Nicola Barker - Behindlings

‘Nobody knows that I sew,’ Ted whispered, at once amazed and conspiratorial, ‘except my Great Aunt who taught me. You’re the first. You must promise not to tell.’

‘Tell?’ Wesley chuckled. ‘Who would I tell? More to the point, why would I tell them?’

Ted held on tight to his briefcase, saying nothing, but with his knuckles showing white, his lips silently enunciating, his nose gently shining. He was panicked, for some reason.

Wesley glanced sideways at him and felt a sudden, fierce glow of satisfaction — as if a blow torch had just been lit inside of him. This is how I become powerful, he thought, turning, casually, and glancing back at the girl again.

She had her jammy thumb in her mouth and she was sucking on it. But she wasn’t — as he’d anticipated — staring after him. Instead she was looking behind her, towards a small, scruffy, ivy-covered bungalow with an inappropriately large wooden verandah to the front of it.

On the verandah stood a huge, square man, staring straight back at him — eyes like arrows, poison tipped — with the kind of crazy intensity which implied not only dislike — or pique — or bile — or irritation, even, but hatred.

Hate. Pure. Clear. 100 % proof. Strong as poteen.

Perhaps it was a mistake to return here, Wesley mused idly. He glanced over at Ted whose lips were still working feverishly.

He smiled. What shall I give this man, he pondered, his mood instantly lightening; and what, I wonder, shall I extract from him?

He chuckled to himself, cruelly, then pulled his two hands from his trouser pockets, wiggled his four remaining fingers — it was cold, it was too damn cold — puckered his lips, swung out his arms and walked boldly onwards, expertly whistling the chorus to When the Saints Go Marching In, while gradually — almost imperceptibly — speeding up his pace, so that he might stride along jauntily, in time.

She was cycling on the pavement. At worst, Arthur mused tightly, an illegal act, at best, wholly irresponsible. And that, in fact, was the only reason he’d troubled to notice her. He was not, by nature, an observant man when it came to women. In all other respects his observational faculties were keen, although in general, if he looked for things, then it was mainly for the stuff that interested him: roadsigns, landmarks, industrial centres, museums, farm machinery, traditional breeds. He had an inexplicable soft spot for Shetland Ponies.

She jinked past him. He’d been walking — strongly, cleanly — since sunrise. Her sweet perfume assaulted his olfactory organs as she clattered by. It tickled his nostrils, but crudely. She smelled of cigarettes and dog violets.

Twenty minutes later he caught up with her again. It was a long road, the A127, north of Basildon. She was on her knees, cursing. The traffic whizzed past them. Its speed and its volume were mentally trying. But he was a veteran.

‘Something wrong?’ he asked, his voice (he couldn’t help it) fringed with a facetious edge.

‘Nothing earth-shattering,’ she grunted, as if instantly gauging the true nature of his gallantry. ‘Flat tyre.’

Her voice was so low that he almost started. Husky didn’t do it justice. His mind struggled to think of another canine breed — even more tough, even more northerly — to try and express it with greater accuracy. He could think of none.

‘You have a pump?’

She looked up, took her littlest finger, stuck it into her ear and shook it around vigorously.

He watched her, frowning, unsure whether this was an insulting gesture of some kind which he — because of his age, perhaps, or his sheltered upbringing — had hitherto yet to encounter. She stared back at him, quizzically. He was all sinew. Grizzled. He reminded her of a dog chew. Tough and yellow and lean and twisted.

‘Sorry,’ she said, removing her finger, ‘I’ve got water in my ear.’

‘So you do have a pump,’ he pointed at the pavement to the right of her. She raised her eyebrows, picked up the pump and gave it a thrust. The air blew out of it like the tail-end of a weak sneeze.

‘Yes I do have a pump, but I also have…’ she paused and then spoke with exaggerated emphasis, ‘a fast puncture. ’

He pushed his baseball cap back on his head.

‘ Cute, ’ she said, pointing at the little, squidgy koala-like creature smiling out from the front of it.

He stared at her, blankly. Then something registered.

‘I lost my…’ he scowled, defensively. ‘It’s new.’

She half-shrugged.

As her shoulder shifted he noticed — and it was difficult not to — that instead of a dress she seemed to be wearing some kind of long, antique undergarment. Not see-through. But fragile. An apricot colour. Over that, two pastel-coloured silky pearl buttoned cardigans, half-fastened, and over these, a thin brown coat featuring a tiny but anatomically complete fox-fur collar.

As he watched, she shoved her hand into the pocket of her flimsy coat and withdrew some Marlboros. She offered him the packet.

‘Smoke?’

Arthur shook his head. She shrugged, knocked one out and stuck it between her lips, feeling around deep inside her other pocket for a light. She withdrew a large box of kitchen matches, opened the box and carefully removed one. It was at least three inches in length. She struck it and applied its bold flame to her cigarette, inhaling gratefully, then blew it out while still keeping the cigarette in place. A complex manoeuvre.

Arthur continued to gaze at her. For some reason he found the blowing pleasurable. He watched closely as she replaced the remainder of the match back inside the box again.

She was possibly the palest woman he had ever seen. Her hair was bright white. Shoulder-length. Thin. Straight. Most of it shoved under a small, round hat fashioned from what looked like dark raffia. With cherries. The kind of hat old women wore in fairytales.

But she was still young, if jaded; crinkling gently at her corners, like a random, well-worn page of an ancient love letter. She had disconcertingly pale blue eyes. Eyes the colour of the exact spot where the winter sky brushed the sea. Eyes the colour of the horizon, he supposed. Trimmed with white lashes, and topped by two haughty brows. A phantasm’s brows; cold and high and light and spectral. Barely there. Just a suggestion of hair.

Puffy underneath… the eyes. He thinly smiled his recognition. Oh yes. A drinker. He knew the signs. And he warmed to her, then, but it was a warmth imbued with a profound contempt.

‘It’s portable,’ he noted.

She nodded, and spoke with the cigarette still dangling, ‘Yes. An absolute bloody miracle of engineering.’

Her tone troubled him. ‘How far?’ he asked.

‘What?’

Smoke trickled ineluctably into her right eye. The eye filled with water. She blinked it away.

‘I said how far?’ he repeated, pointing ahead of them. ‘Canvey.’

‘Oh. Far enough.’

He nodded sympathetically, looking down the road again, then he checked his watch. It was only eleven-fifty.

‘Second hand?’ she asked curtly. ‘Pardon?’

‘Do you have a second hand?’

‘Uh…’ he finally caught up with her, ‘ yes… ’ he blinked, ‘yes I do.’

‘Give me the exact time.’

He checked his watch again then paused for a moment. ‘It’s now eleven fifty-one,’ he said, ‘ precisely. ’

‘Right.’ She began to fold up the bike. Her hands flew from wheel to seat to crossbar, inverting, twisting, unscrewing. She knew what she was doing. Her hands were small and bony and chalky, but she was impressively adroit. It was quickly done.