Nicola Barker - Darkmans

Twingeing…

Is that really a word?

Although–

Uh…

Now just hang on there…

— was the foot really the spur? The root of it all? The instigator? I mean couldn’t it just as easily be the other way around? ie his thoughts being absorbed by her–

The soft voice

The smooth fall of her hair…

— then frantically retreating–

The birthmark/patronising manner/pyromaniac son/his psychotic father

— and so turning, instead, by…by proxy , you might almost say, to the foot (which — because of some strange, fucked-up biological imperative–

Hysterical—

Didn’t she actually say that? )

— had become the unwitting locus — the physical expression — of all his rancour.

Wasn’t the wart just a collaborator? A patsy? Wasn’t it simply giving him carte blanche to think about — to dwell upon — to linger …

On her?

Elen?

Or…

God—

Worse still (standing quietly behind her, almost eclipsed by her shadow):

Beede?

No.

No. It was the foot. It was the wart. It was the twingeing, the itching–

Now that truly is disgusting…

— and the occasional, entirely arbitrary dart of stabbing pain–

Ouch.

There it goes again…

It was definitely the foot. Because the more he dwelt on it, the more he realised that these irritating symptoms had been solidly in evidence since well before Monday’s fateful meeting. Not quite so patently — so obviously — as they were now, not nearly so…so belligerently —but they had been there.

Although–

Yes…

— he didn’t mind admitting (on the subject of mental unease etc) that he’d been somewhat alarmed (shaken up, even) by the letter from W. From Winnie. From Winifred. Because so far as he was aware (which wasn’t very far — he couldn’t honestly remember the last time he’d bothered asking Anthony — her father — about her general health/happiness/wellbeing) she’d moved permanently to Leeds (the university. Had some kind of fancy, post-graduate position in the History Department there).

He hadn’t seen her for several years–

Four—

At the very least

And yet here was Beede, his father (dull old Beede, musty old Beede–

Mysterious old Beede?

Secretive old Beede?

Randy old Beede?! —

Urgh.

— Kane shuddered), conducting some kind of secret, but oddly intimate relationship with her (I mean all the stuff about the Madeira cake. Why would Beede give a damn about such trivia? Did Beede even eat cake? Did the fact of cake even offer up a tiny blip on Beede’s psychological radar?

Because you wouldn’t…

Cake?!

…you wouldn’t even mention the cafeteria unless there was some kind of shared background in tea or food or…

Did Winifred even like cake?

He struggled to think. He tried to remember. Cake. Sharing cake. Enjoying cake together…

Nope.

Nothing.

Sharing tabs. Having sex. Smoking dope. Enjoying blow-backs. Yeah. But cake ?

Winifred Shilling — pill-fiend extraordinaire — sitting quietly with a fragrant pot of Earl Grey at her elbow in a suburban tearoom somewhere? Eh?!

Kane snorted, contemptuously.

Nah ).

He glanced down–

Damn

The tip of his spliff had dropped off into his lap. And there was still a small–

Fuck!

— ember…

He cuffed it from his jeans and down on to the floor. He checked the fabric — no hole, but a tiny, brown…

Bugger

He took a final, deep drag–

Nope…

Dead

— then tried to push the damp dog-end into the ashtray, but the ashtray, it seemed, was already full to capacity. He frowned, then tutted, fussily. Some fool had shoved a cigarette packet in there–

Gaffar…

— he tried to remove it, manoeuvring it out so as not to spill ash everywhere. As the packet came free he saw — with a slight start — that it wasn’t actually what he’d thought–

Not a packet…

He unfolded it, thinking it might be some kind of supermarket scratchcard. But no. A card— yes , certainly — but not a scratchcard. A playing card. A Jack. A Jack of Hearts. He gazed at it, blankly, as he shoved his dog-end into the ashtray. Then he blew on the card (to clean off the ash) and slipped it, with a small smile, into his pocket. As he pushed in his hand he felt another card. He frowned–

What…?

Then he remembered. The card he’d taken from his father’s book. The business card–

Yeah?

He pulled it out. But it wasn’t the business card. It was another playing card. A second playing card. He stared at it, scowling.

The Joker.

The Joker?!

He delved back into his pockets again, searching for that other card — the business card.

Nothing.

Where’d it go?

And then he remembered the book. Beede’s book…The one he…

Nope .

He inspected the Joker again. But it wasn’t the Joker. It was the Jack. The Joker…

He turned the card over. He searched his pockets. The Joker was gone. He held the Jack and stared at it.

‘Must’ve mis-read…’ he murmured.

Ho-hum.

He shoved the card away, scowling, then peered up at her house–

Elen’s house …

Because here he was–

Sure as eggs

— for all his well-rehearsed expressions of confusion/nonchalance/indifference etc — lounging casually in his car (a mere three days since their last encounter), planning on…expecting to…hoping to…

Uh…

He’d tried to track down her practice in the phone book, but hadn’t been able to find it there. She was married now and he didn’t know her surname, so he’d finally resorted–

Yes, yes…

— to a furtive inspection of his father’s address book.

He’d noted — with some interest — that she wasn’t listed under ‘c’ for chiropodist, or under ‘e’ for Elen, even, but under ‘g’.

G?

He’d discovered other things, too. Further to the bank statement (which he’d uncovered, accidentally, a couple of days previously) he’d unearthed two old cheque books ( all of the stubs–

Thanks, Pops!

— religiously filled out, if somewhat cryptically, in his own special short-hand), some meticulous account books, several letters from the bank manager (further to our meeting on…etc etc), and a demand from a shonky loan company (dated 27 November)–

What the…?!

That’d been the biggest shock.

Kane took out his cigarettes and sparked one up. He gazed over at the house again. He frowned. So was this the reason his father currently found himself over £38,000 in hock?

His mind dwelt, momentarily, on the envelope Beede had passed her in the restaurant–

How furtive he’d looked—

What was it? Love? Sex? Blackmail? ( Sex? Blackmail?!

Seriously?! Knowing Beede, it was far more likely to be some kind of mealy-mouthed petition about the ‘brutal coppicing’ of a group of ancient Limes on the cycle track near the Stour Centre).

Whatever the reason, this certainly wasn’t the kind of place he’d pictured her living in. Not Elen ( Elen— he found himself tripping on the name — mid-syllable — just like his father had done).