Nicola Barker - Darkmans

Both Elen and Isidore became preoccupied by the idea that someone might try and steal these paltry remnants (wasn’t scaffolding valuable? And what was the insurance situation? Were they liable?). Isidore left Harvey countless messages to this effect (‘I mean I don’t know if the scaffolders are a part of your company, or whether you sub-let out this side of the business, but I think it might be a little risky …’).

Two days after leaving his fifth or sixth reminder, Isidore came home to discover that a couple of small chains and padlocks had been applied to the ‘excess’ scaffolding in order — he presumed — to render it more secure. He was relieved (of course he was), but this wasn’t entirely the result he’d been hoping for.

A week after the advent of the padlocks (when their hearts seemed in imminent danger of slipping down into their boots again) the boy suddenly arrived: Lester; didn’t look a day over fifteen.

Lester had a delinquent air about him (the base-ball cap, the unfocussed gaze, his skin a bright, purple-white — the approximate tone of an undercooked chicken thigh bone). But his tracksuit bottoms (Dory pointed out) were exceptionally dirty, and that had to be a good sign (they were also three sizes too small. Perhaps he’d ‘half-inched’ them, Elen mused, from another — even younger — boy in Harvey’s employ: an exceptionally hard worker who currently dangled, trouserless — poor lamb — from a half-swept chimney somewhere).

Lester (it soon became evident) ‘lacked direction’. It was a full-time job just to keep him working. And there was always some good reason why he might suddenly feel the urge to slip away again: a missing tool, a parole appointment, breakfast — eaten on the stroke of ten — lunch — at twelve — and tea — at three — none of which did he ever opt to bring along with him, but mooched off, mid-task, in a bid to track them down.

There were no fast-food emporiums in the local vicinity—‘This is suburbia,’ Elen patiently explained, ‘and a very new area…’ There was only Tesco’s at the— ahem —‘Community Centre’, where Lester was now a permanent fixture at the delicatessen counter. He’d developed a strong antipathy for ‘the vicious old witch’ working there, who made him take a ticket — and wait to be called — even when it was obvious that he was her only customer.

Very little seemed to stimulate the boy. He was so guarded — so sullen and withdrawn — that Elen (as a mother) felt the kindly urge to ‘draw him out’. This was a mistake (she soon discovered), because there was one topic — and one topic only — which Lester seemed to take an active delight in: the multitudinous shortcomings of his unscrupulous employer.

‘Don’t matter how shit I am,’ he grumbled, ‘he don’t even care. He never tells me nothin’, and if he does, I never fuckin’ listen. I mean would you? For three quid fifty a fuckin’ hour?’

This unhappy information placed an already desperate Elen in an impossible situation: how on earth to confront Harvey over his financial (social and legal) transgressions without totally alienating him?

‘I mean if this is Harvey functioning at his best,’ she told a disconsolate Dory, ‘then could you even begin to imagine how terrible a “go-slow” policy might be?’

Dory confided in Beede on the matter, and Beede (using his legendary ‘business head’) came up with the perfect compromise. The simple answer, he told him, was to side-step Harvey altogether. It was good advice and Dory took it, promptly promising Lester an extra £40 a week, tax-free, so long as he swore never to mention this delicate accommodation to his employer. Lester agreed — grudgingly.

Harvey had actually given Dory a ‘special’ number by which to make contact (‘Priority line, mate. This is the line my wife and kids have…’). Sometimes, as he rang it and waited for the familiar recorded message to kick in (if his wife had this number, then she must’ve been well accustomed to falling back on her own resources), Isidore would idly muse as to which of the several phones suspended on Harvey’s ‘buddy’ (if any) he was currently engaging with.

He didn’t — at this stage — know that Harvey was running three separate businesses (that information came later, from Harvey himself, who saw no impropriety in it — would often, in fact, use it as an excuse: ‘I’m runnin’ three businesses here, mate, so maybe you could cut me a bit of fuckin’ slack…?!’).

And he certainly didn’t know (how could he?) that each business represented a different ‘side’ to Harvey (in much the same way that different outfits and accessories represented a different ‘side’ to Barbie).

Yet ignorant as he was, Isidore soon became convinced that there was some kind of system with the phones, that the phones were critical, that each one symbolised something different, yet fundamental–

But what?

And why?

‘Don’t you think you might be reading a little too much into all of this, Dory?’ Elen had asked, gently, when he’d finally confided his phone fears in her. Maybe he was paranoid–

Maybe I am

— but he still felt like he could smell the unwelcome scent of I-Told-You-So oozing out from behind her sympathetic veneer–

So many secrets—

Where’s the harm in just one more, eh?

Isidore was now officially in New Build Hell.

He’d dreamed of a clean slate, a new dawn. But he’d been wrong to dream–

Bloody foolish

— naive, even.

Sometimes he’d find himself staring at the carpets, the walls, and he’d see history . Right there. Starting up, unfolding, developing ( Bad history, worse still…). And then, when he looked even closer, he’d distinguish yet another strand, another layer, underneath the ‘new’ facade. Embedded in the molecules. In the fabric of the building. In the…the stuff . Growing like a fungi. Spreading. Encroaching .

When his mind took this kind of turn, he’d throw on some shorts, a vest, some trainers and he’d run–

Away

Just away

— anything up to 12 miles. At full pelt. Until his arms and legs grew numb.

Isidore could sometimes fall prey to attacks of paranoia, but in relation to Harvey his misgivings were justified (in fact they were absolutely spot on). Harvey was out to get him, and Elen knew it, but she had been skilfully manipulated by the builder into a compromising tradeoff. She’d been side-lined. Her loyalties had been called upon, placed under duress, compacted , and then twisted.

Harvey had not — as yet — gone to work on their home, but he’d taken the time — and the effort — to go to work on her.

Three weeks after the scaffolding first went up (still no tarpaulin, and it’d rained every day since, bar one) Harvey had arrived on the doorstep mid-morning.

‘You see before you,’ he’d proclaimed dramatically (yanking off his puffer jacket and fastidiously shaking the rain from its delicate fabric: straight on to Elen’s hallway carpet), ‘a Man In Crisis.’

‘ Ditto ,’ Elen rejoined, holding up a brimming bucket (water was currently streaming down three of their upstairs walls. She’d emptied out a succession of bowls and pans on two previous occasions already that morning). Harvey stared at her, blankly. She bit her tongue.

‘So what’s the problem?’ she’d asked, stepping aside to let him past–

Bright smile

BRIGHT smile

Harvey made his own way into the kitchen, pulled out a chair and sat down. As he answered her question he focussed, pointedly, on the kettle. Elen promptly walked over to it.