definitely getting brighter. By rights he should’ve felt a sense of relief, but instead he felt the illogical fury of the industrious miner, on leaving –

  Blink

  – the close dark –

  Blink

  – of the cruel shaft

  Blink

  – and cringing into the light.

  ‘If I go,’ Sasha lifted her head, abruptly, as though talking in her sleep, ‘then Brion will come after me. And that’s exactly how we got into this stupid mess in the first place.’

  ‘Perhaps the boat will float,’ Arthur said, sounding hopeless, even to himself.

  ‘Are you a good swimmer?’ she asked.

  ‘Are you?’

  He gazed down at her. She rubbed her nose on her knuckles. Neither party felt inclined to answer.

  Brion began micturating. Out of the blue –

  The black

  – and it seemed to go on for hours – this piss. Arthur suddenly found himself on the verge of a titter –

  What’s wrong with me?

  – he disguised it with a hiccup, and turned to stare at the deer, accusingly. It was too dark to see much, but he thought he saw the urine flowing, at an alarming rate, down onto the floor and then streaming away –

  Gone

  ‘Just thank your lucky stars that we aren’t sitting behind him,’ Sasha murmured.

  ‘You’re right, Sasha,’ Arthur affirmed blankly, ‘we have so much to be grateful for.’

  She peered up at him, her brows raised slightly – he could sense it – under his Gumble hat. He stared at that hat –

  I’m a fool

  A stooge

  A cat’s paw

  – and then his wrist began stinging; brought him sharply back.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m feeling…’ he cleared his throat, ‘giddy.’

  Sasha wasn’t paying attention. She quietly shushed him, raised her hand, whispered, ‘Do you hear anything?’ gradually inching her way forward, then peering – blinking like a new-born kitten – out into the wide and unrelenting winter maw.

  ‘Motorway,’ Arthur tried to focus again. But he was struggling.

  ‘No…’

  Sasha moved still further, until the snow landed softly onto the brim of her hat.

  ‘It’s a man,’ she said, trying to suppress her excitement, ‘carrying some kind of… of red-coloured sack… ’

  On sack, Arthur moved forward himself. There was the sharp sound of something shearing. A plank fell from the roof above them. The reindeer jerked back – hit a cabinet (a drawer had tipped open behind him; its cutlery rattled, several pieces spilled out onto the floor) – the rear-end of the boat plummeted.

  ‘For fuck sake HELP us!’ Arthur bellowed. He scrabbled onto his knees and lunged for the door. Sasha had tipped sideways – then back. She lay flat on her belly, holding – for dear life – onto his right foot. She looked up at him from this new position, wearing an expression of genial bemusement.

  ‘Yikes,’ she said.

  He squinted out into the snow, still panicked.

  Wesley. Standing on the bank. Ruddy-faced. A dead fox slung around his neck. That same dead red fox’s tail tied – mystifyingly – onto his wrist.

  ‘I admire your ardour, Art,’ he yelled over, carefully lowering the fox onto the ground, ‘but I couldn’t really guarantee that vessel floating anywhere…’

  ‘There’s an eight-year-old girl in here,’ Arthur yelled back, and a…’ he paused (he hated this moment), ‘and a reindeer.’

  Wesley slowly straightened up. ‘How very…’ he peered past Arthur’s shoulder, ‘how extremely festive for you,’ he shouted.

  ‘I’m nine,’ a small voice interrupted them.

  ‘Not for long, the way things are going,’ Wesley smiled at Arthur, winningly, then turned around, as if something rather more significant was taking place behind him.

  Perhaps a rare breed of stork was landing on a tree-top…

  Perhaps he’d dropped a glove on the path…

  Perhaps…

  ‘We need to get out,’ Arthur bawled, barely biting back his hysteria.

  Wesley turned around again. ‘Of course you do,’ he said – at normal volume – barely audibly. He proceeded to make his way – carefully – down the mud bank. He stood at the river’s edge and peered down into the water. ‘The tide’s got a way to go yet,’ he said, ‘that’s still quite a drop.’

  ‘Mud,’ the voice yelled from within, ‘and some very sharp rocks.’

  ‘An unappealing conjunction,’ he said, nodding.

  Arthur glared at him, in silence, his knuckles tightening on the doorframe.

  Wes didn’t move.

  A crashing sound emerged from the back of the vessel as a pot or a cup fell off a counter. ‘Ouch,’ the young voice intoned.

  Wesley raised his eyebrows. He glanced right. Close to where he stood was a thick wooden pike, driven into the bank. A good length of rope had been tied around it. Wesley carefully unwound it while Arthur watched him. His fingers were definitely beginning to go numb. He tried to concentrate on them. He tried to bully them into clinging on.

  Once he’d untied it from the pike, Wesley got as close to the craft as he possibly could. ‘Tie yourselves together with that,’ he said, ‘to be going on with.’

  Arthur frowned, ‘Is that a good idea? If the boat collapses and one of us gets trapped…’

  ‘Three of us,’ a voice hollered from within, ‘I’m going nowhere without my deer.’

  Wesley pondered this for a moment. ‘Well here’s wishing you and your antlered companion a wonderful new life together at the bottom of the river,’ he shouted.

  He threw the rope.

  Arthur wasn’t ready. He missed the catch. His arms barely moved. It fell down into the water. Wesley watched the rope sink. He gazed back up at Arthur. ‘You’re off the team, buddy,’ he said, then clambered back up the bank again and wandered off.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  The girl’s voice again, but this time slightly tremulous, ‘Is he still going to help us?’

  ‘Of course he is,’ Arthur snapped, in his most adult manne
r.

  ‘Where’s the rope?’

  ‘It fell in the water.’

  Silence

  ‘What’s he doing now?’

  ‘He’s… he’s just… uh…’

  Arthur watched Wesley retreating into the distance. Not at a run. Not at a trot. But at a pace best described as a casual meander.

  He turned his head, ‘How’s the deer?’

  Sasha peered under her arm. ‘He seems quite cheerful,’ she said.

  Arthur grimaced. ‘That’s good,’ he said, ‘but what’s holding him up?’

  ‘Oh.’ Sasha glanced back again, ‘He’s resting his rump against an open drawer. I suppose if that goes then we’re all… uh…’

  Scuppered

  ‘Hurry,’ Arthur yelled.

  When he opened his mouth wide his teeth hurt.

  Wesley waved his hand. He disappeared from view.

  The back of the boat was bobbing. Arthur could feel this new motion. He didn’t know how long it had been there. He felt an acute sense of disorientation.

  ‘Maybe he won’t come back,’ the girl pondered, slightly breathlessly.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Arthur blurted.

  ‘All things considered,’ she adjusted her grip on his foot, grunted, ‘I do think Brion’s been quite a star.’

  ‘Let’s all give Brion a great big hand, shall we?’ Arthur murmured.

  ‘Good idea.’

  He felt her hold loosen and twisted around, panicked. The boat groaned, like Moby Dick, harpooned.

  She sniggered. Her grip tightened again.

  ‘Stop fucking around,’ he said, secretly admiring her capacity not to take the prospect of imminent death seriously.

  ‘I’ll clap with my feet, shall I?’

  He heard her feet flapping. He tensed himself for any unexpected repercussions.

  Nothing

  ‘I applaud you, Brion,’ she said.

  Brion wuffled appreciatively.

  Arthur relaxed slightly and bit his lip.

  Would Wesley come back again?

  Does he know who I am?

  Am I here because of him?

  ‘Survival in a crisis is eighty percent attitude,’ Sasha cordially informed Brion, from under her armpit.

  ‘Where did you read that?’ Arthur asked, tetchily.

  ‘My grandad was in the SAS. He knows everything about everything.’

  Arthur rolled his eyes.

  ‘He taught me how to fight a crocodile,’ Sasha maintained, smugly.

  Arthur said nothing.

  ‘You hit them on the nose,’ she said, ‘then jab their eyes out with your fingers… Foo!’ (She thoughtfully provided her own batch of sound effects.)

  ‘I’m sure you’ll have the entire reptilian population of Canvey quaking in its scales at that,’ Arthur growled.

  ‘If a big dog comes at you,’ she continued, ‘then grab both of its front legs, pull them out sideways – eeeee-yo! – and snap its back.’

  Arthur snorted, unimpressed.

  ‘I know how to deal with a Mountain Lion,’ she wheedled.

  ‘How?’ Arthur asked.

  ‘Flash.’

  Arthur struggled to register this.

  ‘Open your coat,’ she expanded, ‘to make yourself look bigger.’

  ‘What if you’re not wearing a coat?’ Arthur tried his best to deflate her. ‘What if it’s the height of summer?’

  ‘Then talk in a VERY LOW VOICE,’ she boomed.

  Arthur didn’t comment.

  ‘I know how to jump from a high cliff down into a river,’ she continued, ‘and I also know how to identify a terrorist bomb in the post.’

  ‘How?’ he asked.

  ‘If a package has a handwritten address label, but comes from a credible commercial source, then that’s suspicious. And if it’s unevenly balanced – when you handle it – or tied up in string, those are sure-fire give-aways,’ she said.

  ‘Why string?’ he asked.

  ‘Because nobody wraps packages in string any more. Only bombers.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Terrorists use string because they’re very old-fashioned, at heart,’ she continued, ignoring his objections.

  ‘I wrap packages up in string,’ Arthur repeated.

  ‘That’s sweet,’ she said, adjusting her grip, ‘but next time use Sellotape.’

  ‘No string,’ Arthur grumbled, ‘that’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Another sure-fire give-away,’ she continued, ‘is too much postage.’

  The boat jolted, sideways. Arthur clung onto the door.

  A high wave?

  A collapsing stanchion?

  There was a tearing sound.

  ‘Because that means,’ Sasha piped up again, ‘that the terrorist didn’t want to risk taking it to the…’

  ‘How about the river?’ Arthur interrupted her, swallowing. His mouth felt dry –

  Thirsty

  All the damn liquid’s gone into my bladder

  ‘Well if you’re in a sinking car,’ she said (plainly being extra-specific about the kind of vehicle to try and safeguard his feelings), ‘then you need to open the windows so that when the water eventually flows inside, it’ll maintain its balance.’

  ‘Why not open the door?’ Arthur tested her. His voice was shaking. His knees were hurting –

  Fearfully

  ‘Water pressure would be too great,’ she explained.

  He nodded.

  ‘Anyway, you might tip the whole thing over. If your engine’s in the front you’ll sink at a steep angle. Ten foot of water or over and you’ll end up on the roof, more than likely.’

  ‘What if you’re not in a car?’ Arthur enquired, swallowing hard, trying to locate Wesley again, on the horizon.

  ‘Well if you aren’t in a car and you’re jumping off a bridge – say – then you need to jump in legs first, keeping them very straight, very tight, and covering up your privates with your hands so the leeches don’t bite…’ she paused. ‘That’s a little joke.’

  Arthur didn’t react.

  ‘Then squeeze your feet together and clench your buttocks. When you hit the water – if it’s deep enough – spread out your arms and legs to try and create…’

  ‘He’s back,’ Arthur exclaimed, barely troubling to disguise his relief.

  Wesley had reappeared on the edge of his sightline. He wasn’t alone, this time.

  ‘He’s got a horse,’ Arthur murmured.

  ‘Is it piebald?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I saw that stallion yesterday. Do you think he might’ve rung the fire brigade?’

  ‘If he has,’ Arthur quipped, ‘then he’s a very intelligent animal.’

  Sasha was silent for a second, then, ‘Good call.’

  She was smiling.

  ‘Maybe he did,’ Arthur said, five seconds too late to sound convincing –

  He hasn’t

  He wants me dead

  If Bethan finds out I’m here she’ll never…

  She’ll never…

  She’ll turn the kid against me

  She’ll make the kid hate me

  As Wesley drew closer it became clear that he was also dragging several planks along with him. And more rope – in several sections – but some of it rather shabby-looking.

  He led the horse carefully down the bank.

  ‘This horse is a shit,’ he said, ‘it bit my arse when I turned my back.’

  There was a furtive snigger from inside the boat.

  Arthur frowned –

  Silence

  Wesley mulled this chuckle over. ‘Hell,’ he finally exclaimed, ‘let’s rescue the deer and ditch the kid.’

  ‘Bah,’ the girl exclaimed.

  Arthur couldn’t tell if Wesley was joking or not. He smiled thinly. He’d begun shivering, almost uncontrollably.

  Wesley had tied a length of rope around the horse’s neck and midriff.

  ‘We’ve been lucky,’ he said, ‘there’s all kinds o
f crap hanging around under the bridge. Planks left over from the construction work…’

  He began knotting the remaining segments of rope together. When he’d finished he tied the end section firmly around his waist.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Arthur asked.

  ‘Your hands are too weak,’ Wesley explained impassively, ‘I’m going to have to come over.’

  Arthur looked astonished. ‘The boat couldn’t possibly sustain the extra…’

  ‘Bollocks. It’s the back section that’s fucked. The front’s fine.’

  Wesley put his good hand onto the remaining guide rail. The rail slowly, but inexorably, collapsed beneath it. He watched the wood hit the water, then shrugged. ‘I never liked that rail,’ he said.

  He led the horse to the pike, tethered it, then arranged the planks he’d collected in order of length. The longest he manoeuvred out towards the stricken vessel, sliding it along what remained of the gangplank. It was only just long enough, and the bank’s dense muddiness didn’t improve its grip. Wesley tested it with his foot. He shrugged. He slid the other planks between the two.

  ‘I certainly hope that deer’s sure-footed,’ he murmured. Then he stepped out.

  Forty-six

  She suddenly felt the urge to clean –

  Everywhere

  Everybody

  Everything

  Started off in the hallway: found an unused roll of black plastic refuse sacks, unwound them, tore them off – one by one – and began piling stuff, en masse, inside of them: bottles, bags of bottles, junk-mail, the broken coffee filter machine, an old draining-board, a shrunken jumper, a cracked flower-pot, a stained sundress, a batch of carpet samples…

  She pulled her plaits out, yanked her hair back. Tied it up with an old rubber band. Smoothed her hands roughly – matter-of-factly – across her still-wet cheeks. Left a series of long, dirty, finger-strokes there.

  Sniffed.

  Coughed.

  Glanced down at herself. Pulled off her slippers (black and purple Chinese-pattern antique satin, criminally worn-down at the heel) and threw them in. Took off her dressing gown (a small tear under the arm). Did the same again.

  Drew a deep breath, panted it out.

  She walked through to the living room, dug around under the table, found an old denim overall. Unfolded it. Stepped into it. Pushed the poppers together on the front. The arms were too long. And the legs. It didn’t bother her. Found a half-used bottle of pine-scented disinfectant, an old cloth. Poured one onto the other.