Darkmans

by Nicola Barker

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He had a shaved head and a thin face. He was dressed in yellow.’

  The boy suddenly stopped revolving. He grabbed on to his mother’s skirts. ‘Oh dear,’ he whispered, then pushed his face deep into the fabric and kept it hidden there.

  The child was definitely beginning to work on Kane’s nerves.

  Beede was staring at Kane, but his expression was unreadable (was it disbelief? Was it irritation? Anger? What was it?) The woman merely stared at the ground, frowning, as if carefully considering something.

  ‘Did you see him?’ Kane asked again.

  ‘Uh…no. No. And I’m late – work. I’d better head off.’ Beede spoke abruptly. He touched the woman’s sleeve (she smiled), ruffled the boy’s hair (the boy released his mother’s skirt and gazed up at him), slung his bag over his shoulder, grabbed his helmet, his goggles, and rapidly strode off.

  Kane watched him go, blankly. Then he blinked (something seemed to strike him) and he focussed –

  What?!

  Beede disappeared from view.

  ‘Is anything the matter?’ the woman asked, observing Kane’s sudden air of confusion.

  He turned to look at her. ‘No.’ He put his hand to his head.

  ‘Yeah.’ He removed his hand. ‘No…It’s just that…’ he paused, ‘Beede…There’s something…something odd.’

  She nodded, as if she understood what he meant.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  She smiled (that smile again) but didn’t answer.

  ‘Do you know?’

  He struggled to mask his irritation. She folded her arms across her chest and nodded again, now almost teasing him.

  ‘Then what is it?’

  ‘His walk,’ she said, plainly.

  Kane drew a sharp breath. ‘His limp,’ he exclaimed (as if this information had come to him entirely without prompting). ‘He’s lost his limp.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But how…? When?’

  ‘A while ago now.’

  ‘Really?’

  She nodded. Kane scratched his jaw –

  Two days’ growth

  He felt engulfed by a sudden wave of feeblemindedness –

  Too tired

  Too stoned

  Too fucked…

  He looked at her, hard, as if she might be the answer to his problem –

  Chiropodist

  ‘Did you get rid of it?’ he asked.

  She smiled, her eyes shining.

  Kane rubbed at his own eyes. He felt a little stupid. He steadied himself.

  ‘Beede’s had that verruca since I was a kid,’ he said slowly. ‘It was pretty bad.’

  ‘I believe it was very painful,’ she said, still smiling (as if the memory of Beede’s pain was somehow delightful to her).

  He coldly observed the smile –

  Is she mocking him?

  Is she mocking me?

  – then he gradually collected his thoughts together. ‘Yes,’ he said stiffly, ‘I have one in almost exactly the same place, but it’s never really…’

  His words petered out.

  She shrugged. ‘People often inherit them. It’s fairly common. Verrucas can be neurotic…’

  ‘Neurotic?’

  Kane’s voice sounded louder than he’d intended.

  ‘Yes,’ she was smiling again, ‘when a patient fails to get rid of something by means of conventional medicine we tend to categorise it as a psychological problem rather than as a physical one.’

  Kane struggled to digest the implications of this information. His brain seized, initially, then it belched –

  ‘But a verruca’s just some type of…of wart,’ he stuttered. ‘You catch them in changing rooms…’

  ‘Yes. But like any ailment it can be sustained by a kind of…’ she paused, thoughtfully ‘…inner turmoil.’

  The boy was now sitting on the floor and inspecting his matches. He shook each box, in turn, and listened intently to the sounds it made. ‘I can tell how many’s in there,’ he informed nobody in particular, ‘just from the rattlings.’

  ‘We’ve met before.’ Kane spoke, after a short silence.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  (He already heartily disliked how she just agreed to things, in that blank – that untroubled – way. The easy acquiescence. The cool compliance. He connected it to some kind of background in nursing. He loathed nurses. He found their bedside manner – that distinctively assertive servility – false and asphyxiating.)

  ‘You treated my mother,’ he said, feeling his chest tighten. She sat down on Beede’s chair, facing him. ‘I think I did. Years ago.’

  ‘That’s right. You came to the house. I remember now.’

  They were both quiet for a moment.

  ‘You’d just returned from Germany,’ Kane continued, plainly rather astonished (and then equally irritated) by the extent of his own recall.

  ‘Yes I had. I went there for a year, almost straight after I’d graduated.’

  ‘I remember.’

  He sniffed, trying to make it sound like nothing.

  ‘You have an impressive memory,’ she said, then put a polite hand up to her mouth, as if to suppress a yawn. This almost-yawn infuriated him. He didn’t know why.

  How old was she, anyway? Thirty-one? Thirty-three?

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s just your mole. Your birthmark. It’s extremely memorable.’

  She didn’t miss a beat.

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he struggled to repress a childish smile, ‘that must’ve sounded rude.’

  ‘No…’ she shook her head, her voice still soft as ever, ‘it didn’t sound rude.’

  Didn’t sound rude.

  Kane stared at her. She stared back at him. He took out his phone and inspected his messages.

  ‘A psychiatrist,’ she observed mildly, ‘might call what you do with that phone “masking behaviour”.’

  He glanced up, astonished –

  The cheek of it

  – then quickly checked himself. ‘I guess they might,’ he said, returning casually to his messages and sending a quick response to one of them, ‘but then you’re just a foot doctor.’

  She chuckled. She didn’t seem at all offended. ‘You have eyes just like your father’s,’ she murmured, gracefully adjusting the long hem of her skirt (as if hers was a life without technology, without chatter. A life entirely about thinking and pausing and feeling. A quiet life). Kane’s jaw stiffened. ‘I don’t think so,’ he murmured thickly, ‘they’re a completely different colour.’

  She shrugged and then sighed, like he was just a boy. She glanced down, briefly, at her son (as if, Kane felt, to make the connection 100 per cent sure), then said blandly, ‘It was a difficult time for you.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  He put his phone away. The tone of his voice told her not to persist, but she ignored the warning.

  ‘Difficult. With your mother. I remember thinking how incredibly brave you were. Heroic, almost.’

  His cheeks reddened. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Sometimes, after I’d seen her, I’d just sit in my car and shake. Just shake. I didn’t know how you coped with it. I still don’t. You were so young.’

  She smiled softly at the memory, and as she smiled, he suddenly remembered. He remembered standing at the window and seeing her in her car, shaking: her arms thrown over the steering wheel, her head thrown on to her arms –

  Oh God

  His gut twisted.

  He turned and gazed out into the car park. He was unbelievably angry. He felt found-out – unearthed – raw. But worst of all, he felt charmless. Charm was an essential part of his armoury. It was his defensive shield, and she had somehow connived to worm her way under it –

  Damn her

  He drew a deep breath.

  Outside he could suddenly see Beede –

  Huh…?

  – walking through the play area
towards the blond imposter and the horse. The imposter had now dismounted. He was touching his head. He seemed confused. Beede offered his hand to the horse. The horse sniffed his hand. It appeared very receptive to Beede’s advances.

  ‘I wonder what happened to the other man,’ Kane mused, then shuddered. Everything was feeling strange to him. Inverted. And he didn’t like it.

  ‘Maybe there were two horses,’ the boy said. He was now standing next to the table and fingering Kane’s lighter. He looked up at Kane and held it out towards him. ‘Red,’ he smiled, ‘that’s your colour.’ The lighter was red.

  He showed his mother. ‘See?’

  She said nothing.

  ‘See?’ he repeated. ‘He comes from fire.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ His mother took the lighter off him and held it out to Kane herself.

  Kane walked over and took it from her. She had beautiful hands. He remembered her hands from before.

  ‘I lived in the American desert,’ he said to the boy, ‘when I was younger. It was very hot. I once almost died in the heat out there. Look…’

  He pushed back his sleeve and showed the boy a burn on his arm. The boy seemed only mildly interested.

  Kane was about to pull his sleeve down again when the woman (Elen, was it?) put out her hand and took a firm hold of his wrist. She pulled his arm towards her. She stared at the scar. Her face was so close to it he could feel her breath on his skin. Then she let go (just as suddenly) and focussed in on the boy once more.

  ‘America,’ Kane said, taking full possession of his arm again, drawing it into his chest, shoving the sleeve down, feeling like an angry child who’d just had his school uniform damaged in a minor playground fracas. As he spoke he noticed Beede’s book on the floor. He bent down and picked it up. He shoved it into his jacket pocket.

  ‘In a magic trick,’ the boy repeated, plaintively, ‘they would’ve had two horses.’

  ‘How old are you?’ Kane asked, glancing over towards the serving counter and noticing Anthony Shilling standing there.

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Then you’re just old enough to keep it…’ he said, showing Fleet his empty hand, forming a fist, tapping his knuckles and then opening the hand up again. The red lighter had magically reappeared in the centre of his palm. The boy gasped. Kane placed it down, carefully, on to the lacquered table, nodded a curt farewell to the chiropodist, and left it there.

  TWO

  ‘I’m Beede; Daniel Beede. I’m your friend. Do you remember me, Dory?’

  Beede peered up, intently, into the tall, blond man’s face, struggling – at first – to establish any kind of a connection with him. He spoke softly (like you’d speak to a child) and he used his name carefully, as if anticipating that it might provoke some kind of violent reaction. But it didn’t.

  ‘Of course.’

  The tall, blond man blinked and then nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, of course I remember…’ He talked quietly and haltingly with a strong German accent. ‘It’s just that…uh…’

  His eyes anxiously scanned the surrounding area (the road, the horse, the tarmac, the vehicles in the car park). ‘It’s just that I suddenly have the strangest…’

  He winced, shook his head, then gazed down, briefly, at his own two hands, as if he didn’t quite recognise them. ‘…uh…fu…fu…fühlen?’

  He glanced up, quizzically.

  ‘Feeling,’ Beede translated.

  The German stared at him, blankly.

  ‘Feeling,’ Beede repeated.

  The German frowned. ‘No…not…it’s this…this…’ he patted his own chest, meaningfully, ‘fuh-ling. Feee…Yes. Yes. This feeling. This horrible, almost…’ he shuddered, ‘almost overwhelming feeling. Like a kind of…’ He swallowed. ‘A dread. A deep dread.’

  Beede nodded.

  ‘…a terrible dread.’ He moved his hands to his throat, ‘Suffocare. Suffocating. A smothering feeling. A terrible feeling…’

  ‘You’re tired,’ Beede murmured gently, ‘and possibly a little confused, but it’ll soon pass, trust me.’

  ‘I do,’ the German nodded, ‘I do traust you.’ He paused. ‘Trost you…’

  He blinked. ‘Troost.’

  ‘Trust,’ Beede repeated.

  ‘Of course…’ the German continued. ‘It’s just…’

  His darting eyes settled, momentarily, on the pony. ‘I have an awful suspicion that this feeling – this…this…uh…’

  ‘Fear,’ Beede filled in, dryly.

  ‘Yes…yes…fff…’

  The German attempted to wrangle the familiar syllable on his tongue – ‘Ffffah…’ – but the word simply would not come. After his third unsuccessful attempt (pulling back his lips, like a frightened chimpanzee, his nostrils flaring, his eyes bulging) he scowled, closed his mouth again, paused for a second, took stock, then suddenly, and without warning, threw back his head and roared, ‘GE-FHAAAAR!’ at full volume.

  The horse skipped nervously from foot to foot.

  ‘Urgh…’

  The German grimaced, wiped his chin with his cuff, then closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. On the exhale he repeated the word – ‘Gefhaar’ – but much more softly this time. He smiled to himself and drew another breath. ‘Fhaar,’ he sighed, then (with increasing rapidity), ‘Fhaar-fhar-fhear-fear-fear…Yes!’

  His eyes flew open, then he scowled. ‘But what am I saying here?’

  ‘This fear,’ Beede primed him.

  ‘Yes. Of course. Fear. This fear’

  The German rapidly clicked back into gear again. ‘I have a feeling – a…a suspicion, you might say – that this dread, this…this…this fhar may be linked in some way…connected in some way…’ he jinked his head towards the pony, conspiratorially ‘…to it. To that. To…’ he struggled to find the correct noun, ‘to khor-khor-khorsam…’

  He shook his head, scowling. ‘Khorsam. Horsam. Hors. Horse. Horsey. Horse. Horses.’

  He glanced over at Beede, breathlessly, for confirmation. Beede nodded, encouragingly.

  ‘But you see I’m not…I can’t be entirely…uh…certus,’ he scowled, then winced, then forged doggedly onward, ‘certanus…’ He paused. ‘Cer-tan. I can’t be certain, because it’s still just an…an inkling…’ he shuddered ‘…a slight shadow in the back of my mind. A hunch. Nothing more.’

  While he spoke he distractedly adjusted the wedding band on his finger (twisted it, as if of old habit), then gradually grew aware of what he was doing and glanced down. ‘What’s this?’

  His eyes widened. ‘A ring? A gold ring? On my third finger?’

  He glared at Beede, almost accusingly. ‘Can that be right?’

  Beede nodded. He seemed calm and unflustered; as if thoroughly accustomed to this kind of scenario.

  ‘Mein Gott!’ The German’s handsome face grew stiff with incredulity.

  ‘You’re telling me I’m…I’m…’

  ‘Married?’ Beede offered. ‘Yes. Yes, you are. Very happily.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Just wait a while,’ Beede patted his arm, ‘and everything will become clear. I promise.’

  ‘You’re right. You’re right…’ the German smiled at him, gratefully, ‘I know that…’

  But he didn’t seem entirely convinced by it.

  ‘So do you have any thoughts on where the horse may’ve came from?’ Beede enquired, gently stroking the mare’s flanks. She was exhausted. Her tongue was protruding slightly. There were flecks of foam on her neck and her ribcage. He was concerned that someone inside the restaurant might see them (a member of staff – the manager). They were in a children’s play area, after all. The horse was plainly stolen. Did this qualify as trespass?

  The German closed his eyes for a moment (as if struggling to remember), and then the tension suddenly lifted from his face and he nodded. ‘I see a field in the middle of two roads, curving…’ he murmured softly, his speech much less harsh, less halting than before, ‘and beyond…beyond I see Romney. I see th
e marshes. ‘

  He opened his eyes again. ‘I was checking over a couple of vacant properties earlier,’ he explained amiably, ‘in South Willesborough…’

  Then he started –

  ‘Eh?!’

  – and spun around, as though someone had just whispered something detestable into his ear.

  ‘WHO SAID THAT?!’ he cried.

  ‘Who said what?’

  Beede’s voice was tolerant but slightly teachery.

  ‘About…About South Willesborough…?’ He continued to look around him agitatedly. ‘Was it you? Did you speak? Were you there earlier?’

  ‘Hmmn. A field in the middle of two roads curving…’ Beede mused (pointedly ignoring the German’s questions), ‘I think I know the place. And it’s not too far. Perhaps a mile – a little more. We’ll need to lead her back quickly. Someone might miss her. Do you have a belt?’

  The German peered down at himself. ‘Yes,’ he said, and automatically started to unfasten the buckle.

  ‘I’ll take mine off, too,’ Beede said, unfastening his own.

  The German pulled his belt free, passed it over, then tentatively sniffed at the arm of his jacket. ‘Urgh!’ he croaked. ‘What on earth have I been doing? I smell disgusting, and look – look – I have horse hair simply everywhere…’

  He began frantically patting and slapping at the fabric, but after a couple of seconds he froze – mid-slap – as something terrible dawned on him. ‘Oh Christ,’ he gasped. ‘Oh Jesus Christ – the car. Where’s the car? What on earth have I done with it?’

  Beede had buckled the two belts together. He whispered soothingly into the mare’s ear and then looped them around her neck. She was a sweet filly. She nodded a couple of times as he pulled the leather tighter.