Nicola Barker - Behindlings

Ants. Thousands of them.

He recoiled.

Wesley noticed, even from his kneeling position, ‘It’s only ants,’ he said, grabbing hold of the water bottle and quickly tipping several dark handfuls inside; some soil, but ants, mostly. The ants swam around in the liquid. Wesley shook off his hands expertly, then put his palm over the bottleneck and violently shook the whole.

‘In my rucksack, the side pocket, on the right, you’ll find a thermos. Bring it to me.’ Arthur went for the thermos. Side pocket. On the right. There it was. Red-topped. Tartan patterned. He pulled it out. Wesley’s thermos. Had one quite like it himself, actually. In green.

‘Okay,’ Wesley said, standing up — his bad hand still blocking the neck of the bottle —‘let’s move over here a-way, before the rest of these insects get their heads together and come after us for a revenge attack.’

They walked several yards along the bank, then Wesley sat down. ‘Take this,’ he proffered Arthur the bottle, ‘and try and keep it still so that the sediment can settle.’

Arthur took the bottle.

‘Sit down.’

Arthur didn’t want to sit down. But after five seconds he sat down anyway.

Wesley was digging around inside his pockets. From the right one he removed something small, wrapped up in tin foil. He unfurled the foil carefully and revealed some dehydrated-looking lemon slices. Next he unscrewed the plastic cup and lid from the top of his thermos, placed the lemon slices inside it, then delved back into his pocket again. This time he removed what Arthur could only characterise as a home-spun toy. Made from a big, hairy pip of some kind. Wire legged. Pearl eyed.

‘Mango-stone creature,’ Wesley calmly enlightened him, pulling an old handkerchief out of his pocket and a crumpled packet of Wimpy coffee sugar, then replacing the toy gently back inside again.

‘Bottle.’

Arthur passed him the bottle. Wesley neatly wrapped the handkerchief over the lip of it then slowly tipped it up and began pouring the ant-liquid, nicely sieved, from the first container, into his thermos.

When this was done, he tore open the sugar, poured it in, screwed the lid back onto the thermos and shook it for a while, smiling over at Arthur like a roguish barman preparing something incendiary.

After a minute or so he stopped shaking, opened it up, grabbed the plastic cup, poured a portion of this foul-seeming concoction into it and handed it across.

‘There you go.’

Arthur stared into the cup, worriedly. He was not a happy bunny.

‘Cheers,’ Wesley said. ‘You won’t regret it.’

Arthur took a sip. Wesley was wrong. He regretted it immediately. He squirmed and then swallowed, grimacing.

‘Ant lemonade. The stings give it bite. ’

Arthur took a second sip out of sheer perversity, swallowed. It certainly had… uh… piquancy.

‘Clever, eh?’

Arthur half-nodded.

‘Can I try?’

Arthur passed the cup back again. Wesley took a sip himself.

‘Hmmmn,’ he sucked his teeth, ‘but is it sweet enough for a lady?’

Arthur scowled, ‘A lady?’

‘A librarian.’

‘Ah,’ Arthur’s lean face slipped effortlessly into a knowing smile. ‘Of course,’ he said, then he abruptly stopped smiling — Can’t give anything away

Wesley gave him a straight look. He took another sip, squinting — distractedly — towards the houseboat.

‘Let me ask you a question… uh…? ’

He stared at Arthur enquiringly. Arthur stared back at him, blankly.

‘Your name? ’ Wesley asked.

Arthur continued to stare at Wesley, still blankly, but his mind was racing.

‘Art,’ he said finally. It was uninspired. But he’d suddenly remembered a boy at school with the same name as him, yet smarter than he was, and better liked. The other kids’d called him Art.

‘Art?’

‘Yes.’

‘The point is, Art, I want to use this address,’ Wesley indicated towards the boat. ‘In actual fact, if you’re cooperative, I’d quite like to use you, too.’

Arthur’s back straightened — perceptibly — with sheer hostility.

Wesley grinned, seeming either to notice or not to notice (it was impossible to tell), and offered Arthur his good hand. ‘My name is Wesley,’ he said, ‘and some time soon — if I’m not very much mistaken — a man will come calling at your houseboat to ask you some questions about me. When this happens I want you to negotiate a deal on my behalf. Tell him I asked you to. Tell him that you are my broker. If he questions your authority, tell him — and this’ll be the main thing — tell him,’ Wesley spoke with special emphasis, ‘that I never speak to the people Following, that you are the negotiator, the go-between. He’ll know what you mean.’

Arthur was confused. He felt almost… what was it? Nauseous? To be… to be implicated in this whole thing. And so quickly, so readily.

‘But what…’ Arthur paused for a second, ‘what would I be negotiating exactly?’

Wesley shrugged. ‘That’s entirely up to you. All I know is that this man will come — trust me — and he’ll want to make a deal. I want you to broker it however you see fit…’ he paused. ‘I like you, Art,’ he continued, ‘you shared my lemonade with me. I fixed your canister. You gave me some chicken. We exchanged some thoughts on biodiversity. I think we have an understanding.’

Arthur was silent for a moment, then he said, ‘And what do I get out of it? What do I get out of this so-called, this proposed deal?’

Wesley grinned again. Heavy teeth. Gappy. Like a pony.

‘That’s for you to decide. You take exactly what you want. Take everything, if needs be. It’s entirely your…’ he considered what he wanted to say. ‘It’s your call.’

Arthur sat quietly, pondering what Wesley had asked of him, still confounded and yet curiously… curiously affected by this offer he’d been made –

Oh come on

This is his gift

This is how he ensnares them

Be strong

Be strong

‘Want any more, Art?’

Wesley offered Arthur the cup again. Arthur shook his head. Wesley poured the remaining liquid back into the thermos, sealed it, slowly gathered all his possessions together, stood up, grabbed his rucksack and stashed everything neatly into it.

Arthur watched him — observed the guitar neck protruding. No. Banjo. Wesley played a banjo.

‘You have a phone?’ Wesley asked, once he’d finished.

‘Inside the vessel? No.’

‘I mean a mobile.’

‘No,’ Arthur lied, then… then, ‘Yes. Yes I do, actually.’

‘So give me the number and I’ll phone you later. See how things are progressing.’

Wesley withdrew a pencil from one of the side pockets in his rucksack. It was barely a couple of inches long — smaller, by far, than Arthur’s littlest finger — an old black and red-striped HB. Sharpened by blade, scalloped to a square tip. It reminded Arthur –

Out of the blue

— of those lovely old pencils his grandfather had used –

Smell of soft lead

Smell of new wood

— to fill in the crossword. To play noughts and crosses. To write out planting lists at the start of the gardening season.

That kind of pencil.

Arthur took it and wrote his number down on the back of an old receipt he’d discovered in his pocket. He found himself shuddering slightly as he handed it over.

‘Cold out, isn’t it Art?’

Arthur nodded. His hands felt cold. He suppressed another shiver. Wesley stuck the pencil and the receipt into his trouser pocket and pulled his rucksack onto his shoulders.