Nicola Barker - Darkmans

‘Pardon?’

Elen glanced up from the map, surprised to hear his voice.

‘That man. Who was he?’

‘Which man?’

‘The man in the house. The man in the tie.’

‘Oh him …His name was Charles. Charles Bartlett. He’s a writer, apparently…’

‘I see.’

Dory nodded.

‘We met on the beach,’ Elen explained. ‘We were standing on the shingle…’

‘The three of us?’

‘No. Just Fleet and I. The tide was out. You were down near the sea, in the mud, searching for the forest…’

‘Sorry?’ Dory raised a hand to silence her, his expression incredulous. ‘I was searching for what ?’

‘A forest.’

‘A forest ?’

‘Yes.’

‘On the beach ?’

‘Yes.’

‘But why in God’s name would I have been doing that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Elen shrugged, ‘in fact I’m not even sure if you were —it was Fleet’s idea. He seemed convinced. He said you were looking for the forest and I said, “How could there possibly be a forest on the beach?” Then suddenly…’

She caught his expression and abruptly stopped speaking.

‘Don’t falter now ,’ Dory muttered dryly, ‘not when it was all starting to sound so convincing …’

‘It’s not a matter of convincing you,’ Elen said, ‘it’s just the truth.’

‘And the truth,’ he continued, boredly (as if he’d fallen prey to this particular brand of questionable logic a thousand times before), ‘is sometimes rather less coherent, less believable than it might be, eh?’

‘But it wasn’t odd as it turned out,’ Elen did her best to ignore him, ‘it wasn’t odd at all. Because there was a forest. Charles was walking past and he overheard our conversation and he told Fleet that there was a forest, a petrified forest, but only at low tide, and slightly further along…’

‘A petrified forest?’

‘Yes. In fact I think it’s quite famous. You probably read about it in the guide book at some point…’

‘And I was searching for this forest?’

‘Yes. At least…’ She frowned. ‘Well — to be fair — you didn’t actually say …’

‘And did I find it?’

‘No. I don’t know. I didn’t ask…’

‘And this man, this…this Charles character,’ Dory interrupted her, ‘he was just strolling past at the time?’

‘Yes. He’d been digging for worms. He was dressed in oilskins. He had a bucket and a spade.’

‘Dressed in oilskins? A writer , you say? Digging for worms?’

‘Yes.’

‘How wonderfully…’ Dory shrugged, wordlessly, smiling broadly, as though thoroughly delighted by the extravagance of her explanation.

‘What?’

She sounded defensive.

‘Colourful. How wonderfully colourful that all sounds.’

‘It didn’t seem colourful,’ she said, almost sullenly, ‘it just seemed…’ ‘What?’

‘I don’t know. Embarrassing. Invasive . I just wished he would go.’ ‘But he didn’t, did he?’

‘No. He didn’t. It was complicated. He was chatting away to Fleet, and then he mentioned that he had a daughter, and I said, “How old is she?”—just to be polite — and he said, “She’s dead, actually. She was kidnapped in the Sudan and then decapitated.” At which point…’

‘Let me just get this straight…’ Dory murmured. ‘He had a daughter…’

‘Eva.’

‘He had a daughter called Eva who was kidnapped in the Sudan, and once he’d shared this information with you, you calmly resolved to lock up our five-year-old child in the car and go home with him?’

‘I didn’t leave Fleet alone. I wouldn’t do that. I left you looking after him.’

Elen tried her best not to sound resentful, but didn’t quite manage it.

‘Bear with me for a second…’ Dory scowled, ‘because I’m experiencing some difficulty in pulling this all together, spatially …Wasn’t I on the beach at the time, searching for a forest?’

Elen pursed her lips. ‘I’m not sure what you’re trying to imply,’ she said sharply, ‘—or why you’re trying to imply it — but his interest was in Fleet. He had this long conversation with Fleet …’

‘So you said.’

‘Fleet reminded him of his daughter — his dead daughter.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know why. Because she liked to build things. She was very precocious. She was a gifted child.’

‘So he had this long conversation with Fleet about what? About building?’

‘Yes. No . He had this long chat with Fleet about…’ she frowned, ‘…about history.’

‘History? About history ? How extraordinary. I don’t believe I’ve ever had a long chat with Fleet on that subject.’

Dory almost sounded forlorn.

‘ Exactly . It was odd. I won’t pretend it wasn’t odd. It was definitely out of character. Fleet just suddenly grew very…very animated. I was as surprised by it as you are…’

‘Fleet had met this man before, perhaps?’ Dory reasoned.

‘Never.’

Elen was unequivocal.

Dory leaned back in his seat and thought for a while.

‘I know it sounds a little…’ Elen began.

‘Yes it does,’ he agreed.

Elen stared down at the map again.

‘Why do you have the map out?’ he asked, as if he’d only just noticed.

She glanced up at him, confused.

‘The map,’ he reiterated. ‘Are we lost?’

‘Not lost, no…I just…I took a wrong turn in Rye. I was heading for the marshes but now I’m…’ she pointed, ‘I’m here, half-way to Beckley…’

‘Bixley,’ he corrected her, drawing in closer, his eyes instinctively drawn towards the greened-in sections.

‘I thought we could drive home through Beckley and then Tenterden…’

‘ Cock Wood,’ he suddenly pointed to a small area on the map (a mere inch to the right of their current location), ‘is that where we’re headed?’

Elen gave him a strange look. ‘No,’ she said, ‘we’re heading home.’

‘And here…’ he grinned (moving his finger a couple of inches along), ‘ Sluts Wood…’ he sniggered, coarsely, and then, ‘ Hookers Wood! Who would’ve thought it, eh?’

‘Don’t be silly, Dory,’ she said, her voice almost inaudibly low.

‘Birch Wood, Gilly Wood,’ Dory rapidly reeled off the place names, prodding the map with his finger, jabbing at it, savagely, almost ripping through the paper, ‘Kicker Wood, Twist Wood, Spouts Wood, Stocks Wood, Lord’s Wood, Pond Wood, Gray’s Wood, Glover’s Wood…’

‘ Stop that, you’ll tear it,’ Elen exclaimed, knocking his hand away. ‘Where are we?’ he asked, almost menacingly.

‘We’re near Beckley. I told you…’

She tried to flatten out the map where he’d dented it with his finger. ‘Bixley,’ he corrected her.

‘Beckley…’

She pointed to the town of Beckley.

‘No,’ he said, refusing to look, ‘that’s just a lie. I’m not a fool. I know what you’re up to, Elen…’

‘It’s not a lie, Dory.’

‘It’s not a lie, Dory,’ he mimicked her.

‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘He just happened to be walking past?’

‘Who?’ she almost wailed.

‘Who?!’

He suddenly began reciting something, off pat, in an incredibly precise and cruel parody of her voice: ‘Next time you feel depressed or confused,’ he cooed, ‘just try and focus in on the pure idea of Eva, on the gestures she made, the defiance she showed, on the moment , the fire …Remember that everything else is just a distraction . An aside . A footnote …’