Nicola Barker - Darkmans

‘You seriously need to get some sleep, Win,’ Kane interrupted her. ‘Maybe.’

As she was speaking the door to the house suddenly opened and Dory re-emerged. Kane winced ( God. That awful bruise again). Dory slammed the door shut behind him. He was frowning. He seemed to be deeply preoccupied by something. Kane sank down in his seat.

‘Look, I’ve really gotta make tracks now,’ he murmured.

‘Fine,’ she sighed. ‘See ya,’ and cut him off.

Ow.

Kane stared at the phone for a second, then shoved it into his pocket.

Dory, meanwhile, was strolling back down the path and towards his car. He paused for a moment, though, on the pavement. Kane glanced over his shoulder, thinking he’d been spotted. But he hadn’t. Dory was actually standing by a lamp-post, reading something. A leaflet or a poster…He was scowling. He opened his mouth and spoke — quite emphatically — swore, perhaps, then reached out his hand and tore whatever it was from the post, screwed it up and shoved it into his pocket. He climbed back into his car, started up the engine, revved it, fiercely, then drove off.

Once he’d gone, Kane clambered out of The Blonde and glanced around him. Twenty or so yards away he espied something flapping on another post further along. He walked over — limping slightly — to take a look, standing in front of it for a while, frowning, holding it steady with his hand–

Eh?

It was a hand-made poster about a missing dog. A spaniel. There was a large, colour photograph. And underneath, in neat print, he read: Missing! Much loved spaniel bitch. Spayed. Lame. 12yrs old. Large reward offered. Any information gratefully received: Garry Spivey, The Saltings, 27 Talley-Ho Road, Stubb’s Cross (followed by a number).

Kane inspected the picture again — a small, slightly bemused smile playing around his lips — then he carefully smoothed it out and retaped the corners (as best he could), before turning and striding out across the frosty lawn towards the house.

‘Woodsmoke…’ Beede said, returning to the sofa, frowning. ‘Do you smell it?’

Elen shook her head.

‘Are you sure?’

‘No.’

She picked up her cup of tea, her eyes fixed to the carpet, and took a small sip of it.

‘He’s been behaving very oddly of late,’ Beede mused, ‘like he’s suddenly started revisiting things, re-accessing things…’ he paused, ‘the past …’ then he frowned. ‘Although perhaps it’s just me. Perhaps it’s just my perception of his behaviour that’s altered. Perhaps it’s just some kind of…of internal shift on my part…’

Elen cleared her throat. ‘You’re worried about him,’ she said. Beede shook his head. ‘No. Not at all. Kane’s tough, just like his mother was.’

‘And you?’

‘Pardon?’ He seemed surprised by this question.

‘Are you tough?’

She stared up at him, intently. He looked away, embarrassed.

‘I don’t know.’

He frowned.

‘I think you are,’ she said.

‘I don’t know,’ he repeated flatly, ‘I’ve never really thought about it.’

‘So have you tried talking to him?’ she wondered, leaning forward and idly tucking her trouser into her boot-top.

‘Who?’

Beede blinked. He’d been staring at her neat hand, her slim calves.

‘Kane.’

‘Kane? Talking to Kane?’ Beede almost smiled. ‘No. Kane and I don’t really…that’s not really…’

He sat back down on the sofa, wincing. ‘Talking’s not really our style.’ ‘Why not?’

He shrugged, then winced again.

‘You need a massage,’ she said, ‘to release that knot.’

Beede ignored her.

‘It’s not that we don’t understand each other,’ he mused, ‘because we do— too well, perhaps. There’s simply this lack of a common…a common goal , a common language… Our moral outlooks don’t match up. They barely even overlap…’ He shrugged. ‘It’s probably just a generational thing. ‘

‘Then you need to invent one,’ she said.

‘Pardon?’

‘A language. You need to invent one. To improvise a little, to experiment.’

Beede shook his head. ‘Kane’s my son and I care about him deeply…’ he paused, ‘but increasingly I can’t help thinking that there are some things you just can’t talk about. Issues that shouldn’t be discussed. Because to do so would be diminishing,’ he paused, scowling, as if he’d thought about this a great deal recently, ‘I mean to both of us.’

She stared at him, sympathetically. ‘You prefer to keep it all bottled up?’

‘Yes.’ Beede nodded, irritated. ‘There’s far too much talking nowadays. Too much pointless self-analysis, too much endless venting …It’s like we’re all slowly drowning in this awful glut of feeling . We need to become more resilient, more reserved, a little less self-indulgent. How a person behaves is the best possible demonstration of who they are. Not how they feel , but how they act.’

‘The Blitz spirit,’ Elen grinned, almost teasing him now. ‘How ridiculously old-fashioned you sound.’

‘Yes,’ Beede said, smiling wryly at himself, ‘I’m an old stalwart, an old war-horse, an old partisan.’

Then he winced again.

‘Who cares, anyway?’ she shrugged. ‘So long as you’re happy. That’s what really counts.’

Happy?

Beede stared at her, blankly, as if astonished by her choice of word.

Elen placed down her teacup, pulled herself to her feet and moved around to the back of the sofa. ‘Although I don’t really hold with moral absolutes myself,’ she mused, ‘this idea that certain kinds of behaviour are always completely right or definitely wrong. The best any of us can hope for is to function successfully within the particular constraints that life has imposed upon us.’

Beede shrugged. ‘Everybody’s different,’ he said grudgingly.

‘You’ll need to remove your jacket,’ she told him.

He peered up at her, alarmed. ‘Why?’

‘For the massage.’

‘Good God , no.’

He looked away, horrified.

‘No? ’ She pretended to be hurt by his rejection of her.

He frowned, embarrassed. ‘I mean…I mean no …’ (he couldn’t think of another word, off-hand) ‘…It wouldn’t feel appropriate.’

‘ Appropriate ? Don’t be ridiculous,’ she mocked him. ‘It’s probably just a trapped nerve. It won’t take a minute to sort it out.’

Beede didn’t move.

‘I trained professionally in Germany. I’m perfectly proficient. Here, let me…’

She gently leaned forward and slipped the jacket from his shoulders, folded it and laid it over the back of the couch. Next she reached for his jumper. As she leaned forward again one of her brown plaits fell across his shoulder. Beede started, in terror, as if the brown plait were a snake.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m removing your jumper. It’s too bulky…’ she paused, smiling, ‘Stop being such a terrible baby , Danny.’

‘I’m not,’ he said, his colour rising.

She removed his jumper, setting his glasses askew as she pulled it off. He quickly set them straight again.

‘Now the shirt,’ she said.

‘It’s very cold in here,’ he complained.

‘Then I’ll turn the heating up,’ she said. ‘Where’s the thermostat?’

‘I don’t…’ he scowled, then swallowed down his frustration. ‘It’s on the wall — behind the door.’

‘Fine. Good. Now take that off. Pronto .’

She clapped her hands, twice — like a no-nonsense schoolteacher — then walked over to the door, opened the small box there and turned everything up.