Nicola Barker - Darkmans

Soon he was red-faced, sweating and out of breath. He mimed himself exhausted — panting like a thirsty hound, swiping a heavy arm across his forehead. He peered around him, searching for somewhere to sit and take stock. Naturally he espied the upturned chair. He went and grabbed a hold of it and set it straight. He sat down on it and appeared to relax…

Phew!

…until three/five/seven seconds later and then–

‘Weeeeeeeeee!’ he slid off the chair, at speed (as if the seat had been lubricated) and landed— thump —on the carpet.

He turned to appraise the chair, scratching his head–

‘Hmmn .’

— then he yanked himself to his feet and went over to inspect the cat. The cat’s foot was barely twitching now, but his eyelids were still fluttering.

‘Hmmn.’

Beede went back to try and grab the chair again, brusquely spitting on to his hands and wiping them on his shirt to secure his grip. This time (his body language proclaimed loudly) he really meant business.

He bent over, arms extended, and prepared to lunge, but just as he was lunging, he remembered his shirt. He pulled a bashful expression. He glanced behind him. He observed his naked buttocks. He gasped. He snatched at the shirt flaps, but snatched so vigorously — with both hands, simultaneously — that he ended up performing a compact somersault.

Beede landed, back on his feet, with a resounding thud. He looked astonished, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend what’d just happened. Then he calmed himself down. Then he returned to the chair. Then he spat on his hands. Then he slowly bent over. Then he prepared to lunge. Then he remembered his bare arse again. Then he glanced behind him again. Then he gasped. Then he snatched at the shirt flaps. Another dramatic somersault–

Thud!

On this second occasion, however, he somehow managed to land with his hands pinning his shirt tails together — his modesty almost fully intact. He grinned, smugly. Then he dropped the flaps, spat on his palms, rubbed them together and grabbed at the chair like a wrestler commencing a brand-new bout.

This time his hands didn’t slip, they held firm, but instead of lifting the chair, the chair seemed to lift him .

Beede remained in the air for a few seconds and then was thrown down, sprawling, on to the carpet.

What?!

He gazed at the chair, appalled. Then his face purpled-up with rage. He clambered to his feet and he attacked the chair, savagely. Once again the chair got the better of him. It threw him up — into a lop-sided handstand — and then violently tossed him down.

Beede glared at the chair from his position on the rug. He was now — if it were possible — even angrier than before. Then a cunning thought suddenly occurred to him–

What if…? (his expression seemed to say)…What if I were to creep up on it?

To take it unawares?

To launch a secret attack on it from the rear ?

Ha!

Beede slowly clambered to his knees — trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible — and furtively commenced crawling. Every so often, he’d pause, peer behind him, and place a warning finger to his lips–

Shhhhh!

As he drew closer to the chair his crawling slowed down to almost a snail’s pace and the warning finger grew ever more insistent–

Shhhhh!

— until, just as he was perfectly positioned to launch his assault, to spring to his feet, to attack–

Parp!

— he suddenly let rip — discharging a fart of such volume and such ferocity that he was spontaneously launched, like a rocket, over the back of the chair, landing — supported by the seat this time — on his two hands, struggling (even so) to clutch at it — only to be tossed, once again, into a dramatic flick-flack.

On his second hand-spring he managed to inadvertently kick the suspended cat. The cat swung up sharply into the ceiling, hitting it with a stomach-wrenching smack . Beede caught him–

Phut!

— (already upright again), on his downward trajectory–

Ta-dah!

The cat was now very still. Beede appraised him, with a poignant sigh. He let go of him. He walked over to fetch the chair. He grabbed it. He carried the chair over to the cat. He clambered on to the chair. He carefully untied the knot around the cat’s neck (his expression one of unspeakable tenderness), and then, as the knot came loose, he casually leaned back and allowed the cat to drop, unceremoniously, on to the carpet.

Beede peered down at the cat from his chair, with a shrug. Then he blinked. Then he looked down again, shocked, as if suddenly the floor seemed like it was many miles below him. He grimaced. He gave the distant cat carcass a tentative, little wave (almost as if suggesting that the cat might save him this time).

No movement from the cat. Beede grew increasingly alarmed by his high altitude. His knees began to knock. He gnawed on his fingernails. He personified anxiety. And then — in the wink of an eye — he’d back-flipped from the chair and on to the carpet, landing neatly and cleanly, like a seasoned gymnast–

Hah!

He slapped his hands together, smugly (to indicate a job well done) then turned and marched off jauntily towards the bedroom (obviously well-satisfied with the performance he’d given). Half-way to the door, though, the unexpected happened: his knees almost buckled under him–

Argh!

He threw out both arms (to prevent himself from falling) and ground to an abrupt halt. His face creased up in agony. He gazed down at his feet, despairingly. He groaned. He tried to walk again, but he couldn’t (his toes were in an awful rictus — curled up like claws — while the arch looked strangely pinched and contracted), the best he could muster was a pathetic hobble.

He glanced around him, looking for some kind of relief. His eye alighted on a mop and broom leaned up against the wall in the corner of the kitchen. He shuffled towards them, grabbed them, upended them, placed the padded/bristled sections under each of his armpits and employed them as a pair of piece-meal crutches. Slowly, stiffly, wincing — quite the oldest man in the planet — he pitched and staggered his way into the bedroom.

Five minutes passed. During this interlude the cat didn’t move. When Beede finally re-emerged he was well-spruced and tidily dressed — his hair neatly greased, his shirt buttoned up (in the traditional style), wearing a well-pressed pair of trousers, clean socks and shoes. His shoulder seemed tense — a little stiff — but his gait (in general) seemed relatively normal. He was holding the mop in his hand–

Eh?!

— and wearing an expression of slight confusion.

As he entered the kitchen he drew to a sharp halt. He peered at the floor, at the wet tiles underfoot…

‘Good God … What …?’

He inspected the mop again, scowling–

Oh—

Of course…

He placed it down on to the tiles and began cleaning up. Once the mop was saturated he looked around — somewhat dazedly — for the special bucket in which to wring it out…

Where is it?

He glanced over into the living-room, perplexed. His jaw dropped.

‘Kids… ’ Kane drawled boredly, slowly pulling past a smart-looking saloon which’d recently been dumped at the entrance to the slip road from the Bad Munstereifel segment of the A2042 (half-on the kerb, half-off it), the door thrown open into oncoming traffic.

‘…Idiot, fuckin’ joy riders…’.

He drove on, accelerating boldly, casually negotiating one of the voluptuously looping, helter-skelter of curves leading down towards the roundabout while howling along, raucously, to an old Zappa cd–