Nicola Barker - Darkmans

‘But this is all speculation…?’

‘Yes. Entirely.’

‘Will you ask him about it?’

‘Perhaps. I’m not sure. I’m in two minds on the matter — it might not really be my place…’

‘Your place ?’ Peta parroted. ‘How come?’

He just shrugged.

‘I mean isn’t the phobia sufficiently disabling to justify your involvement, whatever the consequences?’

‘It’s certainly quite bad. Quite extreme…But if he doesn’t know — by some strange fluke — well, the wider ramifications could be absolutely fascinating …’ Beede turned to look at her, his eyes glimmering. ‘Because what it would potentially mean is that this isolated young man had somehow sustained a kind of unconscious memory of this extraordinary and singular culture from his genetic past. A kind of mystical or spiritual imprint …’

Peta frowned. ‘He might’ve had clues. There might’ve been — what do they like to call it? — uh …A certain amount of leakage from the family in general…’

‘Of course.’

‘And something else to factor in,’ Peta continued, ‘is that this is a culture he can never fully regain, that he can never actually experience or have ready access to. If his father was excommunicated…’ ‘That’s also true,’ Beede nodded. ‘It does seem very paradoxical, very cruel in a way — to discover something so monumental about yourself which lives on, just out of reach, and can never be recovered.’

‘And especially hard to bear,’ Peta expanded, ‘when everything about our modern culture seeks to engage, to democratise, to convert …’

‘The Dawasin are certainly a bizarre anachronism,’ Beede agreed.

He smiled. ‘Gaffar’s such an amazing creature, though. Such a paradigm…’

‘How so?’

‘Well, because he’s been stripped of literally everything — his past, his home, his history , even — and yet there he stands, utterly unbowed, just readying himself, quite calmly, for life’s next big assault…’

‘ You’re quite extraordinary,’ Peta murmured, shaking her head. ‘Me?’ He turned to look at her, surprised.

‘You’ll happily spend a night tramping around the woods,’ she informed him, tartly, ‘in freezing mid-winter, on a doomed quest to find a lost friend. You’ll search the web trying to unlock the secrets of a random Kurd’s psyche, but when it comes to your own flesh and blood, your own son …’

‘That’s hardly fair ,’ Beede snapped.

‘Why not?’

Beede glowered down at his rock cake. He felt a strong urge to throw it at her, to clamber out of the van and disappear, but it had started to rain — huge, round drops which smashed down in a thousand, mean little rabbit-punches on to the windscreen.

‘Why not , Beede?’ she repeated.

She didn’t return for over forty minutes. After two he took out his phone to check his messages. He sent a quick text to a client and a quick text to Gaffar. He put his phone away again. He carefully inspected his hands. He frowned. He chewed off the jagged tip of a broken thumbnail. He inspected his hands for a second time. He stopped frowning. He took out his phone. He re-checked his texts. He read a perplexing message from Kelly which simply said, I 4give U –

Eh?

He debated ringing her, decided against it and texted her instead ( uh…Thanx, I think… ).

He looked at his watch–

Late

— then gazed around the kitchen. His eye alighted on his mug of sweetened milk. He took a small sip of it and grimaced. It tasted strange. Rich. Thick. And there was a dense skin on the top. He ran a tentative finger along his upper lip then stood up, walked over to the sink, poured the eggy-milk down the plughole and washed out his cup.

Once he’d completed this task he noticed the dirty pan — how the milk had burned into a glutinous, brown mess on the base of it. He grabbed hold of it, found a scouring pad, some detergent, and scrubbed away, assiduously, until all the burned milk was gone–

Good

He placed the pan on to the draining-board, rinsed out the whisk, then set about cleaning the top of the hob — where the milk had boiled over — shining it up to a perfect finish with a small piece of kitchen towel.

He leaned against the oven, with a sigh, and gazed around the room. He took out his phone. He held it in his hand, scowling, swore under his breath, and shoved it away again. He inspected his watch. He went and sat back down, then stood up, as if intending to go, but didn’t move. He cocked his head and listened–

Silence

He frowned. He inspected his watch. He glanced around him. He picked up the book by the doctor about his antsy-looking daughter. He sat down. He flipped through it…

Then the letters started to arrive. Slowly at first, then more and more frequently. All of them in Arabic. The Foreign Office had translated them, as best they could…

‘She was a lovely girl,’ said one, ‘with a huge soul, a generous spirit…’

‘When she smiled,’ said another, ‘the world always felt like a better place.’

Kane snorted and tossed the book — contemptuously — back into the box. He pulled up his hood (like a sullen teenager), then crossed his arms and gazed around him.

Hung over the back of a nearby chair were three, tiny child’s socks, none of which matched. And on the table just in front of them? Something he hadn’t noticed before–

A scarf?

A shawl?

He reached out and grabbed a hold of it (it was a scarf. A long, grey scarf. Soft. Knitted) then closed his eyes and pressed it to his face. It smelled of cloves…

Yes…

— and of chestnuts, and of winter — of old charcoal smoking in a brazier. It was still damp. He frowned. Something was tickling his cheek. He opened his eyes and looked down–

Mud.

Flecks of mud…

He carefully picked them out of the grey fabric, one by one, then rolled the scarf up, into a tight ball, to see how small he could make it–

Pocket size?

No—

Too big.

He grimaced and pressed it to his face again. He buried his nose into it, burrowed into it and stayed there for several minutes. It was then that he saw–

Huh?!

— the goose wings. Clear as day. In his mind’s eye…

Eh?

— and he was busily engaged in fastening them together–

Are those my hands…?

— with some twine–

Twine?

?!

— then slinging them over his shoulders, with a guffaw, and tying them into place–

Just like Icarus

— before starting to climb.

Climb?

The sound of running water distracted him from his reverie. He opened his eyes and glanced up at the ceiling. There was a crack. A long crack, which extended virtually the entire…

What’s she doing up there?

He frowned–

Showering?

He stared down at the scarf again, bemused. He hesitated for a moment and then pushed his face into it for a second time.

Soil

He saw soil. And it was French soil (he was certain of it). And he was scooping up this soil with his hands and he was slowly, carefully, piling it inside his shoes. His boots. His tiny, hand-made, exquisitely stitched, ludicrously pointed boots…

Then there was a rumbling–

Eh?!

He definitely heard a rumbling–

Almost a…

He opened his eyes. He saw the dog. She was standing (as best she could) on the kitchen tiles in front of him and she was growling. She was baring her teeth at him.