Nicola Barker - Darkmans

‘What you see here is the spectacle of torture,’ she said. ‘Life back then was all about the spectacle: the noble majesty of princes, the pious grandeur of the Church, the extreme poverty of beggars, the righteous savagery of public executions. And the spectacle — in this instance — is rendered all the more awful by the casual demeanours of the men actually implementing it. In the Middle Ages they had no concept of leniency. They believed in the two extremes of cruel punishment or absolute mercy. Something was either right or wrong. There were no grey areas. No middle ground. A crime was an insult against society and God and it had to be punished — even celebrated — accordingly.’

‘Well thank God for the grey areas, huh?’ Kane murmured.

‘You think modern life’s all in neutrals?’ she wondered.

‘Isn’t that what you’ve just been arguing?’

‘I’d’ve thought you’d be hard pressed to find anything more black and white,’ she smiled, ‘than the British tabloid press. Or the deranged philosophies of Al Q’aeda, come to that…’

‘How much is it worth?’ Kane wondered, walking back over to the hot bench again (choosing not to engage with her any further on these points).

‘Although — somewhat ironically ,’ she continued, undeterred, ‘in medieval times it was principally the Islamic faith which strove to expand the world’s intellectual boundaries — their Arabic translations of the early works of Aristotle, for example; and it was the advent of Caxton’s Printing Press which helped to solidify and proliferate the English Renaissance through the ready provision of cheap, topical reading matter…’

Kane was bending over the bench and closely scrutinising the canvas. ‘It seems so tiny,’ he said, fascinated. ‘I’d love to actually see it.’

‘I paid 200,000,’ she finally answered his earlier enquiry, ‘which I thought was a snip.’

He glanced up, impressed. ‘And how much will you sell it for?’

She shrugged. ‘That’s anyone’s guess. It all depends on whether I can establish any kind of provenance…’

‘You’ll restore it yourself?’

‘If I can. For the most part.’

‘Will it take long?’

‘Probably.’

‘So who did you buy it from?’

She turned as he spoke, registering the sudden clatter of heavy footsteps on the staircase below them.

‘An old German widow in Berlin. There’s extensive water damage,’ she murmured, strolling over to the door. ‘The warehouse where it was stored was heavily bombed during the war…’

As she spoke a woman hurried into the studio. It was the woman from the courtyard; the tiny, incomprehensible woman with her scraped-back hair, her heavy clogs and her plastic apron. The apron was now streaked in what Kane presumed to be goose gore. She held her two hands out in front of her, fastidiously (as if she’d been caught on the hop and hadn’t had the chance to scrub them clean). She was short of breath. She quickly patted a sheen of sweat from her forehead with the inside of her arm. A strand of hair had come loose from her tight bun.

‘What’s wrong, Ann?’ Peta asked, gently tucking the errant strand behind her ear.

‘Ya kiraysee jammun frund jast tooned ap, scratchud ta peases, raven lick a maddun,’ Ann said, indicating behind her, with some urgency, ‘a laft im inna kite-chen.’

Peta seemed surprised by this news. ‘Was that wise?’

Ann shrugged. ‘Well wat alse kad-ee du?’

‘Okay. Fine. Well just try and keep him calm. Don’t confront him, don’t scare him. I’ll come straight down.’

Ann nodded, turned and darted back off again.

Peta glanced over towards Kane. ‘Something’s come up,’ she said, holding out her outstretched palm. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to send you packing.’

‘Where’s she from?’ Kane wondered, walking over and instinctively grasping her fingers (like a child looking for a mother’s reassurance before crossing a busy intersection).

‘Who? Ann?’

He nodded.

‘The North East.’

‘No. I mean originally. Romania? Lithuania? ’

‘The North East,’ she repeated, ‘near Sunderland.’

‘Oh.’

Kane was perplexed. He stared down at his hand, in her hand. He blinked. For a moment he could hardly tell which of them was hers, which was his. The big hand? The small?

‘You’re right, though,’ she conceded, ‘it’s an amazing accent…’ she led him out firmly on to the stairwell and gently released him ‘…the best piece in my collection, actually; so raw, so spare, so rare, so antique …’

She gestured for him to lead the way, then followed — smiling faintly at his confusion — as they commenced their descent.

‘She’ll have to stay in the car,’ he told the boy, gruffly, ‘her wheels will get stuck in the shingle.’

‘But we can take the cart off , Papa,’ Fleet wheedled, his face creasing up as if he might cry, ‘and I can carry her.’

‘She’s too heavy,’ his father insisted, ‘she’ll just get in the way…’ He paused. ‘I told you this would happen, didn’t I? Perhaps now you’ll understand why I counselled against bringing her. She’s sick, see? Disabled . She’s much better off at home. She’s happy there…’

He peered down on to the back seat where Michelle currently sat on a large, black, plastic sheet. He was pleased to note that there’d been no unnecessary ‘mishaps’ so far.

Elen clambered out of the front passenger side, bent over and quickly swiped the creases from her skirt. She couldn’t face another argument. It felt like they’d been arguing for the best part of the journey.

‘Aren’t you excited about seeing the lifeboat, Fleet?’ she called over.

‘Michelle wants to see the lifeboat, too,’ the boy insisted.

‘Michelle doesn’t give a damn about the lifeboat,’ Isidore snapped.

The boy’s eyes filled with tears. He held both of his arms, stiffly, by his sides. His lower lip protruded and then started to wobble.

‘ Please ,’ Isidore’s voice was hoarse, almost desperate, ‘not another scene. I don’t think I could stand it.’

‘Mama?’ The boy turned to face his mother. He held out his arms to her. Elen hurriedly made her way around the car. She squatted down in front of him, gently trying to force his arms to his sides again, but they remained stiff and unwieldy, like a rented deckchair which wouldn’t fold properly.

‘Did you take a peek at the Channel yet, Fleet?’ she asked. ‘See? Over there…’ she pointed towards the flat, seemingly boundless grey splodge of water roaring hoarsely to the right of them. ‘And the lighthouse? Two lighthouses. You’re spoiled for choice here.’

‘But why can’t I bring Michelle?’ Fleet persisted. ‘ Look …’ he pointed to an adjacent power line. ‘Daddy brought Phlégein …’

Isidore stiffened at his son’s casual use of this strange word–

Phlégein?

From the Ancient Greek?

To burn?

‘Don’t be ridiculous ,’ he barked.

He slammed the driver’s door shut, quite furious.

‘But you did ,’ Fleet squealed. ‘Why can’t I have Michelle if you have Phlégein ?’

‘D’you think it’s going to rain?’ Isidore asked Elen, stiffly. ‘Should I unpack the waterproofs, just in case?’

‘Yes. The sky’s a little dark…Good idea,’ Elen murmured.

Isidore marched around to the back of the car and yanked open the boot.