Nicola Barker - Darkmans

Isidore suddenly slammed his foot down.

Beede heard a loud squeal of tyres, then felt a nasty, searing pain across his shoulder–

Seat-belt

— as the car jolted to a sharp halt.

Beede turned to stare at Dory. Dory was gazing into the road wearing a look of mute astonishment. Beede turned to look into the road himself–

Good God!

Standing there, in majestic profile (its tail covering a full two-thirds of the total width of the tarmac): a magnificent peacock–

What?!

Dory honked his horn, glancing, terrified, into his rearview mirror—‘I have a bad feeling about this…’ he was muttering, unfastening his seat-belt, ‘a really strong sense of déjà …’

The bird lifted its beak and stared haughtily towards the car, then it swung around, and in one, sublime movement it lifted its tail and fanned it out.

Beede’s mouth fell open. Dory began to scrabble (sightlessly) at his door handle.

‘No, wait . Let me…’

Beede unfastened his own seat-belt and leapt from the car. He hobbled towards the bird. The blare of the fire engine was still wailing in his ears (‘Must be the strange acoustics,’ he reasoned, ‘on this part of the road…’).

‘Okay, big fella,’ he murmured, ‘get out of the way now. Quick-smart…’

The bird turned to face him, shaking out its feathers. Through Beede’s rain-splattered lenses the peacock was a gorgeous, blue-green blur, a shimmering, technicolour waterfall, a faultless jewel. It cocked its crested head and eyed him, archly.

‘You’re going to end up as cat food if you don’t move pretty smartly…’

Beede tried to hustle the bird backwards, towards the grass verge. The peacock immediately took offence. It squawked, furiously, then turned, panicked, to reveal a slightly bare (and somewhat dingy) back-end, supported by pair of surprisingly long and muscular legs.

Beede shoo’d him swiftly forward, but as he moved he felt something crunching under the soles of his shoes. He glanced down–

What is that?

Grit?

No—

Seed…?

Tiny ears of…?

In ten seconds, at best, the indignant bird was safely stationed on the embankment.

‘You’d better drive off,’ Beede yelled, waving Dory onwards, ‘I’ll…’

That moment, a second fire engine came careering around the bend, its siren blaring, and smashed straight into the back of Dory’s Rover.

Dory hadn’t yet refastened his seat-belt. As the engine made contact he flew forward — wearing a look of slight bewilderment — into the steering wheel, then up, and over, and into the front windscreen. The windscreen cracked and then Dory slumped back.

But that wasn’t the end of it. Because he’d barely touched the seat again before another vehicle — a car — shunted into the back of the fire engine, then another car behind that, then a van, then another car, then another van, and each time a new vehicle made contact, this cruel, metal snake, this ravenous, steel gecko devoured a few extra metres of the road.

Beede glanced down. The bird had turned on its heel and had run for cover. Only a single, bright feather remained, pinned under his foot. Beede bent down to grab it (because what could he…? There was nothing…Because he couldn’t…).

As he bent over he felt a heavy weight (a familiar weight) on his shoulder, and calmly realised — in that instant — that he probably wasn’t going to be able to straighten back up.

The small courtyard was deserted. No geese — no turkeys — no dogs — no armed, hatchet-faced, Northumbrian housemaids in bizarre, wooden clogs.

Kane parked The Commissar and sat quietly for a while (gently strumming his fingers against the dash), then he clambered out and took a quick walk around. The farm machinery was gone. He tried the doors on a couple of the barns–

Locked

— then walked over to the cottage. The curtains had been taken down. He peered inside. All the furniture had been removed.

He stared up at the tiles on the roof. He slowly shook his head, then reached into his pocket and took out his cigarettes. He propped one between his lips and then tried to find his lighter, but couldn’t.

It had started to rain. He returned to the car and climbed back inside it, then slowly and methodically emptied his pockets. He removed ten or fifteen packets of tablets, his phone, Elen’s book, the rolled-up brown envelope that Beede had left earlier. He threw each object — one by one — on to the passenger seat. Still, no lighter.

He peered around the interior of The Commissar. He opened the dash–

Registration documents

— then felt inside all the side pouches and under the seats.

Kane snorted with frustration, clambered out of the car and went to look in the boot. He opened it up–

Please—

Not a…

— but the boot was empty, except for a plastic bag crammed full of rubbish, its handles neatly tied together.

Kane stared at the bag. He lifted it out. He looked around for a trashcan. There was an old metal bin in the far corner of the farmyard, its lid weighed down with a rock. He carried the bag over there. He removed the rock and then the lid. The bin was empty. He prepared to toss the bag into it, but then something suddenly struck him and he thought better of it. He carried the bag back over to the car, climbed inside, untied the knot, opened it up and slowly sifted through the contents.

Inside the bag there were sweet wrappers, biscuit wrappers, orange peel, a couple of scrunched-up old newspapers, five empty cigar boxes, a clutch of receipts (for newspapers, sweets, cigars), several empty coffee cups, about twenty used scratchcards–

What?

Kane shook his head, disapprovingly.

Approximately half-way down he struck gold–

Yes!

A lighter — an old bic. He grabbed it and struck it–

Nothing

He struck it again and a tiny flame emerged. He pushed his smoke between his lips and struck it for a third time–

Nothing

— then a fourth. This time it sparked and he shoved his cigarette into it, puffing maniacally–

Yes…

Yes…

No

Balls!

Kane tossed the lighter aside and recommenced his search. He winced as his hand made unwitting contact with a couple of old apple cores, then delved in still deeper–

Crisp packet

Crisp packet

Peanuts

Peanut

Crisp packet

— pulling out what he took to be a card of matches–

Yes!

— only to realise that it was actually two further scratchcards folded up together. He hissed under his breath, then noticed — with some surprise — that one of these two £5 cards hadn’t even been scratched yet. He snorted, threw them back into the bag and felt around some more until his hands discovered–

Wonder of wonders!

— another lighter. He yanked it out so enthusiastically that he tipped the bag over–

Fuck!

— and almost half of its contents fell on to his lap–

Urgh!

He struck the lighter–

Nothing

He struck it again–

Yes!

— and shoved his cigarette — inhaling frantically — into the puny flame. The cigarette took–

Thank God

Kane closed his eyes and savoured it for a moment, then opened them up, crammed all the rubbish back into the bag, retied the handles, leapt out of the car, ran over to the dustbin and tossed it in. He replaced the lid. He replaced the rock–

There

— then returned to the car.