Nicola Barker - Darkmans

Dory had opened the journal and was scanning one of his early entries. ‘This is my journal,’ he explained, ‘Rosen insists that you keep one when you embark on the journey.’

‘So how long is it now?’ Beede asked.

‘Pardon?’

‘How long have you been…’ Beede faltered on the word ‘journeying’, ‘How long have you been practising now, in total?’

‘Uh…Two months. And I’m not practising, as such, not completely. It takes about a year to learn all the basics.’

‘And have you been feeling better for it?’ Beede wondered.

‘Yes.’

Dory was unequivocal.

‘Really?’ Beede seemed unconvinced. ‘ Significantly better?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘During the eight or so weeks you’ve been practising, has everything…?’

‘Better?’ Dory scowled. ‘Yes…Well, no …’

‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ Beede persisted (remembering what Elen had confessed to him, in the laundry, several days before), ‘but I was under the impression that things had grown quite difficult over the past few months, that things might even have grown worse in some regards, less controlled …’

‘Sorry?’ Dory seemed confused. ‘When did I tell you that?’

As he spoke he slapped the book shut. Beede watched his hands closely, sensing the bird squatting down, readying itself, tensing itself, as if intending to take flight. Dory was scowling. ‘Over the past few months or so? I don’t know…I thought…’

His eyes moved around the car, restlessly, then focussed in on the dashboard clock.

‘ Christ ,’ he said, ‘it’s late…I should’ve been…’ He inspected his wrist-watch. ‘I should’ve been well on my way to Charing by now…’

Beede stared at him, perplexedly, for a couple of seconds.

‘Sorry…’ Dory apologised, yanking down his seat-belt and fastening it.

‘Don’t apologise…’ Beede grabbed his gloves and reached for the door handle, trying not to upset his carton of coffee.

‘Ring me,’ Dory said, ‘and next time let’s try and make it all a little less ad-hoc …’

‘Now you come to mention it,’ Beede told him, climbing out of the car, ‘I’ve actually arranged some time off from work. I thought we might…’

‘Great. Fantastic .’

Dory cut him short, leaning forward, pumping the clutch, reaching one hand for the gears and the other for the ignition. Beede continued to hold the door ajar as the engine roared into life.

‘I will phone you,’ he promised.

‘You do that.’

Dory checked his mirror, then glanced over his shoulder. Beede slammed the door shut and took a step back.

Beede.

Beede.

He blinked. Dory had wound down the passenger window and was addressing him through it.

‘Yes? Sorry?’

He inclined his head, slightly.

‘I meant to tell you,’ Dory shouted, over the din of the engine, ‘I met your son.’

‘Pardon?’

Beede leaned down still further.

‘Kane. Your son . I saw him. I met him.’

‘ Kane? ’

‘Yes.’ ‘You saw…?’

‘Yes. He came to my house. This afternoon.’

Beede looked stunned. ‘Kane came to your house ? Are you sure?’ ‘He said he had an appointment. With Elen. Although she certainly hadn’t mentioned it. He claimed it was for his foot. For a verruca. He didn’t introduce himself, but I just…I sensed it was him. Call it…’ he shrugged, ‘call it instinct . In fact I recognised his voice of all things. His accent. You know…drawling, very distinctive, slightly American…’

Beede opened his mouth as if to speak, but he said nothing. His mind was racing.

‘You look very different,’ Dory said.

‘How?’ Beede put a hand to his face, panicked.

‘Not you . You and Kane . Different from each other.’

‘Oh. Yes…’ Beede nodded, distractedly, ‘I suppose we are very different.’

‘Phone me.’

Dory smiled. He waved. He wound the passenger window back up. He pulled off, smoothly.

Beede stared after the car, his expression unreadable.

A white van sounded its horn. He started. He turned. The van’s driver gesticulated, indignantly, as he slowly drew past him. Beede stared down at himself, vacantly. How long had he been standing there?

He noticed — with small grimace — that he was still holding the coffee carton. He flared his nostrils, shoved out his arm, tipped his hand, and poured the remaining liquid, angrily — almost contemptously —down on to the tarmac. Then he crushed the carton in his hands, paused, and then popped it — ever heedful of the environment — into his coat pocket.

‘Lackwitted…?’ he muttered, heading for the kerb, scowling, ‘ lack -witted? Where the hell’d he root up that particular configuration? Dim-witted, yes. Dim -witted I could almost accept— almost . But lack ?’

It was a photograph; a picture of Kane, as a baby, sitting in a small, suburban garden, crammed into a plastic washing-up bowl (wearing a disarmingly sensorious — almost Churchillian— expression), totally naked but for a large, white hanky which had been knotted at each corner and plopped down, rather jauntily, on to his head.

Behind him sprawled a gorgeous, curly-haired blonde on a smart, plaid blanket, wearing a skimpy pair of purple, suede hot-pants, some flip-flops, a tie-dye vest and a huge-brimmed straw hat. She’d just made a daisy-chain and was hanging it — with a huge smile — around the baby’s neck.

‘So where the fuck d’you unearth the Goth?’ Kane muttered, taking a swig of his beer and peering after her, suspiciously, as she sauntered off — in a girlish swirl of heels and black netting — towards the bathroom.

Gaffar didn’t answer. He was sifting through a dusty, old shoebox full of photographs which Kane had removed (several hours earlier — he wasn’t entirely sure why ) from the top of his wardrobe.

‘Leave those alone, will you?’ Kane snapped. He was in a filthy mood. And nothing seemed able to lift it.

Gaffar quietly ignored him and continued sifting.

‘Is something burning in the oven?’ Kane asked, sniffing. The air was rich with the mingling scents of lamb and tomato and mint and cinnamon.

Gaffar shook his head. ‘Is Kurdish meatball,’ he said. ‘Slow cook.’

‘Did you ask Beede’s permission to use his kitchen?’

Gaffar shrugged, insouciant (he hadn’t).

‘She’s an incorrigible kleptomaniac,’ Kane grumbled, peeling at the corner of his beer, label, ‘did you know that?’

‘Huh?’

‘A thief. You literally can’t take your eyes off her.’

‘Thief?’

Gaffar looked up, briefly, then glanced down again. He was now staring at a photograph in which a younger Daniel Beede — with slightly longer hair, the same glasses but an entirely different — you might almost say affable —demeanour — graciously received some kind of special plaque at a large, social occasion from a gentleman wearing unthinkable quantities of gold jewellery and a three-tiered hat.

‘Who this?’ Gaffar asked, pointing to Ashford’s then-Mayor.

‘Not just a normal kind of thief — because that’d be fine, I mean she’s a Broad , after all — but she’ll literally steal anything . It’s actually an illness. A compulsion.’

He leaned across the sofa and began feeling around inside the pockets of Geraldine’s coat.

Gaffar continued to stare at the photograph, frowning. ‘ There’s a strange kind of…of luminosity. It’s odd, but I’ve only ever observed this quality once before, in pictures of my own father, shortly after he left the Sheikhallah Bazaar, embraced Islam and journeyed to Silopi — the town of my birth… ’ He held the shot up for Kane’s perusal: ‘ When exactly was this taken? Eh? Kane? ’