Darkmans

by Nicola Barker

  She grimaced again ‘“…physician to Henry VIII”, apparently…)’

  Her eyes widened ‘…features in R.H. Hill’s Tales of the Jesters, 1934 (and I wouldn’t have a clue what his sources were), but – believe it or not – the text was registered unavailable (read as “some miserable bastard stole it.”).’

  Kelly threw down the photocopied sheets on to her bedspread. She picked up her phone and began texting a message.

  GFFR MADE A PASS, THE FCKER! it said, I ND 2 C U! PRONTO! K. XX

  Then she went back and deleted the XX.

  Then she went back and deleted the I ND 2 C U! PRONTO! K.

  Then she went back and deleted THE FCKER!

  She re-read the message: GFFR MADE A PASS and grunted her satisfaction. She sent the message.

  She grabbed the photocopied sheets again.

  ‘The librarian in the Antiquarian Books Section,’ she read, one brow slightly raised now, ‘(who was actually quite chatty) sent me to go and see some journalist called Tom Benson who happened to be in the library on that day and in possession of an associated text called A Nest of Ninnies by Robert Armin (He’s writing a book about comedy and “is very interested in jesters”, she said).

  ‘I tracked him down to the Music Section. He was a little hostile at first (you know how territorial these people can be), but after a brief conversation he admitted that he actually had his very own copy of Tales of the Jesters at home which he’d “found” in a second-hand bookshop in Rye (this might’ve just been sheer bravura on his part – that whole “journalists v academics” hornets’ nest. Or maybe not).’

  The last section (in brackets), Kelly observed, had been hurriedly crossed out.

  ‘Anyhow,’

  She continued reading:

  ‘I asked if I might borrow it some time (or even just make a copy of the relevant chapters) but he got a little prickly at this point and said he was still in the middle of using it, but that he would definitely call me when he was done ( I gave him my number, although I won’t be holding my breath). Then he told me some stuff over coffee (I bought the Madeira cake – it was a little dry) which you might find interesting. Will inform you in person.

  ‘The quality of the copy is poor (at best). This is because it was reproduced from a microfile. But I think you’ll get the basic gist…W.

  ‘W? W for Whore,’ Kelly muttered, thickly.

  She glanced up –

  Kane

  There he stood, large as life, at the foot of her bed.

  ‘Fuck-a-duck,’ she said, tossing down the booklet, ‘that was quick.’

  ‘How’s the leg?’ he asked.

  ‘D’you get my text?’

  ‘So the rash didn’t actually reach your face?’ he said.

  She pulled down the neckline of her nightie to reveal her thick swathe of fading hives.

  ‘Ow,’ he murmured.

  ‘I’m allergic,’ she said. ‘See?’

  She glared up at him, vengefully. He seemed unaffected by her look.

  He appeared pale, distracted.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked, releasing the fabric.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. But he didn’t look fine. He looked odd. Dishevelled. And he…

  Urgh

  – she sniffed the air, bemusedly.

  ‘You stink…’ she muttered, ‘like a bomfire or something.’

  ‘Bonfire,’ he corrected her, with a smile.

  ‘That’s what I just said.’

  ‘No. You said bomfire.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Bom-fire. B-o-m. It’s bonfire.’

  His neck and his shoulder suddenly convulsed as he spoke. He put a hand to his head.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she repeated.

  ‘I was looking for my dad,’ he said, peering around him, vaguely, as if Beede might be anywhere. ‘He wasn’t at home and he’s gone from the laundry…’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Why are you lookin’ for him?’

  ‘Why…?’

  His eyes alighted on the photocopied sheets. ‘What’s that you’re reading?’

  ‘What’s what?’

  She quickly flipped back her counterpane to try and obscure them.

  ‘That,’ he pointed, undeterred. ‘How’d you get a hold of it?’

  ‘Uh…’

  ‘Did Beede give it you?’

  ‘Beede?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He put his hand to his head again.

  ‘D’you wanna sit down for a minute?’

  She pointed to a chair. He went and sat down on it. As he moved she noticed that he was limping slightly.

  ‘Did you hurt your foot?’

  ‘My foot? No. It’s just my trainers…’

  ‘Oh. So you got my text, then?’

  ‘Your text?’ he murmured. ‘Sure. Sure I did.’

  ‘And?’ she persisted.

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Ain’t ya pissed?’

  ‘Pissed? Why?’

  ‘Why?! Because that stunted Turkish prick made a pass,’ she paused.

  ‘And he trashed my fuckin’ salad…’

  ‘Right…’

  Kane grimaced, then he nodded, then he reached a distracted hand to his phone as it vibrated in his pocket. Kelly gazed at him with a look of burgeoning incredulity. It took several seconds for him to even register her disquiet.

  ‘What kind of a pass?’ he finally asked.

  ‘That must be some high-calibre fuckin’ zong you’re on,’ she observed, tightly.

  He ignored her. ‘What kind of a pass?’ he repeated.

  ‘Duh!’ she threw up her arms. ‘He snogged me.’

  ‘Ah…’

  Kane’s eyes wandered aimlessly around the ward.

  ‘On the mouth.’

  She pointed to her mouth (it was a sweet, little mouth).

  ‘Here…’

  ‘I see…’

  He idly noticed how a nearby window had been propped permanently open with the aid of a balled-up surgical glove. He shivered, involuntarily.

  ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’ she asked, hurt.

  His eyes slowly returned to her. ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Is that the best you can muster?’

  Muster?!

  His brows rose a fraction. ‘So you think I could do better?’ he smiled, finally engaging with her.

  ‘Yeah, actually.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Ditch him.’

  ‘What?’ He abruptly stopped smiling.

  ‘Sack him.’

  ‘Seriously?!’

  ‘One hundred per cent.’

  ‘Just for a kiss…?’ Kane slowly shook his head. ‘…Nah.’

  ‘Why not?’ she demanded. ‘You ditched me in a flash, an’ we dated eight, solid months, so why not ditch him?’

  ‘Because.’

  ‘Because?!’

  ‘Because it’s different, Kelly.’

  He sounded bored, like this was tired, old territory.

  ‘Different? You don’t know him from fuckin’ Adam, mate. He could be anyone. He’s takin’ the damn piss…’

  He rolled his eyes.

  ‘And it ain’t only me as thinks so, neither,’ she continued hotly, ‘he’s been givin’ my poor old mum the runaround…’

  ‘Your poor old mum?!’ he grinned.

  ‘Yeah. Playin’ with her feet. Walkin’ the dogs. She even took him out shoppin’…’

  Kane chuckled, delightedly.

  ‘He’s been schmoozing my mum, Kane,’ Kelly exclaimed, riled by his hilarity.

  ‘So where’s the harm in that?’

  ‘Where’s the harm? It’s sick, for one thing. An’ she ain’t got the money to support no Toy Boy, for another…’

  ‘Sick? Sick of your poor old mum to have a bit of fun?’

  ‘Fun? He’s been leadin’ the poor cow on.’

  Kane suddenly stopped grinning. ‘Maybe he actually fancies
her,’ he said, in all apparent seriousness.

  ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘Jeez,’ Kane slowly shook his head, ‘the arrogance of the young…’

  His eyes returned, almost inexorably, to the propped-up window.

  ‘Well he can’t fancy her that much,’ she sniffed, ‘if he went an’ porked Gerry behind her back.’

  ‘He didn’t shag her,’ Kane said.

  ‘The ignorant fuck,’ she scowled.

  ‘He didn’t shag her,’ Kane repeated.

  ‘All he needs now,’ she ignored him, ‘is to make the moves on my sister an’ he’ll have the full bloomin’ complement…’

  ‘God, no,’ Kane muttered, ‘surely even Gaffar couldn’t stoop that low?’

  Kelly stared at him, open-mouthed.

  ‘And what about your aunt? Doesn’t she count?’

  Kelly flared out her nostrils and sucked on her tongue.

  ‘Anyway,’ Kane maintained, ‘he didn’t shag Gerry. He just came between her tits.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She told me. She said he came between her tits. They didn’t shag.’

  ‘Oh. My. God.’

  ‘Her tits are amazing,’ Kane added, almost as an afterthought.

  Silence

  ‘I honestly don’t believe you just said that.’

  Kelly’s back was straight as a ramrod.

  ‘Said what? That her tits are great? Whyever not? Her tits are great.

  It’s an objective fact.’

  ‘That ain’t the point, Kane.’

  ‘That’s exactly the point…’

  ‘No.’

  She seemed cut to the quick.

  ‘Of course it’s the point,’ he maintained (pretending not to notice), then, ‘Those bastards fired her from her job at the salon, did she tell you?’

  ‘He’s a thief,’ she interrupted him, coldly.

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Gaffar.’

  ‘Gaffar again? Are you obsessed with the poor man? What did he steal?’

  She pointed to the photocopied sheets.

  Kane looked bemused. ‘But why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why would Gaffar steal those?’

  She shrugged, scratching at her nose. ‘I dunno…’

  ‘Maybe because you asked him to?’ Kane speculated.

  She glared at him, wordlessly.

  ‘Jesus H, Kell.’

  He slowly shook his head.

  ‘You thought I stole those drugs an’ you sacked me,’ she whined, rapidly back-pedalling, ‘but I never stole them…’

  ‘Fine.’

  Kane shrugged.

  ‘Whaddya mean, “fine”?’

  ‘I believe you. I believe you didn’t steal them. I apologise for accusing you. I was wrong.’

  ‘It was Beede what stole them,’ she blurted out, unable to contain herself.

  He stared at her, blankly.

  ‘Beede,’ she repeated, almost guiltily.

  ‘He told you that, did he?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head, plainly surprised by the casualness of his reaction. ‘I worked it out.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I dunno. He stole them to pay back the bitch who killed Paul. Your ex. Seems like those two’ve been gettin’ pretty cosy…’

  ‘That’s bullshit,’ Kane scoffed, ‘and, strictly speaking, Paul isn’t actually dead, is he?’

  Her jaw dropped. ‘That’s exactly what your stupid dad said…’

  ‘Well he isn’t, is he? He’s just…’

  ‘What is it with the two of you lately?’

  She gazed at him, perturbed.

  Kane stood up. ‘I gotta go,’ he murmured, ‘I need a smoke…’ He felt around in his pockets for his cigarettes. ‘And I’m sorry about all that other shit,’ he said, pulling out his phone and inspecting it ‘…the drugs, your leg…’

  ‘All that other shit?’ she echoed, blankly.

  He shoved the phone away again. ‘I’ll have a quiet word with Gaffar. I’ll tell him to back off…’

  He spoke with great sincerity, almost tenderly. She continued to stare at him, passively, as if dazed.

  ‘And I’m really sorry about your mum…’

  He pulled out his fags.

  ‘My mum?’

  She frowned, slowly emerging from her stupor.

  ‘I told Gaffar to be nice,’ he tapped a cigarette out and stuck it into his mouth. ‘It was just part of the service.’

  ‘Back up a minute…’ she scowled, ‘I ain’t followin’…’

  ‘I told him to do it. I paid him.’

  She allowed this news to sink in for a second.

  ‘An’ muggins, here?’ she demanded, pointing to herself, indignantly.

  ‘Pardon?’

  He was searching for his lighter.

  ‘Did you tell him to butter me up?’

  ‘In your case,’ he smiled, removing the cigarette and propping it behind his ear (as a tutting nurse marched by), ‘he didn’t take much asking…’

  ‘Wow…’ She slowly shook her head, her few paltry illusions finally shattering, ‘I honestly can’t believe what a tit I’ve been. What an unbelievable fuckin’ tit…’

  He found his lighter. An old blue bic.

  ’…What a total, brainless, fuckin’ ditz…’

  He glanced up.

  ‘You was just bored!’ she exclaimed, almost as if delighted by this cruel insight. ‘That’s the honest truth of it. There was no mystery. You just wanted rid an’ I was too clueless to see it…’

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ he maintained.

  ‘Bollocks it wasn’t.’

  ‘Look…’

  ‘Fuck off,’ she interrupted, flapping him away with her bony hand. ‘Please don’t get all narky, Kell…’

  ‘Narky?’ The veins stood out on her neck. ‘Narky?! You think this is narky?’

  ‘Okay,’ he shrugged, ‘whatever. You can think what you like…’

  ‘I will,’ she said, still flapping.

  He pointed to the photocopied sheets. ‘Should I return those to Beede for you?’

  ‘Nah. Don’t trouble yourself,’ she snapped.

  He stared at her, perplexed.

  ‘I’m am sorry,’ he muttered, shrugging. ‘You’re a funny girl, a sweet girl…’

  ‘Fuck off, already,’ she hissed, turning her sharp face away and slamming her head, violently, into her pillow, then lifting it, cussing, and repeating the process, twice.

  TWO

  Beede shone the torch into the rear of the car, briefly illuminating the hunched-up form of a small, sleeping child, covered in a messy pile of clothes and coats and blankets. The dog sat nearby, stiff and alert, her huge, round eyes reflecting the light of the torch eerily back at him.

  ‘I’d’ve kept the heater on,’ Elen said, shivering, ‘but I was worried the battery might go flat.’

  She looked terrible, bedraggled.

  ‘You must be freezing,’ he exclaimed, reaching out his hand to touch the damp fabric of her sleeve, ‘and you’re soaked through…’

  ‘It rained steadily,’ she said, ‘while we were searching…’

  ‘Drive him home,’ he told her gently, ‘and have a warm bath, a hot drink. That’ll soon sort you out.’

  She nodded, but she didn’t seem to be listening. Her eyes were scanning the dark horizon.

  ‘Drive him home,’ he repeated. ‘Seriously. There’s nothing more you can do here.’

  ‘We were talking about the woods,’ she said, ‘and then there was this stupid…this misunderstanding. He mentioned Bixley several times. It seemed important. He had this strange kind of…I don’t know…’ her voice gradually petered out.

  She unfolded the map and pointed. ‘I found his shoe and his jumper here…’ She pointed again ‘…This is where he left the car.’

  ‘That’s about 3, 4 miles,’ Beede calculated. ‘So he was travelling at speed…’

  ‘I just headed straight for the wooded
areas,’ she shrugged, helplessly, ‘more out of instinct than anything…’

  She passed him the map as if she couldn’t bear touching it any more, as if she was disgusted by it, by the places that it had unwittingly led her. Her hands were shaking.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He took it, folded it and thrust it into his coat pocket.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No. Thank you. I don’t know what I’d’ve done if you hadn’t come.’

  She stared down at the damp tarmac, utterly drained and forlorn, swaying slightly in the blustering wind.

  ‘Come here,’ he suddenly found himself murmuring, holding out his arms (or if it wasn’t him – and how could it be? – then it was the gentle one, it was Danny who called to her). She moved slowly towards him as if propelled not so much by whim as by a terrible inability to actually resist anything. He drew her, protectively, to his chest. She fell against him, a dead weight at first and then she suddenly reached out her arms and clasped her hands tightly around him, pushing her face into his neck with a tiny expulsion of breath. Her nose was icy against his skin. He flattened out his palms and gently patted her back. She felt so tiny to him, so thin, like some kind of fragile mouse or bird, and her hair was so soft, smelled so sweet, like marzipan and fresh linen.

  He touched his cheek to the side of her head. His lip almost brushed her ear.

  She was shivering. She was icy.

  ‘You’re so cold,’ Danny whispered, ‘slip your arms under my coat.’ She nodded and unfastened her hands. He yanked open his coat and enveloped her in it, pulling the front flaps either side of her and securing them with his arms. She nestled against him, her own arms pulled up close in front of her at first and then gradually – as she felt his warmth – her hands flattened against his chest and then worked their way around his ribs, around his sides, around his back, until they made contact with each other, then one hand fell, slid slowly down, until it reached the waist of his trousers. On the left-hand side – where his shirt had come untucked – her icy fingers touched his skin. He shuddered, closed his eyes and breathed her in.