Nicola Barker - Darkmans

And before Kane could stop it–

Can I stop it?

Do I even want to?

— the bird was hurling itself at Dory’s blindfold and tearing at it, wildly.

Kane gasped, feeling — in that second — as if he were the bird, as if he were the rage, the fire, the attack–

and Isidore — in turn (he was sure of it) felt him–

He feels me

Isidore threw himself forward, with a yell, his arms flying up, his legs kicking out, somehow managing–

You fool!

— to smash his head, blindly, unwittingly, into the corner of the table.

Crack!

Isidore froze. He swooned. He fell.

Peta threw out her hands. Ann ran towards him.

Kane’s own arms kept on moving–

Must leave

Must keep steering

— and the car kept on turning. Until…

Chicken shed—

Old garage door—

Rusting pile of antique bicycles—

Dirt track—

Nothing.

‘Albi,’ he found himself muttering, nonsensically, as he drove back on to Barnfield, Ox Lane, Silver Hill…Then, ‘ No .’ He shook his head, violently. He was still shaking.

Al- i- bi.

The Latin

Remember?

I. Am. Not. Here…

His unconscious mind began tapping out a series of incomprehensible morse-code messages to him.

Eh?

He struggled to decipher them–

I. Am. Elsewhere…

It said.

‘How strange,’ he murmured, just resolving to go with it, to flow with it (like Winnie had always taught him)–

Relax, now

Don’t panic…

How strange , though…

Almost as if his thoughts were a war drum (or a tom-tom or a bongo) being deftly played by a mysterious hand on the other side of a very distant, very stark and yet beautiful snow-capped mountain.

‘So Beede’ —she read, scowling, ‘There’s a whole series of these things (one for each of the various monarchs’ funny-men, although I didn’t get a chance to look at any of the others). Apparently there was quite a vogue for them in the 1600s (and for several hundred years after that — I saw at least two editions of this one — the earlier called Scoggin’s Jests by an Andrew Boord–1626–and this one, in which the spelling’s more familiar from 1796–that’s a 170-year gap!), indicating how popular these guys actually were (plus: note the celebrity publisher…)’

Kelly returned to the front page again:

‘Printed for W. Thackeray at the Angel in Duck Lane, near Weft-Smithfield, and J. Deason at the Angel in Gilt-Spur-Street.’

She grimaced.

Eh?

‘The information enclosed isn’t considered especially reliable, though…’ she quickly read on. ‘ This book was written years after John Scogin’s death. Much of it will be based on either legend or hearsay (would’ve been considered “tabloid”, even at the time of its publication).

‘ The actual story of his life (and a critique of Andrew Broad, this book’s compiler…’

Kelly’s eye flipped back…

‘The actual story of his life (and a critique of Andrew Board, this book’s compiler…’

Her eye flipped back…

‘…and a critique of Andrew Board, this book’s compiler…’

She quickly turned to the front page of the document:

‘Gathered by Andrew Board, Doctor of Phyfick.’

Phyfick?

She re-read it: ‘ Gathered by Andrew Board …’ then slowly shook her head and returned to the letter. ‘ The actual story of his life (and a critique of Andrew Broad, this book’s compiler…’ she grimaced ‘…who seems like a rather dodgy character…’

She grimaced again ‘“… physician to Henry VIII ”, apparently …)’ Her eyes widened ‘… features in R.H. Hill’s Tales of the Jesters, 1934 (and I wouldn’t have a clue what his sources were), but — believe it or not — the text was registered unavailable (read as “some miserable bastard stole it.”) .’

Kelly threw down the photocopied sheets on to her bedspread. She picked up her phone and began texting a message.

GFFR MADE A PASS, THE FCKER! it said, I ND 2 C U! PRONTO! K. XX

Then she went back and deleted the XX .

Then she went back and deleted the I ND 2 C U! PRONTO! K .

Then she went back and deleted THE FCKER!

She re-read the message: GFFR MADE A PASS and grunted her satisfaction. She sent the message.

She grabbed the photocopied sheets again.

‘ The librarian in the Antiquarian Books Section ,’ she read, one brow slightly raised now, ‘ (who was actually quite chatty) sent me to go and see some journalist called Tom Benson who happened to be in the library on that day and in possession of an associated text called A Nest of Ninnies by Robert Armin (He’s writing a book about comedy and “is very interested in jesters”, she said) .

‘ I tracked him down to the Music Section. He was a little hostile at first (you know how territorial these people can be), but after a brief conversation he admitted that he actually had his very own copy of Tales of the Jesters at home which he’d “found” in a second-hand bookshop in Rye (this might’ve just been sheer bravura on his part — that whole “journalists v academics” hornets’ nest. Or maybe not). ’

The last section (in brackets), Kelly observed, had been hurriedly crossed out.

‘Anyhow,’

She continued reading:

‘I asked if I might borrow it some time (or even just make a copy of the relevant chapters) but he got a little prickly at this point and said he was still in the middle of using it, but that he would definitely call me when he was done (I gave him my number, although I won’t be holding my breath). Then he told me some stuff over coffee (I bought the Madeira cake — it was a little dry) which you might find interesting. Will inform you in person.

‘The quality of the copy is poor (at best). This is because it was reproduced from a microfile. But I think you’ll get the basic gist…

W.

‘ W? W for Whore ,’ Kelly muttered, thickly.

She glanced up–

Kane

There he stood, large as life, at the foot of her bed.

‘Fuck-a-duck,’ she said, tossing down the booklet, ‘that was quick.’ ‘How’s the leg?’ he asked.

‘D’you get my text?’

‘So the rash didn’t actually reach your face?’ he said.

She pulled down the neckline of her nightie to reveal her thick swathe of fading hives.

‘Ow,’ he murmured.

‘I’m allergic ,’ she said. ‘ See? ’

She glared up at him, vengefully. He seemed unaffected by her look. He appeared pale, distracted.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked, releasing the fabric.

‘Fine,’ he said. But he didn’t look fine. He looked odd. Dishevelled. And he…

Urgh

— she sniffed the air, bemusedly.

‘You stink…’ she muttered, ‘like a bom-fire or something.’

‘ Bon fire,’ he corrected her, with a smile.

‘That’s what I just said.’

‘No. You said bo m fire.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Bom-fire. B-o-m. It’s bo n fire.’

His neck and his shoulder suddenly convulsed as he spoke. He put a hand to his head.

‘Are you all right?’ she repeated.

‘I was looking for my dad,’ he said, peering around him, vaguely, as if Beede might be anywhere. ‘He wasn’t at home and he’s gone from the laundry…’