Nicola Barker - Darkmans

Beede bent down to pick up his post from the mat, then pulled off his helmet. He pushed his fingers through his hair.

Silence.

‘Nice suit,’ he said, finally, with a slight gesture of the hand, as if to break the ice between them.

‘Sure,’ Gaffar muttered, ‘is good suit.’ He shrugged.

‘Perhaps…uh…’ he shrugged again ‘… a little on the roomy side . But, hey …’

He winced, amiably.

‘So you’re staying upstairs with Kane?’ Beede enquired.

‘You ride motorbike?’ Gaffar counter-questioned, pointing — with just a hint of incredulity — at Beede’s battered and ancient piss-pot helmet. ‘Uh, yes…’ Beede peered down at the helmet, distractedly. ‘An old bike. A Douglas.’

‘ Hmmn . Is so? I never hear of this bike…’

‘That’s probably because it’s British.’

‘Ah…’ Gaffar snorted, dismissively, then folded up his large hands and slotted them, primly, between his thighs.

Beede walked over to his door and pushed it open. He stepped inside and then he paused.

He turned. ‘So, Gaffar…Is there something…?’

Gaffar glanced up, in apparent surprise. ‘ Nothing . I just… uh …sit.’

‘Right.’ Beede nodded. ‘ Good .’

He gently began to push the door to.

‘ Nothing …’ Gaffar repeated (but with a touch more urgency this time), ‘I mean is nothing for to trouble you …’

He hesitated. ‘I mean is only small thing. An insignificant little…uh… ’ he pondered for a second ’…dilemma.’

‘I see…’ Beede tossed his helmet, the post and his knapsack down on to the sofa. He seemed tired and preoccupied. ‘Tough day?’ Gaffar enquired. ‘Is there ever any other kind?’ Beede countered dryly, pulling off his leather gloves and observing — with some irritation — a slick of hair oil marking the hide.

‘I was come to see you…’ Gaffar cleared his throat, nervously, ‘ today . In hospital…But then…’

He grimaced. ‘Really?’ Beede didn’t seem especially delighted by the idea. ‘The truth is that I barely have time for visitors, Gaffar — I’m always pretty busy down there…’

Then something suddenly dawned on him. ‘Ah…I see . You wanted to come and apply for a job, perhaps? Employment? In the laundry?’

Gaffar’s brows shot up, in horror. ‘God, no ,’ he blurted out. ’Heaven preserve me!’

Beede looked piqued for a moment, then his irritation evaporated and he chuckled, wryly.

‘Uh… No! ’ Gaffar back-pedalled, guiltily. ‘Is because I have job, see? Job with Kane. Good job…’ he paused. ‘But this job you have, is also good job,’ he continued, obsequiously, ‘ hard job. Kane he say…uh…’ Gaffar frowned. ‘He say…’ he paused, struggling to find the right words, ’it’s almost like a…a dance…’

He quickly stood up and gracefully threw out his arms, to illustrate. ‘ He says the hospital linen is full of shit and blood and vomit, but you grab it with your hands and you embrace it. You hold it to you, without pride but with…with acceptance. With love. Like a dancing partner. No sign of…of fastidiousness. He says it’s really quite…quite… beautiful — yes? Beautiful to watch — although, of course, on another level …’ Gaffar mimed himself retching, in total disgust.

‘ Beautiful? ’ Beede seemed taken aback. ‘ Kane actually said that?’ Gaffar nodded.

‘Good gracious.’

‘Yes…’ Gaffar tried his utmost to seal his advantage. ‘Like…like beautiful machine . Automata .’

Beede’s face dropped. ‘Oh. Yes . Of course. I see what you mean…’

He suddenly looked tired again. He sat down, stiffly, on the sofa, pinched his sinuses between his fingers and remained — hunched over, his elbows pressing into his knees — for what seemed like an age. Gaffar hung around the doorway, uncertain whether or not to enter. After a certain duration he subtly drew Beede’s attention to his continuing presence with a polite cough.

Beede opened his eyes and glanced over. ‘I’m sorry, Gaffar,’ he apologised, ‘it’s been a long old day and I’m not much in the way of company…’

Gaffar nodded, mutely, and took a small step back into the half-light.

Beede instantly took pity on him. ‘But you said you had a problem of some kind…?’ he asked, straightening up, pushing back his shoulders, taking off his glasses (placing them, carefully, on to the arm of the sofa) and rubbing his face, vigorously, with both hands.

Gaffar scowled. ‘ Problem? No. No .’

He shook his head, emphatically.

‘I see…Well, I must’ve misheard you, then.’

Beede picked up his glasses and carefully reapplied them. He stared at Gaffar, enquiringly.

Gaffar took a step closer. ‘Is just… you could hardly call it a problem … More of a …’ he bit his lip, ‘ a puzzle…A hiccough. Yes. Hiccough. Something which…which recurs. Something which infuriates and disrupts, which persists. What’s the English word for that? ’

‘For what?’

Gaffar hiccoughed.

‘A hiccough?’

‘ Hey presto! ’

‘Right…’ Beede patiently awaited further elucidation, but none was forthcoming.

‘Okay, a hiccough , eh?’ he gamely struggled to improvise. ‘So let’s see…Is it an immigration issue, perhaps, or…or something connected to the local authorities?’

Gaffar flapped his hand, dismissively.

‘Is it policemans? ’

Gaffar snorted.

‘Is it Kane?’ Beede suddenly looked worried. ‘Is he forcing you to do something that you feel uncomfortable with?’

At the mention of Kane’s name, Gaffar placed his finger over his lips, hurried into the room and closed the door, gently, behind him.

‘Is Kane upstairs?’ Beede whispered. ‘Don’t you want him to hear us?’

‘Kane is… uh …Kane is out,’ Gaffar spoke at normal volume, ‘in car.’

‘Oh…’ Beede paused. ‘So is somebody else up there? The redhead? Kelly? Is it Kelly Broad? Is it something she’s said?’

‘No…’ Gaffar shook his head. ‘But is with her — this Kelly — I have…’ he gesticulated.

‘Hiccough,’ Beede filled in, helpfully.

Gaffar strolled over, grabbed Beede’s helmet, the post and his bag, placed them — carefully — on to the kitchen counter, then sat down next to him.

‘What I need is… uh …’ he scowled, exasperated, clenching his hands together, earnestly, ‘I need friend… Friend ?’ Beede stared at him, unblinking. For some reason his heart was sinking. He had a bad feeling.

‘ Okay …’ he murmured.

‘Yes. In fact more of a…a confidant …’ Gaffar paused, speculatively, ’actually, no. Not confidant . Just…just someone discreet, someone who doesn’t need me to confide in them. Someone who takes things at face value. That kind of a person…’

Beede said nothing.

Gaffar cleared his throat, carefully.