Nicola Barker - Darkmans

Gringo pushed.

The second puppy plopped out into Beede’s hand, followed by its own sudden squelch of afterbirth. Once again Beede held the pup up close to the bitch’s face, but on this occasion she refused to pay it any heed.

‘We’re going to have to cut this ourselves,’ Beede said; ‘hand me your knife.’

‘What?’

‘Your knife. Pass it over.’

The man put his hand to his waist and fingered the handle, but he didn’t look happy.

‘Quick,’ Beede snapped.

‘But you can’t use my knife,’ he protested, ‘it’s brand-new. It’s a top-of-the-range Japanese Warrior’s knife.’

‘I don’t give a damn what kind of knife it is,’ Beede informed him, holding out his hand, refusing to be gainsaid.

The man slowly pulled out the knife. It was insanely sharp and at least 50 centimetres long. Beede lay out the pup on the vest, took a hold of the knife, held it an inch or so from the pup’s torso and cleanly sliced through the cord.

‘There.’

He passed the knife back and picked up the pup. The man almost gagged as he inspected the blade, then he grabbed the vest and polished the blade with it.

Beede tore away the anmiotic membrane and then closely inspected the second pup. It felt cold in his hand. ‘This fella doesn’t feel too smart,’ he said. ‘The bigger one was probably resting on top of it inside the womb…’

He cleared mucus from the tiny puppy’s airways.

‘ Vest ,’ he instructed brusquely. The man passed it over. Beede rubbed the body with the vest–

Nothing

He rubbed again and blew warm air into the puppy’s face. ‘Come on, little one,’ he murmured.

Gringo, meanwhile, had turned around and was sniffing at the second afterbirth. Beede blew into the tiny pup’s face again, then he tossed it, gently — like a bean-bag — from hand to hand. He massaged its little ribs. Then he held it upside down.

‘It moved its arm,’ the man said.

‘Did it?’

Beede wasn’t so confident. He cocooned the tiny pup in his hand. It still felt cold and lifeless. He blew on it, then he rubbed it, vigorously, with the vest again–

Nothing

He decided to try mouth-to-mouth. He inserted his little finger between the puppy’s tiny jaws.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Mouth-to-mouth.’

‘Is that safe?’

‘Safe? Who for?’

He painstakingly pushed down the puppy’s tiny tongue, then affixed his lips closely around the creature’s muzzle and exhaled. The puppy’s ribs rose. Beede sucked the air out. The puppy’s ribs fell. He exhaled again. Then he inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled. At the close of the seventh cycle, he stopped. He inspected the pup. The puppy remained completely flaccid. It was inanimate. It was dead.

He closed his eyes for a moment, defeated, and then–

Pow!

— he suddenly sensed the stag — that grand, old stag; not as an actual entity, but as…as a beat . He felt the stag — its raw, untrammelled energy. He felt its pulse, in the ground, like a fast-approaching train. He felt the beat thundering towards him. And then–

Bang!

— it hit him. He rocked back. He felt it reverberating inside his eardrum, inside his head — his forehead — butting into him, like a hooligan — then travelling down, through his veins, his airways, into his throat, a suffocating pulse. He almost gagged, almost choked. Then on…into his shoulder–

Argh!

(He bit on his lip to stop himself from screaming) — then down, still further, jerking and shuddering, into his arm, into his wrist…

Until–

Huh?

— it cut out. It was gone .

Beede kept his eyes closed, barely even breathing. He focussed in on his hand. He sensed his hand; the cup of his hand, the sanctum…

Eh?

— the goblet—

Eh?!

— the Communion , and there, in the centre of it, the tiny puppy suddenly jolted, then it coughed.

Beede opened his eyes.

‘It’s alive,’ he said, his voice devoid of emotion.

The puppy coughed again. Beede gently massaged its ribs for a minute and then handed it over. The man took the second pup and placed it, gently, inside his shirt.

Gringo was still gnawing at the second afterbirth.

‘You’ll need to get everybody home,’ Beede said, ‘into the warm. Where’s your car?’

‘I have a Landrover…’

The man pointed. He seemed quiet now, almost deflated. His eyes looked strangely hollow.

Beede shoved away the vest, pulled on his gloves and threw his rucksack over his shoulders. ‘I’ll carry Gringo,’ he said, wincing. ‘You lead the way…’

He carefully wrapped Gringo in the shirt again, then picked her up. She was heavy. She kicked out her legs, in protest.

‘Right. Good. Let’s go,’ Beede said, tightening his grip on her and starting to walk, sucking on his lip as he slowly moved forward, feeling the unexpectedly warm, metallic tang of blood on his tongue.

‘Dead?!’ Kane repeated, sounding perfectly astonished, ‘When? How? ’

‘I don’t know. He just…’

Kelly began sobbing, violently, as he accelerated rapidly away from a set of traffic lights.

‘Did you speak to your mother?’

‘ ’Course I did, Dumbo .’

‘Is she okay?

‘ ’Course she’s okay.’

‘And your dad?’

‘He switched his phone off. He sent a text. He don’t wanna talk. He ain’t good wiv’ stuff like this.’

Kane opened his mouth to speak.

‘An’ don’t you dare say,’ she quickly interrupted him, ‘that it’s all for the best.’

‘Okay,’ Kane said gently, ‘I won’t.’

He paused.

‘But it is.’

‘We gotta fetch the body,’ she wailed. ‘We gotta sort out the fuckin’ funeral .’

‘Good point.’

Kane pulled on to a roundabout and then turned right.

‘Mum ain’t up to it, Jase is in the clink, Linda don’t give a fuck, an’ I’m stuck in this shithole…’

‘Don’t worry,’ Kane murmured, ‘I’ll help you sort it out. I’ll get on to it first thing. That’s a promise.’

‘But who’s gonna sit with the body?’ she bellowed.

‘Sit with the body?’

Sit with the body?!

‘Sit with it while it’s still warm ,’ she blubbered.

‘Sit with the body, Kell? Are you sure ? D’you think that’s entirely necessary?’

‘Of course it is! Of course it’s necessary,’ she began to hiccough, hysterically (in the background Kane could hear somebody talking to her — a nurse, two nurses, both trying their level best to calm her down).

‘It’s lights out,’ she mewed, ‘an’ I’m keepin’ up the WHOLE FUCKIN’ WARD! ’

‘Just hold on a second…’

Kane glanced into his rearview mirror, turned on his indicator and gently pulled off the road.

‘I CAN’T hold on, fuck-wit!’

He braked, drew to a halt, stuck on his hazard lights…

‘Are you still there, Kell?’

All he could hear now was a high, shrill squall. ‘Kelly?’

‘His body’s stuck in some morgue , an’ he’s all a-fuckin’ lone!’

‘He’ll be in a chapel of rest,’ Kane lied. ‘They’ll have a priest sitting with him.’

‘He came to me!’ she bawled. ‘He came an’ snapped my bra strap, Kane!’

‘Pardon?’

‘I swear to God. They said he died at eight. At eight someone snapped my bra strap. I felt it. He always did that when we was kids. He snapped my bra strap. He came to me, Kane.’