Nicola Barker - Behindlings

‘I’m hardly the outsider here, Hooch,’ Jo’s tone was unexpectedly cutting.

‘And bearing in mind, Hooch, the days you took off, every now and then…’ Shoes hastily intervened, trying — and rather nobly, Jo felt, under the circumstances — to distract Hooch slightly.

‘What of it?’ Hooch snarled (ignoring Jo’s comments, ignoring her). ‘My mother’s funeral? When the van broke down in Morecambe? What of it? That hardly amounts to…’

‘Yes. No.’ Shoes was already regretting his intervention, but still he kept on at it, ‘And… well… then there’s…’ he winced, nervously, ‘then there’s… then there’s the problem with your… your foot and everything…’

‘The spur? Big bloody deal. So I had a minor operation on my spur. That’s hardly the stuff of major television drama, is it now?’

Shoes kept quiet this time. They walked on. Eventually, though, he muttered, ‘Doc’s always said how important it is to appreciate the fact that Following, while an apparently intimate act, is not, in itself, an act of intimacy… ’

His voice petered out.

Hooch harrumphed. ‘The thing about Doc,’ he spoke loudly, at first, then quietened down, on reflection (although Doc was now a good way ahead of them, striding on, resolutely), ‘is that sometimes he talks a whole load of palaver that he can’t even make head-or-tail of himself. Because he thinks it makes him look clever. And he wants to create the same kind of mystique around himself that our dear friend Wesley has. But the whole thing’s just moonshine. Just humbug.’

This time, Jo intervened. ‘If Wesley refuses to speak to the people who follow,’ she said, ‘surely that means he doesn’t much appreciate the Following, and that, in turn, means that even while there’s a real comradeship between you all, and a real physical closeness to Wesley, still there’s no proper… no proper…’ Jo lost her thread, but it didn’t matter. She’d made her point… ‘So isn’t that what Doc’s getting at? Isn’t that what he meant?’

Hooch flashed Jo a glance several stages beyond withering. But she didn’t wither. In fact, if anything, she rallied, ‘I mean how many times have you actually spoken to Wesley? Face to face? How many proper conversations have you ever been involved in with him? Fair enough, you might know what his favourite food is or his date of birth, you might know facts about him, but…’

(And Jo could see, by Hooch’s expression, that even withholding this much information was very nearly killing him)

‘… but do you know why he likes, say…’ she grasped something from thin air — they were passing a seafood stall —‘why he likes whelks one day better than eels, or whether he drinks tea because he enjoys it or because he suffers an allergic reaction to instant coffee?’

‘Here’s a funny thing…’ Shoes quickly interjected, ‘and it’s fairly incredible, Jo, but I actually have…’

He paused, delicately, ‘I actually have…’ his voice dropped to a whisper, ‘I actually have your name tattooed onto my arse. ’

Jo blinked. Twice. This was not quite the kind of input she’d been anticipating.

‘Pardon?’

‘I said it’s a funny thing,’ Shoes repeated, ‘but I actually have…’

‘She heard you the first time,’ Hooch growled, then quickened his pace, pre-emptively, to catch up with the boy again.

‘But how,’ Jo was frowning now, ‘how do you even know what my full name is?’

Shoes didn’t respond immediately. Only once Hooch was completely out of earshot did he silently beckon her to move in a little closer to him. Jo drew nearer, but hesitantly, her stomach twingeing.

‘The thing is,’ he whispered (his breath smelled of processed pork and Stimerol), ‘you don’t want to wind him up too much. Hooch is very…’

‘You think I wound him up?’

Jo drew back, instinctively, looking suitably delighted at this possibility.

‘No. No, ’ Shoes shushed her nervously, ‘I can see I’ve got my work cut out with you, Josephine. No. What you need to understand is that Hooch is actually very…’ Shoes quietly pondered what he needed to say, ‘I don’t know. He’s very… very powerful. Important. To everything. And you’d do well to remember that fact if you’re really serious about the Following.’

Jo was fazed by Shoes’s jitteriness. It was plainly deeply-felt.

‘Are you intimidated by him, Shoes?’

‘Am I what?’ Shoes was suddenly no longer concentrating. In a flash he’d moved off. He’d switched off. He was elsewhere.

‘I said are you…’

Shoes stuck up his hand to silence her. ‘Hold on a minute, hold on…’ he was chuckling now, ‘ look… the dog. Dennis. The little terrier. Up ahead. See him?’

Jo squinted.

‘Doc’s calling him. Oh yes. Ha. Oh yes just… just look at…’

That was it. Shoes broke into a quick trot to catch up with the others. Jo resisted doing the same. But she quickened up, marginally, when Hooch finally left the side of the boy, joined Shoes, and jogged on himself.

Shoes was still audible — way ahead — talking to whoever’d listen to him, ‘Next to the yukka. Would you believe that? Next to the bloody yukka. ’

Jo finally drew level with the boy. His pace had remained constant. She slowed down to his speed, with relief, watching the others pull away, confusedly.

Patty seemed impassive now, had calmed down noticeably since his earlier euphoria in the library. Jo struggled to catch her breath, ‘What the hell is all this…’ she inhaled for a second, ‘… phew. I said what the hell is all this yukka business about, anyway? Can you fathom it?’

The boy shrugged.

‘Does the yukka have some kind of…?’ She coughed with the exertion.

‘I’ll tell you what I don’t know,’ the boy’s tone was sarcastic, ‘I don’t know what they’re all getting so worked up about. He only uses it for laces. The stringy bit. And he makes foam — like soap foam — out of the roots. He’s always done it.’

‘Really?’

‘To keep clean.’

‘And he makes laces?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Wow.’

The boy gave her a scathing look then focussed his eyes way beyond the others — who were all now standing with the dog, and the yukka, in a huddle, outside the small hotel — and over towards Wesley. On the horizon.

‘Do you know where he’s going?’ Jo asked softly.

Patty stopped in his tracks. Jo stopped shortly after him.

‘Of course I know where he’s going. He’s walking the island. He’s done it every day since he was here. Don’t you know anything?’

‘Course I do,’ she defended herself, staunchly, slightly hurt by his savagery, ‘it’s just that I know different things, that’s all.’

The boy shrugged, ‘If you want my opinion, I think he’s losing it. Doing the same stupid walk every day. He’s taking the piss out of everybody.’

Jo cut to the chase.

‘If I give you a fiver will you let me take a peek at that piece of paper you took earlier?’

The boy sneered. ‘Are you kidding me?’ He was grossly self-righteous, ‘I don’t want your fucking money.’

His jaw, she noticed, was sharp as cut tin. His eyes were a cold grey. The colour of black ice on a fast road. He really was too thin.

‘I already turned down that other bugger, and he offered me a hell of a lot more than five.’ He pointed up ahead of him.

‘Doc, you mean?’