Nicola Barker - Behindlings

The man ignored this question and instead pointed genially towards the computer, ‘ Wah! Pas d’electrique, huh? ’

(‘Wah’?!)

‘ Uh… ’ Arthur shook his head, slowly, ‘ Uh… non. Non. ’

But before he’d quite finished speaking, the man was on the hoof again, was walking over to the window (increasing their proximity by a considerable margin. Arthur did not flinch as he brushed past him, no, not flinch so much as move, very quickly, very efficiently, into the furthest recesses of the bright green galley).

The man stood squarely in front of the window, staring through it intently, his gloved hand resting on the glass.

He’d moved over there so suddenly — Arthur surmised, from his sanctuary behind the cooker — with such unexpected speed, such determination, such energy, that it was almost as if this manoeuvre represented some kind of… some kind of resolution; as if it prefaced some sort of… some sort of notable… no… fundamental plan of action. Like he was all fired up and ready for something.

Or was it — Arthur swallowed, nervously — was it just a sound? A movement? Had he been alerted — frighted — by something external, maybe?

Arthur struggled to hear this something. But he heard nothing. Just the river outside, gurgling. The heater. The computer. Of all his senses, his hearing was the weakest.

Much to the stranger’s obvious irritation, his cautious instincts had proven entirely founded. ‘ Merde, ’ he muttered. ‘ Quel qu’un arrive. ’

He rapidly withdrew, moving backwards, slipping effortlessly — without even looking — towards the door, grabbing the handle behind him, twisting it, opening it — damn him — moving back and beyond it. A cine-reel, rewinding.

On his way through, though, he suddenly remembered… He suddenly recollected… Ah, yes. Arthur. Him.

He held the door open for a second longer, shrugged apologetically (Was there really an apology in it?), grimaced, closed the door quietly and strode off down the walkway (Arthur listened. Couldn’t hear a sound), turned a sharp right (not clambering up the embankment, but opting to walk along the bottom of it — a rather perilous route: the mud was still slippy, the tide was gushing in), turned a swift left into the river bending, and disappeared.

The sky was getting dark and still darker. Arthur craned his head, watching the final movements of his visitor through the broken glass in the door. He’d been intending to fix it earlier — had tried to, ham-fistedly — but the cardboard he’d tacked up there had already fallen off and onto the floor. He pushed at the door (bugger. It stuck. Hadn’t quite acquired the knack yet. Tried it again. That was it) and moved cautiously out onto the walkway. It remained foggy in his section of backwater. Couldn’t see far.

Was it always foggy here?

Quel qu’un arrive

In the distance… An old… The Old Man. Arthur drew a sharp breath, ducked his head, turned abruptly, walked back inside the boat, closed the door, gently, and crouched down behind it. His heart was pounding.

Jesus. The Old… Hadn’t…

But was there any question of him having…?

No.

But was… But…?

No.

Keep your wits, Arthur. Keep your wits. Wesley never speaks to the people following. Not even the Old Man. Not even him.

After a couple of minutes, Arthur slowly arose and peeped out through the broken pane. The other side of it –

Fuck

— stood a dreadful looking hippie and another man with white irises. A blind man. They made a maverick pair.

‘Sorry to disturb you, but we saw the light,’ the hippie spoke first, stepping — rather nervously — onto the walkway, then reconsidering and stepping off again, all the while trying (and failing) to disguise his surprise at Arthur emerging so very eccentrically from his crouching position.

Fat Hippie

Gracious me

Look at the damn state of him

Arthur finally materialised — in all his entirety — from behind the door, and stood straight and tall at his end of the walkway. Just pretend you were doing DIY or something

He felt his stomach fluttering, but forced himself to grow bold again.

Don’t even think about the old fella

Don’t even…

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ the Hippie repeated, ‘but did you happen to see another man pass this way? Brown hair? In his thirties?’ Right.

‘D’you mean the Arabic gentleman?’ Arthur asked, placing his palm onto what remained of the handrail, tentatively.

The Hippie frowned at this description, ‘Arabic?’

‘Or Iranian. The Iranian gentleman. He just left here.’

‘An Arabic gentleman?’

‘Or Iranian.’

‘ Two gentlemen? Both Middle Eastern?’

‘No. No, there was… No. There was only one person. Arabic. Or Iranian. Only one. They just this minute…’

‘I see.’

The Hippie nodded and then turned confidingly towards the blind man, as if in some doubt of his having heard the exchange between them, ‘He’s now saying that it was only one gentleman, Herbie, and that he just this minute left here.’

The blind man tossed his head — like a newly-harnessed pony — thereby implying that either he’d heard the conversation himself (and needed no interpreter — he was only blind, after all) or that he didn’t — for some unspecified reason — feel like Arthur’s testimony was entirely trustworthy.

Arthur frowned. He had the distinct feeling that the piss was being taken out of him. Either that or the Hippie was an absolute fool.

The Hippie paused — thinking deeply for a moment — then half-turned to consult the blind man again, ‘An Arabic gentleman, Herbie. Would you describe Wesley as looking — in any way — like a person of Arabic extraction?’

‘I’m blind, you damn Hippie imbecile…’

Arthur smirked to himself.

Exactly

‘And anyway,’ the blind man continued, ‘if somebody had just left this vessel, we almost certainly would’ve seen him…’

He lowered his voice slightly, ‘Bear in mind, Shoes, that the stranger may well be lying.’

‘I have no reason,’ Arthur sharply interrupted, ‘to lie about a man having just left this craft. He left along the bottom path. You mightn’t’ve seen him from where you were. It’s foggy…’

You’re blind

‘and it’s already getting dark out. I have no idea which direction he originally came from. It may well’ve been Canvey.’

‘Good point,’ the Hippie conceded, perhaps just a touch too easily (Shoes did not enjoy conflict. He was a hippie. It was more than a fashion. It was a philosophy). Arthur growled to himself, under his breath, then half-turned, as if intending to retreat into the cabin.

‘Just by-the-by,’ the Hippie stopped him, before he could escape them, ‘it might be helpful for you to know that Herbie here got slightly peed-off clambering down your embankment. He’s blind. It’s steep and very slippery. I had trouble with it myself, although obviously I’m…’ he smiled, humbly, ‘I’m lucky enough to be fully sighted.’

While he spoke, Arthur was staring –

Discreet

Be discreet

— at the Hippie’s bare toes, but once he’d gleaned the basic gist of what he was saying (and the casual censure implicit in it), he glanced back up at his heavy, pale face, deeply affronted.

‘It would certainly be rather foolish …’ he spoke, somewhat harshly (as was his way), ‘to somehow imagine that this particular piece of rural wilderness was now, or ever would be, in any way adapted to the special needs of the mentally or… or vi… vi… visually impaired.’