Nicola Barker - Behindlings

‘So when Colin died,’ Jo interrupted him, ‘and Wesley said he’d won, that he was a winner, he wasn’t being quite as perverse as it might’ve appeared. Because the prize is actually a celebration of a certain kind of… of treachery… ’

The young guide shrugged. He plainly didn’t really relish this way of thinking.

‘And the subsidiary prize will have to be planted presumably,’ she continued, ‘as soon as the tide’s finally low enough.’

‘That’s pretty much the sum of it…’ he turned and gazed back toward his older accomplice, ‘and you’re obviously now in a prime position,’ he turned and grinned, hollowly, ‘to join in the search.’

Jo was quiet for a while. She tried to straighten out Hooch’s involvement in her mind.

‘ Gumble, ’ she suddenly said.

He gazed at her, blankly, ‘Sorry?’

She gauged the minutiae of his reactions –

Fists tightening

Nostrils flaring slightly

— then let it pass.

‘You’ve told Hooch all of this, then, presumably,’ she continued.

He nodded, ‘Hooch was central to our strategy. He’s close to Doc, and yet there’s that interesting competitive edge between the two of them. Hooch — in turn — told Shoes. He needed Shoes on board to shore things up. But they’re the only two who currently know anything… so far as we’re aware, obviously.’

‘Does the Blind Man know?’

The young guide shook his head, ‘No. And nor shall he, if I have anything to do with it.’

‘Because the fewer people who find out…’

He smiled, ‘Of course. The more chances the few who do know have of winning.’

‘And the more chances the company have of keeping the whole original hoax under wraps.’

He passed over this, ‘If Shoes or Hooch win, the Behindlings as a whole will benefit. The Following culture will benefit. Most importantly, Doc will benefit, if only indirectly…’

He paused. ‘Today has obviously been…’ he grimaced.

‘A monumental cock-up,’ she finished off for him.

He inclined his head, graciously.

In the distance a car horn sounded. Jo’s eyes instinctively moved towards it.

‘So how many of you are there?’ she asked.

‘Not many. A few.’

‘Does Wesley know who you are?’

‘Probably.’

Her eyes focussed in on something, further up the road; Dewi, in the middle distance, piling clothing and furniture — willy-nilly — into the back of his pick-up. And Katherine, also on the road, stopping the traffic, holding up some kind of… of… tree and berating him violently.

‘I must go,’ she said, and started walking.

‘Can we depend upon your cooperation?’ the guide called after her, perhaps a mite apprehensively.

She turned and bent down to pick up the dog (grunting at the unexpected weight of him). ‘Of course you can,’ she adjusted him in her arms, ‘I mean…’ she paused, speculatively, her brown eyes glinting, ‘insofar as you can depend upon anybody’s.’

He parked the car on the dainty hard shoulder, riding up — with a jolt (Eileen made a sudden lunge for her seat-belt) — onto the muddy grass siding, braking gently and stopping. They’d barely spoken during the journey. Eileen had fiddled nervously with her bag; accidentally twisting a plastic daisy-head from its mesh and then compulsively struggling — without success — to work it back into place again.

Ted had turned the radio on, was listening — with an unbelievable intensity — to an angry man complaining about the lack of adequate public toilet facilities in the Tilbury/Thameshaven vicinity.

Once the engine was off — and the whining was halted — Ted bent forward to pick up Eileen’s bag, which had fallen from her lap in the brief commotion. She pulled her legs up, instinctively, at his unexpected proximity. He grabbed both the bag and its loose daisy, then in a series of deft hand movements, re-established the whole to its former glory.

‘ There. ’

He passed it back to her.

Eileen snatched the bag from him, staring querulously at the reinstated plastic flower (as if it was some kind of errant tick, sucking the life out of the surrounding fabric), then she carefully removed the knife (Ted frowned), the heron’s head, and shoved the bag — as if now repelled by it — down under the dashboard, kicking it from sight with her neatly-shod feet.

‘I hope he’ll be alright,’ she said, with a shudder.

‘Pardon?’

‘The Old Man.’

Ted frowned, ‘I’m sure he’ll be…’

‘I mean the way he just…’ she interrupted, flapping her hand, helplessly.

‘I know,’ he nodded sagely, ‘ tragic .’

‘Perhaps we should’ve…’

‘No,’ Ted focussed on the condensation at the corners of the windscreen, ‘stopping would’ve been dangerous — the lights were changing. And there were plenty of witnesses. The Bean girl, for one. She’s a qualified nurse. She’ll’ve known what to do for the best.’

‘Good,’ Eileen said, and climbed out of the car.

He loved that.

He loved the way she dealt with things: careful yet carefree, caring but careless.

He loved that.

Outside, the weather was like a truculent two-year-old with a brand new birthday football; sulking and blubbering one minute, whooping and blustering the next. Eileen hunched up her shoulders and put her hand to her hair. It blew sideways — en masse — like a compacted serving of organic alfalfa.

Ted clambered out himself, winced (at the weather), and then awkwardly offered Eileen his jacket. She told him not to be so ridiculous, then blushed, as if embarrassed by the unnecessary violence of her response.

He quietly chastised himself as he grabbed the eggs and removed the rope (felt the coarse-fibred bump of it on the palm of his hands, the insides of his fingers, and finally — once he’d slung it over his arm — felt it rub heavily against his shoulder through his light woollen suit fabric).

He knew that it was principally just an issue of approach. His gut — operating (as it now was), in a consultative capacity — told him that it wasn’t what you did in life that really mattered, so much as how you went about it. Not the actual content ( balls to achievement, to accomplishment, to the solid things; the big house, the wad of cash, the two kids, the exam result), but the manner of dispatch that was truly significant.

I am an Agent of the Future —

his gut told him –

I am an idea

I am a plan

A spark

A thrust

An inkling

‘I’d love to make you a dress, Eileen,’ he boldly announced, slamming his car door shut and rapidly catching up with her, ‘pinched at the waist, tight on the leg, knee length, in a beautiful honey-coloured brushed velvet. A choker to match.’ He put his hand to his own neck as he imagined it.

She walked stalwartly into the flurry. ‘Do you come here often, Ted?’ she asked.

He paused — cut — before softly answering, ‘Never.’

They staggered forward together — Ted keeping on the outside to protect her from the slush — and when they finally reached the flyover, instead of climbing down from it (there seemed to be no ready means of exit — a clamber, a straddle, a leap being the only technique that sprang readily to mind), Ted strolled up to its centre-point, placed his hands firmly onto its thigh-high concrete ledge and gazed questingly over –

Wesley