Nicola Barker - Darkmans

He blinked–

What?!

–‘…but it totally killed her confidence. She was badly cut-up about it…’ he shrugged. ‘She kept everything— hoarded everything — as a reminder, in this special little scrapbook: stage directions, costume designs, material samples, loads of photos and stuff…’

Maude was peering up at him as he reminisced, her expression a strange combination of impressed, galled and fearful. Kane stared back at her, helplessly, as if growing increasingly perplexed himself by this extraordinary volume of words which kept tumbling — apparently unbidden — from between his lips.

‘I mean this was way before O’Connor was widely known in the UK,’ he continued (feeling not unlike a frightened parent pursuing a runaway pram down a steep hill). ‘I believe the book was first published in the late 1950s…I’ve never really been a great fan of it myself — it’s just too stark, too relentless — although I wouldn’t have dared tell Mum that — she was completely in love with it…’

Enough!

Kane scratched his head, confused–

Just shut up!

‘I actually prefer the short stories…’ his mouth prattled on, unreservedly ‘… You know— Everything that Rises Must Converge ? And the collected letters are just phenomenal…’

What?!

‘…Although I’m struggling to remember the name of them — the title …’

Kane paused for a second, to try and ponder the issue, but then—‘…I always thought it a rather strange coincidence,’ he suddenly babbled on (his eyes darting around him–

The road, the bush, the fence, the sky…

— his heart hammering away like a woodpecker in his chest) ‘…that O’Connor died when she was thirty-nine — the exact-same age my mother was when she first attempted suicide…’

What?!

Fuck!

Are you insane?!

‘…Although I suppose that’s hardly a coincidence at all. I mean not in the formal sense of the word. More of an…an ee-ron …’ he frowned, utterly baffled, as his mouth refused — point-blank — to conform to his brain’s bidding, ‘an ee-ron… ’ he shook his head, ‘an…an eí ron? … iron-i-a? … i-ron-ee? Irony? Is that…?’

Shut up!

He quickly covered his mouth with his hand, and then—‘ THE HABIT OF BEING!’ he roared (through the small cracks in his fingers), almost tipping over backwards with the sheer force of this ejaculation.

Maude’s eyes widened, in shock.

‘The collected letters,’ he explained (steadying himself, dropping the hand, reddening), ‘the title …’

Shut up!

‘…Although I don’t even know if they’re still available in print…’

Shut up!

‘…but you could always look them up on the internet, I guess. Get yourself a cheap copy second-hand…’

SHUT UP!

SHUT UP!

SHUT UP!

At long last, he fell silent–

……

Maude continued to gaze up at him, daunted. He stared back at her, his lips firmly clamped together, as if terrified that the swarm of words within him might — at any second — prise them back open and fly free again. Then he blinked.

What?!

His eyes had begun to water–

Balls!

‘Sorry… Damn… ’ He shook his head, confused–

STOP !

‘…I don’t even know why I said that…’

NO!

–‘…She wasn’t thirty-nine at all. She was older…’

Stop!

Please!

‘…she was forty . Forty-one. Forty-two. I mean my mother …’–

NO!

–‘…when she…when she…d-d-d-’

He was suddenly stuttering, uncontrollably, ‘d-d-d- dey … dey-ja…dey … dau … dieg… ’

What?!

–‘…When she d-d…when she d-died .’

He double-blinked.

‘ Yes . She was forty-one. When she…when she…’

He swallowed hard, rotating his cigarette — neurotically — between his finger and his thumb.

Maude opened her mouth to speak.

‘O’Connor was thirty-nine, though,’ he interrupted her, firmly, ‘ that wasn’t apocryphal…’

Apocryphal?

Maude’s mouth remained open. She gaped at him.

‘From the Greek,’ he explained, ‘ apókruphos —or…or “hidden”—via the Latin. It’s…it’s…it’s ecclesiastical in origin…’

Kane’s hands — he realised — were now shaking quite violently. He gazed down at them, astonished.

‘ Jesus .’

He stuck his cigarette into his mouth, inhaled and then coughed. His eyes filled with tears again. He sucked in his cheeks, turning away — appalled.

Silence

‘Well there’s a definitely a peacock around here somewhere…’ Maude murmured, turning away herself — with a show of some delicacy — and then launching a concerted attack on her fourth, consecutive bush.

Kane didn’t respond. He’d taken out his phone–

Masking behaviour

— and was pretending to check his messages. He rolled down the menu (his fingers clumsy with the cold), barely even focussing on the display, his mind — searching for calm, for comfort , perhaps — retreating back to that ludicrously extravagant kitchen where he’d sat and chatted with Laura — just twenty minutes before — his hands tightly cradling a steaming mug of tea–

World’s Greatest Fisherman

Then his thoughts regressed still further, to that quiet corner of Beede’s dark bedroom, where he’d stood and inspected an all-but identical mug — tagged and displayed in an upturned crate — his nostrils prickling with the pungent scent of cat litter…

Eh?

Kane double-blinked. He grimaced. He refocussed. He called up the number for Peta Borough on his phone. He dialled it. The phone rang. He held it, impatiently, to his ear.

‘Uh…’ Maude peered over at him. ‘You could always collect those together if you felt like it…’ she pointed to the abandoned collars. ‘It’d save them from blowing into the road. You could form them into some kind of a…a bundle , maybe…’

Kane didn’t move–

Nope—

No answer

‘I can recycle them for cash,’ she continued. ‘Not for much , obviously…’

Still, Kane didn’t respond. He was waiting to leave a message—‘Peta? Hi. It’s Kane. I must see you. It’s urgent. Bye.’

‘I have a friend who works on a plantation in North Kent…’ Maude rattled on, aimlessly.

Kane brusquely shoved his phone away. ‘So I should contact you about the car repairs via the French Connection?’ he demanded, studiously avoiding eye contact.

‘Sure. If you like…’ Maude bent over and gathered up the collars herself. ‘They’re far easier to transport when they’re tucked up inside each other…’

She tried to wrangle them, but without much success.

‘It’s cold out here,’ Kane shuddered, drawing on his smoke–

As he inhaled he heard a strange, haunting call — a cry — some way off in the distance. His skin puckered into goose-bumps–

Eh?

‘Peacock again,’ Maude smiled. ‘You must’ve caught it that time?’ ‘Aren’t they meant to be bad luck?’

Kane shivered, paranoid.

‘What?’ Maude delivered him a scornful look.

He caught her eye and then glanced away, embarrassed. At precisely that moment, a scooter sped past, travelling at an unconscionable speed, its engine chronically over-revved, two people on board, only one of which (the driver) was actually wearing a helmet. The passenger was a girl — a scraggy girl, unsuitably dressed for the freezing weather (in a mini-skirt and tank-top) — wailing (in terror? Delight? ) as they took the corner. This dramatic spectacle was rendered doubly absurd (or risible, depending on your angle) by the fact that the girl was clutching on to a Bible (as if her life depended on it) while stiffly holding out a severely broken leg, which bounced up and down as they drove, only inches above the tarmac.