Nicola Barker - Darkmans

Just let me…

Oh God…

Must…

‘Yes. I do. I am …’

(Elen’s voice, answering.)

‘…I suppose it was just something I’d been mulling over for a while…’

Her voice faded a little–

Can’t…

Just have to…

‘Good gracious !’ the voice responded (also quieter now). ‘What on earth have you done to your nose?’

Must get…

Must just…

‘Oh God,’ Elen sounded embarrassed, ‘does it look terrible? I didn’t have time to…It’s all been so…’

‘Is it broken do you think?’

Kane struggled for all he was worth — writhing, gasping, kicking — until the the hands finally slipped, somewhat regretfully, from his shoulders.

‘I was down on my knees in the kitchen, cleaning up a small puddle which the spaniel had left behind the door…’

Kane fell forward, panting, his hands clutching at his throat. He blinked repeatedly. The smoke gradually thinned out.

‘…and then Fleet came barrelling in…’

Kane peered around him, bewildered. The door to the treatment room was almost shut, but through a smallish chink he could see a man — an oldish, benevolent-seeming individual — standing in the hallway. He was wearing a white coat. He was tenderly inspecting Elen’s face.

‘…The edge of the frame caught my eye, then my nose hit the handle. It was ridiculous. And poor Fleet was so distraught — inconsolable. He’s just at that age where they throw themselves into everything with such enthusiasm, such violence …’

Kane lurched to his feet.

‘I must go,’ he murmured, half to himself. He lunged for his coat but his focus was shot and he grabbed hold of the Sainsbury’s bag instead. He stared down at it, bemused. Elen must’ve heard him get up. She peered around the door. ‘Are you heading off?’ she asked, and then, ‘Oh good — so you found the bag…?’

‘Yeah…’ Kane nodded, watching, in amazement, as her words marched on past him like a tiny army of leaf-cutter ants, ‘Yeah. My…uh…My bat …uh…my beit … bite …’

He exercised his jaw for a moment, ‘my boat …’

He ducked—‘ Fuck! ’—as a sudden spurt of ocean spray came hurtling towards him, then grabbed for his coat, shoved rapidly past her, stumbled out into the hallway and headed for the stairwell. His feet felt…he looked down, horrified…they felt tiny , yet curiously painful and unwieldy — like he was walking on hooves, on pegs, on stilts. He approached the stairs, carefully — still holding the bag, his coat, clutching on to the coin as if his life depended on it — leaning his full weight against the banister as he staggered down.

‘Will you settle your account?’ the receptionist asked as he teetered past her.

‘What?’

Kane paused.

‘Will you settle your account?’

‘Uh…’

Kane shrugged.

‘Mrs Grass is leaving us. Didn’t she tell you?’

Wow…

Kane stared at her, agog, as more ants marched on by.

‘Yes.’

Kane frowned.

‘No…’

He shook his head.

‘Are you all right?’ the receptionist asked. ‘You seem a little…’ ‘My feet are very smell,’ Kane informed her. Then he frowned ‘I mean smel … smal …I mean small . They’re very small now.’

He blinked.

Did I actually just say that?

‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘I must gaa …’

He shook his head. ‘ Gaaaaa …’

His mouth was yawning at her, insanely. He snapped it shut. He swallowed. ‘I mean gaa-n …’ he said ‘…gone…I mean go . I must…’

He smiled, self-deprecatingly. ‘On my small feet. I must gaa on my smell …on my tiny…’

He pointed. He slung his coat over his shoulder. He staggered from the surgery.

Outside, on the pavement, he gazed around him, blankly. It was freezing cold. He shivered. He tried to pull on his coat, but the bag and the coin seemed to actively disable him–

Just get rid of them

He peered down into the gutter and saw a storm drain nearby. He casually flipped the coin into it–

Chink!

Plop!

Yeah—

And fuck you, too

— then inspected the bag, irritably. He glanced up. Directly opposite him stood a neat row of suburban houses, and just beyond those: a wide, clear sky interspersed with welcome flashes of winter green. Kane smiled–

The cemetery

— he recalled Elen mentioning — in passing, the previous evening — how it might be a suitable location for burying the kite–

Fine…

He turned left (the cemetery’s main entrance was on the Canterbury Road — where he’d parked his car), but then thought better of it and turned right instead (following a secret route which he still vaguely remembered from the scant adventures of his Ashford boyhood). He rapidly eclipsed the row of houses, skirted the Mace Industrial Estate and found himself on a small, overgrown pathway which meandered along the cemetery’s tall back wall.

The wall was old, brick-built and rose to a height of around 7 feet. Kane cleaved to it faithfully — for 12 yards or so — until he reached a particular point — a familiar point — where the ground had shifted and the masonry above was cracked and jagged. He stopped — with a wide smile of recognition — hurled his coat over the top, placed the bag’s handle between his teeth and scrambled his way up.

He swung his leg over. Beyond him lay a beautiful, frost-tinged expanse of well-tended, freely undulating grass dotted with a sparse collection of headstones (some large and grand, others much smaller, many lying flat) all interspersed with a rich abundance of mature trees and bushes. Over to his right, a neat path jinked its way through a dramatically topiarised group of ornamental Yews.

He peered down. Directly below him was a giant compost heap–

Ah!

He clambered to his feet–

Whoops!

— wobbling precariously at first, but then steeling his nerve, lifting his chin, puffing out his chest, holding up his arms and leaping into thin air — wildly, without inhibition–

Waaargh!

— landing on the heap, spread-eagled — with a soggy thumph —and collapsing into the rotting leaves and weeds and grass cuttings, guffawing lustily, a small cloud of steam ascending around him. He inhaled the heady, dank aroma of slowly rotting matter. He shoved his face right into it — he bit into it — groaning his delight as a million bugs sighed and creaked inside the shifting walls of the dark insect city below. He suddenly felt alive — free — unencumbered — ecstatic.

Several minutes passed. Kane lay flat on his belly — blissfully supine. Then slowly but surely his hands contracted and his fingers began to scrabble, to clutch, to dig . Pretty soon he was tunnelling into the heap with a sense of real gusto, each handful he ejected growing warmer and moister and denser and steamier.

The deeper he dug, the more frenzied his efforts grew. Before too much longer he was literally clawing at the heap — like a frenzied badger — flushed, abandoned, panting, intoxicated — a spectacular arc of muck and soil flying around him.

‘Excuse me?’

Eh?

Kane paused.

‘Excuse me?’

Eh?

Kane rose to his knees. Directly below him, on the ground — holding a rake and pushing a wheelbarrow — stood a gardener. Kane appraised the gardener imperiously. ‘Excuse you?’ he echoed haughtily, wiping an impatient arm across his dripping brow. ‘But why should I, when you don’t offend me in the slightest part?’