Nicola Barker - Darkmans

‘ Man …You head on up, okay?’

He faltered, infuriated, on the threshold. ‘Just let me quickly go answer that.’

‘A bizarre coincidence…’ Elen explained, picking up her mug, taking a small sip, and then quickly placing it down again (the tea was still very hot). ‘She’d left a message for me at the practice. I was meant to be making a home visit this evening, but she was admitted last thing yesterday. She’s having trouble with her pace-maker. I’d warned her about it the week before; her feet were unusually swollen during our last consultation…’

‘Perhaps I know her,’ Beede interrupted, pulling out a chair and sitting down himself. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Mrs Bristow. Evie Bristow. Although everybody who knows her calls her Hat.’

‘Really? Why?’

She shrugged, smiling.

Beede stirred his tea, removed the teaspoon and then couldn’t find anywhere to put it, so pulled out a man-size tissue from a nearby box, folded it neatly in half, and placed the spoon on top (adjusting it, twice, to make certain it lay dead centre).

Elen watched this laborious process with an expression of wry amusement. He glanced up, absent-mindedly, caught her fond look, and started.

‘The tea…’ She indicated towards her mug, trying to defuse his alarm. ‘It’s delicious.’

‘Good.’

Beede still seemed a little edgy.

Elen’s smile gradually faded. ‘Is everything all right, Danny?’ Beede frowned. His mother was the only other person who’d ever dared to use his Christian name in its abbreviated form (in her case, Dan). Yet Elen had always called him Danny, from the very first time they met, during a professional consultation (she’d seen his full name on the cheque he’d paid her with, and had used it, as a matter of course, ever since).

It still never failed to surprise him. He always felt a vague, nagging sense that she might actually be addressing another person, not this Daniel Beede, but some other, whom life — and its pitfalls — hadn’t encouraged to prosper; a more approachable Daniel Beede; a more loveable one; more cuddly, even.

The only thing he knew for certain was that he actually bore no resemblance to this genial man (whom she appeared so determined to see in him), although a tiny part of him sometimes wondered whether he might not actually quite like to, occasionally (a brief excursion might be nice, into a world where fact was eclipsed by feeling), but whenever he started to experience these impulses — and it wasn’t often — the hard, enamelled Beede within him swooped down from a great height and harried the gormless, hapless Danny; kicked him around a bit, then shoved him — without scruple — back into his box again.

He wouldn’t have tolerated it from anybody else. But this was Elen–

Elen

— and everything she did was so effortless, so natural, so kind, so unforced , that to interfere (to block or confront or disrupt her), would’ve seemed like the worst kind of wrong-headedness.

‘Yes. Yes. Yes, everything’s fine,’ Beede nodded, clearing his throat, ‘absolutely fine.’

They were sitting at a desk in Beede’s corner office. A handful of people were working in the laundry outside, and could be observed — going dutifully about their business — through a slightly wonky window in one of the two, make-piece, plasterboard walls (the other struggled valiantly to remain perpendicular while doing its level best to support the door).

The radio was blaring (Beede had a rota-system for choosing the channel — it was an inflammatory issue amongst the staff, whose ages varied — and today, much to his horror, it was tuned to 1Xtra). He leaned back in his chair and shoved the door shut.

It was a very small room — more of a cubby, really — and now, if possible, it seemed still smaller. He closed his eyes for a brief moment. If he remained motionless — and concentrated very hard — he could pick up Elen’s distinctive scent of clove and peppermint (from the foot massage creams she used at work). It was a plain smell, and not particularly feminine, but he was almost ludicrously attached to it.

‘So what happened, exactly?’ she asked. She sounded tense. He opened his eyes, abruptly. He’d had no intention of worrying her. ‘Nothing too apocalyptic,’ he murmured, ‘it was just a little…uh, tricky , that’s all.’

He took a sip of his own tea and winced (it’d been brewed too long), then placed the mug down, gently, on to his desk again.

‘He’d taken the horse from a field near the Brenzett roundabout…’ he started off, casually.

She nodded.

‘And I presume — although I can’t be entirely certain — that he rode it to the restaurant along the dual carriageway…’

She grimaced.

‘…which is…well, you know…’

‘He absolutely promised me,’ she interrupted, ‘that he wouldn’t do anything crazy like that again.’

As she spoke, Elen slipped both of her hands around her tea mug, as if to comfort herself with the warmth it exuded. She seemed profoundly regretful, and yet (at another level — and there was always another level with Elen) strangely detached.

‘He was terribly confused when he came around,’ Beede continued (not entirely ignoring her interjection, but feeling unable — through loyalty to Dory, principally — to trespass on to that particular discursive mine-field any further), ‘and extremely suspicious…’

‘He’s petrified of horses,’ Elen interrupted him, her voice still stoical. ‘A pony stood on his foot once when he was just a toddler. If you know what to look for, you can see how the injury — the trauma — has taken its toll, subsequently, on his entire body-posture…’

‘Yes,’ Beede nodded, ‘he did mention it. I mean the fear . He knew almost immediately that he disliked horses, that he was afraid of them. It was actually one of the very first things he seemed absolutely certain of.’

‘Good.’ Elen seemed bolstered by this.

‘Although the horse was standing right next to us at the time…’ Beede shrugged.

Elen continued to cradle her mug between her hands. Her hair fell across her face. She peered up at him, through it. ‘So it wasn’t just an accident?’

‘What?’ Beede scowled. ‘That he was there? Where we were? No,’ he shook his head, firmly, ‘definitely not.’

‘Oh.’

This obviously wasn’t the answer Elen had been hoping for. ‘But if you think about it…’ she mused, ‘I mean the actual geography of that area…’

‘No.’ Beede wouldn’t concede the point, even to mollify her. ‘If we were to calculate the odds — and I mean quite coldly, quite brutally — then I’d have to say that it was at least…’ he ruminated, briefly, ‘at least three-to-one on that he knew — strong odds, in other words.’

Elen frowned. Odds weren’t really her forte.

‘He must’ve known,’ Beede pressed his point home, ‘at some level.’ She shook her head, slowly, as if still determined to resist his negative prognosis. ‘But it wasn’t very far…’ she persisted, ‘he was working in South Willesborough. I came to the restaurant on foot, but he may’ve seen your old Douglas in the car park. It’s very distinctive, after all. It could’ve generated some kind of…of spark. ’

Beede’s ears suddenly pricked up. ‘But how did you know that?’ he demanded.

‘What?’

‘About South Willesborough?’

She seemed bemused by this question. ‘Because he rang. He phoned me. Just before I left home.’

‘Ah…’ Beede nodded, then smiled (somewhat self-consciously). ‘But of course. Of course . How silly of me.’