Nicola Barker - Darkmans

The second dog remained standing, its ears slightly pricked, its eyes glued on the first. The first dog carried on moving — slinking forward — very slowly. And gradually — almost miraculously — a path was forming. Waves of bright beak and white feather were parting — an escape route was being forged for him, a direct route from the driver’s door to a large barn, opposite. Kane frowned, confused. He’d presumed (he wasn’t really sure why ) that he’d be escorted into the cottage.

Even so, he took his chance. He opened his door and slowly eased his way out. His exit was accompanied by a flurry of muted parping. Several geese rose up, flapping their wings at him. The second dog lifted its tail. That was all. The parping stopped. The wings were promptly folded.

Kane stood, indecisively, wondering whether to seek refuge in the barn or to throw caution to the wind and try and leg it over to the cottage. But his route was currently blocked. He took a tiny step forward (at an angle to the path) and became gradually aware of a monotonous humming…

No.

Not so much a hum, as…

Shit.

A growl

He glanced over towards the first dog. The first dog was crouched low and baring its teeth at him.

Fuck

He put his hand to his phone, and then caught himself doing it–

What are you gonna do, you prick?

Ring the Emergency Services?

Order a fucking pizza?

He dropped his hand and started walking to the barn. One step, two steps, three steps. Then the pills kicked in, or he changed his mind, or something–

Something?

A spirit of pure devilry?

— overwhelmed him and he turned and started running, sprinting, arms flaying — with a crazy whoop —towards the house.

What exactly happened next Kane couldn’t entirely fathom. An ex plosion? An im plosion? All he could really be sure of was that everything went to hell. That fragile sense of order, of equilibrium — collapsed. The geese went wild and attacked. The dogs — in turn — attacked the geese (as if this — at some level — was what they’d always secretly yearned to do). If there was a Pandora’s Box for farmyards then Kane had just unwittingly lifted open its lid.

There was barking, braying, parping, howling, feathers flew…Kane felt a tearing at his legs. He put out his hand. Something inarticulate was yelled–

Is that me?

Or someone else?

A shot was fired–

A shot?

A goose was felled. Two geese–

With one shot?

— and the others scattered.

He glanced up, clutching his calf, cursing.

A woman stood before him, holding a shotgun. A tiny woman, sharpfaced, wearing a woolly hat, clogs–

Clogs?

— and a long, beige, butcher’s-style apron.

She strode forward and gazed down at the geese. One was still moving. She slammed down a clog on to its throat and promptly dispatched it. Then she grabbed both birds ( huge birds; one in either hand), hauled them up (by the neck) gave Kane a filthy look, turned and marched back over towards the cottage.

‘Excuse me…’ Kane said.

She glanced over her shoulder.

‘Purrups jast di as yi tald nixt teem,’ she said, gesticulating, irritably, goose in hand. ‘ Eejat! ’

Eh?

‘So would you care to refresh my memory,’ another — slightly more familiar, yet rather more imperious — voice suddenly rang out, ‘about what it was exactly that I instructed you to do when you pulled up?’ He turned.

In the entrance to the barn stood a second woman, petite and lean, her bright-white hair pulled back into a glossy ponytail, a half-smoked cigar propped behind her ear. She had dancing, chartreuse-green eyes — boozy eyes — and a pair of the most astonishingly flirtatious charcoal brows: dark, hand-painted brows which decorated her fine-boned face like two fabulous pieces of Chinese calligraphy.

‘You told me to sound my horn and wait for the dogs,’ he said. ‘Precisely.’

She wore overalls: scruffy, paint-splattered, in dark denim, matched with a pair of neat white gloves.

‘So I sounded my horn and I waited,’ he insisted.

‘And the dogs came…?’

‘Yes,’ he shuddered. The pills were kicking in (but hadn’t they kicked in already?). ‘Eventually.’

‘And they cleared a route for you?’

‘Uh…’

He looked regretful. ‘But you decided…?’

‘I thought you’d be in the cottage.’

He pointed.

‘But I’m in the barn, Kane.’

She pointed at herself. ‘ Hello . This is me …’ then smiled and indicated behind her, ‘and this is the barn.’

‘I see.’

‘Well I suppose it’s going to be roast goose again,’ she sighed, turning, ‘poached goose, pan-fried goose, stewed goose…’

She disappeared from view. He didn’t immediately follow her. He’d presumed (incorrectly, as it transpired) that she’d want to have a quick look at the car. And then there was this smell —a strangely evocative yet familiar smell — which’d wafted out with her–

Beeswax?

His eyes grew unfocussed as he sniffed the air.

‘What are you waiting for?’

‘Huh?’

He started.

She’d popped her head back around the door and was scowling at him, irritably. ‘Not caused quite enough carnage for one day, eh? Secretly hankering after Round Two are we?’

‘I hear you’re planning on moving the cafeteria upstairs,’ Gaffar could hear Beede saying, ‘or out the back, or something…’

‘Who told you that?’

A woman responded. She sounded nice. And normal. And uncomplicated.

‘One of the young lads who shunts the trolleys around.’

‘Yes…Well we’re certainly planning some major improvements at the store.’

Gaffar opened his eyes.

‘He’s back,’ Beede said.

Gaffar peered down into his lap. He was still in the cheese aisle, but propped up in a wheelchair. He was happy to discover that his crotch was still dry.

‘Can you tell me your name?’ the woman asked. She was crouching by his side.

‘Who are you?’ Gaffar asked.

‘I’m Susan Pope…’ she pointed to her name badge, ‘assistant manager at the store.’

Gaffar proffered her his hand. ‘Gaffar Celik,’ he said. They shook.

‘And how old are you, Gaffar?’

‘Twenting-four.’

‘And where were you born?’

‘Eh?’

’Where were you first breath for this life?’ Beede interpreted.

‘Huh?’

‘Born?’ the woman repeated.

‘ Ah …’ Gaffar finally caught on. ‘Silopi. Turkey. Is shithole. Yes? A border-town, full of vagrants and opportunists. Not a million miles away from this shithole, actually.’

‘And where do you live now, Gaffar?’

‘Now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Here.’

Gaffar pointed down the cheese aisle.

‘He lives on the cheese aisle,’ Beede said, ‘apparently.’

‘I am love of cheese,’ Gaffar confirmed.

Susan Pope nodded, slowly.

‘He doesn’t really live on the cheese aisle,’ Beede explained, ‘he shares the upstairs part of one of the villas on Elwick Road, with my son.’

Susan Pope frowned. ‘I certainly hope you’re not suggesting there’s something wrong with the cheese aisle,’ she said.

‘Good God, no,’ Beede responded, ‘absolutely not. It’s a marvellous aisle. In fact I’m struggling to understand how you could possibly improve it.’

‘More cheese,’ she said, ‘bigger cheese.’