Nicola Barker - Darkmans

Nope

— then threw it, disgusted, on to the passenger seat.

He closed his eyes and tried to deepen his breathing–

Okay, okay…

Just tell him…

His eyes flew open–

Yeah!

Say you’ve come to look at the house—

Say you’re waiting for an Estate Agent…

Say the Estate Agent’s running late…

— he quickly glanced into his mirror again–

Nada

— then slowly twisted around in his seat, straightened his spine and peeked over his headrest (like a startled chad, or a timorous prairie dog scanning the dry, mid-western plains for a skulking predator).

Dory (it transpired) was still snugly ensconced in his car, apparently oblivious to everything around him. Kane squinted–

Eh…?

— He was leaning over the steering wheel and seemed to be scrawling something, frantically, into a small, black note-book–

The diary?

Kane recalled the earlier conversation between Elen and his father while scratching away at his arm–

Bloody fleas…

— his eyes still fixed on Dory, who continued to scribble–

His written confession, perhaps?

‘He was pestering my wife, so I cornered him in a neighbour’s driveway and then…’

Huh?

Kane’s attention was momentarily distracted by the smallest, slightest, most insidious of tapping sounds. He abruptly stopped what he was doing, tipped his head and listened. The sounds persisted–

Tap-tap, tap-tap-tap—

Huh?

Kane turned, with a grimace, and immediately recoiled–

YAH!

Standing directly in front of him — only a yard away, at best — was a bird–

Starling?

— the same pesky, black bird (he was certain) which’d attacked him, unprovoked, several days earlier.

It was perched on the Merc’s bonnet, pecking away, determinedly, at one of the small, rubber discs — the washer — which helped to secure the Merc’s windscreen-wipers to its chassis.

Kane glared at the bird. The bird paused for a moment and stared straight back at him (with a single, mean, yellow-rimmed eye). It was so close that he could see the magnificent, iridescent sheen on its feathers, the constellation of white dots speckling its plumage, the slight, blueish tinge at the corner of its beak, and then — as it turned (to recommence its violent assault on the washer) — its tail made passing contact with the windscreen and he was privileged to observe the tiniest, the daintiest of grease-stains left behind on the glass–

Urgh!

Kane threw out his hand, revolted, determined to scare it off, but the bird didn’t move. It wouldn’t budge. It seemed fearless.

Urgh!

He continued to inspect it with a mixture of fascination and abhorrence, soon noticing that — for all its apparent vitality — there seemed to be something inescapably awry with the creature. He looked closer and saw a sticky patch of soft down at the base of the bird’s chest (consistent with a puncture wound or bite, perhaps) and a dribble of shiny, partially dried blood running down one scraggy leg. The tail also seemed thinner than it might be — tatty — wonky — lop-sided.

Even so, the bird still made short work of the rubber washer (tossing it aside within six or seven seconds) before calmly hopping forward to start jabbing away at the neat, black rubber trim around the Merc’s tinted windscreen.

Kane expostulated, furiously, throwing out his hand again, but before he could make actual, physical contact with the glass, the bird had crouched down — with an angry squawk — and had taken wing — heading off — like a dark bullet — towards the scaffolding two doors along.

Huh?

Kane slowly twisted around and peered over his headrest–

Shit!

It was Dory. Dory had finally stopped writing and had climbed out of his Rover. Kane ducked down, having observed (through the Rover’s still partially opened door) that he’d placed his diary on to the dashboard — directly behind the steering wheel — where a sharp gust of wind snatched at the pages, making them flutter, wildly, whitely , like the damp wings of a newly hatched moth.

Kane heard the door slam shut, closed his eyes–

Pretend to be asleep, yeah?

Why not?

— and steeled himself for a confrontation of some kind. He waited, listening out for the heavy thud of Dory’s footsteps on the cement driveway.

He did hear footsteps (eventually) but they certainly weren’t on the driveway. They were faint at first, then grew still fainter. Kane opened his eyes again–

Now what?

He drew a deep breath (almost irritated by the delay), twisted around and peeked over the headrest. Dory was currently standing some distance away (in the middle of the street), staring over towards his own home, a thoughtful frown creasing his forehead. He was holding something rolled-up in his hand which he carelessly shoved into his back pocket…

Kane squinted–

The Missing Dog poster?

He quickly sank down in his seat (still following Dory’s progress — almost obsessively — in his side-mirror) as the German turned and strolled back towards the Rover again, yanked open the boot, leaned down, scrabbled around inside it for a while and then withdrew holding–

Oh shit!

— a large, metal tool of some kind–

Spanner?

Wrench?

Dory slammed the boot shut and paused for a second–

Not the car!

Please, God—

Anything but The Blonde!

— then turned and headed purposefully back down the road, drawing to a sharp halt in front of his home and calmly appraising the front of the property — his head at a slight angle, a speculative look on his face — before marching determinedly across the pavement, on to the lawn and directly out of Kane’s immediate sightline.

Kane cursed the annoyingly lustrous evergreen bush growing directly to his left which meant that for the next few minutes the only real clues he could accrue as to Dory’s activities were those of a strictly audible nature.

From what he could tell, Dory appeared to be engaging directly with the scaffolding (‘Shoring it up,’ he mused, ‘I guess…’), and from the sheer volume of the resulting clamour, he was undertaking this task with considerable enthusiasm.

After several more minutes of idle speculation, the suspense grew too much for him and Kane hauled himself over, clumsily, on to the back seat–

Ouch!

— fishing out his mobile from under his thigh, observing how Dory was almost half-way up the scaffolding now (and climbing ever higher) as the dark bird — Kane shuddered — darted all around him; pestering him; squawking, flapping its wings and bouncing from metal bar to metal bar like some kind of crazed, avian supervisor.

Kane reduced the volume on his phone and quickly checked his messages. One from Dina–

Where’s Kelly? Why ain’t she answerin’ her mobile? If you see the little minx, tell ‘er Linda’s home. Tell ‘er Linda wants a quick word with ‘er… — and four more from angry clients, impatiently awaiting their deliveries–

Nothing from Gaffar—

Nothing from Peta—

Kane shoved his phone away again, scowling, plainly frustrated by his own lack of professionalism–

You really need to…

Uh…

He peered through the back window to see if it would be possible to reverse the Merc from the driveway without tangling with the Rover–