Nicola Barker - Darkmans

Elen looked astonished.

‘I just couldn’t bear to. I tried to but she wouldn’t…she couldn’t …’

‘How long since…?’

‘Three months.’

‘And what will you…?’

‘I don’t know. I just don’t know. ‘

‘But when you met her again, didn’t she…?’

‘ Nothing . No emotion. She was wearing the veil. She spoke to me in Arabic, through an interpreter. She never even made eye contact.’

‘But are you sure that she…?’

‘Nobody forced her. Nobody could force Eva. Everything she’d done was of her own free will. She said that for the first time in her life she felt truly herself. Truly complete. Truly happy. She said the old Eva was dead and that the person who stood before me was just a ghost…’

Elen’s grip slipped on the box.

‘Are you all right there?’ He quickly moved towards her.

‘Thank you. No. It’s fine…’

She glanced around her, anxiously.

‘Eva made me swear to keep her secret,’ he continued. ‘She begged me. She told me to consider it as my one, last duty to her as her father.’

He paused, observing Elen’s unease. ‘But enough …You must get back to your son,’ he said.

Elen opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She seemed overwhelmed.

‘Just try not to think too badly of me,’ he murmured, ‘if you possibly can…’

Her eyes widened. ‘Think badly of you?’ she expostulated, ‘How could I? How could I possibly? I’m honoured …’

She smiled at him, then she frowned. ‘I’m just…This isn’t really…I just need to…’ she looked around her. ‘Would you mind…?’

She tipped her head, nervously, towards the adjacent room.

‘Yes. I mean no. Not at all. Of course . Go through.’

She walked to the door and peered gingerly around it. There was a tiny room beyond; a monkish cell, no more than seven feet square. It consisted of a small bed, a sink and a window covered by a pale, grey blind. Curled up in the bed lay Dory, sound asleep, wrapped up in some blankets and a hand-sewn, patchwork eiderdown.

‘Oh God…’ she glanced over her shoulder, ‘he’s climbed into your bed. And there’s mud …’

She gestured, limply.

Charles Bartlett came to join her. He gazed down at Dory.

‘Is he asleep?’

‘Yes. No . I’m not sure. He suffers from a rare form of narcolepsy. Sometimes his behaviour…’

‘It’s fine. You don’t have to explain…’ he took the box from her. ‘I’ll carry this out to the car. Don’t worry about the mess. Take as long as you need…’

He quickly withdrew.

Elen shoved her hair behind her ears, drew a deep breath, closed both eyes for a second — as if calling up some special reserve of patience or forbearance — and then leaned in towards the bed.

‘Dory?’ she whispered.

He didn’t respond at first.

‘Dory?’

She gently touched his mud-coated cheek.

Dory’s eyes suddenly flew open, he knocked away her hand and sat up, abruptly.

‘What’s that?’ he asked, touching his head, panicked. ‘A spider? A rat? Is it the bird? That infernal bird?’

‘Relax, Dory,’ Elen spoke quietly and calmly. ‘You’ve been asleep, that’s all. You’ve been asleep in bed.’

Dory held his arms out in front of him, horrified. ‘But my skin’s flaking off…’

‘It’s not your skin,’ she explained, gently drawing back the eiderdown, ‘it’s just mud.’

‘My skin’s flaking off,’ he repeated.

‘It’s not flaking off, Dory. It’s fine. You’re fine…’

‘I feel strange.’

He looked around him, scowling. ‘Are we at sail? Are we in France?’

‘No. We’re not at sail. We’re in England.’

’Who are you? Are you French? Are we in France?’

’We’re in England, Dory. I’m Elen, remember? It’ll all come back to you soon enough.’

’What is this?’ he asked, putting his hand to his lips. ’What is this in my mouth? What are these strange shapes?’

‘Just words,’ she answered.

‘Words? Are we speaking English?’

’No. We’re speaking French.’

’But why are we speaking French? Who speaks French? Do I speak French?’

‘ A little, yes. And German, too. But we can speak English, if you prefer.’

He gazed around the room, frowning.

‘This isn’t my room,’ he announced.

‘No. It isn’t your room. You’ve just been resting here…’

‘This definitely isn’t my room.’

‘No.’

‘This definitely isn’t the house in Cheapside.’

‘No…’ she frowned. ‘This isn’t your room. But the car’s parked outside. And Fleet’s in the car. Remember Fleet? He’s waiting in the car with Michelle.’

Dory suddenly threw his legs out of bed and placed his feet, firmly, on to the wooden floor. ‘Then let’s go,’ he said. But he didn’t move.

‘Take your time…’ she cautioned him, grabbing the eiderdown and trying to fold it. ‘Don’t do anything until you’re quite ready…’

‘Ready for what?’

‘Don’t move until you feel strong enough…’

He stared down at his hands. ‘ Mudde ,’ he mused, idly.

Then he scowled. ‘ Modde ,’ he modified.

‘Mud,’ Elen casually corrected him, almost without thinking. Then she winced, realising her mistake.

Dory drew a sharp breath. ‘I’m sorry …’ he threw back his shoulders and gazed up at her, haughtily, ‘but who are you ?’

She gently placed the folded eiderdown on to the end of the bed. ‘I’m Elen,’ she said softly, ‘I’m your wife.’

‘My wife? My wife ?!’ he seemed to find this thought entirely preposterous.

Elen nodded.

‘And my wife is…my wife has…’

He pointed towards her nose, almost shrinking back, in horror, ‘…a mäl ?’

‘A mole. Yes, I do,’ she responded calmly. ‘A birthmark.’

He considered this notion for a while. ‘ Mal …Mole… Moll …’ he slowly permutated, ‘Moll… Molest…Molestus… ’ He suddenly clapped his hands together, delighted. ‘Surely there must be some kind of joke in this?’

Elen just stared at him, blankly.

‘Very well,’ he sighed, piqued by her refusal to play along (as if familiar , in some way, with this strange dynamic between them), ‘then let’s go…’ He stood up, sulkily. He grabbed a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around his upper body, forming a deep cowl around his head.

‘Let’s go , woman,’ he repeated, more urgently this time, his voice oddly muffled by the dense swathes of fabric.

The smallest slip of the tongue was all it took to set everything back in train again.

She’d taken a wrong turn at Rye — went left at the bridge instead of right — and had headed uphill towards the lush greenery of Peasmarsh instead of down and around and through the flat marshes of Brookland.

She pulled over, once she realised, and unfolded the map, determined to navigate a new route home through Beckley and then Tenterden.

Dory (who’d been silent until this point) turned to stare at Fleet, who was curled up with Michelle, fast asleep, on the back seat. ‘But who on earth was that man?’ he asked, tiny flecks of dried mud peeling from around his mouth as he spoke.