Nicola Barker - Darkmans

‘No. He’s not my friend because he hurt my mama.’

As he spoke Fleet pushed up the sleeve of his mother’s jacket, revealing the fading ring of bruises around her wrist.

Elen yanked the sleeve back down again, quick as a flash.

The man straightened up, pretending not to have noticed.

‘You have an astonishing child,’ he commended her.

Elen nodded, a strand of her dark hair falling across her face.

‘My youngest daughter,’ he continued, ‘was extremely precocious at his age.’

‘Your youngest?’ Elen held Fleet firmly in front of her (one hand on each shoulder). ‘How many children do you have altogether?’

‘Three. Although…’

‘I see…’

Elen shoved her hair brusquely behind one ear.

‘Does the boy excel in any other areas?’ he asked. ‘Excel?’ Elen frowned. ‘No. Well… yes …I suppose he’s pretty good at building things,’ she conceded. ‘He’s built an entire town out of matchsticks. A cathedral, a water mill, a bridge …’

The man’s face lit up. ‘How extraordinary . My daughter trained to be a civil engineer. She loved to build things…’

‘The gifted one?’ Elen enquired politely.

‘Yes. My beautiful Eva,’ he pronounced her name with an almost unbearable poignancy, ‘her two great passions were building and the beach. She lived out here as a child. In fact they once filmed a feature on Blue Peter about the extraordinary sand structures she constructed…’

‘How old is she now?’ Elen interrupted, glancing, distractedly, over her shoulder.

‘Eva would’ve turned twenty-seven this year.’

‘Ah…’ Elen turned back. Then she blinked, uneasily, as she gradually registered what’d just been said.

‘Your daughter’s dead ?’ she asked, almost incredulously.

‘Yes,’ he answered simply.

‘God. I’m so sorry …’

‘She went missing about five years ago,’ he explained, ‘Although…well, they never managed to retrieve the body…’

He gazed down at Fleet. ‘She was working in Darfur, in the Sudan,’ he expanded. ‘She was taken hostage by a local militia. They held her for three weeks and then nothing else was heard of her. The police believe she was decapitated.’

Elen looked stricken. She didn’t know what to say.

‘How terrible,’ she finally muttered.

‘Yes.’ He cleared his throat. He looked down for a moment. He regained his composure. He looked back up. ‘I’m Charles, by the way…’ he said, ‘Charles Bartlett.’

He held out his hand to her. Elen hesitated for a second, then she took his hand and shook it.

‘I’m Elen,’ she said, ‘and this is Fleet.’

‘Fleet?’ he stared down at the boy, benignly. ‘What a fine -sounding name for such an agile young fellow…’

Fleet gazed up at him, blankly.

‘You are fleet,’ he amplified.

Fleet nodded. He was Fleet.

‘I don’t know if you’re interested,’ Mr Bartlett continued, ‘but I’ve compiled a wonderful treasure-trove of material about gifted kids over the years. It’s my area of special interest. I was once a teacher, by trade. In fact I was lucky enough to help establish the National Academy for Gifted and Talented Youth. It’s a government-funded initiative. Are you at all familiar with their work?’

‘No.’ Elen shook her head. He looked a little disappointed.

‘They sound very interesting, though,’ she quickly added.

‘They are,’ he smiled, mollified. ‘In fact they run some amazing residential summer programmes, although he’s way too young for those right now, but I do have some incredibly useful books back at home — some pamphlets, contact addresses…’

‘That’s certainly a very tempting offer…’ Elen started, ‘but…’ ‘You’d be doing me the favour,’ he insisted. ‘I’d love to see them put to good use and space is in fairly short supply at home right now — my older son’s just separated from his wife…’ Elen opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again.

‘I mean I live literally 20 yards away,’ he continued, ‘just the other side of the wall. The little place directly behind the toilets: Kennel Cottage. That’s the chimney…’ he pointed to a small, smoking chimney only a stone’s throw from where they stood.

Elen turned (once again) to peer over towards Dory. Dory — as if timing this manoeuvre purely for effect — suddenly toppled, face-first, into the mud.

‘Look at Papa!’ Fleet whooped.

‘Good God. Is he… uh …?’

Mr Bartlett nervously readjusted his spade (as if he might be called upon — at any moment — to dig Dory out).

Dory slowly pulled himself up straight, and then fell, dramatically, back–

Splat!

‘Yes… No . He’s…’ Elen struggled to find an adequate explanation, ‘he’s just being…’ she frowned, ‘uh… silly ,’ she concluded, as Dory commenced a strange, clumsy back-stroke in the mud.

‘It must be freezing,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she answered stiffly, ‘it must.’

As the three of them stood and watched, Dory slowly clambered on to his feet again. He was now entirely coated in mud. He began wading towards them, arms akimbo, like some kind of B-Movie Monster.

‘Did you drive here?’ the man asked.

‘Yes. We live in Ashford, we’re just…’ Elen shoved her hair behind her ear, ‘just passing through, really…’

‘Well why don’t I dash back home and quickly pile what I can find into a plastic bag for you?’

‘Really? That would be…I mean…’

‘Absolutely. It’ll take five minutes, tops.’

Charles Bartlett smiled, grabbed his bucket, and strode off.

Dory, meanwhile, was cheerfully interacting with the long line of groynes. He engaged one in conversation (chatting away with it, very amiably, for a minute or so) then moved further along and politely asked another to dance. It spurned his advances (and quite forcefully, by all appearances). Instead of gracefully retreating, however, he drew in still closer and repeated his request. He received a resounding slap for his troubles, and reeled dramatically back, clutching his cheek, cursing. He immediately approached a third (utterly undaunted by the previous rebuttal) and whispered something salacious into its ear. This groyne seemed more compliant than the former. It murmured something saucy in return. He guffawed. Then he put out his arms and they began to dance. Or at least…

Uh…

Elen frowned.

Was it dancing?

She quickly grabbed Fleet by the hand.

‘Let’s get you back into the car,’ she told him.

‘But what about Papa?’ he whined.

‘Papa’s coming.’

She headed off, determinedly.

‘But what’s Papa doing ?’ Fleet asked, glancing over his shoulder.

‘Papa’s dancing, Fleet. He’s just dancing.’

She frog-marched him along the top of the wall and then straight down the flight of steps on the other side.

‘Michelle’s in the car, remember?’ she told him, guiding him down, speedily. ‘She’ll be missing you by now, won’t she?’

‘Yes,’ Fleet said (as if quite certain of this fact), then he paused and peered around him, scowling. ‘Where did the nice man go to, Mama?’

‘He went back to his house,’ Elen muttered, keen to keep the boy moving. ‘He’s gone to fetch us a few books.’

‘Really? Where’s his house?’

‘Over there…Behind the toilets…’

Elen pointed towards the large, square toilet block and then gently pulled him on. Fleet grudgingly complied.

‘Is he a dog, Mama?’ he suddenly asked.