Nicola Barker - Darkmans

‘I’m Beede; Daniel Beede. I’m your friend. Do you remember me, Dory?’

Beede peered up, intently, into the tall, blond man’s face, struggling — at first — to establish any kind of a connection with him. He spoke softly (like you’d speak to a child) and he used his name carefully, as if anticipating that it might provoke some kind of violent reaction. But it didn’t.

‘Of course.’

The tall, blond man blinked and then nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, of course I remember…’ He talked quietly and haltingly with a strong German accent. ‘It’s just that… uh …’

His eyes anxiously scanned the surrounding area (the road, the horse, the tarmac, the vehicles in the car park). ‘It’s just that I suddenly have the strangest…’

He winced, shook his head, then gazed down, briefly, at his own two hands, as if he didn’t quite recognise them. ‘… uh …fu…fu… füh len?’

He glanced up, quizzically.

‘Feeling,’ Beede translated.

The German stared at him, blankly.

‘ Fee ling,’ Beede repeated.

The German frowned. ‘No…not…it’s this…this…’ he patted his own chest, meaningfully, ‘ fuh- ling. Feee …Yes. Yes. This fee ling. This horrible, almost…’ he shuddered, ‘almost overwhelming feeling . Like a kind of…’ He swallowed. ‘A dread. A deep dread.’

Beede nodded.

‘…a terrible dread.’ He moved his hands to his throat, ‘ Suffocāre . Suffocating. A smothering feeling. A terrible feeling…’ ‘You’re tired,’ Beede murmured gently, ‘and possibly a little confused, but it’ll soon pass, trust me.’

‘I do,’ the German nodded, ‘I do traust you.’ He paused. ‘ Trost you…’

He blinked.‘ Troost .’

‘Trust,’ Beede repeated.

‘Of course…’ the German continued. ‘It’s just…’

His darting eyes settled, momentarily, on the pony. ‘I have an awful suspicion that this feeling — this…this… uh …’

‘Fear,’ Beede filled in, dryly.

‘Yes… yes … fff… ’

The German attempted to wrangle the familiar syllable on his tongue—‘ Ffffah …’—but the word simply would not come. After his third unsuccessful attempt (pulling back his lips, like a frightened chimpanzee, his nostrils flaring, his eyes bulging) he scowled, closed his mouth again, paused for a second, took stock, then suddenly, and without warning, threw back his head and roared, ‘GE-FHAAAAR!’ at full volume.

The horse skipped nervously from foot to foot.

‘ Urgh …’

The German grimaced, wiped his chin with his cuff, then closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. On the exhale he repeated the word—‘ Gefhaar’— but much more softly this time. He smiled to himself and drew another breath. ‘ Fhaar ,’ he sighed, then (with increasing rapidity), ‘ Fhaar-fhar-fhear- fear- fear…Yes !’

His eyes flew open, then he scowled. ‘But what am I saying here?’

‘This fear,’ Beede primed him.

‘Yes. Of course. Fear . This fear… ’

The German rapidly clicked back into gear again. ‘I have a feeling — a…a suspicion , you might say — that this dread, this…this…this fhar may be linked in some way… connected in some way…’ he jinked his head towards the pony, conspiratorially ‘…to it . To that . To…’ he struggled to find the correct noun, ‘to khor-khor-khorsam… ’

He shook his head, scowling. ‘ Khorsam. Horsam. Hors. Horse. Horsey. Horse. Horses .’

He glanced over at Beede, breathlessly, for confirmation. Beede nodded, encouragingly.

‘But you see I’m not…I can’t be entirely…uh… certus ,’ he scowled, then winced, then forged doggedly onward, ‘ certānus… ’ He paused. ‘ Cer-tan . I can’t be certain, because it’s still just an…an inkling …’ he shuddered ‘…a slight shadow in the back of my mind. A hunch. Nothing more.’

While he spoke he distractedly adjusted the wedding band on his finger (twisted it, as if of old habit), then gradually grew aware of what he was doing and glanced down. ‘What’s this?’ His eyes widened. ‘A ring? A gold ring? On my third finger?’ He glared at Beede, almost accusingly. ‘Can that be right?’

Beede nodded. He seemed calm and unflustered; as if thoroughly accustomed to this kind of scenario.

‘ Mein Gott! ’ The German’s handsome face grew stiff with incredulity.

‘You’re telling me I’m…I’m…’

‘Married?’ Beede offered. ‘Yes. Yes, you are. Very happily.’

‘ Seriously? ’

‘Just wait a while,’ Beede patted his arm, ‘and everything will become clear. I promise.’

‘You’re right. You’re right… ’ the German smiled at him, gratefully,

‘I know that…’

But he didn’t seem entirely convinced by it.

‘So do you have any thoughts on where the horse may’ve came from?’ Beede enquired, gently stroking the mare’s flanks. She was exhausted. Her tongue was protruding slightly. There were flecks of foam on her neck and her ribcage. He was concerned that someone inside the restaurant might see them (a member of staff — the manager). They were in a children’s play area, after all. The horse was plainly stolen. Did this qualify as trespass?

The German closed his eyes for a moment (as if struggling to remember), and then the tension suddenly lifted from his face and he nodded. ‘I see a field in the middle of two roads, curving…’ he murmured softly, his speech much less harsh, less halting than before, ‘and beyond…beyond I see Romney. I see the marshes. ‘

He opened his eyes again. ‘I was checking over a couple of vacant properties earlier,’ he explained amiably, ‘in South Willesborough…’

Then he started–

‘ Eh?! ’

— and spun around, as though someone had just whispered something detestable into his ear.

‘ WHO SAID THAT?! ’ he cried.

‘Who said what?’

Beede’s voice was tolerant but slightly teachery.

‘About…About South Willesborough…?’ He continued to look around him agitatedly. ‘Was it you ? Did you speak? Were you there earlier?’

‘ Hmmn . A field in the middle of two roads curving…’ Beede mused (pointedly ignoring the German’s questions), ‘I think I know the place. And it’s not too far. Perhaps a mile — a little more. We’ll need to lead her back quickly. Someone might miss her. Do you have a belt?’

The German peered down at himself. ‘Yes,’ he said, and automatically started to unfasten the buckle. ‘I’ll take mine off, too,’ Beede said, unfastening his own.

The German pulled his belt free, passed it over, then tentatively sniffed at the arm of his jacket. ‘ Urgh! ’ he croaked. ‘What on earth have I been doing? I smell disgusting , and look— look —I have horse hair simply everywhere… ’

He began frantically patting and slapping at the fabric, but after a couple of seconds he froze — mid-slap — as something terrible dawned on him. ‘Oh Christ ,’ he gasped. ‘Oh Jesus Christ —the car. Where’s the car ? What on earth have I done with it?’

Beede had buckled the two belts together. He whispered soothingly into the mare’s ear and then looped them around her neck. She was a sweet filly. She nodded a couple of times as he pulled the leather tighter.