Nicola Barker - Darkmans

‘It wasn’t…’ Kane started.

‘I mean do you make a habit of visiting your dentist at home?’

‘I just turned up,’ Kane was exasperated, ‘on a whim. There was nothing sinister about it. My foot was hurting…’

‘Oh yes ,’ Beede sneered. ‘Your foot.’

Silence

‘Did she tell you I went to see her?’ Kane asked, suddenly anxious. ‘Did she complain to you about it?’

‘No.’

‘So how…?’

‘Isidore. Her husband. He told me. He mentioned it in passing. He seemed…’ Beede pondered for a moment.

‘He seemed what?’ Kane enquired.

‘Bemused.’

‘I see.’ Kane shrugged (perhaps a touch disingenuously). ‘Well I don’t really know what cause he had to feel that way.’

‘What cause ? You just turned up at her home …’ Beede threw out his hand, exasperatedly. ‘Don’t you think that’s a little…?’

‘What?’

‘Odd?’

‘Odd?’

‘Yes.’

‘ No . No I don’t. She nursed my dying mother. We knew each other…’ ‘She didn’t nurse her,’ Beede snapped. ‘She’s a chiropodist. She massaged her feet — a couple of times, at best — ten long years ago…’

‘I know exactly what she did,’ Kane said, hoarsely, ‘I know exactly what happened. I was there , remember?’

‘All I’m telling you is that it’s a complicated situation,’ Beede struggled to keep a lid on things, ‘her husband isn’t 100 per cent well. She’s under a great deal of pressure…’

‘For fuck’s sake , Beede, she’s just taking a look at my verruca ,’ Kane remonstrated, still trying himself — at some level — to make light of it.

‘Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

Beede turned, abruptly.

‘ Ditto ,’ Kane hit back (somewhat childishly).

Beede paused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you. ’

‘Warn me ? About what?’

‘About…’ Kane scowled (I mean where exactly to start ?), ‘about Winifred.’

‘Winifred?’

‘Winifred Shilling. Anthony’s Winifred.’

‘What about her?’

‘She’s trouble.’

‘Trouble?’ Beede scoffed. ‘ Winifred? ’

‘You’d better believe it.’

‘At one time, yes, maybe…’ Beede conceded, ‘but not any more. Things’ve changed. She’s grown up. She’s moved on…’

‘Moved on?’ Kane butted in, incredulously. ‘From where ? From here ? From me ? Is that what you’re suggesting? From my bad influence? Holy Fuck …’

‘All I’m saying is that she’s got her life back on track…’

‘She’s poison .’

‘She loves her work, she published her book…’

Kane rolled his eyes.

Beede ignored him. ‘She got married about eighteen months ago to some Haitian academic…’.

‘And then they split. Because she’s poison. Everything she touches turns to shit.’

‘You exaggerate,’ Beede scowled.

‘I wish to God I did.’

‘Then perhaps you’re still too…’ he mused, provocatively ‘…too close to the whole thing.’

‘Too close? It’s been almost four years .’

‘Exactly. Four years. That’s a long time.’

‘Not nearly long enough ,’ Kane sniped, ‘from where I’m standing.’

‘Well I’ll certainly heed your advice,’ Beede allowed him, ‘and I hope — by way of fair exchange — that you’ll heed mine…’ he paused. ‘Although as far as Winnie’s concerned,’ he couldn’t resist adding, ‘you have absolutely nothing to worry about.’

Winnie?!

‘I’m not worried,’ Kane insisted haughtily, ‘I just thought you should know.’

‘Good. So now I do.’

‘Good.’

They both turned. They both paused. They both took one measured step forward, then another; like a pair of old adversaries engaging in a duel, but without weapons, or seconds, or anybody to call.

The surly, farting roar from the blackened exhaust of Beede’s old Douglas had barely finished resounding off the walls in the hallway before Gaffar was padding nonchalantly downstairs (Beede’s precious casserole dish cradled lovingly in his arms) and trying to gain access to the ground-floor flat.

He eased down the handle with his elbow and then nudged at the door with his shoulder, fully expecting it to just give , but it didn’t, it wouldn’t –

Eh?!

— so he placed the dish down gently against the skirting and tackled it for a second time using both hands.

Nope . Solid as a rock. He attacked it for a third time ( harder —slamming into it with his hip, just to make sure)–

Nuh-uh

— but the door wasn’t merely stuck, it was locked .

He drew a step back and stared at it, frowning. Then he shrugged, spun around and checked his appearance in the hallway mirror (he’d abandoned the suit and was wearing a smart, new outfit: black trousers from Burton, black shirt from Topman, black lambswool jumper and leather jacket from M&S, black boots from Clarks). He looked — to all intents and purposes — like a monochrome assassin.

But something was missing. He frowned. Then he reached out his hand and ‘borrowed’ Kane’s favourite, hand-knitted, Dennis the Menace scarf from the heavily laden coat-rack (wound it around his neck — two, three, four times) checked his reflection again (wolf-whistled, approvingly), removed the keys to Kelly’s moped from his trouser pocket, twirled them, jauntily, around his index finger, and briskly headed out.

‘He’s gone,’ Kane said (glancing up from his well-thumbed copy of Philip K. Dick’s Beyond Lies the Wub ). ‘There’s only me here now, so why not save yourself the bother and drop the stupid act?’

He appraised her, somewhat critically, as he spoke. She was fully dressed but dishevelled, standing in her stockinged feet with her big toes bulging — like two wilful carp — out of their fishnet restraints. She had mascara caked down one cheek. Her lips were still sealed up.

She slit her eyes at him, leaned forward, removed the cigarette from between his fingers, jammed it, hungrily, into the side of her mouth and took a quick puff.

‘There’s tea and toast if you want it,’ he said (eyeing her ample cleavage as she bent down, extra-low, to hand it back). ‘God knows you must be starving after the night you’ve had.’

She snorted, dryly, strolled out on to the landing and returned — minutes later — armed with a laden plate and a steaming mug. She placed them both down on to the carpet, then dropped on to the sofa and began to unpick.

As her nimble fingers unlaced the string, she ran a speculative toe up and down Kane’s shin.

‘This day just keeps on getting better,’ Kane mused, to no one in particular, ‘first ambushed by my dad, then blandished on my own sofa by a Goth nymphomaniac.’

He returned to his paperback.

Geraldine snorted, enraged, and tried to knock the book from his hands with a well-aimed kick, but he was way too quick for her. He hurled the book on to the floor, grabbed her foot and began to tickle it. She unleashed a terrible squeak as she pulled the lace clear. ‘What you tryin’a do?’ she croaked (with all the fine vocal modulation of an eighty-year-old cockney fishwife), ‘tear my fuckin’ face up?’

Kane held on to the foot and squinted, dispassionately, down the line of her leg. ‘Oh dear ,’ he murmured, his voice full of sympathy, ‘how terribly sad . You appear to’ve mislaid your pants .’