Nicola Barker - Darkmans

Are they…?

Has he…?

Then he found himself–

Ting!

— staring down — somewhat bemusedly — at his own two feet–

Feet?

He blinked.

Ting!

He stared down at them again–

My feet?

His feet — he blinked for a second time–

Ting!

— just to make doubly sure–

Yup—

There they both are…

— were tightly encased in a pair of tiny, leather shoes; ornate leather pumps, dramatically pointed. And the toes–

Ouch!

— were aching, were pushed together, were cramped .

He roared. He found himself roaring; uninhibitedly, potently , without restraint, like an angry bull (or the anti-Geisha). He bellowed at his feet. He felt enraged by his feet (cooped, jailed, corralled by them)–

Stop, now

He struggled to control himself–

Stop now…

— but failed–

STOP!

QUIET!

ENOUGH!

He pulled himself straight, with a small, hoarse cough–

Yes.

Right.

Ahem…

Good.

— then promptly recommenced his climb. As he ascended, he felt buoyed by an overriding sense of purpose; by a steely, almost unassailable resolve.

But the shoes–

Oh come on!

— the shoes were suddenly…They were impossible. They were unwieldy, impracticable, downright unworkable . The toes were ridiculously long, the stairs were unfeasibly short… And the combination of the two…?

Bedlam!

He began to jink himself sideways — like a crab — to preclude smashing the empty, pointed toe into the back of the stair, to allow the weight of each step to be taken by the heel rather than by only the tender, over-worked front pad…

It was…

Uh…

He was…

Uh…

And just when…

Wow!

He glanced around him, quite amazed. He’d arrived at his destination, almost without realising. He threw out his arms with an exuberant whoop and rotated on the spot. He was standing (and twirling, and whooping–

Twirling?

Whooping?

Seriously?! )

— in the heart of an airy, cornflower-blue sky, suspended on a kind of a…a roof , a tower. And he was surrounded by…

What?

Tiles! A huge expanse of tiling. Beautiful tiling. Ancient tiling. He sneaked out a furtive hand and he touched the tiles. He caressed the tiles…

Ahhhh!

Then he found himself…

No!

Stop that!

— pulling the tiles loose, one by one–

Vandal!

— and holding them, stroking them, full of awe. He felt the weight of the tile, the strength of it, the undeniable craftsmanship …

And then suddenly–

Oh God—

Not again!

— that insidious — that pernicious— feeling of rage began bubbling up inside of him (starting in his stomach and burning all the way through him, like a dose of chronic indigestion) but this time it was coupled with–

Eh?

— a deep–

No …

— a profound sense of the grossest injustice. He felt aggrieved. He felt indignant. He felt bileful. He felt…he felt…

Different?

Beede endeavoured to contain this colourful swirl of feelings within the needs, demands and limitations of his own character, his own life . It was a struggle (matching up the edges, trying to force this wayward spectrum of emotions to cohere with his own), and just as he was finally making some slight show of progress, he found himself–

But is this me, or is it someone else?

— sprinting to the edge of the parapet and gazing down–

Now hang on…

— and he was shouting–

Surely not…?

— screaming–

Definitely not…!

— although he wasn’t entirely sure what he yelled, or at whom , exactly…

Far below–

Hello!

— he saw men–

Ants!

Black ants!

— in costumes, peering up at him; some laughing, some shouting right back, some gesticulating, coarsely.

Ahh…

So you think this is funny, do you?

— and before he knew what…

No!

— almost without…

No!

— he’d hurled down one tile and was lunging for another–

Wait!

— then another–

Stop!

— and another.

Tiles smashed and shattered in the courtyard below him. Men scattered, running for cover…Until–

Huh?!

The crash of a door, the flurry of footsteps, the sharp nudge of steel between his shoulderblades.

He gasped.

Was he afraid?

Am I?

Was he?

No.

He smirked.

He turned, lifting his arms, cackling victoriously; gloating, imperious, exultant .

Beede awoke–

Wah?!

His eyes snapped open. He saw…

Wah?!

The cat.

The cat ?!

Yes. The cat.

The cat had crept into his room–

Ting!

— and on to his bed–

Ting!

— and was now sitting — bold as brass — square on his chest–

Ooof!

Beede stared up at the cat. The cat peered down at Beede; quizzically, perplexedly —his ears pricked, his head jinked — a slight chime sounding, intermittently, from the bell on his collar.

Beede didn’t move. He remained where he was, hardly even breathing; blank, inert, supine…

Then suddenly–

Ting!

— a chord was struck. He hauled himself upright–

Bell?

What Bell?!

— and the poor cat went flying.

’I feel regret…’ Gaffar told the Goth, returning to the sofa (having carefully scrubbed out Beede’s highly prized, Denby Pottery casserole dish in the left-over water from a bath he’d enjoyed earlier), throwing himself down, snatching the remote from her (she was watching reruns of The Osbournes with such stony-faced concentration that it might as well’ve been a gut-wrenching two-hour special about ethnic violence in Rwanda) and turning it — almost out of habit — to the Islamic Channel just in time for the evening prayer ’…of course I do — I’m only human, after all. I left behind a mother, a brother, aunts, uncles,’ he counted them off on to his fingers, ‘ but I didn’t do it consciously, not willingly . It was all just…just force of circumstance. My hands were tied ,’ he held up his hands, pinned together at the wrists, to demonstrate, ‘ it was destiny. Destiny, yeah? I honestly believe that. ’

Kane emitted a gentle snore. They both glanced over at him. He was collapsed, post-dinner, spread-eagled on his favourite brown leather tv chair, his feet gently suspended on the inbuilt stool. Above him, an ancient, slightly torn poster of Haile Selassie was slowly unpeeling from the wall.

‘You have family?’ he asked, haltingly.

Geraldine nodded. Then she winced.

‘Trust me,’ Gaffar chastised her, ‘if this bad family is vamoose , is go…’

He scowled. ’All those tiny ticks, those habits, those faults which always irritated you before, or embarrassed you in front of your friends, once you’re gone — once they’re gone — then those same bad things — those maddening characteristics — become a kind of emotional glue which sticks them to your heart, to your soul, which makes them live and breathe inside of you, become an indelible part of you, so that soon what you thought you wanted or needed or craved suddenly seems almost…’ he shrugged, ’immaterial …’’