Nicola Barker - Darkmans

She began Incy-Wincy-Spidering with her fingers down the counterpane–

Pause

‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ the Reverend expostulated. ‘It wasn’t your brother. Visions aren’t specific . They’re symbolic. God isn’t literal, he speaks in metaphors …’

She straightened up. ‘Why?’

‘Because that’s how he’s always done it.’

‘So what did he say ?’ she still persisted.

‘Who? God? ’

‘ NO! My BROTHER! ’

‘Shhh!’ he winced, cowering. ‘I don’t know . I honestly can’t remember…’

‘Okay. Fine…’ Kelly recommenced her slow finger-crawl.

Silence

‘Oh bollocks ,’ the Reverend cursed, quickly drawing his feet up.

Kelly stared at him, surprised.

The Reverend sniffed, then gently cleared his throat.

‘Well?’ Kelly persisted.

‘Well what? ’

‘Well what did he say ?’

‘Oh bollocks,’ the Reverend repeated. ‘ That’s what he said.’

Kelly’s eyes widened, in amazement. ‘Oh bollocks? ’

‘Yes.’

‘In a vision ?’

‘Yes.’

‘A vision from God ?’

‘Yes. And that’s precisely why…’ he looked slightly embarrassed, ‘I didn’t want to make an issue out of it…’

‘Oh bollocks ? Are you sure ?’

‘Completely.’

The Reverend nodded.

‘Oh bollocks? ’

‘Say it enough times,’ he snapped, ‘and you’ll wear it out.’

Before he’d finished speaking, however, Kelly had abruptly leaned forward and cuffed him, delightedly, about the head.

‘Ow!’

‘Spot on !’ she gasped. ‘He swore — real loud — that’s what the nurse said… Man! ’ Her eyes were now as bright and round as two new beach balls. ‘Would you ever believe it?!’

The Reverend shrugged.

‘High five,’ Kelly volunteered, offering him her flattened palm.

‘My arms are stuck,’ the Reverend demurred, ‘under the counterpane.’

‘So fine,’ Kelly beamed, chucking his pious cheek, instead, ‘you win. It’s a deal. Where do I sign up?’

‘Sign up?’

The Reverend frowned.

‘Yeah. You convinced me. You worked your magic. So how’d I join?’

‘Join? Join what ?’

‘ You , mate. The Church an’ shit…’

‘You want to join the Church ?’

‘Yup.’

Kelly nodded. ‘To follow God ?’ ‘Yup.’

Kelly nodded again.

‘To dedicate your life to Jesus Christ?’

‘Yeah. An’ if you want my opinion,’ she expanded airily, ‘then fuck Ashford , mate, we wanna go to Africa , do some important work — help out all those little orphan kiddies with AIDS…’

‘Africa?!’

‘Yeah. I got this article…’ she reached down into the front of her nightdress and scrabbled around for a while. ‘Hold on a sec…It’s fallen under my… Here we go…’

She pulled out the relevant, neatly folded-up page from Marie Claire and threw it at him. It hit him on the chin then bounced back down on to the counterpane.

He freed his arms, grabbed it and unfolded it.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said, after several moments’ quiet. ‘This is an article about the benefits of solar energy.’

‘Huh?’

Kelly snatched it from him and perused it herself. The article was actually a detailed exposé on the environmental devastation generated in third world countries by their unnecessary dependence on bottled gas. Kelly flipped the page over. ‘It’s on the other side, you twat .’

The Reverend took the page back and gazed at it, terrified.

‘But you don’t even know what my denomination is,’ he finally blustered, glancing up. ‘You don’t even know what kind of Church I’m a member of.’

‘Well he knows…’ she shrugged, pointing skyward, ‘an’ he obviously reckons it’s solid.’

‘But that’s…’

‘I mean think about it, Rev: God pushed me off a wall to get me here, yeah? You said so yourself. Then he gave me my allergy to prove to Kane how I was innocent. Then he sent Paul over at eight, on the dot, to snap at my bra strap. Those was my signs. An’ he gave you a special vision all about the whole thing — which was yours , see? So I don’t rightly care what kind of a Church it is, yeah?’ She threw up her hands. ‘That’s just blah , that’s just details …’

‘But what if I don’t want you to follow me?’ the Reverend quavered. ‘ Boo shucks . That ain’t your choice…’ she shrugged. ‘An’ it ain’t my choice neither. It’s God’s choice, yeah? Whether we happen to like it or not.’

She sprang down off the bed. ‘Now you get yourself some shut-eye,’ she sternly instructed him. ‘Okay? ’Cos we got a whole lotta shit to sort out come sun-up…’

She leaned over and snatched the Bible from his bedside table.

‘What are you planning to do with that?’ he asked, warily, as she shoved it under her elbow, steadied herself, and slowly began to hop.

She paused. ‘Whaddy’a think I’m gonna do?’ she demanded.

He shook his head.

‘I’m gonna read it, Dumbo!’

She took another hop, wobbled slightly, regained her balance, and then ( just as he was starting to get his confidence back, just as he was commencing to lean back and relax), she spun around and made as if to fast-bowl it at him — over her shoulder, at speed, like a seasoned pro (although she didn’t actually let go). He ducked (just the same), with a yell, and it was at this point (the sneering porter told the credulous lab assistant, over coffee, the following morning) that she lost her footing, grabbed for the Reverend’s drapes (to stop herself from falling), and brought the whole edifice — the curtain, the rail, the joists, the plaster, large chunks of the actual ceiling —crashing down around them.

‘He was raised in Silopi — which is a Turkish border town — but his father grew up in Sinjar …’

‘Iraq,’ Peta murmured.

‘Exactly.’

It was just after twelve and they were sitting together, companionably, in Peta’s beat-up old van (the heating blasting out on full capacity) pouring themselves beakers of strong, milky coffee from their own individual, tartan flasks.

‘Our flasks are all-but identical,’ Peta observed, wrapping her cold hands around her beaker and taking a tentative sip.

‘Yes,’ Beede glanced over, anxiously, ‘how odd.’

‘Why?’ she demanded.

‘I inherited this flask from my mother,’ he promptly evaded her. ‘Me too.’

‘Really?’ he deadpanned, ‘You knew my mother?’

She groaned as he withdrew a KitKat from the rear pocket of his rucksack.

‘But the Kurds are fundamentally a nomadic tribe…’ Peta quickly returned to their former subject, ‘so there’s nothing especially strange about…’

‘I know,’ Beede interrupted her. ‘He did seem very ill at ease, though — very uncomfortable —when I raised the subject of his father…’

‘His father was a Village Guard, you say, in a feudal Kurdish army?’ Beede nodded.

‘Well they’re a notoriously despised breed — even amongst their own…’

‘Yes. But that aspect of it didn’t seem to bother him. He said his father was a hero, that he was killed in service after stepping on a landmine. He was just a small boy at the time and yet he clearly remembered his father’s comrades bringing the body home. They’d stuffed a spare pair of trousers full of straw — to save the family’s feelings — but they hadn’t done a terribly good job of it. Gaffar said there was straw poking out from his ankles and his waist…’