Nicola Barker - Behindlings

The apple was rolling gaily down the embankment. Arthur went after it. Skidded twice, but caught it decisively once it’d reached bottom. He glanced up towards the man again. He had the winter sun behind him, like a halo. His face was an eye-burning blur of dissolving skin.

‘Is this your craft?’ the man asked.

‘No,’ Arthur answered instinctively, blinking suspiciously, then, ‘ Yes. Yes it is, actually.’

The stranger quietly processed this answer, seeming to find no contradiction in it.

‘I set some of my traps around here,’ he told Arthur, ‘in case you sensed anything awry. I’ve been knocking about since Wednesday.’

‘No I didn’t,’ Arthur answered, looking gingerly about him, ‘no I didn’t sense…’

Awry?

‘Just string,’ the man continued, ‘string traps. Nothing to worry about…’ he paused, ‘for humans,’ he added, as an afterthought. Then he paused again, tangled, ‘Not for humans. The traps are for rodents is what I mean.’ His voice was smiling.

Arthur headed back up the embankment. When he reached the top, the man was bending down, picking up the magazine.

‘I bought this edition myself,’ he said, dusting some mud off it, ‘when it first came out. I remember it very clearly.’

He checked the date, ‘February ‘99. That’s the one. I got so infuriated by it I nearly wrote them a letter…’

‘You did?’

‘Yup. There’s this whole fucking tirade about the ecology of biodiversity — did you read it yet?’

Arthur nodded.

‘Yeah, well the main story,’ the man continued, almost as if Arthur hadn’t nodded, as if he hadn’t read it, ‘involves some excruciatingly fat-headed scientific twat making his way through a rainforest and spraying the trees, willy-nilly, to gauge the number and variety of insects in that particular jurisdiction. Spraying with fucking pesticide. In the name of research. In the name of biodiversity. A million dead insects, just like that. And what about the birds who feed upon the insects? What about them? And what about the animals who catch the birds? Jesus wept, it bugged me.’

The man glanced up.

Oh my God. It was him. It was him. It was him. It was Wesley.

‘Chicken leg,’ Wesley said, slicing through the sudden silence between them with the cold and succulent hen’s limb; proffering it to Arthur, cordially.

‘Thanks.’ Arthur took it from him. Saw the hand. The hand. Fingers missing. This sight so familiar in his imagination it was like a poem or a favourite song or…

A poem?!

His eyes filled with liquid. He thought he might sneeze (what a painfully ineffectual reaction. Was he Man or Mouse? Was he trapper or trapee? What was wrong with him?).

‘Couple of ants on it,’ Wesley said, gazing — with a half-frown — at the cuddly creature on the baseball cap Arthur was wearing.

Arthur looked closer at the chicken leg.

‘Turn around,’ Wesley continued, ‘and I’ll try and get the rest off the back of your jacket.’

Arthur turned around, hesitantly, almost not believing in the ants. Perhaps the ants were imaginary. Perhaps Wesley was imaginary. But when Wesley drew near him and swatted at his back a few times, iron-handedly, there really was no disputing his status as a solid entity.

‘ A-ha, ’ he expostulated, ‘it’s no bloody wonder they’re crawling all over. You still have a hunk of bread stashed in there.’

He removed the bread from Arthur’s hood. Passed it to him.

Went back to rigorously swatting him again.

‘Couldn’t believe that thing about civets not being a part of the cat genus…’ he muttered.

‘Actually,’ Arthur suddenly intervened, stepping forward — and downward — out of harm’s way, ‘I’ll take the coat off and do it myself, if you don’t mind.’

He thrust the food he was holding into Wesley’s hands, ‘Have this if you want it. I haven’t touched it.’

‘Are you serious?’

Wesley was delighted.

‘Yes.’

Arthur was embarrassed.

He yanked his jacket off. He couldn’t think straight. He felt… he felt, well, ridiculous. Must’ve stood up too suddenly, he told himself, knowing it was bogus as soon as he’d thought it.

Wesley took a few steps back, crouched down onto his haunches — one knee in front of the other, solid as a rock, like a Navaho — and began devouring the chicken.

‘I’ve been eating gull since Friday,’ he said. ‘ Loathe all that plucking. My thumbs are still raw with it.’

Arthur flapped his hand — rather ineffectually — against the jacket. He said nothing. Couldn’t see any ants there. Couldn’t see anything.

‘But I’ve grown very adept at catching them lately. I’m in the gull-zone.’

‘Catching what?’ Arthur glanced over at him.

‘Seagulls. At the dump. The lorries all come thundering in around one-ish. That’s the best time to nab ‘em.’

‘I suppose…’ Arthur said –

Don’t let him draw you in, Arthur,

Don’t let him reel you in

– ‘I suppose they must taste rather like chicken.’

‘No. They taste like seabird. But this…’

Wesley brandished the drumstick, ‘this tastes rather like chicken.’

Arthur grimaced. Walked straight into that one.

Wesley indicated towards the heater with the chicken leg, then took another big bite of it, ‘That thing empty or what?’

Mouth crammed as he spoke.

‘It’s full. But the nozzle’s dented. It got knocked over.’

‘I can fix it for you. I’m good with nozzles.’

‘No. I’m… that’s fine. I’ll be fine.’

Wesley studiously ignored Arthur’s protestations. He stood up and went over to the canister. He circled his way around it a couple of times — as if stalking it — then stuck the chicken leg between his teeth, placed the bread and apple onto the ground, removed a knife from his trouser pocket and crouched down. After continuing to gaze at the canister for a while, he carefully inserted the knife and painstakingly dug around inside the mechanism.

Arthur slowly put his coat back on again.

Before he’d fastened the zip, the canister was hissing. Wesley turned it off, then on, then off.

‘There.’

‘Thanks.’

He put the knife away and delicately ripped the last strands of flesh from the chicken leg with his teeth. His eyes were unfocussed as he chewed on it. He was considering something. When he’d swallowed, he stood up and tossed the bone over the river. It hit the opposite bank. Disappeared inside the long grass there. He had an impressive arm.

‘Do you have any drinking water on board?’

Wesley wiped his hands on his trousers.

‘Yes.’

‘Great. I’m gonna show you something amazing. Just hold on a minute.’

He grabbed the bread and apple and headed off towards a nearby thicket. In twenty seconds he was back again, a large rucksack slung over one shoulder and a plastic bottle (its neck roughly severed) held firmly in his good hand.

He slung the pack onto the floor and offered Arthur the bottle, ‘Go inside and fill it.’ Arthur didn’t move. He didn’t appreciate Wesley’s tone. It was peremptory.

‘Almost to the top,’ he added.

Arthur took the bottle and carried it inside –

Why am I doing this?

— he filled it at the sink and then returned outside with it.

Wesley was kicking at the ridge on top of the embankment, then scuffling his trainer into the fine soil he’d loosened. After a while he kneeled down and began scooping gently at the soil with both hands.

Arthur drew closer, breathing heavily as he crested the slope again.