Darkmans

by Nicola Barker

He glanced around him, looking for a child.

  ‘Sorry. Yes…’ Elen reached out for the plate. ‘He’s playing under the table…’

  As she reached her jumper slipped back revealing the familiar pattern of bruises on her wrist.

  Dory flinched. The waiter handed her the plate, appearing not to have noticed.

  ‘Enjoy your meal,’ he said. Then, ‘You too,’ he added, directing his words at their feet.

  Silence

  The waiter headed off. Elen placed Fleet’s portion next to his Fanta. ‘Your dinner’s here, Fleet,’ she said softly, ‘do come out and eat.’

  Fleet promptly emerged from under the table and sat down on his chair.

  ‘Good boy,’ she said, and patted his shoulder.

  Dory picked up his knife and fork, plainly infuriated by the child’s eagerness to oblige his mother.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said gruffly, referring back to their former conversation, ‘I handled it. It was fine.’

  ‘I still would’ve appreciated being told,’ she said, spreading a paper napkin on to her lap then reaching over to grab Fleet’s, unfolding it and tucking it into the neck of his jumper.

  ‘Will you make Mummy very happy by using this fork?’ she asked, picking up the fork and showing it to him, gingerly. Fleet stared at the fork. He nodded. He took a hold of the fork. ‘Good boy,’ she said, returning to her own meal.

  Dory peered over at his son. His hold on the fork was, at best, erratic. He stared at him, frowning. Then – ‘Fleet, I think you’re eating with the wrong hand,’ he said.

  Fleet continued to prod at his food – clumsily – from a peculiar angle.

  ‘Why don’t you use your other hand?’ he asked. ‘Because I’m sure it’d be much…’

  ‘My other hand is full up,’ Fleet informed him.

  ‘Full up? Of what?’

  Fleet lifted his other hand. The other hand contained a tissue, a train time-table and a red lighter. He placed them all down, gently, on to the table-top.

  ‘But where on earth did you get this?’ Dory asked, reaching out for the lighter.

  ‘Mama’s pocket,’ Fleet said simply, swapping his fork into his other hand and commencing to eat his meal with it.

  Dory stared at the lighter, blankly, then his gaze shifted, pointedly, to the old train time-table.

  Elen’s brown eyes, meanwhile, remained calmly focussed on her plate.

  There were two lighthouses – the old and the new. The old – no longer in use, painted black, open to the public – stood adjacent to the railway (with its Light Railway Cafe) and several hundred yards east of the nuclear power plant.

  The new lighthouse – taller, leaner, smartly emblazoned with black and white stripes – stood further down the coast, like an upended hornet, its vicious sting supplanted by a powerful lamp, which blinked – calmly and benevolently – into the Straits of Dover.

  Since the long, pebble-strewn spit on which they found themselves was so exceptionally flat and uncluttered (little more, in effect, than the brazenly exposed flesh of the immodest sea-bed) it was possible to see the two lighthouses from virtually every vantage point. With this in mind, Dory had concocted an entertaining plan to take a photograph of his son in which – by a quirk of perspective – he could make it appear as if the child were a tiny Goliath, supporting the new lighthouse in his outstretched hand.

  But the boy wasn’t being cooperative.

  ‘Just hold up your arm and flatten out your palm…’ Dory explained (for what felt like the hundredth time), adjusting Fleet’s unwieldy limb to the perfect angle, ‘then stay still – very still – okay?’ He took several steps back. He lined up the shot. He was just taking the picture – his finger pressing down on the shutter – when Fleet –

  Click

  – dropped his hand.

  ‘Damn.’

  Dory waited a couple of seconds for the digital image to reconfigure. Had he managed to snatch the shot before…?

  Uh…

  The picture sprang into focus on the tiny screen –

  Nope

  ‘Fleet?’

  ‘What, Papa?’

  ‘That didn’t work. You moved. It won’t work if you move. So you need to lift your hand up again and keep it still this time, okay? Just like I showed you before…’

  ‘I don’t want to,’ Fleet grizzled, ‘it hurts.’

  ‘What do you mean, it hurts? How can it possibly hurt?’

  ‘It does,’ Fleet insisted.

  ‘He’s too young,’ Elen said, ‘to really grasp the concept…’

  ‘Well let me do it first,’ Dory snapped, passing her the camera, ‘so he can get a general idea of what I’m trying to achieve from looking at the image on the back…’

  Dory went to stand in line with the new lighthouse. He glanced over his shoulder. He posed. Elen tried her best to recreate the trick.

  ‘Could you just…?’

  She waved him forward.

  ‘Forward?’

  ‘Yes. And then drop…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just drop…That’s it…’

  She struggled to get the whole image into focus.

  ‘Drop what?’

  ‘You just did it. Your hand…’

  ‘Where? Here?’ He dropped his hand still further. ‘Like this?’

  ‘No. You just…’

  She took another step back, ‘Yes. Good. Perhaps lift it a little higher now…And if you could just twist your…’

  ‘It should actually be possible,’ he sniped, ‘if you’re going about this intelligently, to sort all these details out from your end.’

  ‘But you’re so much taller than Fleet, and it’s…’

  Dory dropped his arm and strode towards her.

  ‘This is stupid. You go and pose and I’ll take the picture…’

  ‘But I don’t…’

  Elen hated being photographed.

  ‘We can wipe it,’ he insisted, coolly gauging her displeasure. ‘It’ll be fine. I just want Fleet to get the gist of what I’m trying to do here…’

  Elen went to stand in front of the lighthouse. She held out her hand. Dory carefully shifted around and angled the camera. ‘Big smile.’ Elen smiled, weakly.

  He took the shot. He waited for the shot to reconfigure. He stared at the screen. The picture appeared…

  Shit

  He blanched at the dark circle of bruises on her outstretched wrist.

  He quickly pressed ‘delete’, muttering something under his breath about the battery running low, then turned the camea off.

  It took half an hour of concerted effort to cajole the boy to the top. Dory led the way. Elen supported from the rear. Fleet was squeezed in between them – the jam in their sandwich.

  The real problems started on the second floor when the wind suddenly rose and the skies opened up. Sheets of rain slammed fiercely into the walls and against the small, deep-set windows which allowed neat squares of natural light to flood on to the stone stairwells.

  Fleet became convinced that the lighthouse was unstable, that the lighthouse was rocking, that it might conceivably fall – then blow away; fly down the beach and into the sea, like a hollowed-out lobster shell. Elen tried to distract him with the choice selection of ancient artefacts on display – ‘See how different this old lighthouse used to look, Fleet? Before they painted it?’ – but Fleet wasn’t willing to be distracted.

  ‘I don’t like it, Mama,’ he bleated. ‘It’s going to fall over. I’m dreadful frighted. I want to go down.’

  ‘But when you get to the top,’ she told him, ‘you’ll be able to see for miles and miles. All the little boats out to sea. All the little houses…’ she paused, deviously. ‘In fact you may even be able to see Michelle, sitting in the car…’

  His eyes suddenly lit up.

  ‘And will Michelle be able to see me, Mama?’

  ‘Very possibly, yes. If she’s looking the right way…’

  ‘Really?’

 
; His face broke into a smile.

  ‘Absolutely. And I’ll tell you what else we’ll do…’

  ‘What?! What else?’ he interrupted her, jumping up and down.

  ‘We’ll wave at her. Very hard – like this…’

  Elen waved, maniacally. Fleet squealed his delight.

  ‘And will Papa wave, too?’ he gasped.

  ‘Of course he will. You’ll wave at Michelle, too, won’t you, Dory?’

  Elen turned to face her husband with an expression of mute appeal.

  ‘Dory?’

  Her eyes scanned the room. Dory had disappeared. She paused, frowning, then tipped her head and listened carefully. Above the snarl of the wind and the rain she heard the clatter of footsteps rapidly resounding – like distant cannon fire – on a higher level.

  ‘And will we say anything to her?’ Fleet wondered.

  ‘Pardon?’

  Elen focussed in on the boy again, distractedly.

  ‘Will we say anything to Michelle, Mama?’

  ‘To Michelle?’ Elen struggled to maintain the light tone in her voice.

  ‘Yes. Of course we will. We’ll say, “Hello, Michelle! Look! We’re up here! Hello, Michelle!” and then we’ll all wave our hands again, like this…’

  She waved. Fleet copied her, using both hands, laughing uproariously.

  ‘So shall we go now?’ he gasped, eager to set off again.

  ‘Yes, let’s.’

  Elen turned grimly towards the stairwell. Fleet skipped on ahead of her – to the foot of the stairs – and then commenced a mad scramble up.

  ‘Not too fast, Fleet,’ she tried desperately to wrangle him, ‘and do take care. And always make sure to hold on to the rail…’

  ‘Yes, Mama!’ he hollered back, then: ‘Hello, Michelle! Hello, darling Michelle!’ he trilled.

  The last flight wasn’t curving, but straight, and not stone, but steel; little more than a reinforced ladder.

  As they started to climb, the sound of the rain striking the large, glass dome directly above them reached a noisy crescendo. But then half-way up, it just stopped. The wind dropped. The storm – it seemed – had blown itself out.

  ‘Take your time, Fleet, keep it steady…’ Elen panted after him, struggling not to snag her feet in the fabric of her skirt.

  The boy – like a tiny, hyperactive monkey – scrambled effortlessly to the top. He whooped. He ran around the huge glass lamp, screaming. Elen carefully eased her way up behind him.

  ‘Fleet!’ she gasped. ‘Calm down! Stop running! The floor’s a little damp. Just try and be careful…’

  She glanced around her, anxious for any evidence of her husband, but there was none. Just to her left, however, was a hatch – a tiny door, which had been left slightly ajar (a small pool of water had formed just inside of it, on the floor). The hatch led out on to a thin, steel and wire balcony which – from what she could see – traversed the entire circumference of the dome.

  ‘Can we go out and see Michelle now, Mama?’ Fleet asked, pointing eagerly to the hatch (he’d already realised that he was too short to see through the windows properly).

  ‘I suppose we can,’ she said, dubiously, ‘but only if we move very slowly, very carefully. Mummy will go out first and then you can follow…’

  She eased her way through the hatch, then turned and guided the boy.

  ‘Where’s Papa?’ the boy asked, gazing around him, apparently unfazed by the fact of being suspended – quite precariously – hundreds of feet up.

  ‘Uh…’

  She tried to steady her breathing. ‘Hold on to my hand now. I think he must be a little further…’

  She led him, slowly, to the right, her back pressed up hard against the masonry. Then –

  ‘WAAAGH!’ the boy suddenly lunged forward, with a roar.

  Elen’s heart nearly jumped from her throat. ‘Fleet!’ she shrieked, grabbing on to his hand still harder. ‘Don’t do that!’

  ‘But look, Mama!’ the boy squealed. ‘It’s Phlégein! Down there!’

  He pointed, exultantly. ‘See, Mama, see? Just flying round and around!

  He can’t find us up here!’

  The boy flung himself – for a second time – at the thin, metal rail.

  ‘Wooo-hooo!’ he bellowed, then he ducked.

  ‘Fleet. Fleet…’ Elen struggled to attract the boy’s attention. ‘If you don’t calm down we’re going straight back inside again. D’you hear?’

  ‘What’s Papa doing?’ Fleet asked, unpeturbedly, from his squatting position.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Papa…’ he repeated, pointing.

  Elen turned. Further to their left, down on the floor, huddled into a poignant ball: Dory. He was soaking wet. He was sobbing uncontrollably. He was shivering.

  ‘Right,’ Elen whispered faintly, ‘let’s head inside. Quickly…’

  She pushed the boy back towards the hatch.

  ‘But what about Papa?’

  ‘He’ll be fine. I’ll deal with him in a moment, once you’re all safe inside…’

  Two seconds elapsed.

  ‘But what about Michelle?!’ Fleet suddenly wailed.

  ‘You’ll see her in a minute, I promise.’

  Elen yanked open the hatch and pushed down the boy’s head to try and manoeuvre him through it. He resisted.

  ‘But I can’t see Michelle from inside, can I?!’

  ‘Yes you can. I’ll lift you up. Trust me. It’ll be fine.’

  She pushed him still harder and bundled him through.

  ‘Now I want you to stand there, very quietly, very calmly, so I can go and fetch Daddy,’ she instructed him, sternly, from the other side.

  ‘But I want to see Michelle, Mama!’

  ‘And there’s something else,’ she struggled to distract him, ‘something very important, that I need you to do for me…’

  She spoke with quiet authority.

  ‘What?’ He gazed at her, sullenly.

  ‘I need you to count to one hundred, but very slowly. Okay?’

  The boy didn’t respond.

  ‘And when you’ve counted to one hundred – but very slowly, yes? – we’ll all wave at Michelle, then we’ll climb down the stairs again, then we’ll go straight into a newsagent’s and buy fifty boxes of matches.’

  ‘Really?’ Fleet’s eyes lit up. He was profoundly impressed by the generous nature of this exchange. ‘Fifty boxes, Mama? Are you sure?’ She nodded, sagely. ‘Fifty boxes, Fleet. But only – let me stress this very clearly so you don’t misunderstand me – only if you count, very, very slowly. Like this:

  one..................two..................three..................’

  ‘When should I start?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘Only once you close your eyes, then you can start, but very, very slowly, remember? If you count too fast you won’t get all the boxes.

  The slower you count, the more boxes you’ll get.’

  She began to withdraw.

  ‘Will I stand up while I count, Mama?’ Fleet wondered, determined to get every aspect of the transaction correct in order to maximise his prize.

  ‘Yes,’ she paused, ‘you must stand very straight and tall. No messing around, no running about. Just close your eyes and concentrate very hard on what you need to do.’

  The boy nodded. He closed his eyes. He drew a deep breath…

  ‘One..................two..................’

  The bird had found him. It was perched on the rail, shaking the rain from its greasy, black wings and chattering hysterically.

  ‘Fly!’ she hissed, taking a swipe at it. It fell off the rail with a euphoric squawk and somersaulted through the air.

  ‘Dory?’ she spoke, tentatively –

  No response

  ‘Dory?’

  She reached out and softly touched his shoulder. He opened his eyes and peered at her, suspiciously, from under the crook of his arm.

  ‘Elen?’

  ‘Are you all right d
own there?’

  He blinked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said (almost peevishly), ‘I’m just upset about the view.’

  ‘The view?’

  He nodded. She glanced around her, dazedly, at the crazy, icy, grey and gold panorama spread out below.

  ‘Is something wrong with the view?’

  ‘Don’t be silly…’ he scolded her, ‘of course there is.’

  ‘Okay,’ she drew a deep breath, ‘so what’s wrong with it, exactly?’

  ‘The port, obviously,’ he scoffed.

  ‘The port?’

  ‘Yes. The port. The old harbour. I can’t see the old harbour. They’ve gone and put this…this horrible…’ he waved his hand, with a shudder, towards the power station, ‘this thing. This box. This idea.’

  ‘The power station?’

  ‘Is that what you like to call it?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I see.’

  He sniffed, fastidiously.

  ‘So they’ve put the power station in front of your…?’

  ‘Yes. The blah-bleugh station. The bleugh…’ he interrupted, cruelly, almost vomiting the phrase back at her.

  She gazed over towards the power station. ‘Which port do you mean?’ she wondered. ‘Rye?’

  ‘Rye?’ he scoffed. ‘Rye?!’

  ‘Not Rye?’

  ‘Old Winchelsea!‘ he exclaimed.

  ‘Winchelsea?’ she frowned. ‘But isn’t Winchelsea a town? Isn’t it perched inland? On a hill?’

  ‘Not the New Town, the Old…’

  He slowly began to uncurl.

  ‘I’m all wet,’ he said, irritably, patting at his clothes, ‘what happened to my mac?’

  ‘We forgot your mac at home.’

  ‘Although…’ he paused, thoughtfully, ‘I like the wet, don’t I?’

  He peered up at her with a slow smile.

  ‘He likes the wet,’ she corrected him, sharply, ‘not you.’

  ‘The wet,’ he repeated, ‘the…’ he sneezed, ‘weit…the weit, the våat…no…’ he shook his head, confused, ‘vaad…vaad? No…no, votur…yes?…vater?…water?’