Nicola Barker - Darkmans

‘Yes. Apparently she was…’ Elen added a tablespoonful of honey to the milky mixture. She peered over her shoulder at him. ‘I met her father today, out walking on the beach. It’s his book. He wrote it.’

‘Dr Charles Bartlett,’ Kane read out loud, and then (in suitably stentorian tones), ‘Rich, dark, funny, heartbreaking; a book which grapples with the fundamental issues of how it feels — and what it means —to be human.’

He sat down at the table and opened the book to the first printed page, a short preface…

‘If there’s only one thing that my long — and for the most part wonderful — acquaintance with Eva Jane Bartlett has taught me,’ he read, ‘it’s that more often than not, the act of love is all about letting go…’

Kane snorted, sarcastically. ‘So where’d he mine that little gem from?’ he wondered. ‘The book of Hallmark?’

‘It’s true, though, isn’t it?’

Elen continued whisking.

‘Yeah? Well that’s clichés for you…’ Kane grimaced.

‘But as a parent , especially…’ she frowned.

‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ Kane brushed her off.

‘Well just look at you and Beede,’ she persisted, turning from the stove, ‘he’s always encouraged you to follow your own muse hasn’t he?’

‘Trust me,’ Kane muttered. ‘When it comes to Beede and I you don’t have the first idea what you’re talking about.’

‘You’re right,’ she shrugged, ‘I can only judge Beede by the standards of friendship, but as friends go…’

‘As friends go,’ Kane interrupted, dryly, ‘I’m sure he’s been very friendly.’

Elen froze. Kane casually returned his attention to the book. After thirty seconds or so he glanced up. ‘I think the milk might be about to…’

An angry hissing sound interrupted him. She turned — with a start — and quickly removed the milk from the hotplate, cursing as she dumped the whisk into the sink.

‘Would you like some of this?’ she asked, refusing to look at him. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Why not?’

She removed three mugs from a cupboard and set them out.

‘Perhaps this is just another Hallmark cliché,’ she murmured softly as she poured, ‘but until you have kids of your own…’

‘When I do,’ he said tersely, ‘then I’ll be sure to send you a card.’

She finished pouring the first cup, picked it up, and turned to face him, holding it out. ‘So tell me,’ she said.

‘Pardon?’ He glanced up from the book, saw the proffered mug, reached over and took it from her.

‘Tell me what it was that Beede did,’ she insisted, ‘that was so unbelievably bad…’

‘You know what?’ Kane laid down the book and cradled the mug in his hands. ‘It really is the strangest thing, but every time we talk I somehow get the feeling like the conversation we have is the same conversation…’

‘You mean a conversation you don’t like?’

She looked hurt again. Baleful.

‘No…not…’ he frowned ‘…I mean the same conversation. As if I’d never been away. As if the conversation had never actually stopped…’

‘I don’t think I understand what you mean by that,’ she said, dully.

‘You look exhausted,’ Kane murmured, staring up at her, pityingly. ‘Did you feel like he neglected you?’ she persisted. ‘Is that it?’

‘No. Beede never did anything wrong,’ Kane suddenly felt tired himself, ‘not explicitly. If he had, then maybe I could’ve forgiven him. But Beede never does anything wrong. Everything he does is right. Everything he does is for the best possible reasons, with the best possible motivation…’

‘So you hate him because he’s good?’

‘I don’t hate him.’

She stared at him, unblinking.

‘Okay…’ Kane folded his arms. ‘So you really want to know?’ She nodded.

‘Fine.’

He drew a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak.

‘Actually…’ she suddenly glanced up towards the ceiling, tipping her head slightly, listening. ‘Just…Just hold that thought for me,’ she instructed him.

The Reverend slowly regained consciousness, yawned, scratched his nose, gradually eased open his eyes and lazily focussed them in on…

Eh?!

— a skinny, burgundy-haired girl with a badly broken leg, who was perched on the side of his bed and staring down at him, intently, like some kind of ravenous owl.

‘What on earth are you doing ?’ he whispered, shocked.

‘You never said you was black,’ Kelly berated him, at normal volume.

The Reverend considered this for a moment. ‘I didn’t think I’d need to,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘ Shhhhh. Because I didn’t think it was relevant , quite frankly.’

‘Well it ain’t.’

‘Well if it ain’t— isn’t …’ he corrected himself, ‘then why did you feel the need to raise the issue?’

‘Well if it ain’t an issue,’ she deftly back-handed, ‘then why’d you feel the need to avoid it?’

The Reverend tried to adjust himself — to pull himself up into a sitting position — but his freedom of movement was restricted by Kelly’s weight on the counterpane.

‘For heaven’s sake , girl,’ he expostulated, irritably, ‘what time is it?’

‘Quarter-past-I-don’t-give-a-shit,’ Kelly said, promptly.

‘How long have you been sitting there?’

‘Hours.’

‘ Hours? Doing what , exactly?’

‘Thinkin’,’ she sighed, ‘just thinkin’.’

‘But why think on my bed,’ he demanded, ‘when you have a perfectly good bed of your own?’

‘Why?’ She gazed down at him, bemused (like the reason was as obvious as the nose on her face). ‘ Why?! Because I wanna know , of course.’

‘ Know? Know what?’

‘I wanna know about Paul , stupid!’

‘Who?’

‘In your dream. The kid who woke up. I wanna know what he said. I wanna know if he said the same thing my brother did…’

‘It wasn’t a dream,’ the Reverend interrupted her (somewhat preciously), ‘it was a vision .’

‘Yeah, yeah. So what did he say ?’

The Reverend continued to scowl at her. She was actually rather an attractive young scrap.

‘D’you not think there might be some kind of impropriety?’ he asked. ‘I mean in your being here, on my bed, at night, after lights out?’

‘Are you a poof?’ Kelly delicately enquired.

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Then yes,’ Kelly confirmed, ‘it’s definitely a bit dodgy.’

‘I’m a Reverend,’ the Reverend upbraided her, ‘I don’t do “dodgy”.’

‘So what do you do?’ Kelly asked, raising a suggestive brow.

‘Just for the record , I mean…’

‘That’s none of your damn business !’ the Reverend hissed.

Kelly appraised him, frowning. ‘Do they even have black people in Canada?’ she wondered.

‘They have black people everywhere,’ the Reverend snapped.

‘My brother died,’ Kelly informed him.

‘I know.’

‘How?’

She slit her eyes at him, suspiciously.

‘Because you yelled the whole ward down for half an hour.’ ‘Oh. Yeah…’

‘And I feel very sorry for you,’ he said, ‘if that helps at all.’

‘Thanks…’

She continued to stare at him.

‘…I think .’

‘So will there be anything else?’ he asked.

‘Yup.’ Kelly nodded. ‘Either you tell me what he said or I’ll tickle your feet till you piss the bed.’