Behindlings
Page 49
Katherine ducked left to avoid it. Her book fell to the floor.
Josephine walked over to the doll’s house. She flexed her fingers.
‘No,’ Katherine said. She gulped, then put her hand over her mouth.
‘I won’t ask you again,’ Josephine said, and bent over to pick it up.
Katherine vomited, vociferously, down onto the carpet.
‘MORE!’ Josephine shouted, holding the house suspended in the air, her elbows buckling under the weight of it, the furniture shifting within, the front facade creaking, threatening to fall open.
Katherine vomited again. A third time.
‘Put it…’ she tried to clear her mouth, was sick again, ‘down.’
‘Of course.’ Josephine nodded. She dropped the doll’s house. It landed on its corner, with a crack.
‘What a tragedy,’ she murmured, ‘now you have absolutely nothing left worth staying here for.
‘I need to borrow your bike…’ she continued, swooping down to pick up the Gumble book, shaking the sick off it, seeing the disinfectant bottle stuffed under Katherine’s counterpane. She grabbed that too, inspected the back, ‘Jesus, 3% non-ionic surfactants. A glass of tap water has more chemicals in it than that…’
She sniggered, ‘It’s 97% preservative. This stuff’d probably increase your life expectancy, before it ended it…. ’
She threw the bottle down, dismissively.
Katherine’s eyes were still slowly moving from Josephine to the doll’s house (the tiny chair on the floor, the vicious crack on the front of the facade) then back.
‘Next time your self-hatred gets too overpowering,’ Josephine advised her, ‘try pure bleach. It has a little more kick…’
Jo sprang – in a timely leap – towards the door, as Katherine exploded out of bed and scrambled, gnashing like a chained bull-terrier, across the floor.
Forty-nine
He was suddenly calculating –
Really calculating
– although he’d never –
Very strange
– ever been even remotely mathematically-inclined at school (or since) –
Never
– but he found himself tabulating, nonetheless –
All these numbers, just spinning and squeezing and compacting and rotating… Oh Lord
– stuff about the acuteness of the angle at which he’d fallen, and the precise geometrical…
Uh
I think I hit my…
Arthur opened his eyes –
If only it wasn’t so cold – and if only I could breathe – I might con-con-consider a permanent in-in-investment in the underwater scene
He couldn’t see much –
No views
Just mud
Wood
Stuff
– but he was sharp enough to witness a violent and thoroughly unwarranted –
The bastards!
– desertion by some of his most important, his most critical formulas –
Shit
How to survive without 124/6792 +/- 453/009.8735465489?
Huh?
– saw them writhing away from him, like eels…
Come back!
And all those lovely fractions of fractions…
All those x’s to the power of…
Tried to grab their tails –
Not quick enough
– so he wished them well, with a heavy heart. Tried to make the best of it –
Bye-bye…
Bon-voyage…
He even slapped a couple on their backs (for good measure); booted their tiny, arithmetical rumps…
Wuh?
Wake-up!
His head snapped around as he suddenly felt –
Thwhap!
Otter-water-fur
Big
Wood-scrabble
Clip
Limb
Hoof
Bubble
Nuugh!
Deer
Remember the deer?
And that other life you had?
That old life?
Rope. Stiff rope…
Uuuuhhh…
He felt the irresistible urge to feel his way along it.
So much commotion above…
The kick
The white
The panic
He gradually worked his way down; a blind man walking the prom – it wasn’t far – and there he found…
No!
Stop!
Everything flooded back:
Wesley
4578/78 + 9/452222
She was a recruitment officer
She lived in Palmer’s Green
And I –
He –
I –
He –
Arthur Young…
Arthur Anthony Young…
And she was called Bethany –
No –
Bethan –
And he –
I –
He felt very strong things for her
He lo-lo-lo
Wesley
And that hand
And the sheer poetry in the way he…
I like a walk
I like a drink
I work –
I worked –
I work –
I worked
– for the sugar industry.
But my…
My great-great-great-great grandfather…
‘There is certainly something in the amiable simplicity of unadorned nature, that spreads over the mind a more noble sort of tranquillity, and a lo-lo-lo
Enough!
and a lo-lo-loftier sensation of pleasure, than can be raised from the nicer scenes of art…’
Argh
At first I just…
At first I just…
To be rejected so gently,
So absolutely…
Took a little comfort – hell, not ashamed to admit it – in the embrace of the bottle
The lovely bottle
And Gillian with herpes
From the PR
The PR
The PR…
Depart
Not enough
When they caught him…
After he stole the fucking…
The fucking pond…
Not enough
He was everything I ever…
He was…
He had…
He disregarded…
He thumbed his nose…
He trampled…
He turned his damn back…
And I
He –
I –
He hated him for that
Had to keep an –
An –
An –
An eye…
Keep track
First the private detective, just to keep a few… a few… a few tabs…
The mounting ex-ex-ex-expenses
The baby
God
Am I…?
Could I…?
Did my in-in-in-infidelities…?
And Bethan told him –
me –
him –
me…
It’s him or me, Arthur
It’s him or me and our little…
little –
little –
little –
Fucked up
Baby
Look
I’d love a drink
A short
A shot
I’m over it.
I’m honestly…
Look!
Arthur put out his hand towards the limp body. He could feel a shoulder, a face…
Was he awake?
He could feel his…
His hand –
That wounded hand
That trade-mark hand
How small it is
– then the rope. Twisted… he felt for it… still looped around him and then over a…
Beam?
Rafter?
Log?
… holding him down. Stopping his escape. Deer at the other end.
Yanking. Yanking.
‘Rise to the surface, Arthur
This is your Father speaking
I think you probably need something we people call oxygen’
Just a small twist, a jerk, a pull. He would be free again…
Shall I leave him?
Arthur turned –
The hand tightened in Arthur’s hand –
He was awakening –
Arthur tried to see him –
Could almost see him –
Waited for the entreaty –
Help me!
Save me!
But then it dawned on him. He wasn’t actually clinging on so much as pushing… pushing away –
Can’t be!
– he was –
Not begging but rejecting…
– He didn’t… he didn’t want to be free. He wanted to… to… to stay.
He’s planning to stay here, like me
He’s planning to finish his journey in this place
At this time…
The swine!
To be trumped here? In death?
Even in death?
By Wesley?
Arthur found the snag on the rope, unlooped it, tugged –
Tugged
Then the deer did his work for him – dragged Wesley towards the surface like a sprat on a line…
Wesley roared –
Urgh-argh – urgh-urgh!
Threw out his arms, grabbed Arthur’s shoulder…
They embraced each other…
Kicking…
Bellowing…
Flailing…
Rising to the surface like a self-hating eight-angry-limbed octo-octo-octo…pusssssssss
Punctured balloons, deflating
HUUUUAAAAHHHHHRRRRR!
Air
The deer dragged them to the bank, two pegs on a line; two knots in a lace; two rattles on a snake…
Breathing
Gasping
Chattering
Pumping
Life
They clung together; tight as a couple of sharp notches on an old, leather whip. Caked with hair, sweat, blood.
Two ugly, trusty outboard motors, their cords held and pulled…
The wonderful stop, restarting with a roar.
The wonderful stop, restarting.
The boy stood by the trolley stroking the Old Man’s left foot. The Old Man was still missing a shoe. His foot was clad in only a thin, clean, white cotton sock. Slightly too big for him. They were in casualty. There was currently no bed ready. The Old Man had seen a trauma specialist. Then he’d dozed off.
He hadn’t noticed the boy’s arrival (his hands clutching anxiously at the zip on his jacket, his thin neck, his grey skin, his eyes darting about him like two water-boatmen on the polluted surface of a dank river basin).
Patty was uncertain about the extent of the Old Man’s injuries. He’d made several forceful enquiries on this subject upon his arrival, but had then promptly neglected to listen to the answers. Had simply moved on and enquired some more.
He was shivering. A kind-hearted nurse had brought him a cup of tea and he crouched over it, like a sullen rook after a rainstorm, its feathers all shaken out. The heat in-between his palms and fingers made his shoulders stiffen.
‘Following’s got so complicated,’ the boy murmured to the sock, once he’d put the cup aside, ‘but you’re the champ at it, Doc. You’re the whizz. You’re the star. If you left us, Doc, it’d all fall apart. Because you’re the champ, Doc. You’re the killer.’
As if words alone could not convey the violence of his emotions, the boy began twisting Doc’s white-cotton-clad toe, at first softly, then with an ever-greater voracity.
‘I love you, man. You’re the bloody-fucking-whizz. That’s for certain. I even love your dog, although it pissed on my boot when I first joined up and everybody laughed at me. And that wasn’t actually very funny. I didn’t like it. And you didn’t like me either, back then, Doc. But I think we’ve grown to mutually respect each other. But you’re still the champ, man. You’re still solid, man. Rock solid, man.’
Doc sat bolt upright.
‘Ow!’
The boy sprang back.
‘You’re alive again,’ he whispered, plainly awed.
‘What are you doing to my bloody foot?’ Doc asked crossly.
‘Nothing.’
‘Then what have you done with my bloody shoe?’ Doc asked, crosser still.
‘Nothing. It must’ve fell off.’
‘A likely story,’ Doc harrumphed.
‘I thought you was dead,’ the boy muttered.
‘You thought I was dead so you stole my damn shoe?’ The Old Man felt around inside his pockets, ‘What else did you try and nick, you little monster?’
Doc pulled himself stiffly from the trolley. ‘Not dead yet, boy,’ he mumbled darkly, starting to walk, gingerly, ‘still too much to do.’
‘Your dog’s outside,’ the boy followed him through the ward, ‘he was tied up at the Turpin house, so I brought him over. Just in case you…’
Doc turned and looked down at the boy. ‘What’re you waiting for?’ he asked gruffly. ‘You’ve had your moment, now sod off.’
On his way out, the boy dumped his half-full paper cup onto the desk at the nurse’s station. ‘I hate fucking tea,’ he yelled, then nudged it and tipped it up and ran out laughing.
When the back of the pick-up was fully loaded and the tarpaulin was pulled over to protect its contents, Dewi opened the bonnet and inspected the engine. He checked the water, the oil. The oil was low. He carefully added some.
He was ready to go.
But first…
He’d seen Josephine Bean leaving at full tilt on Katherine’s bike. He’d heard a certain amount of commotion. But he refused to… he couldn’t…
He sniffed and pulled up the collar on his coat.
The sleet was setting in; there’d been a slight change in wind direction. He glanced over towards the smashed bungalow window. He frowned. He scratched his head. He turned and disappeared inside his own bungalow. He re-emerged, minutes later, holding some strips of polythene and some masking tape. He crossed the road. He began to hold up the polythene to the window frame…
He scowled.
He returned to his van, pulled back the tarpaulin, located his tool box, removed a small hammer, a chisel, a little hand-brush…
He climbed in through Katherine’s window. Katherine was sitting on the sofa, wrapped up in a duvet, quietly watching him. He gave her a blank look, as if all remaining traces of affection had been scoured out of his eyes, his brain, turned, and gently began tapping out the worst of the glass.
But he was a perfectionist. Soon he was tapping out all of it, even chiselling out the bits inside the frame. When it was clean, he climbed outside again. He began sticking the plastic up; it didn’t take him long.
Then he was ready to go.
But first he went and found a broom and began sweeping up the exterior glass. He went and grabbed an empty, heavy brown-paper potato bag –
Bonzel Potatoes; Desiree 10lbs – and poured the glass remnants inside it. Folded the top over. Once. Twice. Sealed it with tape. Put it next to the gatepost for the bin-men to collect.
Now he was ready to go.
The hydrangea was still on the pavement, though. He went over and fetched it. He inspected it for root damage (extensive, no matter what the Bean girl’d said). He went into his back garage and found some compost, a fork, a watering can. He carried them over to the bungalow. He turned the soil over, fertilised, replanted the hydrangea, watered it.
Now he was ready to go.
First he needed to wash his hands, though. He went back to his bungalow and washed his hands. Dried them. Strolled out onto his verandah. Noticed that the hydrangea was tilting in the wind – to the left. Went
and found a stake in his back garage and some rope. Staked the hydrangea up and tied it into place. That was better.
Yup.
He dusted himself off.
Now he was ready to go. He put the keys to his house into a brown envelope and pushed the envelope under the doormat. He straightened up and looked around him for the final time. The last, the very last time. He walked down his steps, along his path, through his gate (which clicked shut behind him then opened again. He turned and clicked it properly shut). He climbed into his van. He put on his seat belt. He adjusted his rear-view-mirror. He pushed his keys into the ignition. He fired the engine. He waited for three minutes exactly. Then he drove off.
He was gone.
‘It’s your fault.’
Wesley was standing on the bank, dripping wet. He was pointing at Eileen who was holding onto Sasha for support. Clutching at her. Or perhaps it was the other way around. He couldn’t tell. He didn’t care.
He was angry. He was cold. He was alive.
Eileen was shaking. The box of eggs lay open on the floor.
‘Pardon?’ the little girl said, her eyes moving religiously from his face to his hand, his face to his hand.
He tried not to look back at her. When he looked at her he felt an uncontrollable urge to slap her face, then his own. So he tried not to look.
‘You sank my father’s boat,’ Wesley snarled (ignoring the girl’s intervention), ‘and that was all I had left of him.’ Eileen was terrified.
‘It was only…’ she kept saying, making a pathetic throwing movement with her hand, ‘just a tiny…’
‘He’s being ridiculous,’ the girl murmured, ‘ignore him.’
Wesley took a furious step forward, lifted his bad hand and slapped his own face.
Clap
Arthur turned, from the bank, to apprehend this act. It was the first time they’d made eye contact since they’d been on dry land. Arthur watched him, half-smiling. There was almost… almost pity in it. Wesley saw the smile, recognised its meaning, felt a surge of rage rise within him. ‘I should’ve left that damn canister,’ he spat. He immediately regretted it. So much so that he held his breath –
A stillness
Arthur frowned. The deer made a grunting sound. He turned back towards the water. Sasha gave a low cry and moved towards the bank. Eileen remained where she was.
Wesley began breathing again. He shuddered. He saw his knife in her hand.