Nicola Barker - Darkmans

He paused, then, ‘Oh Elen!’ he continued, in equally asinine (but now intensely male) accents. ‘That’s beeeautiful! ’

Elen’s jaw dropped.

‘You were listening?’ she asked, stunned. ‘You were spying on me all the while?’

Dory glanced out of the window. ‘Where are we?’ he asked, as if he hadn’t actually heard her.

‘But that’s…’ she frowned, confused, ‘that’s not fair , Dory.’

‘Not fair ?’ he snorted.

Elen said nothing.

‘Where are we?’ he persisted.

‘I told you, we’re just outside Beck—…’ she faltered. ‘We’re just past Peasmarsh, on our way to Rolvenden.’

He stared at her, blankly. ‘Who am I?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Who am I?’ he repeated.

‘You’re Dory ,’ she exclaimed, reaching out to try and touch his arm, to offer him some kind of comfort. ‘You’re Isidore …’

‘Really?’

He jerked his arm away from her.

‘Yes.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you absolutely certain ? Absolutely sure ?’

He continued to stare at her, fixedly, a half-smile playing around his lips.

‘What do you want from me, Dory?’

Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Just tell me what you want me to say and I’ll say it…‘

‘This feels all wrong,’ he suddenly announced, ‘ I feel all wrong…Everything’s all…all awry …’

He reached for the door handle.

‘ Stay in the car,’ Elen implored. ‘It’ll be fine. Just give it a few minutes and it’ll all become clear. I promise …’

‘Bixley,’ he repeated, obdurately, stabbing at the map with his muddy finger. She peered down at her lap, frowning. He was pointing to a large, wooded area: Bixley Wood. The small town of Beckley lay just above it, and Beckley Wood, somewhat confusingly, lay directly below.

‘Bixley,’ she said, finally apprehending the small kink in their linguistic wallpaper, ‘Bixley. Of course , yes…’

She glanced up, keenly. But it was too late. She was too late. Dory had sprung from the car and had begun to run, the muddy blanket flying out like a cape behind him.

‘You’re pullin’ my fuckin’ leg , mate!’ Kelly exclaimed, leaning forward and giving Gaffar a playful slap.

‘No,’ Gaffar insisted, wincing theatrically. ‘If I pull leg you hit Gaffar even more hard…’

‘ Aw . An’ a piece of shit comedian to boot,’ she grinned.

He shrugged.

‘Pass it over, then.’

She held out her hand, expectantly.

He delved into his jacket pocket and pulled out the envelope.

‘So it was in his bag all along?’

‘Sure. He was go for buy cup tea…and… urgh …mug stinking English beef soup. Leave this bag for the chair. So I take quick… uh …look. Is in bag. So I…’

Gaffar made a furtive snatching motion. Then he shrugged.

‘But the door to his flat was locked , eh?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well that’s a little bit odd , for starters, don’cha reckon?’

‘Why?’ Gaffar shrugged again. ‘For me is make good sense. You lock door if you fear for thief .’

He pointed to himself.

She stared at him, quizzically, plainly nonplussed by this sudden show of conscience. ‘Get over it, mate,’ she scoffed, ‘he’s the one who thieved from his own son’s stash an’ then let me take the fall for it, remember?’

‘No.’ Gaffar shook his head. ‘Is other reason. I know this Beede. This Beede is good.’

‘Looks is Deceivin’, she murmured.

‘Eh?’

‘It’s a reggae song. Looks is deceivin’, man ,’ she sang, ‘ Don’t underrate no man… ’

Gaffar cringed at the sound of her voice.

‘Fuck off , you minge!’

She slapped him again, this time with the envelope.

‘Enough!’ Gaffar pushed the packet away, irritably.

Kelly was naturally compelled (by his show of irritation) to whack him for a third time. Gaffar clambered to his feet, bolshily.

‘Keep your wig on, Guv!’

He continued to stand. He avoided her keen gaze. He scratched at his armpit.

‘Somethin’ fishy’s goin’ on here,’ she murmured, suspiciously. ‘You can’t even look me in the eye , this mornin’. What gives?’

‘Eh?’

‘Was it Gerry ? Is that it? Did you cop off with the little strumpet?’

‘Eh?’

‘ Gerry , you nonce!’

He stared at her, blankly.

‘You did ,’ she squealed, clapping her hands, maniacally, ‘I swear to God you did …’

She was almost disappointed.

‘What? You think I fuck?’ Gaffar looked horrified. ‘With this Goff?’ ‘ Goth , you idiot…’

She appraised him, steadily, her cheeks flushing. ‘Can’t you keep it in your pocket, or what?’

He looked indignant.

‘She’s got the pox. Did you know that?’

‘Pox?’

‘The pox. Disease. Hep A. Like Pammie Anderson does.’

‘Pammie?’

‘ Baywatch . Like Pammie.’

Kelly described a huge pair of breasts in the air with her hands.

‘Did she tell you about this?’ Gaffar demanded, outraged.

‘Tell me what?’

Gaffar continued to look affronted.

‘Tell me about the pox? Of course she did. She’s my cuz, you fool. She tells me everythin’.’

Gaffar looked horrified.

‘She tell you about this breasts ?’

‘Whose breasts? Pammie’s breasts? What about ‘em?’

’But where’s the point,’ Gaffar demanded, hotly, ’in sewing your mouth up, if you’re still going to blab all over town about it?’

‘You did the deed at Kane’s, then?’ she asked, crossing her skinny arms across her chest.

‘No.’

Gaffar resolved to deny everything.

‘At her place? With her dad sniffin’ about?’

She winced, fastidiously.

‘No.’

‘On my scooter ?!’

‘No.’

‘ Man! That’s filthy ! You better disinfect the damn seat , I swear to God…’

‘No.’

‘I want it bleached .’

She scowled up at him. He scowled back at her.

‘Ah- ha !’ he suddenly exclaimed, throwing up his hands. ‘ I bet she texted you! The little Jezebel! How else could you’ve found out so quickly? ’

‘Did you get me my salad ?’ Kelly demanded, changing the subject, plainly disgusted.

Gaffar nodded. He pointed, sullenly, towards the bag.

‘Can I have a look at it or what?’

‘Here?’

‘Whadd’ya mean, “here”? Of course “here”…Pass it over.’

‘No.’

Gaffar shook his head.

Kelly’s jaw dropped.

‘Whadd’ya mean “no”?’

She lunged for the bag. Gaffar kicked it away from her.

‘You’re bruisin’ it. You’re ruinin’ it. Pass it here , you ignorant twat! ’

‘No.’

‘I HATE you,’ she bawled.

‘Same,’ Gaffar declared.

Then he leaned in and he kissed her.

It was after six when she rang, and dark outside. He was still at work, poring over his office computer where half an hour earlier (in the midst of sorting out a VAT wrangle) he’d casually Googled the word Sinjar and one thing had rapidly led to another.