Darkmans

by Nicola Barker

  ‘How’d he pass?’ Winnie demanded, patently still suspicious, ‘and when, exactly?’

  ‘Late this afternoon. He was in a coma. He sat up, he said, “Bollocks”, an’ then he died. Just like that.’

  As she spoke Kelly’s raised eyes moistened.

  ‘He said what?’ Winnie chortled.

  ‘Bollocks.’

  Kelly wasn’t chortling.

  ‘He sat up and said bollocks? He was in a coma? Then he sat up and he…?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Kelly growled.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Never more so.’

  ‘Honestly?’

  Kelly drew a deep breath. She clamped her lips together (this forgiveness business plainly wasn’t all it was cracked up to be).

  ‘Yeah, honestly,’ she finally ground out.

  ‘So how long was he in this coma for?’

  Winnie’s tone was now marginally – but only very marginally – more sober.

  ‘Two years.’

  ‘Two years?!’

  ‘Christ,’ Kelly expostulated. ‘You growin’ spuds or what?’

  The Reverend clucked. Kelly shot him a black look.

  Silence

  ‘So you’ve forgiven me, huh?’

  ‘Yup.’

  Kelly rested a gentle hand on her Bible.

  ‘But what if I don’t want your forgiveness?’ Winnie wondered.

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘What if I don’t want it? What if I’m not interested…’

  Kelly rapidly lifted her hand.

  ‘Then you can fuck right off,’ she spat, ‘because you’re forgiven, and there ain’t bugger-all you can do about it.’

  The Reverend slapped her arm.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Well I’ll need to forgive you too, then,’ Winnie graciously insisted.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘For lying to me in the first place.’

  Kelly gave this some thought. ‘Fair enough,’ she conceded, ‘though as grudges go, it’s hardly in the same ball-park…’

  ‘Well that’s a matter of opinion.’

  ‘No it ain’t. It’s a fact.’

  ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘No it ain’t.’

  ‘So where’d you get my number?’

  ‘Huh?’

  Kelly was briefly thrown off her stride.

  ‘Was it Kane? Did he give it you?’

  ‘That skank? No. I got it from the envelope.’

  ‘The envelope? Which envelope?’

  ‘The one I delivered for ya. As a favour. An’ while we’re at it…’

  Kelly continued, ‘that old story…’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one in the envelope.’

  ‘You mean the stuff from the British Library?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘The man who wrote it, the doctor…’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Nothin’…’ Kelly cleared her throat, guardedly, ‘I was just interested, is all.’

  Pause

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Why? Why were you interested?’

  ‘Why the hell shouldn’t I be?’ she snapped.

  ‘Uh…’ Winnie gave this question some consideration. ‘No reason, I suppose. He was a fascinating character…’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She paused, speculatively. ‘So you obviously took a quick peep inside the envelope…?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Well that was wrong – a total breach of etiquette, of faith…’

  Kelly scowled.

  ‘But I forgive you.’

  Kelly continued scowling. ‘I’ll tell you somethin’ for nothin’, Miss Clever-Bum,’ she volunteered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘For all your fancy education, you ain’t much of a speller.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Winnie shot back, ‘I’m an excellent speller.’

  ‘No you ain’t. You couldn’t even get his name right.’

  ‘Whose name?’

  ‘The doctor’s name.’

  ‘Of course I did.’

  ‘No you didn’t.’

  ‘Well there’s probably a perfectly good reason for that.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. And if you’ll just hold your horses for one second then I’ll…’

  Long pause

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Keep your knickers on. I’m just fetching my notes. I’m finding the page. Here we go. Board. Andrew Board – b-o-a-r-d, or Boord – double “o” – or Boarde – b-o-a-r-d-e – according to where it is that you happen to look. I actually had two copies of the original text, and one was much earlier…’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well they spelled words in a variety of ways back then.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Everyone.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The language was in flux.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘English,’ Winnie sighed, exasperated, ‘the language, it wasn’t always set in stone. It grew, it developed. Nowadays it’s considered such a fundamental part of the national character, the culture, something we’re all so sure about, so proud of, but back then it was just a baby – a fledgling. It was still finding its feet, still being painstakingly sewn together. And all the rules which we now take so much for granted…’

  ‘Hang on a sec…’ Kelly was confused. ‘So if there weren’t no English, then what did we speak?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘If there weren’t no English then what did we speak, I mean before we could speak?’

  ‘We spoke French. Or Roman. Or Norse. Or Latin. Or a series of local dialects, I suppose…’

  ‘French?’ Kelly was horrified. ‘Us English spoke French?’

  ‘Yup. We still do. Where d’you think pleasure comes from, or naive or liqueur?’

  ‘But then…’ Kelly was growing increasingly confused, ‘but then how did they all chat? I mean amongst themselves? Before?’

  ‘I imagine they just muddled along as best they could. That’s one of the main reasons why the doctor’s story’s so interesting. He actually wrote one of the first truly English texts…’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘Yup…’

  A brief scrabbling amongst papers…

  ‘The doctor – believe it or not – was also a monk.’

  ‘A monk?’ Kelly reached out and grabbed the Reverend’s arm. The Reverend quickly snatched it back.

  ‘Yes. A monk of the London Charterhouse. A Carthusian monk, which is the strictest possible order.’

  ‘How strict?’ Kelly demanded.

  ‘Well he was a vegetarian, wore a hair shirt, lived a life of abject poverty…strict as you like, really. And he joined early. He joined when he was still underage…’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘I don’t know. A kid, most probably. A teenager. But it was a tricky time to be affiliated to the Church…’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Henry wanted a divorce, so he separated with Rome.’

  ‘An’ then what?’

  ‘Well the monks were basically screwed. He stole all their lands and money. He made them choose between their faith and their monarch – swear an oath of conformity. Many of them refused and were persecuted – imprisoned, placed under house arrest, deported. Boorde, too, more than likely – he was a bishop at one stage, I believe …Uh…

  Bishop of Chichester – 1521…’ she paused, distracted. ‘What’s that strange noise?’ she demanded.

  ‘It’s only me,’ Kelly squeaked, ‘I’m just excited.’

  ‘Excited? Why?’

  ‘Because…’ Kelly simply couldn’t hold it in any longer, ‘because he was my fuckin’ grandad,’ she exploded.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The doctor. He was my grandad. My great-great-…’

  ‘Dr Andrew Board?’

  ‘My pops was always goin’ on about how we h
ad this great-great-great-…’

  ‘…etc…’

  ’…who was a doctor. A doctor to the king. Dr Andrew Broad. An’ he said how he wrote this book all about how you build a proper house…’

  ‘Board, Broad…’ Winnie tried this on for size. ‘Good Lord. How odd…’

  ‘An’ I always used to think it was just more of his old bullshit, yeah? I mean why would a doctor write a book about…?’

  ‘That’s a good point,’ Winnie interrupted, ‘a valid point. But the plain fact is…’ (she suddenly sounded rather excited herself) ‘…that he did…’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘He wrote…I mean these are just rough notes… but I’ve written, The boke for to lerne a man to be wyse in bylding of his house for the helthe of his soul. Uh…I’m not sure if that’s an independent text or if it’s just part of The First Boke of the Introduction of Knowledge, which he also wrote…’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  Kelly turned to the Reverend.

  ‘This is too weird,’ she said.

  ‘Broad/Board/Boord,’ Winnie murmured. ‘Who would’ve thought it?’

  ‘It’s fuckin’ monster,’ Kelly shook her head, astonished, ‘it’s huge.’

  ‘His The Dyetary of Health was actually one of the earliest medical works to be written in English,’ Winnie returned to her notes again, ‘which gives it great philosophical significance. Apparently the OED traces the first uses of several general words to that particular book…’

  ‘The OED?’

  ‘Yup. The Oxford English Dictionary.’

  ‘Shit…’ Kelly gasped, ‘my Uncle Harve’s gonna pop his fuckin’ clogs…’

  ‘Although – on the down-side – there’s some question over the authorship of the work that I photocopied…’

  ‘Which work?’

  ‘Scogin’s Jests.’

  ‘But you said in that letter you wrote,’ Kelly rushed on, ‘about how it was all a bit dodgy. About how he was a bit dodgy

  ‘Did I? Oh. Well as I already mentioned, there were certain…uh …confusions…about the authorship of the Scogin book,’ Winnie said carefully. ‘I mean there’s obviously still loads more to find out…’

  ‘Really? You’d do that?’ Kelly very nearly bounced out of her chair. ‘Uh…well, yeah…I suppose I could always head back down to the library. Or you could always try the internet. I already looked for Scogin – so did Beede – and he didn’t have a single entry, but Boorde on the other hand…’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘When will you go back?’

  Winnie frowned. ‘To the library? I dunno. I mean how much more do you really…?’

  ‘EVERYTHING!’ Kelly bellowed, her voice shaking with emotion. ‘This might sound stupid, yeah, to someone like you, someone all educated who wrote a fancy book, but I always thought we Broads was just…’ she paused, judiciously, ‘just shit…’

  ‘Well you were obviously wrong.’

  Winnie smiled as she spoke.

  ‘I know. It’s another sign,’ Kelly was buzzing now, ‘and it ain’t just about me this time, neither. It’s about all of us. Because God loves you too, yeah? You’re a part of this thing, no matter what. Just like the Rev here…’

  Kelly squeezed the Reverend’s shoulder. The Reverend winced, pained.

  ‘Hang on a second…’ Winnie paused, confused. ‘A part of what?’

  ‘The puzzle. The picture. Like the Reverend said, God made me fall off the wall that day…’

  ‘The wall?’

  ‘When I fell off the wall an’ bust my leg…’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘An’ then I met Gaffar. An’ I was allergic to painkillers. An’ Gaffar stole the envelope. An’ I read the papers, an’ I met the Reverend. An’ the Reverend had this vision that Paul would say “Bollocks”. Then he did. An’ now we’re goin’ to Africa. And my grandad was a monk. He dieted for Christ too. An’ it’s all because I fell off that wall. Because of you…’

  ‘You’re just babbling now,’ the Reverend soberly interjected. He leaned in closer to Kelly’s phone. ‘She’s just babbling,’ he informed Winifred.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Winnie demanded.

  ‘It’s the Rev. Ignore him. He’s only in a bad mood ‘cos I brought down the roof…’

  ‘You did what?’

  Winnie sounded bewildered.

  ‘Like I told that stupid nurse, it was a total, fuckin’ accident…’

  ‘Kelly…’ The Reverend nudged her.

  ‘So will you go?’ Kelly demanded, ignoring him. ‘Will you look?’

  ‘To the library?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well I’m sure I’ll probably be heading into town at some point…’

  ‘BRILLIANT!’

  Kelly paused, inhaled, at which juncture the Reverend snatched the phone from her. ‘It was just a metaphor,’ he said, ‘God speaks in metaphors, as I tried my best to explain to her. And forget Africa. She’s getting way ahead of herself on that count…’ he paused. ‘And there was no impropriety. Doesn’t matter what they say. My curtains were only closed because I have a certain sensitivity…’ he inhaled, sharply, ‘in fact the doctor’s just heading over, so if it’s all right with you, I’ll draw a neat, little veil around this peculiar interlude and bid you a very…uh…’

  He took the phone from his ear and stared at it for a moment, trying to figure out how to end the call, then something else occurred to him and he returned it to his ear. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Winnie answered, suddenly quite exhausted. ‘Just to set the record completely straight,’ the Reverend continued, ‘I’m actually a High Anglican. It was a High Anglican vision. Nothing remotely radical, or weird, or New Age or – God forbid…’ (he quickly crossed himself), ‘Evangelical…’

  He removed the phone from his ear again, finally located the right button, and cut Winnie off with it.

  ‘I really don’t mean to be a liturgical bore,’ he informed Kelly, passing her the phone, ‘but we need to discuss the concept of The Fall – as a matter of some urgency…’

  ‘Jus’ gimme a kiss, you big ape,’ Kelly exclaimed, throwing out her arms, beaming. And then, as she proceeded to envelop the Reverend in a robust hug: ‘D’ya hear that, Doc?’ she demanded, over the Reverend’s twitching shoulder. ‘We Broads got class, yeah? We got breedin’. We got pedigree!’ she cackled. ‘Just like the fuckin’ dog-meat! Like chum! Like all those natty little mutts at Crufts. We’re up there, mate. We arrived! We pulled it off! Ding-dong!’ she hollered, her gleeful voice echoing down the corridor. ‘Ding-bloomin’-dong!’

  He gently covered her with a blanket, walked over to the light switch (it had a dimmer mechanism on it), glanced around the room for a final time and turned it off. He strolled into the kitchen to ensure the back door was locked. It wasn’t. So he turned the key and shot the bolt.

  On his way out he noticed a small pool of liquid on the tiles. He grimaced, crouching down to inspect it –

  Dog piss

  – then quickly grabbed some paper towel and cleaned it up. Once this was done –

  Yuk

  – he went to try and locate the dog.

  ‘Michelle?’

  He peered along the hallway –

  Nope.

  So where…?

  He observed a door, slightly ajar, just off to his left – a room he hadn’t been into before…

  ‘Michelle?’

  He paused, his head slightly cocked, listening intently. Was that a sound? A whimper? He pushed the door wider and felt blindly along the wall for the light. He found the switch. He pressed it. The light came on. He winced. It was a bright light – just a bare bulb (the shade having been removed at some point). He looked around for the dog. He spotted her. She was cowering under the table. He pushed the door wider, took a tentative step towards her and then –

  Good God

  He froze.

  It was actual
ly a dining-room – by no means a huge room – mostly taken up by a table and six chairs (several of which had been placed against the walls – to better improve access to the table, he supposed). And on top of the table? Crowning it? Over-running it? Eclipsing it?

  Holy Moly!

  A crazy, chaotic, matchstick town: a cathedral…a palace…a bridge…a water mill…

  Wow

  Kane slowly moved forward, so hesitantly at first that it was almost as if he thought the matchsticks might all collapse (that they might not actually be glued). Then he stood and he stared, quite agog.

  After a minute or so he gradually began prowling around the table, intently apprehending each individual model from every angle, finally drawing to a halt (right back where he’d started) on the southern side of the large cathedral.

  This was surely the pinnacle – the pièce de résistance? A wildly ambitious, terrifyingly meticulous, insanely ornate and yet perfectly magnificent structure (as yet unfinished). It was also…well… oddly…uh…(he scratched his head, bemused)…strangely …uh…–

  Familiar, somehow…

  He blinked. He drew in still closer, concentrating so intently on the finer details that he was barely even breathing now. He nervously reached out a tentative finger…

  ‘Don’t!’

  A voice spoke.

  He turned, withdrawing his hand, surprised. It was the boy –

  Huh?

  He glanced down at himself. He suddenly realised that he had fallen to his knees. He was kneeling.

  ‘I know this place,’ he exclaimed, ‘I had this incredible dream…’

  ‘John saw it while he was in France,’ the boy automatically responded, rather like a tour guide. ‘He thought it was beautiful. He often thinks about it.’