Nicola Barker - Darkmans

(The conversation is briefly interrupted at this point by a phone call in which Harvey is heard to tell his interlocutor: ‘I don’t know, mate, but it might be septicaemia. Yeah. Heel blister. Curse of the new trainer…Nah. ‘Course I can’t spell the fucker. I ain’t a soddin’ doctor. Tell him it’s blood poisonin’. It’s the same thing, yeah? Tell him to have a bloody heart, mate. This is Life or fuckin’ Death, ya with me?’)

Harvey ( slotting the phone away — Isidore noticed, idly, that it was the blue Nokia ): So you was tellin’ me about how you initially came to contact us at Abacus…

Isidore: Yes. The phone book.

Harvey ( almost presuming ): And we was the first firm you liked the look of?

Isidore ( jocular ): Well I was hardly going to place all my trust in AAABuilders, now, was I?

( No perceptible response from Harvey to this crushing piece of rhetoric )

Harvey: So Abacus was the first?

Isidore: Yes…( sudden pause ), actually, no. I believe yours was the second company I tried…

Harvey ( his ears pricking ): Oh yeah?

Isidore: Yes. But the first place I rang was engaged.

Harvey: I see. And you wouldn’t happen to…?

Isidore (w ithout hesitation ): A Priori.

Harvey ( in ominous tones ): Ah ( Harvey grimaces as he scribbles — all the more violently — on to his palm ).

Isidore ( craning his neck over towards the palm, slightly concerned ): Is that thing actually working?

Harvey ( still scribbling frantically ): What thing?

Isidore: The palm. I don’t think you’ve turned it on.

Harvey has not turned the palm on.

Harvey ( irritably ): I keep the screen off to save the battery.

Isidore ( fascinated ): And it still functions that way?

Harvey ( very irritably ): Well I’d look like a bit of a fuckin’ Charlie if it didn’t, wouldn’t I?

Isidore ( backing off, diplomatically ): Yes. Of course. Sorry.

Harvey ( slapping his palm shut, with a flourish ): Well, all’s I can say is: the Gods must’ve been smilin’ down on you that day.

Isidore ( bemused ): Pardon me?

Harvey: Mr Spivey and I are ‘old acquaintances’, shall we say…

Isidore ( still bemused ): Mr Spivey?

Harvey: Wouldn’t trust him with a malfunctioning fuckin’ toaster.

Isidore ( slowly catching on ): You mean the guy from A Priori? Is he bad news?

Harvey: Bad news?! (He snorts, derisively)

Isidore ( alarmed ): What? A real rip-off merchant?

Harvey ( holds up his hands, as if in regretful denial ): Mate, I’ve probably said enough already. More than I should of ( taps nose )…Professional conduct an’ all that.

Isidore ( worriedly ): Of course. Of course …( thoughtful pause ) Forgive me, Harvey, but haven’t you and I actually met before ?

Harvey ( surprised ): Come again?

Isidore: It might sound a little crazy , but I just suddenly had the strangest feeling that we’d…( Dory frowns, confusedly ).

Harvey: Not that I’m aware of, mate.

Isidore: A long time ago, maybe…

Harvey shrugs.

Isidore: It might take a while to percolate, but it’ll come back to me, eventually, I’m sure…

Isidore shakes his head, bemusedly, as Harvey deftly slips the palm into his jacket pocket.

He had astonishingly clean hands. Elen had quietly observed as much during their initial encounter (‘You know how I do that, my love? Here’s a little tip for ya: washing-up liquid an’ sugar. Screw all the fancy stuff you can buy over the counter — that shite’s just a rip off…’).

And he was always immaculately turned-out; had a very distinctive ‘look’; appearing to hold a particular strand of pseudo-American combat-style apparel in especially high regard (the kind which seemed like it might’ve been popular in the early 1990s with a certain type of butch but glossy San Franciscan homosexual).

His colour palate ranged through the bright whites, rich creams and pale olives (not, you might think, especially practical tones for a labourer); the sage-coloured, high-shine, front-zippered puffer jacket being his most essential garment (his closely shaven, well-tanned head sticking out through its neat, Chinese collar like the stalk of an apple, jutting, defiantly, from the sumptuous, swollen mound of its surrounding flesh).

Harvey spent over two hours a day at his local gym (‘I used to Body Build competitively — back in the late seventies — before all the ladies got involved and turned it into a fucking circus’).

He wore earrings in both ears; thick, gold hoops, of a size and style which teetered (Elen felt) on the brink of the effeminate. Of course (she told herself) only a real man (or a lunatic) could hope to get away with fashion that obvious.

Following Harvey’s casual (yet oh so regretful ) defamation of Garry Spivey, Isidore had proceeded to hire him on the spot (the sudden eye contact, the manly handshake, the quick nod). Elen (left determinedly on the sidelines, clutching a coffee pot) had been absolutely furious.

The evidence against him, she insisted, once he’d finally–

My God, doesn’t the man have a home to go to?!

— taken his leave of them, was overwhelming: the clean hands, the fancy truck, the immediate start, two hours in the gym (‘Two hours ? Each day ? Did you hear that?’), the suspicious-sounding heel-blister conversation (which Dory already deeply regretted repeating to her), and last, but by no means least, the somewhat pivotal issue of an estimate.

There wasn’t one. Harvey cheerfully proposed that they, ‘Bash it out as we go along…’(‘Bottom line: if you’re happy then I’m happy, sweetheart.’–

Sweetheart?!)

Isidore had gently pooh-poohed her objections.

‘He’s a builder , Elen,’ he’d argued, ‘not a candidate for Mayor.’

She’d thought this argument fatuous. It didn’t pacify her.

‘And what’re the alternatives?’ he’d doggedly continued. ‘ Seriously? There are none. This is a boom town. We’re desperate. Builders are at a premium…’

They were stuck between a rock and a hard place. They were screwed. Harvey wasn’t their best bet, he was their only bet. She did, at least, have to concede him that.

Contrary to all her expectations, things’d started off well enough. Almost as if sensing Elen’s misgivings (and determining, quietly, to respond to them), Harvey had arranged for the scaffolding to arrive, not merely on time–

Just on time, you say?!

Oh no!

That won’t do at all!

— but a whole day early.

Isidore had been ecstatic (‘This is absolutely fantastic, Elen, isn’t it?’). But his ecstasy was short-lived.

While a third of it went straight up (during a brief frenzy of activity on that first afternoon), the following morning, at around eleven (with no explanation or prior warning), the scaffolders packed away their tools, jumped into their truck, and headed off.

Where, Isidore knew not ( where didn’t matter). What mattered was that they never came back.

They’d vamoosed. They’d turned-tail. They’d bolted. They’d gone .

The house (which’d looked fairly bleak prior to this new development — with its sagging sills, mouldy fascia and muddy garden) now peeked out, disconsolately, from beneath its perilous-seeming exo-skeleton like a sadly neglected poodle in an ill-fitting muzzle. The small garden (such as it was) had all-but disappeared under an unsightly pile of poles and planks.