Nicola Barker - Darkmans

Gaffar nodded, sagely. ‘But this wave sound is better than his music , eh?’

‘His music ?!’ Kelly squealed. ‘ Man , when I think about his taste in fuckin’ music I just thank God we broke up.’

‘Crazy music.’

‘Desert fuckin’ rock , mate.’

‘Eh?’

‘That’s what it’s called. Desert rock. Rock from the desert or somethin’. Did he play you The Meat Puppets yet?’

‘ Urgh! ’ Gaffar threw up his hands.

‘What a terrible, bloomin’ racket! ’

‘Terrible!’ Gaffar heartily agreed.

‘Just a bunch of dirty, long-haired dope -heads wailin’ an’ screamin’ over a howlin’ guitar.’

‘I ask him for play Shania Twain,’ Gaffar told her. ‘I buy cd in Tesco. Good cd. I show him this cd an’ he is laugh in my face for half an hour…’

‘Oh. My. God . I fuckin’ love Shania!’ Kelly interrupted him.

‘Instead he is play this Stoneage Queens, eh? This Meat Puppet, this big Dinosaur …’

Gaffar winced at the memory.

‘Shania is the best singer of all time,’ Kelly declared, cuffing him on the arm.

‘Shania is queen of the world,’ Gaffar cuffed her straight back, ‘Queen of this music world.’

‘I can’t believe you love Shania! I fuckin’ worship Shania!’

‘Shania is the most beautiful woman on this earth.’

‘She’s fuckin’ gorgeous , mate. She is fuckin’ beautiful . An’ she’s a good person, too, yeah? Beautiful on the inside and the out.’

They beamed at each other.

After two or three seconds Kelly actually realised what she was doing and quickly stopped herself.

She pointed at the paper, by way of a diversion. ‘So how’d we play this stupid game of yours, then?’

Gaffar leaned forward, picked up the pen, and next to the various tiny boxes he began to write–

4x1, 4x2, 4x3, 4x4, 4x5, 4x6, 2x? 3x? 3x1/2x1, 1–5.

‘Is Pachen . See?’

Kelly nodded.

Gaffar took the first throw to demonstrate. He got a five, a six, a one and three twos. He chuckled. He picked up the pen and ticked neatly in the box on his graph specifying 3x?. Then he threw again. Nothing. He passed the dice over.

Kelly shook them in her hand.

‘Kane got sore foot,’ Gaffar told her, in passing, just as she was about to throw.

She steadied herself. ‘ Huh? ’

‘Foot. Hurt on foot. He phone, phone…Find foot doctor.’

‘Kane has hurt his foot ?’

‘Yes. Wart .’ Gaffar grimaced.

‘Kane has a wart on his foot?’

‘Yes. That is what happen. That is how we talk. Nothing at all with you and this drug.’

‘Fine…’

Kelly promptly threw five sixes.

Gaffar’s eyes widened as she picked up the pen and filled in her graph. She prepared for her second throw. ‘So what are we playin’ for?’ she asked.

‘ Huh? ’

‘Cuz I ain’t playin’ for nothin’ , that’s for sure.’

Gaffar scratched his ear.

‘Okay,’ Kelly lowered her voice, ‘here’s the deal: if I win, you promise to tell me everything Beede’s doin’…’

‘ Beede? ’ Gaffar looked perplexed.

She nodded. ‘Beede. You spy on him for me. And I wanna know everythin’ . I mean if that old boy shits, then I wanna know how much and where, yeah?’

Gaffar continued to scratch, ruminatively.

‘And you can fetch me my bloody salad . I want my fuckin’ salad , right?’ She paused. ‘But if you win…’

He stopped scratching and looked up at her, keenly. Kelly thought hard for a while, frowning. Then her face suddenly cleared. ‘ Hand -job!’ she exclaimed, throwing down the dice for a second time, with an expression of high good humour.

Kane was haunted by his mother’s pain. It was indelibly etched on him (chiselled into him, like he was a soft, sandstone carving). He longed — more than anything — to banish it from his mind (not wanting to forget exactly, or to…to disrespect —not at all — just to lessen the…to blank out…to edit…), but he could not. Impossible.

As a boy her pain had been one of his earliest points of reference (am I hungry? Is it raining? Is Mummy in bad pain again?). It gave each day its substance (simply managing it, reducing it, ignoring it, enduring it). Her pain was at the heart of everything: it was the colour on their canvas, the scenery on their stage, the starring actor in their domestic drama.

He’d always known (and his mother — God bless her — had always warned him) that if he wasn’t to be overwhelmed by it (stupified, annihilated —the way she ultimately had been) then he’d need — as a matter of basic survival — to create an emotional bypass of some kind.

He’d begun the early groundwork readily enough (while she was still around to guide him): worked out a route, completed some rough sketches, got a few useful quotes in. But it was a big job, a serious job, and when things had finally (and inevitably) proven too much for him (she was gone, life was shit, what the hell was the point in expending all this effort?), he’d taken what he took to be the second-best option: he glanced over his shoulder, stuck on his indicator, and pulled into a layby–

Brake,

Clutch,

Neutral…

Phew!

Not a cop-out–

Nope

— just a temporary measure.

It was a nice enough spot (a small expanse of grass, a shady tree, a picnic table), yet even as he sat there (eating a Cornetto), the hollow knell of her pain still continued to sound (like the low growl of a grizzly bear, hungrily ransacking a trashcan somewhere). It wasn’t a deafening commotion. Not from here. It was really quite tolerable. And he was in no particular hurry to draw any closer (why should he be?). So he stayed. He encamped. He became a permanent transient.

He never spoke of it (the pain, the layby, the bear, the growling). Not to anyone. Didn’t want to speak of it. Could not stand to.

Her agony — her unbearable forbearance — was just a part of him now. Embedded within him. Utterly secret. Sacred , even.

But then…then she’d gone and brought it all up again–

The chiropodist.

Elen—

— just idly, just casually , in general conversation.

She’d pin-pointed something vulnerable on the map of him. She’d stuck a cruel tack in–

As a guide…

As a marker.

— then she’d fired a single arrow. It rose, it arced, it fell…

Ow!

She’d pierced him with it.

And no matter how hard he tried — how much he fought and wrangled with the damn thing — he simply could not pull it out of him.

‘You were so brave,’ she’d said.

Brave?

If only she knew (the nails he’d bitten. The tears he’d sobbed. The long nights — the terrible, endless, sleepless nights — full of pointless prayers to a heartless God). He shuddered at the memory.

If that was brave, she could damn well keep it. A pack of wild horses wouldn’t drag him back again.

Gaffar was waiting for Beede in the hallway, perched, uncomfortably, on the bottom stair.

Beede let himself in (not even bothering to switch the light on), slamming the door shut behind him, turning — in a kind of daze — and then glancing up, with a jolt. He hadn’t expected to see someone sitting there.

‘Gaffar,’ he said, with a stiff smile, ‘is that you? Are you still here?’ Gaffar peered down at himself, speculatively, then glanced up again, smiling, grimly. ‘Gaffar Celik— like the proverbial bad smell, eh? ’