Nicola Barker - Darkmans

Kelly checked her texts. There was one from Gerry, one from her aunt, one from her dad, one from Jason, one from Gaffar and one from her mum.

Eh?!

She scowled, mystified.

‘And now I’m dieting for Jesus,’ he said, with apparent satisfaction.

‘Well bully for you, mate.’

She rapidly scrolled down the messages and pressed ENTER.

He was huge, or at least he appeared to be. A veritable titan. He was in his late thirties, early forties, heavily built with a pallid complexion (but flashes of high colour on his nose, chin and cheeks), wore a large, thick moustache (with tinges of red in it), a deer-stalker hat and an impressive collection of all-weather gear, topped off by a smart, camouflage jacket decorated with — Beede squinted — what looked like a bizarre photographic montage of twigs and leaves.

He was shining a torch directly into Beede’s face as he lay — prone and winded — on the forest floor. Beede didn’t realise (at this point) that it was actually his torch.

‘Well that wasn’t very clever of you,’ the giant observed mockingly, ‘was it now?’

He was drunk, Beede surmised. His breath reeked of alcohol–

Rum?

Brandy?

Beede slowly pulled himself up into a sitting position and blinked, owlishly, into the light. He flexed his shoulder, then his neck, then his leg. He felt a little stiff and creaky, but there was–

Thank God

— nothing sprained or broken, so far as he could tell.

He frowned, then put a tentative hand to his face–

Damn…

He’d somehow managed to dislodge his glasses in the fall. He pulled off his gloves, stuffed them into his pocket, then felt around, clumsily, on the ground surrounding him. As he reached out, blindly, a cold, wet snout suddenly made contact with his bare skin. A warm tongue licked his knuckles. He snatched his hand away, alarmed.

‘ Enough , Gringo,’ the man snapped. Beede squinted into the darkness. Just to his left he made out the rough outline of a small and extremely overweight, pure-white Jack Russell.

The man drew a step closer and peered rudely into Beede’s face. ‘You’re getting a bit long in the tooth for this kind of lark, aren’t you?’ he asked.

‘Pardon?’

Beede adjusted his hat which was currently hanging — somewhat rakishly — over one brow.

‘A bit long in the tooth, a bit old …’

‘I seem to have lost my glasses in the fall…’

Beede continued to pat at the floor around him.

The stranger shone the torch helpfully on to the ground, then took a step back.

‘Careful not to stand on them,’ Beede cautioned him.

‘Nothing happens in these woods,’ the man informed him, slurring his words a little, ‘without me or Gringo here knowing about it.’

‘Is that so?’

Beede glanced up, distractedly.

‘She’s been hard on your trail for the past twenty minutes,’ he stared down at the dog, fondly, ‘all in a bait, she was, so I left her to it. She tracked you down a real treat, she did.’

‘Can you see anything?’ Beede asked (neglecting to mention that he hadn’t actually been in the woods that long). ‘I really can’t function without them…’

‘No,’ he said, barely even bothering to look.

‘Are you sure ? They must be around here somewhere.’

‘I heard a voice calling out earlier,’ the man said. ‘Was it you?’

‘Probably…’ Beede was crawling around on his hands and knees now. ‘I’m searching for someone. A friend of mine…’

‘A friend ?’ he sneered.

‘Yes.’ Beede glanced up. ‘Perhaps you’ll’ve seen him? Tall, blond, German…He might’ve appeared…’ he paused ‘…distressed.’

‘A male friend?’

‘He’s German,’ Beede continued, ‘but he speaks excellent English…’

Beede stopped his search for a moment as something odd suddenly dawned on him–

The branch—

The fallen branch…

‘Where’s the branch gone?’ he asked, rocking back on to his heels. ‘What?’

‘The branch. The branch that fell on me.’

The man stared at him for a second, blankly, and then, ‘Oh. Yes. The branch. I moved that off,’ he said, ‘I threw it over there somewhere…’ He gesticulated, vaguely, towards the distant undergrowth.

Beede frowned. He felt a brief moment’s disquiet.

‘Isn’t that my torch?’ he asked.

‘No.’

Pause

‘Yes.’

‘Could I have it back, then?’

Beede held out his hand. The man passed it over, sullenly.

‘That’s a good torch,’ he said, ‘very powerful.’

‘It’s an old torch,’ Beede said, ‘I’ve had it for twenty-odd years.’

‘An oldie but a goldie,’ the man quipped, leering down at him.

‘So you live locally?’ Beede asked.

‘Me?’

He pointed to himself, stupidly.

‘Yes.’

‘Roundabout.’

‘In Beckley?’

‘Roundabout Beckley.’

‘It’s a filthy night to be hanging around in the woods,’ Beede mused. ‘We patrol these woods,’ the man said (placing his hands on to his hips, as if rehearsing some kind of formal speech), ‘summer, autumn, winter, spring — come rain or hail or shine.’

Beede nodded, his eye casually alighting on what he took to be–

No.

Surely not…

— some kind of ornately decorated, American-Indian-style–

Holster?

No.

Scabbard?

— sheath hanging around the man’s waist. A sheath for a sword. Or a large hunting knife, perhaps.

‘So you spend a lot of time here?’

He stated the obvious.

‘I do.’

‘Are you a warden of some kind? A gamekeeper?’

‘You could call me a warden,’ the man nodded. ‘You could call me,’ he paused, self-importantly, ‘the Guardian of the Woods.’

‘The King of the Woods, eh?’ Beede murmured.

‘What?’

‘In ancient English myth there was this perplexing figure called The King of the Woods. He guarded a large Oak in the centre of the forest. He never slept…’

‘I wouldn’t know anything about that ,’ the man demurred, taking an unsteady step back.

Beede aimed the torch down at the forest floor again and bent over to recommence his search. He felt a sharp spasm of pain in his left shoulder as he moved it–

Ouch

‘Did you see the deer?’ he asked, suddenly remembering the deer, almost with a jolt.

‘I’ve seen deer,’ the man said, ‘I’ve seen plenty of deer. But not tonight.’ ‘There was a huge deer,’ Beede said, ‘a stag. An old stag. Standing about 7 or so feet away. A magnificent creature.’

‘I lost my bird,’ the man said (defensively, almost competitively). ‘I wasn’t just hanging around.’

‘Pardon?’

Beede glanced up again.

‘My kite. My red kite. I keep birds of prey.’

‘And you lost it?’

‘Yes.’

‘A red kite ?’

‘Yes. I flew him this afternoon — in the clearing just to the south of here — and while he was flying this other bird started to bother him, to harass him — which they will do, sometimes. It was a dark bird, a small bird, probably just a starling. But fierce. Crazy . Really caught him on the hop — put him on his mettle — until suddenly he got it into his stupid head…’

He tutted, ‘He was an ounce over. Just an ounce. But that was all it took.’

‘An ounce?’

‘Yes. He was too heavy to fly…’

‘If you fly them when they aren’t hungry,’ Beede said (plainly very familiar with this concept), ‘then there’s no incentive for them to return. They’re remarkably pragmatic creatures, aren’t they?’