Darkmans

by Nicola Barker

  ‘Uh-uh.’ Fleet slowly shook his head.

  ‘He thought the sky was falling in.’

  ‘Really?’ Fleet looked fearful, as if he could quite easily imagine the sky caving in on him. ‘Why did he think that?’

  ‘Because he got hit on the head by a chestnut – or an acorn – and he thought it was the sky.’

  Fleet pondered this for a while. ‘Well that was very silly of him,’ he finally announced, with a slight air of pomposity.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Elen gently adjusted his hair. His head seemed a little warm to the touch.

  ‘It’s only the ceiling,’ she murmured, kissing him, softly, on the ear, ‘it’s not the sky or anything.’

  The boy smiled and turned tiredly over, shoving his face into his pillow, hooking his feet together (as was his habit, each night, before slumber).

  Elen stood up to leave.

  ‘Well at least he likes the drip, drip, drip…’ the boy sighed.

  She froze, just for a split second, then she forced herself back into motion; pulling his duvet still tighter around him. ‘When the builder comes,’ she spoke brightly, normally, ‘when Harvey comes, everything will be fine again, you’ll see.’

  The mark –

  The blemish

  – there was no getting around it.

  When she was born they’d thought it might fade. But it did not fade.

  The mark was the first thing she saw each morning, and the last thing she saw, each night, before bed. Five hundred years ago, they might’ve burned her for it. And she seriously thought – at some sick, subterranean level – that they still would, if they possibly could (an unconscious suspicion remained. She saw it in people’s eyes – the revulsion, the hostility, the nagging fascination).

  The mark was undoubtedly a blotch on her good name. But it was there, dammit. So she’d had to work her way around it, she’d had to be strong, to look beyond.

  She never gave even a hint that it bothered her; was casual, cheerful and straightforward, in general, but she was only a woman, and not devoid of vanity (people would come up to her, in the street, and tap her, gently, on the shoulder, kindly informing her that there was something…

  Uh…

  Oh!

  Realising what it was – becoming embarrassed – apologising – then dashing off, humiliated. And those were the nice ones).

  The mark was the first thing Isidore noticed when they’d crashed into each other at the ice rink in Folkestone. They were both seventeen.

  She’d been visiting the coast for a weekend, to catch up with her father. Isidore had just completed a six-week School Exchange Programme in Tenterden. He was cutting loose in the summer, doing some casual work – mainly manual labour.

  He wasn’t actually wearing skates, but was walking, barefoot, on the ice. He was smiling, broadly, his boots hung around his neck by the laces. He looked a little crazy.

  A representative of the rink’s management team was already hot on his trail, and Elen – distracted by his feet (they were strong and tanned and straight) – missed a beat and tripped and span, spiralling straight into him.

  The mark…

  He’d thought it might be chocolate, or mud, or blood, as he’d helped her up. He even thought – for a split second – that he might’ve been the cause of it…

  ‘Oh my God, are you all right?’

  ‘You’re German?’ she’d murmured, taking his hand, glancing up at him, smiling. He saw at once that it was a mole of some kind. A beauty-spot.

  He grinned his relief as she brushed the ice from her knees. ‘Well whatever gave you that impression?’

  She was exceptionally pretty. And the mark didn’t really bother him.

  He already had a well-documented genius for circumnavigation.

  ABACUS BUILDERS LTD

  Harvey Broad owned four mobile phones, three of which he kept neatly suspended, at his hip, in his ‘builder’s buddy’ (a kind of construction worker’s gun holster) which was fashioned out of an expensive-looking sandy-coloured leather (‘This is a prototype, Guv. Have a guess at what kinda hide that is…Pig?! Pull the other one! That’s Buffalo, mate. Straight up. Got her designed and crafted, to my own specifications, by a female in Norfolk who imports the skins, wholesale, from Yank-land and makes all kinds of shit out of ‘em…’).

  Also dangling from this heavy-duty charm bracelet were a torch (‘This here, my young friend, is the Surefire Millennium Magnum. Ain’t she a pretty one? Wanna proper butcher’s? Let me unhook her for ya. Nah, mate, nah. Don’t touch. I’ll run through all the functions just as soon as…

  Right. So this baby is totally water and shock resistant. Blasts out 500 Lumens. See that? Take a guess at how much they rushed me for it? Take a wild guess…Five pounds? Oi! Does this kid know the value of money or what?! How does 392 dollars grab ya? I say dollars because this here torch is the first choice of the American Military; and trust me, those geezers don’t mess around wiv’ their hardware…’)

  A protective face mask (‘New one every day, sure as eggs. Don’t ever fuck around wiv’ ya lungs. You probably couldn’t tell by the look of me – I’m in fairly buff condition if I say so myself – but I only have three-quarters of the normal lung capacity for a man of my years. Got involved in a diving accident, in Malta, when I was still just a nipper. Bought me tanks off of some shonky army geezer. First time I used ‘em the bastards imploded. I was 25-fuckin’-feet under water. Nearly finished me off, it did…’)

  A pair of wrap-around sunglasses, of the type generally favoured by slightly psychotic, recently widowed, Dodge-driving American octogenarians (‘Believe it or not, my own dear wife Linda bought me these for thirty-odd quid off the Shoppin’ Channel. QVC: Quality, Value, Convenience. They’re totally, bloody indestructible. In the car I’ve got my Raybans – for smart – but these babies have what my oldest calls Unabomber Chic, and you just can’t put a price-tag on that.’)

  A little hammer, a set of screw-drivers and some pliers. (‘I like my tools how I like my women: small, well-crafted, lightly greased.’)

  A toy truck – a Monster Truck; a Dinky; ‘Bigfoot 7’, to be precise – neatly fashioned (by his own hand), into a key-ring for his customised Toyota.

  Bigfoot 7 was originally (he told a bemused Elen) an F250 Ford Pick-up with a 540-cubic-inch engine which had been painstakingly fitted with four, huge wheels (by a man called Bob Chandler – ‘a folk hero of the American car industry’) to enable it to perform a series of stunts (chiefly – so far as she could gauge – to drive over a line of old cars and lay waste to them. She wasn’t entirely sure why this was a good thing, and she didn’t dare ask. It just was, apparently).

  Harvey delighted in telling her how it took ‘three men three hours to change a single, damn tyre. Imagine that? It’s just completely bloody fucked!’). There were many Bigfoots (‘I mean some of these babies can jump over 200 feet…’), but 7’s claim to fame was that it had been used – to great effect – in the Hollywood classic Turner and Hooch (‘You ever see that film? You never saw it? Are you kiddin’ me?! I should lend you my copy. It’s about a dog detective. Stars Tom Hanks. The boy’ll fuckin’ love it.’).

  Harvey was also the proud owner of three of the first four As in the building section of the local phone book: AAABuilders and Plumbers PLC – which he called ‘Treble A’ whenever he answered the relevant phone (‘I always think it sounds a bit “Vegas”, somehow, a bit plummy, a bit flash. Know what I mean?’), Aardvark Builders and Plumbers inc, the advert for which was slightly larger than most, and doubly distinguished by a small etching (‘I paid through the bollocks for that – excuse my French’) of an anteater (‘a straight-up mistake,’ he told Elen, over his umpteenth cup of tea, on one of the rare occasions he actually visited their property, ‘but if some Smart Alec gets all up on their high heels about it, I always says, “Well here’s a nice idea, mate: why don’t we just forget all about your plumbin’ disaster and head off on a fact-findin�
� trip to the f-in’ zoo instead?”’).

  Aardvark attracted chiefly a female clientele. Men, by and large, were impressed by Abacus Builders and Plumbers Ltd (‘To this day, I still don’t really understand what an Abacus is. No word of a lie, Helen. Apparently it looks something like a kid’s toy.’).

  Three adverts out of the initial four (which – all things considered – was pretty impressive), but ‘pole position’ (as Harvey would have it) remained in the vice-like grip of Garry Spivey, genial (if iron-fisted) proprietor of A Priori Builders Ltd.

  Spivey’s apparently effortless alphabetical ascendancy rendered Harvey (his deeply competitive runner-up) almost incontinent with rage. In fact it was the very first subject he’d interrogate prospective clients on (through a highly unconvincing mask of subterfuge and bullshit…‘Just a couple of last things, Sir, to help out the suits in our Marketing Department…’) before he’d even contemplate contracting to work for them.

  Isidore (and Elen) were no exception –

  Harvey (cornering Dory while Elen went off to make some coffee): So how’d you actually get to hear about Abacus?

  Isidore: The phone book.

  Harvey (in tones of some surprise): Not a personal recommendation, then?

  Isidore: No.

  Harvey (rapidly removing a smart-looking electronic palm from his pocket and scribbling everything down on to it with a tiny, metal pen): That’s interestin’, very interestin’…

  Isidore: I just looked you up in the building section.

  Harvey (still scribbling): Is that so?

  Isidore: Yes.

  Harvey: And Abacus was the first firm you tried?

  (The conversation is briefly interrupted at this point by a phone call in which Harvey is heard to tell his interlocutor: ‘I don’t know, mate, but it might be septicaemia. Yeah. Heel blister. Curse of the new trainer…Nah. ‘Course I can’t spell the fucker. I ain’t a soddin’ doctor. Tell him it’s blood poisonin’. It’s the same thing, yeah? Tell him to have a bloody heart, mate. This is Life or fuckin’ Death, ya with me?’)

  Harvey (slotting the phone away – Isidore noticed, idly, that it was the blue Nokia): So you was tellin’ me about how you initially came to contact us at Abacus…

  Isidore: Yes. The phone book.

  Harvey (almost presuming): And we was the first firm you liked the look of?

  Isidore (jocular): Well I was hardly going to place all my trust in AAABuilders, now, was I?

  (No perceptible response from Harvey to this crushing piece of rhetoric)

  Harvey: So Abacus was the first?

  Isidore: Yes…(sudden pause), actually, no. I believe yours was the second company I tried…

  Harvey (his ears pricking): Oh yeah?

  Isidore: Yes. But the first place I rang was engaged.

  Harvey: I see. And you wouldn’t happen to…?

  Isidore (without hesitation): A Priori.

  Harvey (in ominous tones): Ah (Harvey grimaces as he scribbles – all the more violently – on to his palm).

  Isidore (craning his neck over towards the palm, slightly concerned): Is that thing actually working?

  Harvey (still scribbling frantically): What thing?

  Isidore: The palm. I don’t think you’ve turned it on.

  Harvey has not turned the palm on.

  Harvey (irritably): I keep the screen off to save the battery.

  Isidore (fascinated): And it still functions that way?

  Harvey (very irritably): Well I’d look like a bit of a fuckin’ Charlie if it didn’t, wouldn’t I?

  Isidore (backing off, diplomatically): Yes. Of course. Sorry.

  Harvey (slapping his palm shut, with a flourish): Well, all’s I can say is: the Gods must’ve been smilin’ down on you that day.

  Isidore (bemused): Pardon me?

  Harvey: Mr Spivey and I are ‘old acquaintances’, shall we say…

  Isidore (still bemused): Mr Spivey?

  Harvey: Wouldn’t trust him with a malfunctioning fuckin’ toaster.

  Isidore (slowly catching on): You mean the guy from A Priori? Is he bad news?

  Harvey: Bad news?!

  (He snorts, derisively)

  Isidore (alarmed): What? A real rip-off merchant?

  Harvey (holds up his hands, as if in regretful denial): Mate, I’ve probably said enough already. More than I should of (taps nose)…Professional conduct an’ all that.

  Isidore (worriedly): Of course. Of course…(thoughtful pause) Forgive me, Harvey, but haven’t you and I actually met before?

  Harvey (surprised): Come again?

  Isidore: It might sound a little crazy, but I just suddenly had the strangest feeling that we’d…(Dory frowns, confusedly).

  Harvey: Not that I’m aware of, mate.

  Isidore: A long time ago, maybe…

  Harvey shrugs.

  Isidore: It might take a while to percolate, but it’ll come back to me, eventually, I’m sure…

  Isidore shakes his head, bemusedly, as Harvey deftly slips the palm into his jacket pocket.

  He had astonishingly clean hands. Elen had quietly observed as much during their initial encounter (‘You know how I do that, my love? Here’s a little tip for ya: washing-up liquid an’ sugar. Screw all the fancy stuff you can buy over the counter – that shite’s just a rip off…’).

  And he was always immaculately turned-out; had a very distinctive ‘look’; appearing to hold a particular strand of pseudo-American combat-style apparel in especially high regard (the kind which seemed like it might’ve been popular in the early 1990s with a certain type of butch but glossy San Franciscan homosexual).

  His colour palate ranged through the bright whites, rich creams and pale olives (not, you might think, especially practical tones for a labourer); the sage-coloured, high-shine, front-zippered puffer jacket being his most essential garment (his closely shaven, well-tanned head sticking out through its neat, Chinese collar like the stalk of an apple, jutting, defiantly, from the sumptuous, swollen mound of its surrounding flesh).

  Harvey spent over two hours a day at his local gym (‘I used to Body Build competitively – back in the late seventies – before all the ladies got involved and turned it into a fucking circus’).

  He wore earrings in both ears; thick, gold hoops, of a size and style which teetered (Elen felt) on the brink of the effeminate. Of course (she told herself) only a real man (or a lunatic) could hope to get away with fashion that obvious.

  Following Harvey’s casual (yet oh so regretful) defamation of Garry Spivey, Isidore had proceeded to hire him on the spot (the sudden eye contact, the manly handshake, the quick nod). Elen (left determinedly on the sidelines, clutching a coffee pot) had been absolutely furious.

  The evidence against him, she insisted, once he’d finally –

  My God, doesn’t the man have a home to go to?!

  – taken his leave of them, was overwhelming: the clean hands, the fancy truck, the immediate start, two hours in the gym (‘Two hours? Each day? Did you hear that?’), the suspicious-sounding heel-blister conversation (which Dory already deeply regretted repeating to her), and last, but by no means least, the somewhat pivotal issue of an estimate.

  There wasn’t one. Harvey cheerfully proposed that they, ‘Bash it out as we go along…’

  (‘Bottom line: if you’re happy then I’m happy, sweetheart.’ –

  Sweetheart?!)

  Isidore had gently pooh-poohed her objections.

  ‘He’s a builder, Elen,’ he’d argued, ‘not a candidate for Mayor.’ She’d thought this argument fatuous. It didn’t pacify her.

  ‘And what’re the alternatives?’ he’d doggedly continued. ‘Seriously? There are none. This is a boom town. We’re desperate. Builders are at a premium…’

  They were stuck between a rock and a hard place. They were screwed. Harvey wasn’t their best bet, he was their only bet. She did, at least, have to concede him that.

  Contrary to all her expectations, things’d
started off well enough. Almost as if sensing Elen’s misgivings (and determining, quietly, to respond to them), Harvey had arranged for the scaffolding to arrive, not merely on time –

  Just on time, you say?!

  Oh no!

  That won’t do at all!

  – but a whole day early.

  Isidore had been ecstatic (‘This is absolutely fantastic, Elen, isn’t it?’). But his ecstasy was short-lived.