Nicola Barker - Darkmans

‘I’m sterilising the cords,’ she explained. ‘And for future reference, if the mother refuses to bite the cord herself, then it’s best to either tear it or to cut at it but using a rough, sawing motion. This second cut…’ she held up the smaller pup, ‘is rather too close to the body. It’s preferable to leave about 2 inches in order to prevent the risk of an umbilical hernia…’

‘Will he be all right, d’you think?’ the man asked, concerned.

She shrugged. ‘It looks fine — I mean, so far as I can tell . All being well, the cords should fall off in a few days’ time…’

The man began to pour some milk into a bowl. ‘If she’s lost blood then you should provide her with plenty of iron: meat, milk, even a vitamin supplement. Cod liver oil, perhaps. You can buy capsules at your local pet shop. And don’t exercise her too much,’ she expanded, ‘just take her out for a quick trot on the lead, allow her to empty her bladder, then bring her straight back inside.’ The man nodded.

‘No more of those mysterious, nightly excursions,’ she persisted. He scowled.

‘I see you have an interest in Japanese Art Swords…’

‘What?’

The man stared at her, still scowling.

‘Samurai swords?’

‘Oh. Uh…Yes.’

He put a tentative hand to his hip.

‘I actually have a couple of wonderful, early Tokugawa period Katana,’ she said nonchalantly, ‘a matching pair — short and long from around 1630–the Ogatana and the Kogatana…’

The man blinked. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Of course I’m serious,’ she snapped. ‘In fact I also have a used Waki-sashi, and a very, very rare, early Muromachi period sword which is incredibly beautiful and well over 3 foot…’

‘A used Waki-sashi?’

The man turned to Beede. ‘That’s the special sword a Samurai uses to commit suicide.’

‘I know,’ Beede said.

‘They slice open their stomachs with it,’ the man added.

‘I know,’ Beede said.

‘I have the most marvellous Edo period Japanese Samurai Helmet, too,’ Peta continued, ‘pre-1700. A 62 plate Suji Kabuto by Nobuiye, a master of the Myochin School.’

‘The Waki-sashi,’ the man persisted. ‘About how much would that…?’

‘I acquired it as part of an exchange,’ Peta said brusquely. ‘It’s a small but precious piece of Japanese cultural history. The value is an irrelevance, really…’

‘Oh.’

The man frowned, bemused.

‘You don’t own an object like that,’ she clarified.

The man nodded, plainly baffled.

‘I’m impressed by some of your little nick-nacks,’ she cast out a benevolent hand, ‘I see you have a Victorian burr walnut credenza up against the back wall. It has a replacement marble top, and the fabric has rotted away behind the fretwork, but I like it. If you’re very good I might be persuaded to give you forty quid for the thing…’ ‘Seventy-five,’ the man shot back.

‘Sixty,’ she conceded. ‘And trust me, I’m on a hiding to nothing here. Credenzas are all-but impossible to integrate into the modern home…’

‘I got it at the dump,’ he said.

‘A scavenger, eh?’ she mused, picking up a filthy, old jug from the table and inspecting the marks on the bottom of it. ‘That’s exactly how I started out, although I can rarely find the time any more. I restore antiques. It’s labour intensive. I’m what they call money-rich but time-poor…’

‘D’you like the look of that?’ the man asked.

‘It’s Royal Doulton. A late nineteenth-century ewer. An Emily Stormer, I believe. But there’s a small crack in the rim…’

‘Ten quid,’ he said.

‘Five.’

‘Done.’

‘I’ll round it up to eighty if you tell me you still have the brass bucket which fits inside that Regency mahogany planter with the openwork slats…’

She pointed.

‘I never had any brass bucket, no.’

He shook his head, forlornly.

‘That’s a shame. Then I’ll take it off your hands for a tenner.’

His face brightened.

Peta reached into her coat pocket, withdrew an old, leather wallet, unclipped it and removed a bundle of notes. She counted out £75.

Beede glanced over at the man. The man was rubbing his hands together, smiling, delightedly.

‘A used Waki-sashi,’ he murmured.

‘These chaps should be weaned in around five weeks’ time,’ Peta said, slipping the wallet away again, slapping the notes down on to the table, propping the Doulton ewer under her elbow and indicating towards the pups, ‘you can start them off on solids in about three, but only if they gain a sufficient amount of weight. Try them on baby cereal and warm milk. If the bitch’s condition declines then she must go to a vet. I have a good man in Tenterden. I’ll give you his number. Tell him Peta sent you…’

Peta recited the vet’s number. The man grabbed a nearby pad and wrote it down, very carefully.

‘Beede,’ Peta turned to Beede, ‘would you be so kind as to give our friend here a hand loading up my van with the credenza?’ she paused, her bright, green eyes twinkling. ‘And do try and be extra careful with the mirror, dear, won’t you…?’

She stared at him, blankly, as if she’d just opened her door to a complete and utter stranger–

A double-glazing salesman…

A Prophet of Jehovah…

‘Sorry. I know it’s a little late …’ he said, his cheeks reddening slightly at the coolness of his reception.

‘Of course,’ she murmured. ‘Of course . You’ve come for your jumper. It’s folded up in the washing basket…’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I’ll quickly run and grab it. Fleet’s in the bath. I shouldn’t really…’ She was deathly pale. Her hair was in disarray. Her eyes were red-rimmed.

Just tell her, you fool…

He steeled his nerve and then opened his mouth to speak, but before a single syllable could leave his lips, her worn face broke into an unexpected smile. She reached out her hand.

‘You’ve actually got…’

She grabbed something from the back of his head, then held it up close to her face to inspect it. ‘What is this?’

He stared at the white napkin, flummoxed, and then, ‘Oh shit ,’ he said, mortified, ‘how’d that end up there?’

‘Like a little halo,’ she said, her face softening. Then she stepped back and pulled the door wider.

He grabbed his opportunity and quickly slipped past her.

‘Isn’t it freezing?’ she asked, closing the door with a shiver and then turning to apprehend him. She paused. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I just had a call…’ Kane said, his hand returning, neurotically, to the back of his head.

‘From Beede?’ she interrupted, showing as much animation in that moment (he felt) as she ever really might.

‘ No ,’ he said (irritated), ‘from my ex-girlfriend. Her brother just died. He was in a coma…’

‘How sad,’ she murmured (struggling to hide her disappointment). ‘How old was he?’

‘I don’t know. Twenty-one, twenty-two…But that wasn’t the weird part…’ he continued. ‘I was standing by the side of the road, having just finished the call, minding my own business, staring at my phone, and then suddenly this…this thing came plummeting out of the sky — like a stone —and crashed into the roof of my car.’

‘What kind of a thing?’

‘A bird.’

‘Really? What kind of a bird?’

She glanced, distractedly, towards the stairs as she spoke.

‘I don’t know exactly. A sparrowhawk, maybe. It was reddish in colour.’