Nicola Barker - Behindlings

Right. That was that. He tied the bag up again, grabbed the yukka, stood up, glanced around him, furtively. No rear exit –

Bugger

— back out the way he came in, then.

He headed grimly for the street — the soup-plate sky — the wind

— those painfully familiar shapes on the horizon…

Oh Lord

Oh bloody, bloody Jesus Christ

— sometimes he longed so hard for that lonely feeling that his stomach contracted and his temples began throbbing — Fucking Hell

STOP all this GRIPING

Sharp left. Over the road. Sea wall — concrete — lowering above him. Twelve short steps to climb it. No chance — no damn time — for pointless bellyaching –

One

Two

Three

Four …

— up to the top –

Yaaargh!

The foul cold air hit him, without relenting –

Fr-fr-fr-fucking-fr-fr-freezing!

— wind slicing into his cheek-flesh like a razor-fish — making his ears hum, his eyes water, his teeth tingle…

But he turned straight into it, his lips smeared into a grin, his hair flying back (a thousand tiny hands, a million lost souls, wailing, pushing, pummelling against him). He threw himself — recklessly, belligerently — into the skin-chapping blare of oceanic pandemonium. (Okay. The English Channel. But still mean as fuck for all of that.)

Wesley smiled to himself, derisively, pulling the collar up on his jacket.

One foot, then the other

One foot, then the other

And so — in this trifling way, and in this violence — began The Walking proper.

No electricity. That couldn’t be just a coincidence. And no phone line, either –

Ditto

Had to try not to get paranoid, but sometimes the people who… the people…

Damn!

Arthur was struggling to get the Calor Gas heater going. He’d already checked the weight of it. Heavy. Full of butane. But something wasn’t quite right with the nozzle. He’d found it on its side, kicked over — by the intruder, presumably. (The Intruder? Or was it something a little less informal, a little more… hmmn… choreographed, maybe?)

What did it matter?

It wasn’t a bad boat. High-ceilinged. No need to stoop in the galley. Painted a kind of nautical lime throughout — quite recently, by the look of things. Jaunty. Running water (drinkable but metallic-tasting). Bedroom in the bow. Hard bunk, old mattress — skinny and stained and rather dirty. Four books on the tiny bedside table. Arthur’d picked them up, one by one…

Dickens’ Bleak House, Origami 3; The Art of Paper Folding (by celebrated ‘Master of the Paper Arts’, Robert Harbin), How to Survive in the Desert (written by some nutty American lone wolf in the early 1970s), and finally, some crazy autobiographical thing called Making an Exhibition of Myself, by a man named Jonathan Routh — a legendary practical joker from the 1960s.

Arthur flipped through the last book, frowning, read the opening two pages, then tossed it down onto the bunk, dismissively.

There was a cupboard, though, under the bunk. He’d slid back the door. Inside were a pile of clean sheets, folded with a military precision and a pile of National Geographics (ah, those familiar yellow ribs; like meeting a dear old friend at a funeral wearing a bright daffodil buttonhole).

He’d checked the dates: 1976–1983. And pretty much all entirely there (must be worth something). Then two stray editions — right at the bottom — dated 1999. March and February. He pulled these out for perusing later, his own long-term subscription (he’d been collecting these magazines since he came of age) having finished a full seven years previously: round about the time he started saving up seriously — the time he gave up drinking — smoking — the time he gave up a whole load of… the time he gave up everything. Everything except spite and bile and shite and walking and walking and…

Enough.

Arthur clenched the canister between his knees and applied more pressure to the nozzle area. A short hiss, then nothing. Needed more light. Back was hurting again. And he was hungry. He glanced through the galley window. What was the weather doing? Still quite foggy. But he was dressed in his outdoors gear, felt warm.

He grabbed an apple from the sideboard, a quarter of soda bread, a chicken leg, then headed outside with them. Turned back at the threshold — remembering the nozzle — debated whether he could manage his lunch and the canister in his other hand. Decided he could. Went back for it. Grabbed the canister. Remembered the National Geographics. Saw them on the drainingboard. Put down the canister ( gracious, that was heavy), picked them up, rolled them, stuck them firmly into either pocket. Shoved the chicken leg and the other stuff — where to put it — yes, in the hood of his jacket. Canny. Bent down to retrieve the canister again — felt the food rolling around so kept his shoulders straight to avoid a catastrophe — grabbed it again, lifted…

Left hand Geographic slipped out of his pocket and onto the floor. Slid part-way under the refrigerator (not working).

Bugger

He staggered forward, anyway.

The canister was incredibly heavy. He’d rick his neck if he wasn’t careful. So he was careful. Bent from the knee.

Crossed the creaking walkway and headed up the embankment. Made it to the top without too much difficulty (had set his heart on this lunching location — sheer perversity, really — but there was the view up here and everything) relinquished the canister, took the magazine out of his pocket…

Where the heck was his lunch? What on earth had he…? Couldn’t for the life of him… couldn’t…

Arthur sat down, looked at his hand — all scrunched red-white from the pressure of the canister, his fingers temporarily locked into plump, pink talons — then opened the magazine and began working his way through it.

So… February edition. Licked his thumb. Held the pages up close to his eyes. Needed his glasses for small type but had left them… had…

God… awful letter on the Cossacks and one — now this was interesting — about how civets weren’t really cats. They were actually the biggest and most canine of the viv… the viver… the viverridae. A genus which included mongooses and genets.

Mongooses? Mongeese?

Then finally, a whole, damn ream of information about biodi…

‘Excuse me.’

How much time had escaped him?

It was still bright. Still foggy. His arse was numb.

‘Excuse me.’

A man was standing almost directly behind him. How the…? How on earth did he…?

Arthur corkscrewed his top half, nearly dropping the magazine.

‘I think you’ll find,’ the man courteously informed him, taking a final, languorous drag on the cigarette he was smoking and then tossing the end away, ‘that you’re sitting on an ants’ nest.’

‘What?’

‘An ants’ nest.’

‘Are you kidding? ’ Arthur threw down the magazine and leapt to his feet. As he swung around something dealt him a light blow on the back of his neck. It startled him. For a moment he thought the stranger had hit him, but that same instant realised he was being irrational. The man was at totally the wrong angle, logistically.

‘Uh…’ the man spoke again, ‘a piece of chicken…’ He was bending over, retrieving something, ‘and an apple just fell out of your…’