Nicola Barker - Darkmans

One time he just took off — he absconded — into the desert. He’d’ve been pushing eleven. It wasn’t planned, exactly, but he packed a rucksack with four cans of Coke, five bars of chocolate and a large packet of pretzels. It was a great adventure. In those brief forty-eight hours he managed to acquire a winning combination of both minor sunstroke (hence the scars on his arm) and borderline hypothermia.

She’d waited, patiently, never thinking to raise the alarm, just trusting that there was something he needed to work out, and telling him, when he finally returned home (without tears or rancour, sitting calmly in a small pool of her own piss and shit) that if he could be depended upon to care for her —which he quite patently could (with this one, admittedly, somewhat glaring exception), then he should definitely be relied upon to care for himself. It was only fair , after all.

They’d returned to England — and to Ashford — shortly after. She missed the desert, dreadfully. Especially the skies. And the sunrise. It was his fault entirely, and he knew it, and he felt crushed by this knowledge. They’d moved into a drab sheltered flat on Hunter Avenue, opposite the playing fields.

Of course — for the most part — he’d always been there for her (just like she’d said). He’d been kind and he’d been tender. He’d loved her. Even now he could remember — with a smile — the sharp turn of her head, the elegant way she lifted her chin (that powerful — almost palpable —feeling she always gave him of natural grace under vicious attack), her ferocious sense of mischief, her passion for art, for music, the way she was always the first to laugh, to scoff, to swear (like a trooper) — at her pain, her illness and herself.

‘The faster I flare up,’ she’d always say, ‘the quicker I cool down.’

And ‘Brush off the shit,’ was her other great favourite. ‘Quick smart. Else it’ll be liable to stick.’

‘How’d you get my number?’ she demanded.

‘Your number?’ Kane repeated, grimacing ( Fuck . Now there’d be no avoiding it). ‘I got it from my dad.’

He said this as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

‘Your dad ?’

‘Yes. Yes …’ he tried to sound bullish. ‘Why? Is there a problem with that?’

‘Uh…No. I suppose not…’ Winifred paused, suspiciously. ‘But your voice sounds different.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘I’m not being stupid.

I’m perfectly serious. It sounds…’ she paused, ‘ thick . Kind of stressed.’

‘I am stressed,’ he said, trying his utmost to sound the opposite.

‘And you’re drunk,’ she sighed, ‘you’ve been drinking. Oh God, is it going to be one of those phone calls?’

‘ Those phone calls?’ Kane echoed, with a dry laugh. ‘ Those phone calls? Well that’s kind of rich, isn’t it, coming from you?’

‘Yeah…’ she sniggered (as if suddenly realising who it was that she was actually speaking to), ‘that’s true.’

He appreciated her ready candour (he’d always appreciated it).

‘So what did I do?’ she asked, in a tone of voice which implied it could’ve been any number of things.

‘All I really need,’ he said lightly, ‘is to understand your sudden attraction to my father.’

‘ Attraction?! You are drunk,’ she chuckled. ‘Tequila.’

‘No.’

‘Vodka. You’re terrible on pure spirits. They don’t suit your body chemistry. It’s important to understand what works for you, Kane. I always told you that, didn’t I?’

‘You did,’ he said. ‘When it comes to fucking-up well , you’re the best possible teacher.’

‘Thanks.’

He stared at the bottle of vodka on the table. He’d just bought it, at the off-licence. He stared at the picture of the Moscow Hotel.

‘Was it the Broad girl who told you?’ she asked. ‘What’s her name, again? Kelly?’

‘No. I saw the package you sent. The letter.’

‘Ah. The medieval thing. Wasn’t that fascinating?’

‘And I wondered…’ he ignored her question, ‘whether your sudden reacquaintance with my father might bear any relation to the fact that he currently finds himself over £38,000 in debt.’

A long pause

‘I’m good ,’ she murmured, perhaps a little shocked, ‘but not that good.’

‘Don’t sell yourself short,’ he said.

‘Your father rang me up,’ she said stiffly, ‘because I’m a published author. It means I have ready access to the British Library…’

‘So why all the stuff about the Madeira cake?’

‘ What stuff?’

Kane adopted a girlish voice, ‘“The Madeira cake was a little dry ”…’

‘ Wow… ’ she sounded almost awed, ‘you really did read that letter…’

Kane tried to brush it off. ‘I’m worried about Beede,’ he said, ‘that’s all.’

‘ You? ’ she snorted. ‘Worried about Beede ?!’

‘Things change…’ he reasoned.

‘Nope. Some things are set in stone,’ she said, ‘and I’m pretty sure that’s one of them.’

She paused. ‘We’re peas in a pod, you and I.’

‘And what about you?’ Kane wondered, slightly on the defensive now (he didn’t want to be a pea in a pod — certainly not a pea in a pod with her ). ‘Rushing off to Leeds. Writing a book. Developing a wild passion for a certain kind of plain cake …’

‘So are you dating the Broad girl?’

‘Why?’

‘Terrible family. But she seemed…well, sweet . Young. Too young. And too skinny. But I liked her.’

She sighed. ‘It really was a shame about her brother…’

Kane said nothing.

‘I got him started, apparently…’

She tried to make light of it. ‘You got everyone started.

You got me started…’

Pause

‘So did you hear I got hitched?’

Kane’s head jerked back.

‘Congratulations,’ he stuttered.

‘He was a graduate student at ULU. Doing a PhD on Alexander Pope. You know, the poet…’

‘Yes. I know who Alexander Pope is.’

‘ The Rape of the Lock .’

‘I know who Alexander Pope is.’

‘ What dire offence from amorous causes springs ,’ she persisted. ‘ What mighty contests rise from trivial things…’

‘I know who Alexander Pope is, Win,’ he snapped.

Pause

‘Anyway,’ Winifred continued (plainly deeply gratified at having provoked the all-but unflappable Kane into a brief show of temper), ‘he was from Haiti. Had the constitution of an ox . His family were all crazy. His father wrote the book about Jung. The one they use on all the college syllabuses. His mother was some kind of Voodoo High Priestess…’

‘A divine union, then,’ Kane sniped.

Winnie said nothing.

‘Congratulations…’ he pushed on.

‘You already said that.’

‘So I’m saying it again. And I’m meaning it.’

He did mean it. Yes. He did.

Silence

‘You see my dad pretty much every week, right?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘And you never thought to ask?’

‘About what?’

‘Me.’

‘No,’ he was unapologetic, ‘I mean why complicate things?’ ‘Of course,’ she hissed,

‘of course .’

Pause

‘I forget now…’ she eventually murmured, ‘did I break up with you, or was it the other way around?’

‘Both. You did all the breaking, but then you persisted in acting like I’d ruined your life.’