‘Drugs?!’
‘Yes.’ Beede was defiant. ‘Isn’t that what people generally ask you for?’
Kane was appalled. ‘What on earth are you talking about? She’s a foot doctor. I have a verruca…’
‘You went to her house, Kane.’
‘So?’
‘Do you make a habit of visiting the homes of all your healthcare professionals?’
‘It wasn’t…’ Kane started.
‘I mean do you make a habit of visiting your dentist at home?’
‘I just turned up,’ Kane was exasperated, ‘on a whim. There was nothing sinister about it. My foot was hurting…’
‘Oh yes,’ Beede sneered. ‘Your foot.’
Silence
‘Did she tell you I went to see her?’ Kane asked, suddenly anxious. ‘Did she complain to you about it?’
‘No.’
‘So how…?’
‘Isidore. Her husband. He told me. He mentioned it in passing. He seemed…’ Beede pondered for a moment.
‘He seemed what?’ Kane enquired.
‘Bemused.’
‘I see.’ Kane shrugged (perhaps a touch disingenuously). ‘Well I don’t really know what cause he had to feel that way.’
‘What cause? You just turned up at her home…’ Beede threw out his hand, exasperatedly. ‘Don’t you think that’s a little…?’
‘What?’
‘Odd?’
‘Odd?’
‘Yes.’
‘No. No I don’t. She nursed my dying mother. We knew each other…’ ‘She didn’t nurse her,’ Beede snapped. ‘She’s a chiropodist. She massaged her feet – a couple of times, at best – ten long years ago…’
‘I know exactly what she did,’ Kane said, hoarsely, ‘I know exactly what happened. I was there, remember?’
‘All I’m telling you is that it’s a complicated situation,’ Beede struggled to keep a lid on things, ‘her husband isn’t 100 per cent well. She’s under a great deal of pressure…’
‘For fuck’s sake, Beede, she’s just taking a look at my verruca,’ Kane remonstrated, still trying himself – at some level – to make light of it.
‘Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
Beede turned, abruptly.
‘Ditto,’ Kane hit back (somewhat childishly).
Beede paused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘Warn me? About what?’
‘About…’ Kane scowled (I mean where exactly to start?), ‘about Winifred.’
‘Winifred?’
‘Winifred Shilling. Anthony’s Winifred.’
‘What about her?’
‘She’s trouble.’
‘Trouble?’ Beede scoffed. ‘Winifred?’
‘You’d better believe it.’
‘At one time, yes, maybe…’ Beede conceded, ‘but not any more.
Things’ve changed. She’s grown up. She’s moved on…’
‘Moved on?’ Kane butted in, incredulously. ‘From where? From here? From me? Is that what you’re suggesting? From my bad influence? Holy Fuck…’
‘All I’m saying is that she’s got her life back on track…’
‘She’s poison.’
‘She loves her work, she published her book…’
Kane rolled his eyes.
Beede ignored him. ‘She got married about eighteen months ago to some Haitian academic…’.
‘And then they split. Because she’s poison. Everything she touches turns to shit.’
‘You exaggerate,’ Beede scowled.
‘I wish to God I did.’
‘Then perhaps you’re still too…’ he mused, provocatively ‘…too close to the whole thing.’
‘Too close? It’s been almost four years.’
‘Exactly. Four years. That’s a long time.’
‘Not nearly long enough,’ Kane sniped, ‘from where I’m standing.’
‘Well I’ll certainly heed your advice,’ Beede allowed him, ‘and I hope – by way of fair exchange – that you’ll heed mine…’ he paused. ‘Although as far as Winnie’s concerned,’ he couldn’t resist adding, ‘you have absolutely nothing to worry about.’
Winnie?!
‘I’m not worried,’ Kane insisted haughtily, ‘I just thought you should know.’
‘Good. So now I do.’
‘Good.’
They both turned. They both paused. They both took one measured step forward, then another; like a pair of old adversaries engaging in a duel, but without weapons, or seconds, or anybody to call.
The surly, farting roar from the blackened exhaust of Beede’s old Douglas had barely finished resounding off the walls in the hallway before Gaffar was padding nonchalantly downstairs (Beede’s precious casserole dish cradled lovingly in his arms) and trying to gain access to the ground-floor flat.
He eased down the handle with his elbow and then nudged at the door with his shoulder, fully expecting it to just give, but it didn’t, it wouldn’t –
Eh?!
– so he placed the dish down gently against the skirting and tackled it for a second time using both hands.
Nope. Solid as a rock. He attacked it for a third time (harder – slamming into it with his hip, just to make sure) –
Nuh-uh
– but the door wasn’t merely stuck, it was locked.
He drew a step back and stared at it, frowning. Then he shrugged, spun around and checked his appearance in the hallway mirror (he’d abandoned the suit and was wearing a smart, new outfit: black trousers from Burton, black shirt from Topman, black lambswool jumper and leather jacket from M&S, black boots from Clarks). He looked – to all intents and purposes – like a monochrome assassin.
But something was missing. He frowned. Then he reached out his hand and ‘borrowed’ Kane’s favourite, hand-knitted, Dennis the Menace scarf from the heavily laden coat-rack (wound it around his neck – two, three, four times) checked his reflection again (wolf-whistled, approvingly), removed the keys to Kelly’s moped from his trouser pocket, twirled them, jauntily, around his index finger, and briskly headed out.
‘He’s gone,’ Kane said (glancing up from his well-thumbed copy of Philip K. Dick’s Beyond Lies the Wub). ‘There’s only me here now, so why not save yourself the bother and drop the stupid act?’
He appraised her, somewhat critically, as he spoke. She was fully dressed but dishevelled, standing in her stockinged feet with her big toes bulging – like two wilful carp – out of their fishnet restraints. She had mascara caked down one cheek. Her lips were still sealed up.
She slit her eyes at him, leaned forward, removed the cigarette from between his fingers, jammed it, hungrily, into the side of her mouth and took a quick puff.
‘There’s tea and toast if you want it,’ he said (eyeing her ample cleavage as she bent down, extra-low, to hand it back). ‘God knows you must be starving after the night you’ve had.’
She snorted, dryly, strolled out on to the landing and returned – minutes later – armed with a laden plate and a steaming mug. She placed them both down on to the carpet, then dropped on to the sofa and began to unpick.
As her nimble fingers unlaced the string, she ran a speculative toe up and down Kane’s shin.
‘This day just keeps on getting better,’ Kane mused, to no one in particular, ‘first ambushed by my dad, then blandished on my own sofa by a Goth nymphomaniac.’
He returned to his paperback.
Geraldine snorted, enraged, and tried to knock the book from his hands with a well-aimed kick, but he was way too quick for her. He hurled the book on to the floor, grabbed her foot and began to tickle it. She unleashed a terrible squeak as she pulled the lace clear. ‘What you tryin’a do?’ she croaked (with all the fine vocal modulation of an eighty-year-old cockney fishwife), ‘tear my fuckin’ face up?’
Kane held on to the foot and squinted, dispassionately, down the line of her leg. ‘Oh dear,’ he murmured, his
voice full of sympathy, ‘how terribly sad. You appear to’ve mislaid your pants.’ She grinned at him, sliding down still lower and obligingly hitching her skirt up.
‘Did you ever consider the benefits,’ he wondered, casually inspecting her neatly shaven muff, ‘of applying a few well-placed stitches down there?’
She yanked her foot from his grasp, pulled herself straight and adjusted her skirt.
‘I’m guessing you didn’t get around to telling Gaffar, yet,’ Kane said, pulling his phone from his pocket and checking his texts.
‘Fuck off!’ she growled. ‘We only just met. What kind of a moll do you take me for?’
He drew on his cigarette, gazing over at her, blankly.
‘If you must know,’ she admitted (slightly rattled by his stare), ‘it weren’t all that. He just wanked me off with his hand and then – because he did such a good job of it, as a special favour, yeah? – I let him cum in between my baps…’
She propped up her breasts and then shoved them together, to illustrate.
‘Geraldine Broad,’ Kane chuckled wryly, ‘you incorrigible old romantic…’
‘Give me some score,’ she wheedled, ‘and you can do the same if you like.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he sighed.
She slid her hand on to his thigh. ‘Okay,’ she conceded, ‘don’t give me no score…’
He stared down, frowning slightly, at her ring-laden fingers. ‘So let me get this straight,’ he murmured, ‘you actually, honestly believe that it’s possible to just side-step the truth – or any kind of basic, moral decision, come to that – by the simple but painful expedient of sewing your mouth up?’
She didn’t react.
‘…I mean you seriously think a few, tiny stitches’ll get you off the hook?’
She glowered at him.
‘Wow,’ he shook his head, pityingly, ‘you’re really messed up.’
‘If you’re that worried,’ she sneered, snatching back her hand, ‘then why didn’t you say somethin’?’
‘What? And spoil all your fun?’
She ignored him, bending down to pick up her mug. He pushed his cigarette into the corner of his mouth and returned to his texting.
‘I shouldn’t even be givin’ you the time of day,’ she grumbled, ‘after the move you pulled on Lester.’
‘He owed me money,’ Kane shrugged.
‘He owes everyone money.’
‘D’you know anything about the job he’s on?’ Kane wondered.
She stared across at him, blankly. ‘Job? Why would I?’
‘He’s over in Cedar Wood,’ Kane tried to jog her memory, ‘he’s working for a German couple there.’
‘Alls I know,’ she informed him, ‘is that if Lester’s involved then it ain’t lookin’ good for ‘em.’
‘Although the woman – the wife – isn’t actually German,’ Kane corrected himself (his finger still jabbing at the phone), ‘she’s English. A chiropodist.’
Geraldine took a sip of her tea. ‘They got a kid?’ she asked.
‘A son. Yes.’
‘Well he did say somethin’ about a kid. Dunno if it’s on that job. But he loves this kid. He’s crazy about him. If the kid says jump he’s like, “Off which fuckin’ building?” Sounds like the kid’s a bit simple or somethin’…’ she rolled her eyes, ‘which means they gotta whole lot in common…’
Kane smiled, sympathetically.
Geraldine was encouraged. ‘Says they got this big castle on their dinin’-room table. Made out of all these tiny bits of wood. Matches. The kid built it. The kid spends all his time buildin’ it. Lester say’s the kid’s a real gem. Never stops goin’ on about it. Says the kid’s amazin’.’
‘What kind of castle?’ Kane asked. ‘Like some kind of religious buildin’. Like St Paul’s Cathedral, only foreign. An’ he’s built this kick-arse little city around it, Lester says. All tiny shops an’ pubs an’ shit.’
She took another sip of her tea, then clumsily adjusted her bra strap. ‘He’s been carryin’ around this old pickle jar. I asked him what it was for the other day. He says it’s for the kid. I’m like, “What’s the kid want with an empty pickle jar?” He’s like, “It ain’t empty.” I’m like, “What’s it full of then, air?” He’s like, “No you stupid, fuckin’ whore, fleas…”’
Kane glanced up.
‘Fleas?’
‘Yeah. Fleas. He’s collectin’ fleas for the kid. I’m like, “Well I don’t know why you’re sniffin’ around near me. I ain’t got no fleas, you twat.” Mum went fuckin’ spacko when I told her. She’s like, “I don’t care what you do at work, Lester, but I won’t have you bringin’ that dirty crap back into this house…”’
She smirked, readjusting her strap again.
‘Love your tits, by the way,’ Kane muttered, in passing.
“Course you do,’ she smiled, ‘everybody does.’
He smiled too, still tapping. ‘So how’s Kelly bearing up?’
‘Same as always. Broke her leg. Covered in spots. Hates your guts.’
‘Good.’
She took a large bite of her toast, a mouthful of tea, reached out a greedy hand and plucked the fag from his mouth.
‘Could you squeeze anything else in while you’re at it?’ he wondered.
‘Why?’
She gazed at him, archly, as she took a puff. ‘Whatcha got in mind?’
He glanced down at his watch. ‘It’s almost nine. Don’t you have a job to go to?’
‘Nope.’
‘What about the salon?’
She blew a smoke ring then stuck her finger through it. ‘They sacked me after they found out.’
He glanced up, frowning. ‘Can they do that?’
‘Whadd’ya mean, “can they?” They already did, thick-o.’
‘But that’s discrimination,’ he explained. ‘It isn’t legal.’
‘They said I could cut myself on the scissors or somethin’…’
‘That’s bullshit. It’s not right. I can look into it for you if you like…’
‘Aw,’ she mocked him, ‘my hero.’
‘I’m serious.’
“Course you are…’ She shrugged. ‘I was sick of it anyways. That bitch of a manageress was always on my arse. I was glad to go, quite frankly.’
‘Well don’t say I didn’t offer.’
‘I won’t, matey.’
She stubbed out his cigarette on the bottom of his trainer, placed the stub alongside the toast on her plate, then took another large bite.
‘You’ve put on some weight,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ she spoke with her mouth full, ‘it’s all the drugs.’
‘But it looks kinda hot.’
‘I know it does.’
‘So did you get around to telling your dad yet?’
‘That’s none of your damn business,’ she snapped.
‘Fair enough.’ Kane shoved his phone away. ‘Finish your breakfast,’ he said, ‘then empty your pockets and clear off. I’ve got stuff I need to do this morning.’
He bent down and retrieved his book.
‘Not much to hang around here for, anyways,’ she grumbled, grabbing her mug of tea, taking a deep draught of it, then belching so loudly – by way of vengeance – that Kane’s lank fringe rocked.
A small but ruthlessly efficient band of chainsaw-wielding contractors were savagely laying waste to a tall line of trees on the edge of the forecourt. Beede was standing by the trolleys (next to the store entrance) and absolutely fuming as he watched their steady progress.
‘I mean what’s to be gained by that?’ he couldn’t stop himself from sniping at the kid who stacked the trolleys up.
The kid shrugged.
‘They were serving a purpose: acting as a block to the motorway – countering the pollution, reducing the racket…’
The kid shrugged again.
‘You’d be amazed at the level of bio-diversity which exists even in a superficially low-grade site like this,’
Beede informed him, ‘in the low bushes, the incidental scrub, the trees…I’ve actually seen several firecrests in that Scotch Pine over there.’
He paused. ‘And a wren.’
‘They’re plannin’ on expandin’ the place,’ the kid volunteered. ‘Expanding?’ Beede looked astonished. ‘There’s a brand-new store not half a mile away. How much more business can they possibly sustain here?’
‘They’re gonna extend the cafe, for starters. Move it upstairs, out the back…’
‘Why?’
The kid shrugged.
‘Move it upstairs?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Move it to the back and upstairs when the vast proportion of its customers are pensioners, or young mums with toddlers and prams?’
‘They’re puttin’ in a lift.’
‘A lift? But what on earth for?’
‘So the mums can get their prams up.’
‘That’s absolutely typical of these people,’ Beede grouched, ‘to create a problem and then pointlessly throw money at it.’
He gazed over at the contractors, balefully. ‘I mean where’s the harm in just leaving things as they are?’
The kid shrugged. He looked at his watch.
Pause
‘I’ll tell you what their reasoning is,’ Beede suddenly started up again. ‘They move the cafe out to the back so that anyone who wants a drink or a snack has to traipse all the way through the store. And naturally, on their way there – human nature being what it is – they’ll pick up a little something extra. It’s just a scam – in other words – a cheap trick to encourge people to spend more of the money they don’t have on more of the stuff they don’t need…’
‘I just work here, mate,’ the kid said, starting to move off. ‘Taking those trees down,’ Beede persisted, ‘will significantly impinge on your working environment. The air quality, for starters…’
‘Who cares?’ the kid sneered. ‘It’s just some crappy, old job anyway…’
‘Rubbish,’ Beede wouldn’t let him have it, ‘you’re serving an essential function here – uh…’ he inspected his name tag, ‘Brian, and don’t you let anyone dare tell you otherwise.’
Darkmans Page 36
