Darkmans

by Nicola Barker

  Occasionally – and with scant warning – things could turn nasty. Battalions of Turkish soldiers would suddenly descend upon them, en masse, and burn down people’s homes (frighten them, move them on, accuse them of insurrection, of supporting the PKK and the Kurdish Revolution). Gaffar’s family were just one among many (the working estimation stood at 70,000) to be methodically oppressed (and displaced) in this way. Eventually it all got too much and they fled north, to Diyarbakir: Town of the Black Walls, where – for a short while, at least – they felt a little more secure.

  Gaffar’s mother was a devout woman (especially since his father’s passing. You might almost think – Gaffar sometimes thought – that she was ‘making up’ for something). She was a follower of the Alexi Sect (Alexi was Mohammed’s brother-in-law; they were Shi’i, and persecuted – for radicalism – by the Sunni majority). Gaffar gave every appearance of conforming to this belief system. He had an actual, a palpable genius for pretending. Pretence was an essential part of his inheritance, of his pathology. He was proud of his duplicity (he didn’t have much, but at least he had this; he owned it. It was his).

  There was a secret, you see, about his father – something shameful and unspeakable – which, even when he was alive, they only talked about in whispers. And now that he was gone, it was either never mentioned or hotly denied. But it was still true, nonetheless.

  His father had been a Dawasin, one of the Yezidis; the oldest and most singular of all the Kurdish tribes; a reclusive, secretive, clannish people who worshiped Malik Taus, the Peacock Angel. They believed that they were the last remaining direct descendants of Adam’s line, that their race (and their race alone) was unbesmirched by the sins of Eve. They were pure (this was part of their patrimony), but they were not ‘of the Book’ (at least, not formally), and so, even amongst Kurds, they were both feared and despised.

  Gaffar’s father had been born in Sinjar, on the Syrian/Iraqi border (it was the Kurdish lot to be born on the edge of things, the perimeter; to be squeezed into the outer reaches; at worst to be persecuted, at best loathed and ignored). In 1975 the Dawasin in that area had been forcibly evicted from their land and placed into collectives.

  Times were hard. He had drifted to Baghdad, searching for work. He’d left a wife and a daughter behind him, staying away – out of desperation (or so he claimed) – for many months in conjunction. In Yezidi culture absence was a crime of excommunicable proportions. And there was no coming back from it. So after a while, he didn’t even try. His soul was lost from that point onward.

  As if to underline this fact, categorically, he journeyed north, to Irbil, and became a denizen of the legendary Sheikhallah Bazaar, where he hired himself out as muscle in the trade of drugs, fake passports and illegal arms. He moved to Turkey on the back of his successes, changed his name (stole ‘Celik’ from a local mayor), converted to Islam and married Gaffar’s mother.

  He’d wanted (he claimed) to leave his former life behind. He even said he’d seen Jonah (Yunus) in a vision, where the whale was not a sea creature, but an enormous tent (a living thing, somehow, with ribs and teeth and organs), and it was crammed – full-to-bursting – with people he’d known in the past (his old friends, his enemies, his compatriots), and they were all slowly suffocating. But his own chest was full of air (like he was the whale, or the lungs, or something), and Jonah, on observing this fact, reached out his hand to him, and they walked clear – clear of the tent, of the bazaar – into a world beyond, into a promised land.

  An epiphany.

  Or this was the mythology. The truth was much simpler. Things didn’t actually change all that much in Turkey (I mean the Kurds were persecuted everywhere, weren’t they?). The fabric of his life remained virtually identical. He’d simply crossed over (or turned inside out, like a polythene bag). He was on the other side, now, but the leap he’d made wasn’t gargantuan (like Jonah’s whale), and it wasn’t so much moral (or spiritual) as geographical.

  He remained a soldier (but now paid by the state). The Guard were universally loathed. They were cruel and merciless. Some were just desperate, others, crass opportunists. Gaffar’s father was ruthless, but not actively sadistic. He dispatched his duties efficiently. He took the occasional back-hander. He still thought like a traitor. And when he died (suddenly, on a landmine) his reputation was a distinguished one. He’d been fearless and brave and single-minded. He’d conformed. He’d fitted in. He was remembered by his compadres as an honourable man.

  Gaffar sometimes wondered where his soul had gone (I mean which of the deities he’d served was the more forgiving, the more powerful?). It was a telling thought: but weren’t all true nomads at their happiest in limbo?

  Was God actually aware of that fact?

  As he grew older it became increasingly apparent that Gaffar had fighting in his genes (in his bones, which he broke, then re-set, then broke again). It wasn’t that he was angry (quite the opposite). His strength was rooted in his curious implacability.

  From the tender age of twelve he fought for money. He was a gambler. He could win or take a beating – he didn’t care which, particularly – so long as he was paid for it. He loved his family but he despised their life of grinding penury. He wasn’t political (and in Diyarbakir it was difficult not to be) and he did not actively support the PKK (let’s face it: when Ocalan was arrested, things actually got better: schools were opened, they could speak in their own tongue again…Ocalan was certainly a hero, but he was also a spitfire; didn’t really care where his stray bullets landed, just so long as he satisfied his overall agenda. He was single-minded – heroes often were – and matched the Turkish armed forces, blow for blow, in his ceaseless promulgation of violence and terror).

  Politics were all well and good, Gaffar reasoned – ideals and such – but money was the language of progress. Money actually got you out of there; into the colourful world which flickered on the screens of the cable tvs in local cafes. Into freedom. Into Eden.

  Gaffar was a bare-knuckle boxer, all over the region (developed quite a reputation, as he grew older, although eventually, inevitably, this began to work against him). The trick was in his stature. He was small, looked wiry. But underneath he was impregnable. His will was the iron rod in his spine which kept him standing (or told him the precise moment at which to fall). His will was indomitable. He was the God of his own insides.

  But the whole world (alas) didn’t start and end upon his skin’s smooth surfaces. There was an outside (he could smell it, he could taste it. Sometimes it kicked or bit or bruised him). Outside all was chaos. And this chaotic outside – if it really wanted to – could suck you in.

  There was no point resisting.

  He got caught up (the hook went straight through his cheek) aged fourteen, fifteen, in the opposing currents of politics and corruption (dragged back and forth, aimlessly, between them). He hadn’t tried, it’d simply happened; he’d attracted attention, had become almost a talisman.

  He hung around in the backwash for a while (rejected by family, embraced by the local mafia, imprisoned for a year), then finally – out of sheer desperation – he struck a deal (it was the gambler in him). He risked everything (made promises to God, crossed his fingers, held his breath, you name it). And it worked.

  Six long hours in customs and he was spat out, with due ceremony, into the United Kingdom (thirty neat little bags of heroin killing time inside his colon).

  King-dom?

  They had a queen, they spoke English, they ate beefburgers and drank beer.

  London. North London. Wood Green (no woods, not much greenery, but who cared? He was here. This was his big chance. His break for freedom…).

  Hmmn

  It’d looked better on the telly. And there was dubbing, too, in Turkey (or subtitles; hell, he wasn’t fussy).

  When people spoke it sounded utterly foreign. He couldn’t react. He couldn’t respond. He was rendered dumb. It terrified him.

  Language (not just violence, or poverty)
was now his determinator. The people he needed to get away from were the only people he could communicate with (everybody important spoke Kurdish here).

  It was a different world – he could certainly vouch for that – but it was still run by the same rules (the sky the same colour, the ground just as hard, his belly just as hungry, the same battles for territory). So he chugged on. Became a Bombacilar – a henchman for a gang in the Green Lanes area. Shelved his dreams of a boxing career. Supported Turkey in the football. Developed a taste for American lager.

  Until everything crumbled – 22 January 2003. A vicious gang-fight on Green Lanes. A massacre. The accidental death of an innocent bystander. An armed swoop on a Haringey cafe. A police officer attacked with a kebab skewer. Illegal gambling. Nine arrests. Operation codename NARITA. Commanding officer Steve James and a friendly – a very friendly – interpreter. (Oh that friendly interpreter! The dire threats she’d made! And the bewildering promises!)

  Her name was Marta. She was sixty-three years old, half-Cypriot and a widow, with a mixed degree in psychology and philosophy from Trent University –

  Marta

  She’d reached out her hand to him, and Gaffar had taken hold of it (it was a soft hand, smelled of hazelnut nougat and –

  Mmmm

  – Indian rose-water).

  Marta, it soon transpired, was to be Gaffar’s Jonah (although the whale was not a tent this time, but the claustrophobic courtroom in which he’d calmly turned state’s evidence).

  Gaffar – like his father before him – had niftily slipped the border. And on the other side?

  Ash-ford?

  What a clumsy word

  So this was where his journey ended. This was where he’d sunk his anchor. This was his port, his haven, his harbour. This was where he disembarked: a crummy job, an old shirt, his faithful Thermos (a leaving present from a favourite aunt). Two weeks rent paid up in advance…

  This –

  Ah yes

  – was his Brand New Start.

  But only so long as he did Absolutely Nothing Wrong, Mate – D’ya hear?

  Someone had to take custody of the two dogs, so Kane (having first glanced around him for any other likely candidates – bugger. Not a one) reluctantly agreed to shoulder the responsibility.

  Once the ambulance had pulled off, he ushered them both inside. The big one was a little snappy, but they trotted into the narrow corridor gamely enough, turning at the foot of the stairs (leading up into Kane’s first-floor section of the flat) and gazing over at him, expectantly, as if awaiting further instructions.

  Kane tried to move past them and the larger one growled –

  Oh, really?

  He tried again. This time it snarled, and the smaller one –

  The little shit

  – backed him up.

  Right

  Kane considered his options –

  The pound?

  Pest control?

  The butcher?

  Ten seconds later, there was a knock at the door. He answered, still musing. It was Gaffar. He was holding a large, brown envelope (which he’d discovered over by the wall) and a small, silver trainer. ‘This her,’ he said, proffering the trainer politely, like a down-at-heel Buttons in Cinderella.

  ‘Pardon?’

  Kane really was quite exhausted.

  ‘These two items belong to your skinny whore,’ Gaffar reiterated.

  ‘Oh…yeah,’ Kane said, recognising Kelly’s distinctive footwear, and then (much to his horror) the brown envelope she’d mentioned previously. ‘Shit. This must be for Beede. Thanks…’

  He took the two objects, tucked them under his arm, and was about to close the door (a symphony of growling promptly resuming behind him) when his conscience briefly pricked him and he paused. ‘So d’you get a roasting?’ he asked abruptly. ‘From your boss?’ ‘Eh?’

  Kane mimed the throwing of the Thermos and then pointed to the chipped window.

  ‘Ahhh,’ Gaffar just shrugged, resignedly.

  ‘The chop?’

  Kane made a chopping gesture.

  No response.

  He thought for a moment. ‘The axe?’

  He made a dramatic slicing motion across his neck.

  Gaffar’s eyebrows rose for a second, then he nodded. ‘Yeah, I’m screwed, but so what? I’m beyond caring, man. He thinks I’m a live-wire, huh? A troublemaker? Well he can stick his stupid opinions up his own arse. The bottom line is, I’ve had enough. I’m through. And that’s my decision. I’m master of my own destiny, see? I don’t care what he tells the damn authorities. He treats me like a slave, yeah? He pays like a…a cunt…yeah? I told him I could earn a better living out on the streets. I did that in Diyarbakir for an entire year. Lived like an animal, off my wits.’ Gaffar tapped the side of his head, meaningfully. ‘He’s a fool. An imbecile. I could devour his brains in one sitting and still feel ravenous.’ He paused for a moment, breathing heavily. ‘You’re right,’ he continued, vaingloriously, ‘I should slaughter his entire family. Steal his money. Steal his car. Get the hell out of here…’

  As he spoke, Gaffar made a series of rather fetching little stabbing motions with an imaginary blade. On the final one, he symbolically disembowelled a toddler, then snatched some keys, which the toddler (rather mysteriously) appeared to be clutching.

  Kane was scowling now, struggling to keep up with him. Gaffar observed his confusion (let it ride for a few seconds), and then, ‘I’m just joking,’ he exploded, with a loud cackle, slapping Kane jovially on the shoulder, ‘you big, fat, ugly American twat.’

  He continued to grin at Kane. Kane smiled brightly back. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ he said, ‘but I believe “American twat”,’ he drew a neat pair of speech marks in the air, ‘is actually part of an international vocabulary – a universal language – which we all share.’

  Gaffar mused this over for a second, apparently unmoved. ‘Wow-wee,’ he finally murmured, dryly.

  Kane sniggered (the man had balls, there was no getting round it).

  ‘You’re funny,’ he said eventually, ‘and you can take care of yourself. I respect that. Come on in. I’ll dig you out a spare shirt. We can smoke some ganja. Some weed, huh? Then I must get some fucking zeds or I’ll expire.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Kane pulled the door wider. Gaffar slipped smoothly past him to a muted vibrato of snarling.

  ‘Just watch out for the…’ Kane glanced over his shoulder, worriedly. ‘Uh…’

  FIVE

  Beede never locked the door which separated his and Kane’s living areas. To do so would’ve shown a complete lack of faith in his son (and, by default, in his own parenting abilities). This decision ‘not to lock’ was primarily self-serving (Kane’s feelings – or probable lack of them – barely entered into the equation). Beede’s need to project himself as always open and accessible (a touching combination, say, of the old-fashioned Corner Shop – with their lofty code of personal service – and the modern, ruthless, all-nite Cash & Carry) was fundamental to his inalienable sense of the kind of father he wanted to be (or to appear to be, since in his mind these two notions were virtually interchangeable).

  To boil it all down (which might take a while – there was plenty of old meat, hard lessons and human frailty in this particular broth), Beede was wildly cynical about the functions of paternity.

  Was it Freud or Sophocles (Beede sometimes wondered) who first came up with the theory that all any little boy ever really wanted was to kill the father (strictly in the symbolic sense, of course)? Whoever ultimately took the credit for it (Ah, he could see them both now, queuing up at the Paradisical Counter of Philosophical Legitimacy: Sophocles slightly forward, a picture of genial equanimity; Freud, further back, but still scaring the living shit out of everybody), Beede definitely thought that they were on to something.

  Although in Kane’s particular case, his sheer indifference to his father (wasn’t indifference a kind of murder, anyway? A death of care?
Of interest?) was so strong, so marked, that to raise his hand against him – even figuratively – would’ve demanded just a tad too much energy. For Kane to actually get angry with Beede? Seriously? To take him on? To lose his rag?! You might as well ask a tropical fish to murder a robin (it simply wasn’t feasible. It couldn’t happen).

  In bald truth, Beede’s studious attempts to present himself as unfailingly approachable to his son were all just so much baloney. He actively avoided him – consciously, unconsciously – at almost every available opportunity. But by being so unremittingly there for him (in the formal sense, at least) he cleverly thwacked the leaden ball of familial responsibility squarely back into Kane’s court again (Kane was still young. He could take the burden. And it might actually be good for him to feel like something was wrong – or lacking – or missing – like he’d unintentionally fucked up in some way).

  When it came to his door (its locking or otherwise), Beede honestly felt like he had nothing to hide. He almost believed himself transparent (like one of those minuscule but fascinating single-cell creatures which loves to hang around in pools of stagnant water), so certain was he of his own moral probity.

  Of course everybody has something a little private about them (and Beede was no exception), but his firm apprehension was that once you started hiding things – once you got all sneaky and furtive – you automatically gave potential intruders the impetus to start hunting seriously. And that, he felt, would be a most unwelcome eventuality.