Nicola Barker - Darkmans

There was a story about a pair of goose wings (John tied them — Icarus-like — to his shoulders, pretending he was going to launch himself from a high tower), and the story in which he bled his wife, by force (under the foot, arm and tongue) after she dared to criticise him to a neighbour. And finally, of course, there was the cruel story which Winnie had taken such interest in — where Scogin had set fire…

Kane was suddenly flashed by the van behind him–

Eh?

He glanced up. The long queue of traffic in front had recently inched forward while he’d been engrossed in his reading. Kane harrumphed, took off his handbrake, accelerated, and slowly made up the distance.

He returned to the document…Yeah — setting fire to the barn . John had been living in Oxford at the time, and his wife had complained to him about the pushy, local vagrants…

The van behind honked its horn. Kane started and peered up. The car directly in front of him (a new Volkswagen) had just crept forward by a total distance of approximately 3 measly feet. Kane wound down his window — with some effort (the car had manual winders) — stuck out his hand into the frosty, afternoon air and showed the bolshy driver his middle finger–

So fuck you, too—

Idiot.

The car honked its horn again.

Kane gritted his teeth. He slapped the steering wheel. He gazed into his rearview mirror, cursing under his breath. Then–

Screw it

— he caved. He lifted the handbrake and moved the car gently forward–

There!

Happy now?

The car flashed him–

Yeah. I should think so, too.

Kane glanced into his side-mirror, then back down at his reading matter–

The barn…

He began to read. He stopped reading. He closed his eyes–

Now just hang on one…

He opened his eyes and peered into his side-mirror–

Cigar

The driver of the van behind was smoking a cigar. And he was–

No, she…

Her

— she was holding it regally aloft, her dainty hand neatly encased in a soft, white glove.

Kane laughed to himself, wryly. He slowly shook his head. Then he jumped out of the car and strolled over to the van.

‘I have a train to catch, Kane,’ Peta informed him with a caustic look. ‘So if you could just bring yourself to actually concentrate …’

‘Are you leaving for good?’ he demanded.

‘For the better, I hope,’ she responded smartly.

‘Was it a sudden decision?’

‘I suppose all decisions are,’ she mused, ‘when you finally make them.’

He frowned at her.

‘So how are you warming to The Commissar?’ she wondered. ‘Pretty well,’ he conceded. ‘Although the handling…’

‘Urgh , the handling,’ Peta interrupted him, scandalised, ‘quite shocking , isn’t it? So clunky and unyielding…’

‘Although I love the stickers on the back,’ Kane admitted, ‘the Jamaican flag was a master-stroke.’

‘I thought you might give the car to your friend,’ Peta told him. ‘Did you find the registration documents in the glove box?’

‘My friend?’

‘Yes. Your crazy friend. The friend who worships peacocks.’

‘Sorry?’ Kane frowned. ‘Do I actually have a friend like that?’

‘Yes. You know…the Kurd. The one who’s terrified of salad.’

‘Gaffar? ’ ‘That’s him. Gaffar. I thought you could give it to Gaffar. I thought it might quite suit him.’

‘Or perhaps I could give it to Beede,’ Kane volunteered.

‘Oh really?’ Peta didn’t seem especially taken by the idea. ‘But d’you think it’s entirely Beede’s style ?’

She raised a single, perfectly etched brow at him, then took a puff on her cigar.

‘I suppose he could always sell it,’ Kane suggested, ‘and use it to pay off some of the interest on his huge debt.’

Peta turned to look at him in mock-surprise. ‘Beede’s hugely in debt?’ ‘Beede’s problem,’ Kane cordially informed her, ‘is that he’s developed this strange, little habit. It involves paying a professional forger to duplicate random objects…’

‘An artist,’ Peta interrupted.

‘What?’

‘He’s been paying an artist , not a forger.’

She paused for a moment. ‘Do you think it might be a good idea,’ she abruptly changed the subject, ‘to turn the engine off?’

‘Pardon?’

‘The Commissar…’ she pointed. ‘You appear to have left the engine running.’

Kane peered over at the car (his expression one of studied indifference). ‘So what happened to your friend?’ he wondered.

‘ My friend?’

‘Yes. Your friend with the incomprehensible accent. The woman you claimed to have — now what was the word you used…?’ He deliberated for a moment. ‘Ah yes, collected .’

‘You mean Ann?’

‘Was that her name?’

Still is,’ she said, tartly.

‘So how many other people do you have?’ Kane enquired.

‘Have? In what sense ?’

‘Well a collection can never be just one , can it?’

Peta merely smiled at this.

‘Did you collect Beede I wonder?’ Kane continued, silkily.

‘Did you collect Dory , perhaps?’

‘Did I collect you ?’ Peta asked, with a smirk. She offered him a puff on her cigar, but he refused.

‘So let me get this straight…’ Kane continued.

‘Don’t you just adore this song?’ Peta interrupted him. She reached into the van and turned up the volume on her scruffy, old cassette player. A cacophonous horn cut through the icy air around him.

Kane scowled. ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s Bird , you ignorant boy…’ she leaned in again and turned it up still louder. ‘Charlie Parker. “Steeplechase”. It’s based on the chords from “I Got Rhythm”. Miles is in the mix there too, somewhere…’

She tapped her cigar ash, rhythmically, on to the tarmac. ‘This was actually one of the first recordings Bird made after seven months in Camarillo Sanatorium. Before that he’d been living like a tramp, in a garage, subsisting on charity handouts. He’d developed schizophrenia…’ she shrugged. ‘Although the booze was his real problem…’

She took another puff on her cigar, then coughed and tapped at her chest, impatiently.

‘When he finally came out,’ she continued, her eyes watering slightly, ‘he got a regular gig at the Hi De Ho Club, and apparently, each night, before he’d even blow a note, he’d sink eight double whiskies, back-to-back.’

She leaned in and adjusted the volume again.

‘Miles left shortly after they recorded this session. They say Charlie never got over it. Miles was like his adopted son…’

They both listened to the music for a while, in silence.

‘Anyhow,’ Peta frowned (changing the subject, on a whim), ‘it was all totally above board. There was nothing remotely dubious in it.’

‘Sorry?’

Kane was still thinking about Miles and Charlie.

‘The work I did for Beede. I charged him, per hour, at my standard rate. If he’d been anyone else I’d’ve charged him double — the work itself was soul-destroying; stupid, pointless, incredibly tedious…’

‘Did you ever think to ask why?’ Kane asked.

‘Why what?’

‘Why he wanted you to duplicate those objects?’

‘Of course not,’ she snapped, ‘I already told you, it isn’t my place to ask questions like that. It wouldn’t be polite.’

‘ Polite? ’ Kane snorted. ‘Maybe you just didn’t bother asking because you didn’t actually need to. You’d hired a detective. You already knew…’