Darkmans

by Nicola Barker

  Beede thought modern life was ‘all waffle’. He’d never owned a car, but persisted in driving around on an ancient, filthy and shockingly unreliable Douglas motorcycle – c. 1942, with the requisite piss-pot helmet. He didn’t own a tv. He found Radio 4 ‘chicken-livered’. He feared the microwave. He thought deodorant was the devil’s sputum. He blamed David Beckham – personally – for breeding a whole generation of boys whose only meaningful relationship was with the mirror. He called it ‘kid-narcissism’…although he still used hair oil himself, and copiously. Unperfumed, of course. He was rigorously allergic to sandalwood, seafood and lanolin; Jeez! An oriental prawn in a lambswool sweater would probably’ve done for him).

  Okay. Okay. So Kane freely admitted (Kane did everything freely) that he took so little interest in Beede’s life, in general, that he might actually find it quite difficult to delineate between the two (the big things, the small). He tipped his head to one side. I mean what mattered to Beede? Did he live large? Was he lost in the details?

  Or (now hang on a second) perhaps – Kane promptly pulled himself off his self-imposed hook (no apparent damage to knitwear) – perhaps he did know. Perhaps he’d drunk it all in, subconsciously, the way any son must. Perhaps he knew everything already and merely had to do a spot of careful digging around inside his own keen – if irredeemably frivolous – psyche (polishing things off, systematising, card-indexing) to sort it all out.

  But Oh God that’d be hard work! That’d take some real effort. And it’d be messy. And he was tired. And – quite frankly – Beede bored him. Beede was just so…so vehement. So intent. So focussed. Too focussed. Horribly focussed. In fact Beede was quite focussed enough for the both of them (and why not add a small gang of Olympic Tri-Athletes, an international chess champion, and that crazy nut who carved the Eiffel Tower out of a fucking toothpick into the mix, for good measure?).

  Beede was so uptight, so pent up, so unbelievably…uh…priggish (re-pressed/sup-pressed – you name it, he was it) that if he ever actually deigned to cut loose (Beede? Cut loose? Are you serious?!) then he would probably just cut right out (yawn. Again), like some huge but cranky petrol-driven lawnmower (a tremendously well-constructed but unwieldy old Allen, say). I mean all that deep inner turmoil…all that…that tightly buttoned, straight-backed, quietly creaking, Strindberg-style tension. Where the hell would it go? How on earth could it…?

  Eh?

  Of course, by comparison – and by sheer coincidence – Kane’s entire life mission –

  Oh how lovely to hone in on me again

  – was to be mirthful. To be fluffy. To endow mere trifles with an exquisitely inappropriate gravitas. Kane found depth an abomination. He lived in the shallows, and, like a shark (a sand shark; not a biter), he basked in them. He both eschewed boredom and yet considered himself the ultimate arbiter of it. Boredom terrified him. And because Beede, his father, was so exquisitely dull (celebrated a kind of immaculate dullness – he was the Virgin Mary of the Long Hour) Kane had gradually engineered himself into his father’s anti.

  If Beede had ever sought to underpin the community then Kane had always sought to undermine it. If Beede lived like a monk, then Kane revelled in smut and degeneracy. If Beede felt the burden of life’s weight (and heaven knows, he felt it), then Kane consciously rejected worldly care.

  A useful (and gratifying) side-product of this process was Kane’s gradual apprehension that there was a special kind of glory in self-interest, a magnificence in self-absorption, a heroism in degeneracy, which other people (the general public – the culture) seemed to find not only laudable, but actively endearing.

  Come on. Come on; nobody liked a stuffed shirt; nobody found puritanism sexy (except for Angelo who wanted to shag Isabella in Measure for Measure. But Shakespeare was a pervert; and they didn’t bother teaching you that in O-level literature…); nobody – but nobody – wanted to stand next to the teetotaller at the party –

  Hey! Where’s the guy in the novelty hat with the six pack of beer?

  Kane half-smiled to himself as he took out his phone, opened it, deftly ran through his texts, closed it, shoved it back into his pocket, took a final drag on his cigarette and then stubbed it out.

  ‘So what’s that you’re reading?’

  He picked up his lighter (a smart, silver and red-enamelled Ronson) and struck it, lightly –

  Nothing.

  After an almost interminable six-second hiatus, Beede closed his book and placed it down – with a small sigh – on to his lap. ‘Whatever happened to that girl?’ he asked mechanically (having immediately apprehended the fatuous nature of Kane’s literary enquiry). Kane frowned –

  Wow…

  To answer a question with a question –

  Masterly.

  ‘Girl?’ Kane stared back at him, blankly. ‘Which girl? The waitress?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Beede snapped. ‘The little girl. The skinny one. I haven’t seen her around in a while…’

  ‘Skinny?’

  Kane adopted a look of cheerful bewilderment.

  ‘The redhead,’ Beede persisted (thoroughly immune to Kane’s humbug). ‘Too skinny. Red hair. Bright red hair…’

  ‘Red hair?’

  ‘Yes. Red hair. Purple-red…’

  ‘Purple?’

  ‘Yes…’ (Beede yanked on his trusty, old pair of mental crampons and kicked them, grimly, into the vertical rockface of his self-control).

  ‘Yes. Purple.’

  Kane didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Purple?’ he repeated, taking some time out to savour the feel of this word on his tongue –

  Purple

  Purrrrr-pull

  – then glancing up –

  Ooops

  – and relenting. ‘You probably mean Kelly,’ he vouchsafed, almost lasciviously. ‘Little Kelly Broad. Lovely, filthy, skinny, little Kelly…’

  ‘Kelly Broad. Of course,’ Beede echoed curtly. ‘So are the two of you still an item?’

  An item? Kane smirked at this quaint formulation. ‘Hell, no…’ he took a long swig of his Pepsi, ‘that’s all…’ he burped, ‘excuse me…totally fucked now.’

  Beede waited, patiently, for any further elucidation. None was forthcoming.

  ‘Well that’s a pity,’ he finally murmured.

  ‘Why?’ Kane wondered.

  Beede shrugged, as if the answer was simply obvious.

  ‘Why?’ Kane asked again (employing exactly the same maddening vocal emphasis as before).

  ‘Because she was a decent enough girl,’ Beede observed stolidly, ‘and I liked her.’

  Kane snorted. Beede glanced up at him, wounded. He took a quick sip of his coffee (in the hope of masking any further emotional leakage), then – urgh – winced, involuntarily.

  ‘Tasty?’ Kane enquired, with an arch lift of his brow. Beede placed the cup back down, very gently, on to its saucer. Kane idly struck at his lighter again –

  Nothing.

  ‘So you think I had a problem with her?’ Beede wondered, out loud, after a brief interval.

  ‘Pardon?’ Kane was already thoroughly bored by the subject.

  ‘A problem? You mean with Kelly? Uh…’ He gave this a moment’s thought. ‘Yes. Yes. I suppose I think you did.’

  Beede looked shocked.

  Kane chuckled. ‘Oh come on…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You oozed disapproval.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Through every conceivable orifice.’

  Beede’s nostrils flared at this cruel defamation, but he drew a long, deep breath and swallowed down his ire.

  ‘Okay. Okay…’ he murmured tightly. ‘So what do you think I “disapproved” of exactly?’

  Kane threw up his hands. ‘Where to begin?’

  Beede folded his arms. Kane duly noted the folding. ‘All right then,’ he volunteered, ‘you thought she was a tart.’

  Beede blinked –

  Tart?

  ‘You k
now…’ Kane’s voice adopted the tender but world-weary tone of an adult describing something simple yet fundamental to a wayward toddler – like how to eat, how to walk (‘So you put one foot…that’s it, one foot, very slowly, in front of the other…’)‘…a tart; a harlot, a strumpet, a whore…’

  Beede opened his mouth to respond, but Kane barrelled on, ‘Although you shouldn’t actually feel bad about it. I was fine with it. In fact – if anything – it was an incentive of sorts…I mean romantically.’

  He paused for a second, musing. ‘Isn’t it odd how the disapproval of others can often contribute so profoundly to one’s enjoyment of a thing?’

  Beede opened his mouth to answer.

  ‘Tarts especially,’ Kane interrupted him.

  ‘Well she certainly dressed quite provocatively…’ Beede ruminated.

  Kane waved this objection aside. ‘Nah. It was all just an act. Smoke and mirrors. A total fabrication. She was a sweetheart, an innocent. Her bad reputation was down to nothing more than a couple of stupid choices and some bad PR.’

  ‘But you still broke up with her,’ Beede needled.

  Kane shrugged.

  ‘Indicating that perhaps – at some level – it did actually bother you?’

  ‘No,’ Kane shook his head. ‘It wasn’t ever a question of virtue with Kelly. It was simply an issue of trust.’

  ‘Ah-ha…’ Beede pounced on this idea, greedily. ‘But isn’t that the same issue?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  Kane smiled at his father, almost fondly, as if touched – even flattered – by the unexpectedly intrusive line of his questioning. ‘She wasn’t a tart. Not at all. But she was a thief, which is a quality I find marginally less endearing.’

  Beede seemed taken aback by this piece of information.

  ‘She stole? What did she steal?’

  ‘Huh?’

  Kane’s attention was momentarily diverted by a sudden commotion outside in the car park.

  ‘I said what did she steal?’

  Kane struck his lighter again –

  Nothing

  ‘You really want to know?’ he murmured.

  ‘I just asked, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes. Yes you did…’ He sighed. ‘She stole tranquillisers, mainly; Benzodiazepines…’

  Kane struck his lighter for a final time and on this occasion a flame actually emerged and it was a full 5 inches high (he always set his lighters at maximum flare, even if his fringe paid the ultimate price for his profligacy).

  ‘…Some Xanax. Some Valium. Some…’

  He paused, abruptly, mid-enumeration –

  ‘Holy shit!’

  The flame cut out.

  A man.

  There was a man.

  There was a man at the window, gazing in at them. And he was perched on a horse; an old, piebald mare (the horse wore no saddle, no reins, but he sat astride her – holding on to her mane – with absolute confidence). He was a strange man; had a long, lean, pale-looking face underpinned by a considerable jaw, grey with stubble; a mean mouth, sharp, dark eyes, thick, brown brows but no other hair to speak of. His head was cleanly shaven. He was handsome – vital, even – but with a distinctly delinquent air. He was wearing something strangely unfeasible in a bright yellow (a colour of such phenomenal intensity it’d cheerfully take the shine off a prize canary).

  The window was horse-high, only; its torso banged against the glass, steaming it over – so the man leaned down low to peek in, as if peering into the tank of an aquarium (or a display cabinet in a museum). Kane couldn’t tell – at first – what exactly it was that he was looking for, but he seemed absolutely enthralled by what he saw (seemed to take delight in things – like a child – quite readily). He was smiling (although not in an entirely child-like way), and when his eyes alighted upon Kane, the smile expanded, exponentially (small, neat, yellowed teeth, a touch of tongue). He reached out a hand and beckoned towards him –

  Come

  Kane dropped his lighter.

  As the lighter hit the table-top Beede turned himself and followed the line of Kane’s gaze. His own eyes widened.

  The horseman kicked at the mare’s flanks and pulled away. There was a thud of hooves on soil (God only knows what havoc he’d wreaked on the spring flower display in the bed below the window) and then a subsequent musket-clatter on the tarmac.

  Kane shoved back his chair and stood up. ‘Is the fucking carnival in town or what?’ he asked (noticing the quick pump of his heart, the sharp flow of his breath). He’d barely finished speaking (was about half-way to the window to try and see more) when a woman walked into the room. She was holding on to the hand of a small boy. She appeared to be searching for someone.

  This time it was Beede’s turn to spring to his feet. The book on his lap fell to the floor. Kane spun around to the sound of its falling. ‘Elen!‘ Beede exclaimed, his face flushing slightly.

  The woman did not acknowledge him at first. She merely paused, glanced from Beede to Kane, then back again, her expression barely altering (it remained bright and calm and untroubled. Almost serene). Kane saw that she had a large birthmark – a brown mole – in the curve of her nose, just to the right of her left eye, but it disappeared from view as a sheet of long, dark hair slipped out from behind her ear.

  ‘Did Isidore bring you here?’ Beede asked, trying (and almost succeeding) to sound less emotionally involved than before. She looked a little surprised as she pushed back her hair. ‘Of course not,’ her lips pursed together in a brief pucker of concern, ‘he’s at work today.’

  She had a soft voice. The accent wasn’t Ashford but it was too vague for Kane to place it. As she spoke she released the boy’s hand. The boy walked straight past Kane and over to the window, but instead of looking through it (he was a little short for this, anyhow), he turned, shoved his back against the wall, and pulled the curtain across the top half of his body (thereby casually obscuring what remained of Kane’s view). Kane scowled (only the bottom half of the boy’s torso was now visible), glancing from the curtain and back to Beede again. ‘Did you see that creature out there?’ he asked, his head still full of what’d happened before.

  ‘This is my son, Kane,’ Beede murmured to the woman, in a light, almost excessively straightforward way.

  The woman nodded at Kane. She smiled slightly. She was very lean. Her clothes were long and hippyish, but dark and plain and clean.

  ‘Elen is my chiropodist,’ Beede explained.

  ‘Hi,’ Kane muttered, glancing distractedly towards the window again, focussing in on the boy, who – quiet as he remained – was rather difficult to ignore.

  ‘Fleet,’ the woman said – her voice mild but authoritative – ‘please come away from there.’

  ‘I owed Elen some money,’ Beede continued (almost to thin air). He put his hand to his pocket, then thought better of it and leaned down to pick up his bag from the floor.

  Kane noticed how he pronounced her name – not Ellen, but E-len – as if the ‘l’ had quite bewitched his tongue.

  The boy ducked out from under the curtain (leaving it drawn), walked back over to his mother and stood at her side. He was small and wild-looking (four years old? five?); an imp; round-faced and wide-lipped, with pale skin, brown freckles and black hair. He stared at Kane, unblinking. Then he smiled. He had no front teeth.

  ‘We were waiting in the bar area,’ the woman said, glancing for a moment towards the window herself (as if sensing Kane’s preoccupation with it). ‘Fleet found a counter on the floor and put it into one of the machines. He won some money.’

  The boy jiggled his hands around in his pockets and gurgled, delightedly.

  ‘The barman said he was underage…’

  ‘He is,’ Beede interrupted.

  Kane rolled his eyes, then displaced his irritation by taking out his phone and checking his texts again. The woman observed Kane’s irritation, but showed no reaction to it.

  ‘He gave me all of these,’ Fleet int
erjected, pulling several packets of complimentary matches from his pockets, laughing and rotating on the spot, his face turned up to the ceiling, the matches clutched tightly to his chest. His mother put out her hand to steady him. ‘He builds things with them,’ she explained.

  Outside the horse was still vaguely audible as it moved around in the car park. While Beede continued to search through his bag, Kane strolled over to the window, pulled the curtain back and peered out. The horse was visible, but way off to his left. It had come to a halt in the children’s play area, where it stood, breathing heavily and defecating. The man was now struggling to climb off its back. But it was an entirely different man.

  Kane blinked.

  Entirely different. Tall. Nordic. Smartly dressed in some kind of uniform –

  Imposter

  He pushed his palms up against the glass and looked around for the canary-coated stranger, but nobody else was visible out there.

  ‘How strange,’ he said, turning just in time to see Beede’s hand withdrawing from the woman’s hand (he had passed her an envelope. She placed it into her bag, her eyes meeting Kane’s, calmly).

  ‘What is?’ Beede asked.

  ‘The man who peered in through the window a moment ago. The man on the horse. He’s changed.’