Nicola Barker - Darkmans

‘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 down 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?’

‘Perhaps we should go inside,’ she suggested.

‘Inside?’ he frowned. ‘Why?’

‘Because Fleet’s in there, and I don’t want to leave him alone for too long.’

‘Fleet?’ he rolled the name around on his tongue. ‘ Fleet …’

‘Fleet. Your son. Don’t you remember?’

He frowned, then he paused, then he smiled. ‘Oh God, yes…Fleet. Your boy.’

‘ Our boy.’

He gave her a strange look.

‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ she asked.

He glanced down at himself, evasively. ‘Did I fall?’ he wondered.

‘Perhaps,’ she responded. ‘Would you like to get up?’

‘Yes.’

She offered him her hand. Dory slowly clambered to his feet.

‘I’m bigger,’ he said, ‘than I remember.’

He gazed down at his fingers. ‘And my hands…’

‘Hold on to the rail and I’ll help you back,’ she said.

‘What a terrible storm,’ he sighed, accepting her help, shuffling his feet along, very slowly. ‘Where’s Fleet?’

‘He’s inside.’

‘Pardon?’

His eyes flew wide.

‘He’s inside, Dory. He’s fine. He’s counting.’

‘You left him inside ? In the tower ? All alone ?’

‘He’s fine,’ she emphasised. ‘We’ll be with him very soon…’

‘Oh…Okay…’ He readily accepted her explanation. ‘Good.’ His gaze returned, idly, to the power station.

‘Why does it sing?’ he asked.

‘ Uh …’ she frowned.

‘We’ll need to move it,’ he continued, matter-of-factly, ‘to try and see what’s left behind.’

‘Here’s the hatch…’ she encouraged him towards it, ‘and that’s Fleet inside, counting…’

Fleet had reached the grand total of twenty-three. He was counting very slowly.

Dory allowed himself to be manoeuvred through the hatch.

‘I am very big, now,’ he informed the child, cheerfully, crawling through on his hands and knees. ‘In fact I’m huge …Look!’

Fleet opened his eyes and appraised his father.

‘Hello, John,’ he said, softly, ‘will you be visiting us for very long?’

They were heading for the port. Elen was driving. Fleet was in the back (fifty boxes of matches piled up all around him). Dory — drier now, and warmer, ensconced in a replacement jumper — was holding court in the front passenger seat (Michelle balled up snugly on his lap), regaling Fleet with blood-thirsty vignettes from savage Old Winchelsea’s long and highly chequered history.