Nicola Barker - Darkmans

Under his nose. In his mouth. On the tip of his tongue.

Three things:

1. The letter.

2. The skinny boy (Lester) and the disabled dog.

3. The paternity swab.

He’d been emptying a wastepaper basket into the dustbin when he came across an early draft.

It was written in Elen’s neat hand–

Dear Mr Wrotham,

— it said—

I am writing, as a professional ( this was later crossed out ) as a doctor* and speaker of Latin* ( *this had been clumsily inserted, in a different, scruffy, ill-formed script ) to draw your attention to the fact that there is a ‘slight’ ( replaced as ) ‘serious’ problem with the format of your current edition of the Ashford Region Phone Book…

That was it.

Underneath, in note form, and in that unfamiliar hand again (presumably as a gentle reminder for the letter’s second version, which must’ve been more successful than the first, because there was no sign of it in the bin — he’d checked) was written:

(1) A Priori — Garry Spivey ( the double ‘r’ in Garry had been forcefully underlined ).

(2) Say about the back-handers.

(3) Say your respectable.

(4) Mention AAABuilders Ltd but not that Im on a job 4 u.

(5) NB!!!****Quote the Collins Dictionary!!!

Eh?

Dory frowned and turned it over (as if an explanation might be neatly written on the back — ie: Hello. This is Elen. It’s the start of my menstrual cycle and I have gone temporarily insane. But no. Nothing).

He sat down and thought about the letter for a while. He simply couldn’t make sense of it. Why would Elen be writing a letter to the phone book people? And about its format of all things?

It just…

She just…

She wouldn’t.

No.

Then who …? Who had prompted her to do so? And whose notes were those (on the bottom of the page)?

Harvey’s?

Elen had made absolutely no mention to him–

None

— of a conversation with Harvey.

In fact Elen hated Harvey (insofar as Elen could possibly hate anybody)–

Didn’t she?

I mean she slandered Harvey at every given opportunity…

Or have I got this all…?

Am I…?

Lester.

Lester!

Maybe it was for him? Maybe this was something for Lester’s benefit? Maybe it was some kind of…of reference for the boy…

No.

It’s a letter about the format of the phone book, that’s what.

Oh God—

But it doesn’t make any…

Dory suddenly crumpled the page up, in his hand. ‘Damn her,’ he murmured softly, his eyes filling with tears.

‘ Damn her.’

Sometimes he would see things — strange things; like a tiny, winged devil (for example), its claws caught up in the fabric of the bedroom curtains, or an exotic bird, cowering under an overturned teacup on the kitchen draining-board — and he would blink, and he would warn himself that he was asleep (that this was a brief, waking dream of some kind).

It happened fairly regularly. He was thoroughly accustomed to it. It was simply what he liked to call ‘a trick of the mind’.

And so it was with the little dog. He’d been strolling out of the downstairs lavatory (still fairly preoccupied by some troubling issue at work) and he could’ve sworn that he’d seen a small dog trundling by on a cart (heading out of the hallway and into the living-room, at a slow trot).

The dog was not on the cart so much as attached to it (by its back legs and hips, with two leather straps). The cart — a bright red colour, jaunty, almost gipsy-ish in design — was presumably some kind of replacement for its back limbs which — even from where he stood — seemed ill-formed and limp (possibly crushed — he idly mused — in a terrible accident).

He slowly shook his head. Then he grimaced. Then he turned, climbed upstairs, and forgot all about it.

Several days later he accidentally happened across Lester, in the kitchen, casually holding something under his arm–

Huh…?

He drew closer. He blinked a few times, just to make sure. It was small. It was brown. It was definitely–

Definitely

— animate. And it bore–

No getting around it

— quite a striking resemblance to the creature he’d seen previously in his ‘waking nightmare’.

Lester was making himself a cup of tea, one-handed. He seemed almost indecently familiar with the lay-out of the kitchen.

‘Is that your dog, Lester?’ Dory had asked, staring nervously at the forlorn, little creature and feeling a strange, tingling sense of déjà vu . Lester (balancing the dog on his hip, as though it were a baby or a rolled-up sleeping bag) glanced over at him in apparent astonishment.

‘What’s that?’

He appeared to be experiencing some difficulty in comprehending Dory’s accent.

‘The dog ,’ Dory pointed, ‘is it yours?’

‘ Mine ?’

Lester seemed genuinely shocked by the notion.

He quickly glanced down at the dog; firstly, as if to double-check that it actually was a dog, and secondly (once he’d established its fundamental dog-ness — Snout? Check . Paws? Check ), whether it might reasonably be described as being his.

‘No it ain’t,’ he eventually muttered (just the slightest hint of superciliousness in his voice—‘ What?! As if I’d own an animal like that !’).

Dory had no particular fondness for canines. He’d never developed an affinity for them as a boy — his family hadn’t ever owned one. His father had been almost hysterically fearful of animal hair (because of his allergies, although — ironically — he’d always been extremely passionate about horses; worse luck for Dory, whose horror of them bordered on the phobic).

The dog in question seemed very obliging. It wasn’t a young animal. It had the dismal air of a creature which had seen better days: an animal which had journeyed — and possibly some distance — beyond its prime. When Dory inhaled, he caught just a suggestion of a whiff from it–

Mouldy wheat—

Wet sand—

Ammonia

He frowned and grimaced. His nostrils twitched.

Lester expertly slung the animal around his neck (the way some kinds of eccentrics liked to carry their cats) to free-up both hands to prepare his tea. It was a long dog (its extended spine better facilitating this unconventional kind of transport), although it certainly wasn’t a dachshund (the only type of long dog Dory could actually name, off-hand).

‘Then whose is it?’ Dory persisted.

‘ Huh ?’ Lester’s hearing seemed temporarily impaired. He was wearing a gangsta-style kerchief around his head (red, with tiny white stars — which might’ve been the source of his problem) and a pair of cream-coloured dungarees, which flapped a couple of dismal inches above his ankles, like two shabby sails against the skinny mast of his leg.

‘Is it Harvey’s dog?’

‘ Harvey’s dog?’

Lester snorted as he picked up the kettle. ‘Harvey don’t own no dog, man. An’ if he does, then I’m it. I’m Harvey’s fuckin’ dog.’

Lester tapped a self-righteous middle finger against his chest as he poured.

Dory chose to ignore this particular flight of fancy (Lester currently seemed to have a vested interest in presenting himself publicly as Harvey’s tragic victim. His dupe. He’d increasingly started to dress — and speak — like one of the colourful panoply of characters in Alex Haley’s Roots ).