Darkmans

by Nicola Barker

  – then he retched again. Violently. He began to cough, to choke. He felt the tender flesh straining in his throat.

  ‘Take it off…’

  The German was speaking. He’d moved over to assist him. He seemed very close – too close.

  ‘Just pull it off…’

  He yanked Kane’s denim jacket from his shoulders, then grabbed at the sweater…

  As his hands made contact with him Kane felt a sensation of such…a ferocious tickling. An excruciating tickling. He felt his skin goose-bumping and his nipples tightening.

  ‘Please…’ he gasped, flinching, his eyes watering, uncontrollably, ‘I’m actually…’ he panted, then he retched again. ‘Fuck. No. I’m perfectly…’ he grabbed at the sweater himself, ‘just let me…’

  He tore the sweater off and threw it away from him, disgusted. It landed in the middle of the paving.

  Jesus Christ.

  He tried to catch his breath. He was panting and almost…almost laughing. He was high. Flying.

  His entire body was still electrified. Vibrating. His heart was banging and hammering like an angry bailiff at the door of his chest.

  And the smell? Different now. A sweet smell. A sharp smell. Blood? Filth? Flowers? Pumping through his temples, burning into his sinuses; acrid and savage, like singed plastic.

  He sneezed, then winced, then blinked. Elen was standing next to him, holding the sweater in her hands. He gazed down at her, almost in wonder…

  Roses.

  No…

  No.

  Lilies?

  Dory had moved several paces back.

  ‘Perhaps you should drive Lester home, Isidore,’ Elen spoke at normal volume, perfectly calmly, ‘on the way to your evening shift?’

  Dory peered down at his watch, ‘Gracious – the time…Yes. Of course. Good idea.’

  He turned to Lester, put a hand on to his shoulder, and then slowly began guiding him through the washing.

  ‘Keep your head tilted…’ Elen reminded him.

  ‘Will you be all right here?’ Dory murmured as they passed. ‘Of course. Keep that head back, Lester,’ she reiterated, grabbing Kane’s jacket from the crook of her husband’s arm, passing it over to him and then motioning him, casually, towards the house.

  ‘And do try not to bleed on the upholstery,’ she persisted, smiling over at Kane as she spoke, almost sardonically. ‘It’s a company car, remember?’

  THREE

  The moment Gaffar left him, Beede promptly set about rearranging his old rug (and all of the surrounding furniture) with a fierce – almost neurotic – meticulousness. He turned the rug and angled it, precisely (using an old-fashioned, yellow-fabric, roll-up tape-measure), then slotted the sofa, the side-table and the small chair back into position by dint of those slight indentations in the carpet’s weave which’d long been established by their former tenure. He stood over the burn for a while (breathing heavily), and inspected it, morosely.

  It was a small mark, but ugly. He winced, placing a weary hand to his temples. They were thudding. Throbbing. He felt quite empty – hollow – like a neatly rinsed-out milk bottle. He could feel nothing – hear nothing – bar the sound of his own blood pumping –

  Just…

  So…

  Exhaust…

  He threw himself down on to the sofa and closed his eyes, with a heavy sigh. Then something odd suddenly struck him. His eyes flew open again.

  ‘But what on earth did he mean…?’ he muttered. ‘Just some cheap reproduction?’

  He peered down at the rug, frowning. He felt…

  He shook his head –

  Don’t be silly

  Just tired

  Too tired…

  But he continued to sit there and to stare.

  After several minutes he stood up. He scratched his chin. He dropped – carefully, somewhat creakily – on to his knees and he inspected the rug more closely. He ran his fingers through its short, stiff fibres. Then he lowered himself on to his stomach (prostrating himself, as if for prayer) and took a long, deep sniff.

  He closed his eyes and really concentrated. He sniffed again. Then he raised himself up, scowling.

  ‘Smell’s changed,’ he murmured.

  He scanned the room, slightly panicked, his anxious gaze finally settling on the large and precarious pile of books to which Kane had had recourse a mere three days earlier.

  He reached out and grabbed the compact paperback of A.R. Myers’ England in the Late Middle Ages. He held it in his hand for a minute and inspected the cover – not so much the illustration as the intimate, individual details of his own particular edition: the creases, the wear, the tiny marks in the patina.

  He ran a gentle index finger up and down the spine which had been so well-flexed over time that the binding had cracked and whitened, rendering the title and the author’s name virtually indecipherable.

  He opened the book up. The first page was loose (he nodded slightly, remembering), and it was waterstained, too (again, a small nod).

  He’d bought it second-hand. The price had been written, in pencil (£2), in the centre of that first, loose page, at the very top –

  Good…

  – and just to the right of the price was a stamp – a circular stamp – which read ‘Davison School, Worthing’. There was another stamp – identical in colour (a faded blue-black) – slightly lower down, which read: 7 September 1971.

  He flipped his way through the text, stopping, every so often, to inspect his own comments (scribbled messily but emphatically into the margins). As he paged, he visibly relaxed, appearing to find everything utterly familiar and in perfect order.

  ‘It was an age of contradictions,’ he read quietly, at one point, ‘as vivid as the bright colours which it loved…’

  He smiled, weakly, placed the book back on to the pile again, stood up, and walked through to the kitchen. He grabbed his post in one hand, and the kettle in his other (to confirm that it was full enough –

  Yup)

  – but then he froze, slapped down the letters, shoved his glasses up on to his head and gazed intently at the kettle’s lid. Why did it seem so different, suddenly? He wobbled it, tentatively, between his finger and his thumb…

  Hmmn

  Was the fit less easy? He closely scrutinised each detail: the base, the filament –

  Scandalously limed up –

  What’s wrong with me?

  Should’ve sorted that out weeks back…

  – the handle, the spout. Then he cursed, softly, under his breath. ‘Enough, Beede, you old fool,’ he murmured, ‘enough.’

  He pushed down his glasses, plugged in the kettle and strolled through to his bedroom where he was enthusiastically greeted by Manny, the cat. He squatted down and gave him a gentle pat. The cat’s backbone arched in response, and his tail shot up. Beede smiled, then emitted a sharp, light, utterly instinctive pswee-pswee noise using his teeth and his tongue.

  The cat loved it, rubbing up against him – purring blissfully. Beede’s eyes settled, flatly, on his bed –

  Tired…

  – on the counterpane, then dropped down lower, to the legs, then finally, to the carpet. He noticed – with a tiny fluttering in his chest – that the bed seemed to have been moved recently. Or nudged. Just by a couple of inches. He observed the indentation from its weight in the pile of the carpet.

  He stared at the bed again. It was heavy. Wooden. Darkly varnished. Victorian.

  So what…?

  Or how…?

  He stood up and walked over to it. He ran his hand along the headboard. He looked for ridges, for scratches, for familiar imperfections. The cat followed him, tangling around his ankles, mewling.

  He glanced down, as if relieved by the distraction. ‘Hungry, are we?’ He moved over to its ‘food station’ (ie its water bowl, its food bowl, its litter tray; all neatly arranged on a plastic mat – although the tray – as was the animal’s habit – had been fastidiously nudged clear, and
the granules from its several careful evacuations had been scattered over the carpet).

  The food bowl was still half-full.

  ‘So what is it, boy?’ Beede asked. The cat gazed up at him, quizzically, then its head snapped around as the kettle reached boiling point and turned off with a sharp click.

  ‘Strong coffee,’ Beede murmured, ‘a pint of it. Care to join me?’

  He headed back into the kitchen again, the cat at his heels. He opened the cupboard and removed a jar of Nescafé and a cup. He placed them both down on to the counter, grabbed a teaspoon from a drawer, unscrewed the coffee jar and dipped the spoon inside. His eyes settled – momentarily – on the first letter in his pile of post. He released the spoon. He reached out and picked it up. He inspected the address, irritably. He tore it open.

  Inside was a copy of some minutes from a meeting of the Ryan Monkeith Road Crossing Initiative. He scowled as he glanced through them. His scowl deepened as he unfolded a handwritten note from a woman who signed herself Pat Higson/Monkeith which said:

  Beede,

  Sorry you had to leave so early – hope you’re feeling a little livelier by now. After you’d gone we took a vote on the contentious issue of Chairman (Tom didn’t let me stand in the end. Think it was for the best, but Sarah Howarth did, and Jack Cowper(!!)). Isidore nominated you (in your absence) and I took the liberty of seconding him. The vote was all-but unanimous. So we dearly hope you’ll do us the great honour of accepting this pivotal role in our small organisation!

  All details etc will be ironed out at our next meeting – Wed. 24th. 8pm. Our place again, I’m afraid (Hope the new Chair won’t mind – I’ve heard he runs a tight ship!).

  Yours…

  As he read, Beede’s jaw slowly stiffened. His eye returned to the line ‘Isidore nominated you (in your absence)…’

  ‘Damn him!’ he gasped. ‘But why?!’

  He screwed up the letter and smashed it down, hard, on to the counter, then stood – stock still, eyes unfocussed, thinking deeply. The cat mimicked his reverie, his slim tail kinking, then sprang back, alarmed, as Beede exploded into life again: grabbing his helmet and his jacket, rummaging around inside his pockets for his keys and slamming his way, violently, out of the flat.

  Once he’d gone, the cat jumped up, soundlessly, on to the counter and sat there, head cocked, listening intently to the Douglas’s old engine (turning, cutting out, turning, cutting out, turning, catching, and then noisily accelerating).

  As its clamour gradually faded he reached out a dainty paw and gave the contentious note a gentle tap with it, then watched – eyes narrowing, whiskers a-quiver – as it slid, seductively, across the counter-top.

  ‘I’m sorry it’s such a mess in here,’ she murmured, bundling his sweater into the machine, yanking out the small detergent drawer, pouring in some washing liquid and adding a tiny drop of fabric conditioner, ‘but our electricity cut out this morning – half-way through a washload…’

  She gestured, wearily, towards all the chair-backs and the radiators which were currently festooned in towels, t-shirts and underwear –

  Kane glanced around him –

  Oh God, yes –

  Her underwear…

  Elen deftly programmed the machine and pressed the start button. As he stood there –

  Stop staring at her bra, you twat

  – his phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. It made him start –

  Fuck –

  Still feeling the after-effects of that crazy sensimillia…

  ‘So,’ Elen straightened up, smoothing down her skirt, ‘shall I take a proper look?’

  Her eye moved to his pocket where the phone quietly shuddered.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The foot.’

  ‘Oh. Yeah…’ he frowned, glancing down, suddenly embarrassed by the notion of actual physical contact.

  She observed his sudden reticence and smiled at him, teasingly. ‘I thought you said you were in agony.’

  ‘Yes. Well, no…’ he back-pedalled, ‘not agony exactly…’

  As he spoke the dog trundled past him (her rear-end now attached

  – by a series of tiny, silver-buckled leather harnesses – to a jaunty red cart). Kane gazed on – somewhat startled – as she made her stately progress across the floor, her wooden wheels bumping and rattling against the reproduction slate tiling. She stationed herself, with a heavy sigh, directly in front of the washer-dryer.

  Elen glanced down at the dog, fondly. ‘The machine seems to mesmerise her. She’ll stand there for hours, just watching the clothes turning.’

  Wow

  Kane put his hand to his head. He still felt slightly woozy.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ she asked him. Her voice sounding distant, then very near. He blinked.

  ‘Do you have any spirits?’ he asked, sitting down, heavily, on a chair, ‘whisky, maybe, or brandy?’

  She leaned over and grabbed a hold of the vest which he’d inadvertently knocked down on to the floor. As she leaned her hair fell against his shoulder. He inhaled it. The blackness of her clothing creaked. He felt a powerful urge to touch her.

  ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  To touch?

  ‘Perhaps a coffee would be better. Or some sweet tea? You look a little pale.’

  Kane shrugged. ‘Sure. Coffee – or tea, even…’ he murmured, ‘…if you feel that’s more appropriate.’

  She gazed at him for a second – quite blankly – then she turned, opened the freezer and pulled out a bottle of frozen Stolichnaya. The bottle was so cold that it stuck to her fingers. She removed a tiny, highly decorated antique thumb glass from a cupboard, filled it and passed it over.

  Kane took the glass and held it aloft, staring at it, in a kind of dreamy stupor.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked, rolling the cap between her fingers.

  ‘Are you familiar with the story of the Moscow Hotel?’ he wondered.

  ‘Pardon?’

  He glanced up, distractedly. ‘The label. On the bottle. It’s a picture of the Moscow Hotel.’

  She peered down at the bottle. She saw an uncontentious line drawing of a plain-looking building.

  ‘Won’t you join me?’ he suddenly asked, with a slight smirk, saluting her with his shot.

  ‘It’s a little early,’ she said.

  He shrugged, knocked his drink back, swallowed, then shuddered.

  ‘You were always such a sober little creature…’ she murmured gently ‘…as I remember.’

  Was it gentle?

  Truly?

  Or was it regretful?

  ‘I wasn’t little,’ he snapped, ‘I was fourteen – fifteen – a teenager.’

  ‘Yes,’ she tipped her head, thoughtfully, ‘I suppose you were…’

  ‘And as I remember,’ he interjected, almost harshly (determined to defend the honour of that once virulently hormonal adolescent monkey), ‘I thought you were…’ he frowned ‘…quite magnificent.’

  Magnificent?!

  She chuckled, wryly. ‘You didn’t get out much, huh?’

  He grinned back at her.

  ‘Although…’ her expression grew serious, ‘in retrospect…’ she looked at him, almost pityingly, ‘you can’t’ve got out much. Weren’t you your mother’s principal carer?’

  The smile died on his lips.

  ‘So they needed to build this new hotel in Moscow,’ he returned, somewhat sullenly, to his former subject –

  Why’d she insist on doing that?

  On ruining things?

  – ‘and because the building was to be so close to the Kremlin, in the centre of town – a landmark building – they commissioned two top architects to come up with designs for it. When they’d completed their plans, they sent them to Comrade Stalin so that he could tell them which one he preferred…’

  He offered her the glass back.

  She didn’t take it at once. She gazed
at him, intently, then smiled, took it, poured another large shot and downed it. ‘Nasdravye,’ she murmured.

  He gave her a sour – almost withering – look. She promptly poured and downed a second shot, then a third, before covering her mouth with the back of her hand, leaning forward and coughing, hoarsely, her hair swinging darkly across her cheeks, her eyes tearing up, like some kind of wildly romantic girl consumptive –

  No.

  Stop that.

  She cleared her throat. ‘It’s been a wretched day,’ she croaked.

  ‘So anyway…’ he glanced down, unnerved, absolutely determined –

  Damn it

  – not to engage with her emotionally ‘…the architect – or apparatchik, or whatever – takes the two designs to Stalin, to see which one he likes better. And Stalin’s not really paying attention. Perhaps it’s too early in the morning, or he’s got a hangover, or he’s still thinking about that pretty young girl in the shiny-white underwear who he watched in the gymnastics display the day before…‘

  She poured a fifth shot and offered it to him. He took it.

  ‘…so instead of signing either one design or the other, he signs in the middle of both and returns the plans with no further comment.’