Nope.
He inspected the Joker again. But it wasn’t the Joker. It was the Jack.
The Joker…
He turned the card over. He searched his pockets. The Joker was gone.
He held the Jack and stared at it.
‘Must’ve mis-read…’ he murmured.
Ho-hum.
He shoved the card away, scowling, then peered up at her house –
Elen’s house…
Because here he was –
Sure as eggs
– for all his well-rehearsed expressions of confusion/nonchalance/indifference etc – lounging casually in his car (a mere three days since their last encounter), planning on…expecting to…hoping to…
Uh…
He’d tried to track down her practice in the phone book, but hadn’t been able to find it there. She was married now and he didn’t know her surname, so he’d finally resorted –
Yes, yes…
– to a furtive inspection of his father’s address book.
He’d noted – with some interest – that she wasn’t listed under ‘c’ for chiropodist, or under ‘e’ for Elen, even, but under ‘g’.
G?
He’d discovered other things, too. Further to the bank statement (which he’d uncovered, accidentally, a couple of days previously) he’d unearthed two old cheque books (all of the stubs –
Thanks, Pops!
– religiously filled out, if somewhat cryptically, in his own special shorthand), some meticulous account books, several letters from the bank manager (further to our meeting on…etc etc), and a demand from a shonky loan company (dated 27 November) –
What the…?!
That’d been the biggest shock.
Kane took out his cigarettes and sparked one up. He gazed over at the house again. He frowned. So was this the reason his father currently found himself over £38,000 in hock?
His mind dwelt, momentarily, on the envelope Beede had passed her in the restaurant –
How furtive he’d looked –
What was it? Love? Sex? Blackmail? (Sex? Blackmail?!
Seriously?! Knowing Beede, it was far more likely to be some kind of mealy-mouthed petition about the ‘brutal coppicing’ of a group of ancient Limes on the cycle track near the Stour Centre).
Whatever the reason, this certainly wasn’t the kind of place he’d pictured her living in. Not Elen ( El-en – he found himself tripping on the name – mid-syllable – just like his father had done).
Cedar Wood –
Cedar?
Wood?
– was a brand, spanking new development. Blank. Generic. Everything detached, or semi-detached. No personality. No atmosphere. No newsagents (for that matter), or chippies or pubs. No trees –
No woods – or cedars – that’s for damn sure…
– just bushes. No birds…
He turned off the stereo, wound down the window and stuck his head out to make certain –
Nope
Just this awful, all-pervasive quiet. This muffledness.
He was shocked – quite frankly – by the feel of the place. He felt something within him revolt against it (the sense of quiet conformity. The dullness. The heart-sinking blankness). He was almost…
What?
Disappointed.
Oh come on…
As he sat and watched, a tall, thin, young man in scruffy work apparel suddenly appeared from around the side of the house. He was carrying a dog – a pathetic-looking spaniel – under one arm and holding what appeared to be an empty jam-jar in his free hand.
‘Bollocks…’ Kane murmured. He moved to duck down in his seat, but that same instant the young man glanced over.
‘Aw shit,’ Lester said, taking a quick step back.
Kane drew a deep breath, stuck his fag into the corner of his mouth, yanked the keys from the ignition, shoved open the door and clambered out.
‘I ain’t got it,’ Lester began snivelling, ‘an’ you got no fuckin’ right botherin’ me at work, man.’
‘You? Work?!’ Kane scoffed.
‘Leave me alone, man,’ Lester seemed terrified.
Kane sighed, bored. This was just too bad. A fly in the ointment. But certain, well, responsibilities were inherent to the trade. He pulled his jacket slightly tighter around him, stiffening his body against the cold, then slammed the door shut (activating the alarm and the locks –
Click –
Beep-beep)
‘Don’t hurt me, man,’ Lester all-but squealed.
‘Got no choice, my friend,’ Kane regretfully informed him, ‘because if I don’t, you’ll paint me a pussy all over town, and then where the heck would business be at?’
Lester turned and bolted down the side of the house. Kane strolled casually after him, finally catching up with him in the small, paved rear garden where he was crouching – somewhat poignantly – behind a sheet on the washing line. Kane stooped under some socks. ‘Put down the dog,’ he instructed him.
‘Uh-uh.’
Lester shot up against the brick of the back wall, shaking his head.
‘Put down the fucking dog,’ Kane reiterated, then he drew forward slightly, with a frown. ‘What’s in the jam-jar?’
‘Nothin’.’
‘Nothing?’
He moved in for an even closer look, blinking, for a second, through the smoke from his cigarette.
‘Yeah.’
‘You’ve got a jam-jar of nothing? Why?’
‘I’m collectin’ it.’
‘You’re collecting nothing?’
Lester nodded.
‘Are you fucking insane?’
Kane snatched the jar from him and squinted in through the glass. Couldn’t see anything. Saw nothing, in fact. Then he straightened up and punched Lester in the face.
Crack.
Lester’s mouth flew open on impact. His skull smacked into the brickwork. The dog yelped as his grip inadvertently tightened around her. But his nose took the brunt of it.
‘Okay, then,’ Kane grinned, ‘so here’s to nothing…’ He toasted him with the jar and then handed it back.
Lester snatched the jar, his eyes smarting, the bone in the centre of his nose glowing whitely, as though it’d just been lightly dusted with phosphorescent powder. Then – on a count of three – warm, dark blood began to gush from his nostrils. Kane pulled a tea-towel from the washing line, yanked back Lester’s head with a handful of his hair –
‘Owwww!’
– and blotted his face with it.
‘This all seems strangely familiar…’ he mused, idly. ‘Didn’t I break your nose sometime before? Or was it your arm on that occasion?’
‘Cracked my fuckin’ ribs,’ Lester hissed through the fabric.
‘Ah…’ Kane sighed, ‘well there’s surely some kind of lesson in this, my old friend…’ he counselled, sagely.
‘Hello? Hello?’
Uh-oh
Kane froze, mid-axiom.
A man’s voice. Germanic.
‘Lester?’
Kane turned. Then he took a quick step back –
Wha?!
His eyes widened. Directly behind him (about 2 feet away, at most), perched neatly on the washing line: a starling. A thin and greasy, yellow-beaked starling, cocking its head at him.
Kane stared at the bird. The bird stared back at Kane. Kane removed his cigarette from his mouth and flipped it down on to the paving. ‘Shoo!’ he said.
As he spoke he heard the spaniel growling. A deep growl. A menacing growl. Then his eyes lifted – he didn’t know why…instinct, perhaps – to an upstairs window at the back of the house. There he saw the boy (the strange boy. The imp) standing at the window and gazing out at him, impassively. Kane waved at the boy, but the boy didn’t respond. Instead, he slowly – very deliberately – lifted up his hands and covered his face with them (but not in panic or alarm – so much as…almost as if in…
In warning?)
That same instant
–
Oh balls
– he saw the mother, dressed in black, standing directly behind him. She looked…What was that look? Apprehension? Fear?
‘Lester? Is that you?’
Again, the German…
Kane’s eyes returned – fleetingly – to the bird. The bird shat down the sheet. Then it squawked. Then it flew at him.
‘Shit!’
Kane dropped his chin and covered his face, instinctively. The bird hit him, with some force. He felt its beak slice into his knuckles.
He tried to swipe it away, but there was nothing.
‘What are you doing?’
Lester was staring at him, warily, over the tea-towel.
‘The bird…’ Kane looked around him, his hands still up, still slightly panicked. ‘Didn’t you see it? The bird on the line? The starling. It shat down the…’
He pointed at the sheet. The sheet was clean.
‘It flew at me. Didn’t you see it?’
‘Hello…?’
The German had walked across the paved garden and was now standing on the other side of the sheet. He was talking down at their feet. ‘Is everything all right back there?’
‘Lester’s banged his nose,’ Kane observed brightly, drawing aside the sheet, like a theatrical stage-hand, to reveal a tragic Lester in all his newly bloodied glory.
‘Good God. What happened?’
The German drew closer. Lester gesticulated, pointlessly.
‘He’s trying to stem the flow,’ Kane said, still holding the sheet in his hand and failing to locate any bird dirt on it.
‘It looks bad, Lester,’ the German seemed shocked, ‘it’s swelling right up. Do you need a doctor?’
Lester shook his head, waved his arm and gurgled.
‘Let me at least take Michelle from you…’
He reached out for the dog. The dog snarled.
‘She don’t like you,’ Lester spluttered, through the towel.
The dog looked up at the German, her round eyes bulging, fearfully.
‘I should drive you home,’ the German murmured, withdrawing his arm again. ‘You can’t possibly do any work in that condition.’ He turned to Kane. ‘Are you one of Harvey’s people?’
Kane opened his mouth to respond, but before he could answer, Elen had come flying through the back door, down the steps and out on to the patio. She was clutching a pack of frozen peas. ‘For the swelling,’ she panted, ‘here…’ She removed the tea-towel. ‘Hold back your head, Lester. Let me take a proper look…’
‘Is it broken?’ the German wondered.
‘Was it the scaffolding?’ Elen asked Kane, staring up at him, pointedly. ‘A huge plank fell down this morning and almost decapitated the postman.’
‘Well something certainly fell on him,’ Kane murmured, noticing how much smaller she was than he’d remembered (five two? Three?), and how large her husband seemed by comparison. He was certainly handsome – in that blond way; that pure, square, aryan way. He was powerfully built. Muscular. Held himself gracefully, like an athlete.
Kane instinctively pushed back his shoulders and contracted the lazy muscles in his stomach.
Elen, meanwhile, was gently applying the bag to one side of Lester’s nose. Lester bleated.
‘Harvey left me a message about an hour ago,’ the German was saying, ‘promising to send someone this afternoon to have a look at it…’
‘He’s not one of Harvey’s people, Dory…’ Elen turned to her husband with a breezy smile, ‘he’s just a client. He’s come about his foot. I’d completely forgotten. He has a…’
‘Verruca,’ Kane butted in (just a client? Just?). ‘It’s been driving me crazy, actually.’
‘…an appointment,’ Elen persisted, ‘he has an appointment. He’s not with Harvey.’
‘Oh…’ The German seemed disappointed. ‘Well that’s a pity…’ He paused for a second, scowling. ‘But didn’t you use his name before…?’ he wondered (almost to himself). ‘Didn’t you say, “Lester’s banged his nose…”?’
Kane nodded, unflustered. ‘I’ve known Lester for years,’ he said cheerfully, ‘I dated his cousin, in fact…’
‘His cousin?’ Dory repeated. ‘Lester’s cousin?’
‘Yeah. Uh…’ Kane glanced around him. ‘I actually worked for a scaffolding gang in my teens. I’d happily take a quick look at it for you – perhaps tighten a few of the bolts up…’
Elen smiled. ‘That’s a very kind thought,’ she said, ‘but there’s probably some kind of prohibitive clause in our Builder’s Insurance…’
‘Well, the offer’s open…’ Kane shrugged.
The German was still gazing at Kane, very intently. ‘I have this strange feeling that we’ve met before…’ he murmured.
Kane slowly shook his head.
‘Are you sure? It’s just…’ He rubbed his chin, thoughtfully,‘…there’s something…’
As he was speaking, all the lights came on in the house behind them –
What?!
But how…?
Kane suddenly became aware that it was growing darker –
Out here
By contrast…
– that it was almost…almost…
Dusk
Yes.
‘Would you mind holding the dog for a second?’
Elen briskly pushed a traumatised Michelle into Kane’s arms. He looked down. The spaniel’s sharply domed, white head had been crowned by three bright drops of blood. She was stiff to the touch, and bony, like a factory-farmed hen.
He shuddered.
‘She’s disabled,’ Dory informed him (an edge of revulsion in his voice). ‘Her back legs…’
‘Oh. I see…’ Kane tried to arrange her more comfortably, but she was shaking, uncontrollably.
‘I’ll take her.’
Kane started, then turned. The small boy – Fleet – was standing directly behind him, holding out his arms. ‘She’s frighted of strangers.’ ‘Frightened,’ his father corrected him.
Kane passed the dog down to the boy, noticing, as he did so, that his hands and his jumper felt curiously warm. Then suddenly cold. Then wet.
‘Oh God,’ Dory murmured (missing nothing), ‘I’m afraid she must’ve…’
He winced, looking horrified. Kane gingerly prodded at his sweater. It was sodden.
‘She’s got a voluminous bladder for such a tiny scrap,’ he mused. ‘Fleet, put the dog down,’ Dory shouted after his son, ‘she’s still doing pee-pee…’
Fleet was heading back into the house, at speed. He completely ignored his father.
‘Fleet…’ Dory barked.
The boy disappeared into the kitchen.
Dory glanced over at Kane with a helpless shrug. ‘She isn’t actually our dog,’ he confided. ‘She’s an awful creature. I really have no idea how she ended up here…’
As he spoke, both Lester and Elen glanced over at him. Kane couldn’t quite decipher their expressions (disbelief? Irritation? Incredulity?) but there was definitely a level of concord between them.
‘Hold them more firmly,’ Elen spoke softly, returning swiftly to her patient and readjusting the pack of peas, ‘and keep your head back or you’ll start to gush again…
‘…You’d better remove your jumper,’ she instructed Kane (without even looking at him). ‘I’ll pop it in the wash. It shouldn’t take much more than half an hour.’
‘No, it’s fine – it’s fine, really…’ Kane began fobbing her off.
‘But you must,’ Dory interjected, plainly appalled. ‘You can’t possibly go anywhere like that. The smell, for one thing…’
He waved his hands around, fastidiously.
The smell?
Kane sniffed, deeply. He couldn’t actually detect anything. ‘It doesn’t…’ he began, and then suddenly he was quite overwhelmed – rabbit-punched – demolished – abrogated – by an unholy aroma –
Sweet Lord!
He staggered back a step.
The mos
t…the most terrible stench. A smell so noxious, putrid and malodorous that it assaulted each of his senses, individually, then drew them all together and melded them – soldered them – into a kind of crazy disharmony. It wasn’t just a scent now, so much as…as sound, as colour. He could hear it – it was…
Woah…
– it hissed, and the light cascaded off it – almost liquid, in a gush; glistening and pulsating. It was opalescent. It was iridescent. He felt ambushed by it, saturated in it.
‘Oh God…oh shit…’
He clapped his hands over his nose, leaned forward and gagged, then took another clumsy step back into the sheet. But the feel of the fabric wasn’t quite as it should be, it was like a…like a solid wall of thick, white smoke. He tried to push his hands through it and his hands were suddenly burning. His hands were on fire. He tripped –
Whooo-uuup!
Darkmans Page 26
