Nicola Barker - Darkmans

Dory was hurling himself around so violently now that some of the straps which bound him were beginning to loosen up.

‘He’s incredibly strong,’ the first ambulanceman muttered, battling to re-tighten them. His partner replaced the oxygen mask over Dory’s face. Dory tried to knock it off. He was frantic. His voice echoed away, hollowly, inside of it.

‘In…in some other Indo-European languages,’ Beede suddenly began to speak again, ‘in…in Lithuanian and Church Slavonic, for example, there are variants on the word which mean “gasp” or…or “breath”. They come to us via the prehistoric…’

Beede paused. He stared, in horror, at Dory’s contorted face. Dory was still shouting. His eyes were bulging.

‘TÜR,’ he was screaming, ‘BEEDE! BEEDE! TÜR!’

‘Perhaps you should take that thing off,’ Beede exclaimed, shifting even further forward, ‘he needs to be able to speak freely. He needs to be able to…to communicate …’

The ambulanceman was trying to inject a further dose of sedative into Dory’s arm. ‘Just stay back,’ he told Beede sharply. ‘If you actually want to help your friend then just…’

He struggled to hold Dory’s arm still. His partner was physically restraining Dory’s head.

‘TUUUUR!’ Dory screamed. ‘NO!’

He began to experience some kind of seizure. He was foaming at the mouth. His eyes were rolling back in his head. His fists were clenched. A series of mechanical alarms started to go off.

Beede stood up. The pain he felt as he did so was really quite unimaginable.

‘This must be the end,’ he thought, ‘this can’t continue.’ He felt a strange sense of relief, almost of satisfaction.

‘ Sit down! ’ the ambulanceman yelled.

‘I’m going to the door , Dory,’ Beede informed his friend, staggering around a little as the speeding ambulance raced along. ‘I’m going to the tür ! The door . See? I can hear you, Dory, see ? I can understand. Look! I’m going to the door…I’m standing by the…the d-d-deur…‘

He blinked.

Huh?

Dory’s quivering body suddenly relaxed. His strong arms went limp. The alarms continued to sound.

‘Oh shit ,’ the first ambulanceman said.

Beede frowned. He stared down at the German, confused. He raised a shaking hand to his neck. He felt a terrible pain there, an intense pain, like a blow, almost a kick. Then his eyes widened. He took a quick step back.

A man stood before him — a small, mean, dark man — with both arms outstretched. He was smiling. He was moving forward. There was something cruel, something almost sinister …

‘Oh my God ,’ Beede murmured, ‘but of…of course …the tür , the…the door … That’s what he…’

He quickly glanced behind him. The doors flew open. He held on to the feather. He carried the feather with him.

It took exactly twenty minutes for the car to cool down again. During this time Kane loaded his stash into his pockets, shoved the book and the photocopied sheets into the glove compartment, tried to light a cigarette, but he couldn’t find the…

The fucking lighter—

What is it with these fucking lighters?

He peered down the side of the driver’s seat–

Nope

He peered down the side of the passenger seat–

Nope

Although…

He frowned. He squeezed his hand down the thin gap–

Ouch

— he winced (he’d managed to acquire a small steam burn on his palm) and retrieved–

Jesus H!

A bloody scratchcard!

It was the unused scratchcard which he’d thrown away earlier–

Must’ve dropped out…

Kane stared at it, morosely. Then he stared at his cigarette. Then he stared over at his phone. He threw the cigarette on to the dash. He grabbed his phone. He turned it on–

219 messages

Fuck.

He dropped the phone into his lap and re-inspected the scratchcard. He rubbed at it, idly, with his thumbnail–

One

Two

Three

Four…

Eh?

He picked up his phone again. He drew a deep breath. He rang Gaffar.

‘Gaffar?’

‘ Yah? ’

Gaffar sounded severely short of puff.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Push this stupid bike.’

‘The scooter?’

‘Yah.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Uh…I dunno. My bike is not petrol.’

‘You ran out of gas?’

‘Yah.’

‘And you don’t know where you are?’

‘Uh…’

Silence

‘…no.’

‘Is there a signpost?’

‘Uh…’

‘Is there anyone around you could ask?’

‘Sure, is plenty car. Is uh…is all stop here.’

‘A traffic jam, huh?’

‘Uh…yeah.’

‘Well just knock on the window of the nearest vehicle and hand them your phone. I’ll do the rest.’

‘Serious? ’

‘Sure. Just knock on a window and…’

Long silence

‘Hello?’

‘Hi. Did some Kurdish dude just hand you this phone?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That’s great. Would you mind telling me where you are?’

‘Where I am?’

‘Yeah. He’s lost. I’m trying to find out his exact location.’

‘Well I’m stuck in a traffic jam. I’m just waiting at the roundabout for the Hamstreet turn-off. Cedar Farm’s to my right…’

‘That’s great,’ Kane butted in. ‘Thanks. Could you pass him back the phone?’

Pause

‘Gaffar?’

Silence

‘Gaffar?’

Silence

‘GAFFAR?’

‘Yah?’

Gaffar sounded a little distracted.

‘What’s happening?’

‘I dunno. Is this…uh…this sound .’

‘A sound? What kind of a sound?’

‘Is uh…’ he inhaled, and then, ‘ Eee-ooo-iiii Eee-ooo-iii .’

‘Fuck.’

Kane pulled the phone away from his ear.

‘Is bird,’ Gaffar expanded. ‘Is big tail bird.’

‘Can you see it?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’

Pause

‘Well I’m about 2 miles down the road,’ Kane continued, ‘so if you just stay where you are, I should be with you in about ten minutes. I’ve got some work I need you to help me with…’

He paused, ‘And I’ve got you a new car.’

‘Yah?’ Gaffar sounded intrigued. ‘Whas?’

‘It’s a Lada.’

‘Fuck off!’

‘Seriously. It’s a Lada. A Lada Estate. Black. Fat wheels. Crazy suspension. From Jamaica.’

‘Fuck off .’

Kane chuckled, ‘Yup.’

He prepared to hang up, but before he did, ‘And guess what else?’ he said, his smile slowly fading.

‘What?’ Gaffar asked (still pondering the Lada).

‘I just won forty grand on a scratchcard…’

Kane inspected the scratchcard as he spoke, with a scowl.

‘ Lucky , huh?’

Maude had approximately 150 trees still to do. She was exhausted, and she had a painful splinter in her finger, but she kept on hacking away at the collars. She was determined to get the job done, come hell or high water.

‘Hello again.’

She glanced up. It was Kane. He was leaning out of a black Lada.

‘What are you doing back here?’ she growled.

‘I’m looking for my friend,’ Kane said. ‘He’s short, dark, Kurdish — doesn’t speak much English…’

Maude shook her head.

‘He was pushing a scooter. He said he’d be waiting for me down at the roundabout. I found the scooter dumped by the road there, but he’d vanished, so I’m just driving the whole circuit in the vain hope…’