Darkmans

by Nicola Barker

  Pat tried to work her way around the problem.

  ‘Uh…No. I don’t think…’

  ‘Could you do that, Emily?’

  Pause

  ‘I suppose I could try.’

  ‘No, honestly, I’m allergic to prawns. If I eat even a tiny piece of prawn…’

  ‘What happens?’ Cheryl asked.

  ‘I suffocate and die.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Emily moved back, stiffly, as if Beede’s allergy might prove contagious in some way.

  ‘Can you eat vegetable soup?’ Pat wondered.

  ‘I can eat pretty much anything so long as there aren’t any prawns involved.’

  ‘Well here’s an idea then…’ she smiled, ‘Emily, I have some leftover vegetable soup from lunch in a Tupperware container in the refrigerator. Would you mind heating that up for Beede?’

  ‘You want me to heat up some old vegetable soup?’ Emily asked, aghast.

  ‘Yes. You said the main course would be half an hour late, so hopefully you should have…’

  Pat inspected her watch.

  Emily turned and left the room.

  Pat glanced up, with a slight frown, surprised to see Emily gone.

  ‘Well that’s good then,’ she said.

  ‘Please,’ Beede gestured expansively to the table, ‘don’t let your starters get cold on my account.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Pat asked.

  ‘Never more so.’

  ‘Tom’s already started,’ Cheryl murmured, picking up her spoon.

  They all commenced eating, except for Laura.

  ‘I see no earthly reason why Alice would feel the need to lie…’ she suddenly said.

  ‘Please forgive my wife,’ Charlie told the table, ‘she’s taking antidepressants and they’re making her a little…’ he paused, speculatively, reaching for the perfect word ‘…irritating.’

  Laura’s hand flew up to cover her mouth.

  ‘So do you work on a rota system in the laundry?’ Cheryl asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Beede answered.

  ‘I was always under the impression that you worked alongside Isidore,’ Tom interjected.

  ‘Isidore?’ Beede looked momentarily anxious. ‘Yes. Yes. I do, occasionally,’ he hastily conceded, ‘on the local guided tours.’

  ‘Isidore?’ Charlie looked up from his soup. ‘You mean the German who works for Jeff Ronsard over at Ronsard Security?’

  Beede nodded.

  ‘Lovely chap. Know him well. I provide their fleet. Jeff’s an old pal of mine.’

  ‘Aren’t you hungry, Laura?’ Pat enquired, tentatively.

  Laura picked up her spoon and tried to eat a mouthful of soup, but her hand was shaking, almost uncontrollably.

  ‘Would you like to come to the bathroom?’ Pat asked, making as if to stand up.

  ‘No,’ Laura said, ‘I’m fine.’

  She paused. ‘And I’m very sorry,’ she added, ‘if my behaviour’s proved irritating to anybody this evening.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Tom chided her, fondly.

  ‘You said it, old boy,’ Charlie seconded him, perhaps a fraction less tenderly.

  Laura threw down her spoon. ‘That’s it,’ she hissed at her husband. ‘You’ve been taking pot shots at me all night and I’ve had just about enough.’

  ‘Let’s go to the bathroom, Laura,’ Pat stood up.

  ‘I don’t need to go to the bathroom,’ Laura snapped, ‘I’m not a child. Just sit down.’

  Pat sat down, shocked.

  ‘You’re just tired,’ Charlie told her, ‘and a little confused.’

  ‘I am not confused. I know perfectly well what’s going on here.’

  Emily re-entered the room, carrying a bowlful of soup. She whisked away Beede’s empty setting and placed it down, reverently, before him.

  ‘Nothing’s going on, Laura,’ Cheryl muttered.

  ‘If you must know, Cheryl,’ Laura snarled, ‘hell’d freeze over before I’d look to you for support.’

  Cheryl seemed taken aback.

  ‘Is your soup warm enough?’ Pat asked Beede. ‘Because it didn’t seem to take her very long…’

  Laura also glanced over at Beede, as if perceiving him, at least, to be a dispassionate observer.

  ‘Have you noticed him taking pot shots?’ she asked.

  ‘Uh…’ Beede picked up his spoon. ‘This looks delicious,’ he said, dipping it into the soup and then consuming a large mouthful.

  The soup was ice cold. He tried not to grimace as he swallowed.

  ‘Is that good?’ Pat asked.

  ‘Wonderful,’ he patted his lips with his napkin.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  He took another spoonful.

  ‘It’s cold,’ Cheryl said, peering down into his bowl, ‘isn’t it?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Am I not only irritating but INAUDIBLE now?’ Laura yelled.

  Beede leaned back, slightly alarmed, as Cheryl touched the side of his bowl.

  ‘Ice cold,’ she pronounced.

  ‘Is it?’ Pat asked.

  ‘Ice bloody cold.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Tom asked.

  ‘You feel it.’

  Cheryl picked up Beede’s bowl and passed it over to her brother.

  ‘Perhaps he has,’ Beede quietly conceded ‘…been a little…a little sharp at points. But I don’t think…’

  Charlie glanced up from his soup, shocked.

  ‘Sharp? Me? Absolutely not.’

  ‘That is cold,’ Tom pronounced, sticking his spoon in and trying some. ‘Jesus Christ. It’s disgusting.’

  ‘See?!’ Laura spat.

  ‘But obviously I don’t…That’s just…that’s…’ Beede stuttered. ‘You may be the new Chairman of the Road Crossing Initiative, Beede,’ Charlie told him, perfectly cordially, ‘but you are not – Thank God – the Chairman of my marriage.’

  ‘No. Of course. And I wouldn’t…’

  Laura picked up her spoon and began eating, voraciously. Charlie glanced over at her. ‘This soup is good, Laura,’ he said, ‘isn’t it?’

  ‘Fuck. Right. Off,’ she sang.

  ‘She shouldn’t get away with that,’ Cheryl told Pat. ‘I mean how much are you paying her?’

  ‘I’m paying her,’ Tom said, ‘and that soup is ice cold.’

  Pat stood up. ‘Should I call her in and tell her to heat it up?’ ‘Good heavens, no,’ Beede tried to grab his bowl back, ‘just finish your meals. I’m enjoying the soup. The soup’s fine…’

  ‘It’s the principle, old boy,’ Tom told him.

  ‘But I just…I don’t…’

  ‘I mean how long does it take to slam a bowl of soup into the microwave?’ Cheryl asked.

  ‘Emily?’

  Pat left the room, holding the offending bowl aloft.

  ‘Imagine,’ Tom said, fishing a prawn out of his own soup and devouring it, ‘if we were in the Sahara Desert, Beede – a family of nomads – and Emily was our cook, and you arrived – at the last minute – and we were suddenly obliged to cater…’

  The sound of raised voices emerged from the kitchen area.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Beede said.

  Charlie finished his soup and threw down his spoon, with a clatter.

  ‘Right,’ he said, pushing back his chair, ‘fag break.’

  He glanced around the table. ‘Fag break, anybody?’

  ‘Good idea,’ Tom stood up.

  ‘Cheryl?’

  ‘Gasping,’ she said.

  ‘Laura?’

  ‘Is it still raining?’ Laura asked.

  ‘Jesus Christ, woman,’ Charlie bellowed, ‘where’s your spirit of adventure?’

  ‘Beede?’

  Laura looked over at him. ‘Smoke?’

  ‘No, I…’

  ‘Sixty-seconds,’ Tom promised him, as they all trooped out.

  Beede sat alone in the dining-room. He gazed, somewhat distractedly, at the partia
lly eaten portions of soup, the cutlery, the settings, the rolls. He took a sip of his wine and then a sip of his water. He stretched out his legs and was surprised to feel his feet making contact with something soft and tactile –

  A cushion?

  A handbag?

  He leaned over, flipped up the cloth and peered under the table. There he saw a cat – a Siamese cat. It gazed up at him, unblinking.

  ‘Well hello,’ he said, the top half of his torso disappearing from the cat’s eye-line for a moment, then quickly reappearing, his hand pinching something, seductively, between its thumb and its forefinger, ‘Fancy a bit of lovely, fresh seafood, do we?’

  FIVE

  It was almost dinnertime. As he picked a careful route along the ward (avoiding the hordes of stony-faced kitchen staff who were furiously shunting a series of heavily laden metal trolleys around) Gaffar was piqued to discover that Kelly already had a visitor –

  Eh?!

  A girl. A voluptuous girl; tall but very pale, with a mess of wiry, black hair. On drawing closer (approaching from the rear) he saw that her hair wasn’t naturally dark. Her roots (more than an inch past showing) were actually a fine, copper brown.

  She was visiting Kelly but they weren’t conversing. The girl was staring off blankly into space while Kelly struggled to adjust the ringtone on her new phone.

  ‘Bloody hell, mate,’ she murmured, glancing up, distractedly, at his tentative approach, ‘ain’t you got no home to go to?’ Before Gaffar could muster up a response she held out the phone, proudly. ‘Hey! See what Geraldine brought me…’

  Geraldine turned to appraise him.

  ‘Yah!’

  Gaffar leapt back, with a holler. Geraldine’s mouth had been neatly sewn up with a piece of black string.

  Kelly gave no appearance of having noticed his reaction – or if she had, then she’d plainly resolved to just let it pass. ‘Gerry…’ she graciously undertook the formal introductions, ‘this here is Gaffar, Kane’s little Turkish whore. Gaffar, meet my gorgeous cousin, Miss Geraldine Broad.’

  ‘Not Turk, Kurd,’ Gaffar modified Kelly’s introduction slightly, offering Geraldine a friendly hand. Geraldine inspected his hand, then inspected her own hand, then lifted up her own hand, limply, then seemed to forget what she’d lifted it for.

  Gaffar moved forward, grasped her hand, and shook it, warmly.

  ‘Is she problem with this mouth?’ he asked Kelly, as he shook.

  ‘A problem? With her gob? Nah. The only real problem Gerry has is that she’s thick as shit. That’s why she sewed the damn thing up.’

  Geraldine scowled at her.

  ‘Yaag!’ Gaffar looked appalled. ‘Is she poss for speak like this?’

  ‘Yeah. ‘Course. It’s only cosmetic. Fashion, yeah? If she’s got somethin’ important to say – which she never has, as it happens – then she can always pull the stitches out…’

  ‘But it’s nothing less than criminal!’ ‘Gaffar exclaimed. ‘Whatever possessed such a beautiful girl to do something so hideous to her face?’

  Geraldine stared at him, blankly.

  ‘Is crazy?’ Gaffar asked Kelly.

  ‘She’s my fuckin’ cousin,’ Kelly scowled, ‘she’s a Broad. ‘Course she’s fuckin’ crazy. We all are.’

  Then she snorted.

  Gaffar stared at Geraldine. Geraldine stared back at him, calmly. He thought she was quite beautiful with her skin as pale as steamed haddock and her eyes the colour of roasted aubergine. She wore a powerful perfume…Something heady and exotic. Something which smelled like jasmine. Like chocolate.

  ‘I have never before see such a thing as this…’

  He pointed to her mouth; the four tiny holes pierced above her lipline, the four tiny holes pierced below, and the neat black thread connecting them in the cruellest of zig-zags.

  Geraldine raised one, slightly quizzical eyebrow (as if to say, ‘So where’ve you been all your life?’).

  ‘Turkey,’ he promptly answered, ‘Diyarbakir: the Town of the Black Walls. A town with standards. If my sister ever came home looking like that I’d fucking kill her. Then I’d kill myself.’

  She shrugged, indifferent.

  ‘Although I have no sister,’ Gaffar added, as an afterthought, ‘praise Allah.’

  ‘She’s a Goth,’ Kelly informed him.

  ‘Goff,’ Gaffar repeated.

  ‘Goth. G-o-t-h. Goth.’

  ‘Goth.’

  Geraldine shook her head, very firmly. Gaffar drew closer. ‘Wha’s this?’

  She shook her head, again.

  Gaffar turned to Kelly. ‘No. She say she no this…uh…“Goth”.’

  ‘Fuckin’ is, mate.’

  Geraldine shook her head and flared her nostrils slightly.

  ‘Now you make her piss!’ Gaffar exclaimed, delighted.

  Kelly sat up straight. ‘Well if you ain’t a damn Goth,’ she yelled, ‘why’d you listen to Marilyn fuckin’ Manson, wear antique fuckin’ lace and sew your stupid trap shut? Eh?’

  Geraldine shrugged.

  ‘And check out her boots for Christsakes…’ Kelly pointed, derisorily, ‘only a fuckin’ Goth’d wear boots like that.’

  Gaffar looked down at her boots. They were heavy, black leather, knee-high boots with 6-inch, silver-plated, stack heels.

  ‘Explain for Gaffar…’

  Gaffar perched on the end of the bed, facing her. ‘How you…’ he pointed, ‘how…what’re the actual logistics of this set-up?’

  He made a sewing gesture.

  ‘What she does,’ Kelly helpfully explained, ‘is get a little bit of string – black, obviously, ‘cos she’s a total, fuckin’ Goth – an’ melts some wax on the end of it so she stiffens it up a bit. Then she threads it through the piercings and sews her mouth together. Natch! She used to have a fella who did the same thing, but they broke up.’

  ‘Is so?’

  Gaffar peered over his shoulder at Kelly. ‘Man do this crazy thing, too?’

  ‘Yeah. They think it’s art, mate. Or some such. Stupid twats. But then they split, see? She wore him out. He said she just never shut up.’ Kelly made a jabbering motion with her hand. ‘Much too gobby…’

  Pause

  Gaffar stared at Geraldine, quite transfixed.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Kelly snorted, ‘I’m fuckin’ wasted on you lot.’

  ‘I never see this before,’ Gaffar repeated, slowly shaking his head.

  ‘Is incredible.’

  Geraldine looked pleased. She almost grinned, but the stitching stopped her.

  ‘See that?’ Kelly exclaimed. ‘She can’t even smile properly. It’s so fuckin’ tragic.’

  Gaffar nodded. He turned, confidingly. ‘No blow job, eh?’ he stage-whispered.

  ‘Get you!’ Kelly squealed.

  Geraldine reached out a plump, white hand and softly cuffed his leg with it.

  ‘Ow!’ Gaffar yelled. ‘Is joke!’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Kelly interrupted. ‘Like earlier? When I lost the bet? And you seriously thought…’

  Gaffar looked indignant. ‘Of course I thought – was bet!’

  ‘Yeah, whatever. So’d you get the scooter yet?’

  Gaffar reached his hands into his pocket and produced some keys.

  ‘You’ve got it for a month, mate, tops.’

  He nodded.

  ‘And I ain’t ever gamblin’ with you again, see?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘So was my mum there when you picked it up?’

  Gaffar winced. Geraldine’s eyes widened, in horror. ‘See this?’ Gaffar said, pointing. ‘Even your cousin is scare of you mother.’

  ‘Everyone’s shit-scared of her,’ Kelly observed proudly. ‘An’ wait till you meet my sister, mate…Although she moved to Gillingham, so we don’t see too much of her no more.’

  ‘Big, fat…’ Gaffar said, puffing himself up, ‘like an ox. Like a small shed draped in a huge, lard corset. I stay there two hour.’

  ‘She make you hoo
ver for her?’

  Gaffar nodded.

  ‘She make you wash up?’

  Gaffar nodded.

  ‘She make you massage her feet?’

  Gaffar nodded. ‘But this is…uh…soft feet. Tiny feet. Like…’ he frowned.

  ‘Nah. Them hooves is size sixes, mate. It’s all just proportionate.’

  ‘Tiny,‘ Gaffar repeated. ‘Then I do…uh…’

  He pointed to his shoulders.

  ‘Your shoulders?’

  ‘No. Is her…’

  ‘What?! She made you massage her shoulders?’

  He nodded.

  ‘An’ did ya?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘You did?!’ Kelly shrieked.

  He shrugged again.

  ‘Fuck me! My old ma’s got the hots for ya! D’ya hear that, Gerry?’

  Geraldine nodded, gazing at Gaffar, slightly askance.

  ‘I mean is that fucked up or what?!’

  ‘I am good for massage,’ Gaffar protested.

  ‘Don’t I fuckin’ know it,’ Kelly confirmed.

  Silence

  ‘So’d she get you to fetch her dinner?’

  ‘Yah. Pizza. We share.’

  ‘You shared a pizza?’ Kelly scowled. ‘Nuh-uh. My mum don’t know the meanin’ of the word.’

  He nodded. ‘Was my pizza. I bring.’

  ‘What?! She ate your pizza?’ Kelly cackled.

  Gaffar nodded, mournfully. Kelly fell back on to her pillow. ‘Man, what a dick. She walked all over ya.’

  Gaffar grimaced. Geraldine stared at him, poignantly.

  ‘This cousin is feel sorry for me,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘You have a lovely heart, and even lovelier breasts…’ He described her breasts in the air, appreciatively, with his hands. She looked a little shocked.

  ‘So you fuck around with my scooter and I’ll fuck around with you, mate,’ Kelly informed him.

  ‘I won’t fuck,’ Gaffar assured her.

  ‘An’ you can only keep it till my leg heals up.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Gaffar glanced over at the next bed. It was empty.

  ‘Where she?’ he asked, pointing.

  ‘What? Her next door?’