Nicola Barker - Darkmans

‘Sure.’

‘And Kempe’s Corner?’

‘Sure.’

‘How was the weather?’

‘ Urgh . Bad. Is rain , eh?’

‘And the scooter?’

‘Slow for start…’

Gaffar impersonated the engine with a series of dry, hacking coughs. ‘Piece of shit. Italia …’

He turned and indicated fastidiously towards the splashes of mud on the back of his trousers.

‘How was Martha?’ Kane wondered.

‘Crazy,’ Gaffar said. ‘She make me read from book, but…’ he shrugged.

‘The poetry?’ Kane smiled, fondly. ‘The tiny little yellow hardback? Emily Dickinson?’

Gaffar looked blank.

‘Or was it Blake this time?’

Gaffar shook his head. ‘I dunno. Was all crazy.’

‘Martha loves Emily Dickinson.’

‘Crazy woman.’

‘And Bert?’

‘Nothing. No words.’

‘Really…?’

Kane turned to face him, concerned. ‘He didn’t actually speak?’

‘Nothing. Jus, “Why you here? Where is this Kane ?”’

‘Did he seem depressed at all?’

‘Sure he was depress.’

‘Was he clean?’

‘ Clean? ’ Gaffar frowned. ‘Sure he was clean.’

‘Well that’s generally a good sign. Whenever Bert gets seriously miserable his hygiene’s always the first thing to go. I’ll need you to keep an eye on that for me, okay?’

Gaffar nodded. Kane returned to his hair again. ‘Bert was pretty much a tramp when we first met — had this huge, long beard, filthy nails, lived in absolute squalor. Never washed. Was physically overwhelmed — he told me once— emotionally overwhelmed by the touch of water. Being caught out in a rainstorm would leave him virtually disabled — I mean for weeks . Beaten. Pummelled . He’s just wired all wrong. You’d be surprised how many people are, how difficult their lives can be…’

Gaffar nodded again, his eyes ranging, boredly, around the room. ‘The medication he’d been prescribed was a disaster,’ Kane continued, ‘ totally inappropriate to the range of symptoms he had. His doctor simply couldn’t give a shit. Didn’t have a clue. He’s one of those old-school, stiff-upper-lip types who thinks a warm bath and a good meal are enough to cure 95 per cent of all human ills. My involvement with him goes way back. He actually cared for my mother before she died — kept her criminally undermedicated right up until the end. He’s an intergalactic twat …’

Gaffar slowly began unwinding Kane’s scarf from around his neck. He plainly wasn’t focussing.

‘I wondered where that thing’d gotten to,’ Kane observed.

Gaffar grunted, unapologetically.

‘So did he let you bring in his firewood?’

‘Huh?’ Gaffar stopped unwinding.

‘Bert. Did you bring in his firewood?’

‘Sure. Sure . And I do wash up, like you say. I turn on radio, for bit music, and then…’

Gaffar threw up his hands, grimacing.

‘ Fuck . You messed with his radio ?!’ Kane spun around, horrified. ‘Bert has ears like a friggin’ bat , I told you that. He’s very sensitive. Incredibly sensitive…’

‘I have chicken,’ Gaffar said, thumbing over his shoulder, ‘is roast, whole.’

‘Yeah?’ Kane’s horror was immediately assuaged by the prospect of food. ‘Is it still hot?’

He sniffed at the air, hungrily.

‘Sure. You wan eat? You go out?’

‘Go out? In this weather? No way.’

‘Oh. Okay…’

Gaffar gave Kane’s smart outfit a meaningful once over then shrugged and wandered off.

Kane held his hands under the warm tap until the grease melted from his fingertips, then he strolled into the living-room, threw himself down on to the sofa and lifted his bare feet — with a slight wince — on to the coffee table. On the tv was a dramatic re-enactment of a true-life adventure in which two men were trapped high on a mountain in a raging blizzard. They’d tied themselves together, for safety, but one man had just slipped off a sheer precipice and was now dangling, unsteadily, in the pitch dark, hundreds of feet below the other.

The camera — having investigated the unenviable circumstances of the fallen man in pornographic detail — suddenly switched back to studying the plight of the man who hadn’t fallen. He was struggling to sustain the weight of his partner. He couldn’t pull or grip on to the rope properly. He was exhausted. His fingers were severely frostbitten. He was in serious danger of slipping down himself.

‘Cut the the rope, man!’ Kane exclaimed, leaning forward and gently massaging one of his feet. ‘It’s his own stupid fault. He’s just gonna drag you down there with him…’

As he spoke he peered at his foot. He frowned. His feet looked different, somehow. The toes appeared compressed, almost squashed, as if they’d been squeezed — over time — into a bizarre, triangular mould. The big toe slanted dramatically inwards, and there was noticeable callusing on several of the smaller toes.

He inspected his other foot. It looked similarly mis-shapen. He wiggled his toes. They felt stiff, almost arthritic–

Hmmn

He leaned back again, grimacing, remembering his mother. He remembered her feet — her dancer’s feet: distorted, bulbous, overarched and ugly — he remembered massaging them for her sometimes, as a boy, as a special treat.

While considering his mother’s feet he noticed a slight, fluttery feeling in his stomach (which he promptly dismissed as an excess of appetite–

When did I last eat? ).

He wriggled his toes again (then again , almost obsessively), in a determined bid to try and loosen them up a bit.

Gaffar, meanwhile, was in the hallway, whistling jauntily, dishing up the chicken. He served it with a cold ratatouille, some hummus and several toasted pockets of pitta bread.

He brought two plates through and passed one to Kane with the useful addition of a small piece of kitchen roll to be employed as a serviette.

‘You’re a God,’ Kane said, taking it from him and swinging his feet back down on to the floor again.

Gaffar sat next to him, then glanced over and espied (with a disapproving cluck ) Kane’s newly greased head pressed up against the upholstery. He nudged Kane to make him lean forward, then placed a spare piece of kitchen roll over the headrest to try and preserve the fabric from the impact of his hair oil.

‘ Aw , thanks, honey,’ Kane said.

‘So…’ Gaffar stretched out his legs as he grappled with a chicken wing, ‘you speak for Kelly?’

‘Yeah…’ Kane nodded, leaning back again, balancing his plate on his stomach, tearing off a small piece of bread and scooping up some ratatouille, ‘ Yeah . She told me all about how you trashed her salad.’

‘Wah?!’ Gaffar gaped.

‘She said you trashed her salad and then you snogged her. She was absolutely, fuckin’ livid about the whole thing…’

Kane chewed on his mouthful, dispassionately.

‘For why she say this?’ Gaffar asked, infuriated.

‘Did you happen to see Beede lately?’ Kane wondered, swallowing. ‘Beede?’

‘Yeah. He’s not at home and he wasn’t at the laundry…’

‘I been work, eh? Hard work,’ Gaffar gesticulated irritably, ‘how I’m suppose see him there ?’

He snorted, infuriated.

‘Do they eat much hummus in Turkey?’ Kane wondered, peering at it, inquisitively.

‘Sure.’

‘Really? I always had it pegged as a Greek speciality.’

Gaffar shrugged. ‘Is Greek, Arab, Turk …’