Nicola Barker - Behindlings

Jesus Christ what a swine I’m being.

Jesus Christ his feet must be freezing.

‘I think it would be fair to say that the man we are looking for is of Caucasian stock…’ the Hippie elucidated, preferring — under the circumstances — to show the cruel wit of Arthur Young a Christian cold-shoulder.

The blind man nudged the Hippie, ‘Ask the little turd how long he’s been staying here. Ask him if he knows who owns this craft.’

Arthur — stiffening visibly — heard the blind man’s comments first hand but even so, the Hippie took it upon himself to repeat them again, but slightly modified, for the sake of diplomacy. ‘I don’t know if you’ve been staying here long,’ he began tentatively, ‘or what your connection to this craft might be exactly, but the man we are looking for had a camp — or at least, he did do, yesterday — in that clutch of bushes, over there…’

The hippie pointed.

‘Yes,’ Arthur’s lofty gaze returned — irresistibly — to the hippie’s toes. The nails were so long that they were almost curly. And the width, the thickness, the dirt. Arthur didn’t consider himself to be — not at heart, anyway — a fastidious person, but even he…

‘ Yes? ’ The Hippie looked slightly confused, ‘You did see him?’

Arthur nodded, composedly.

Hah

‘And when would that’ve been?’

‘Well…’ Arthur considered this question, at his leisure, ‘let me see… he started camping here on Wednesday, and I’ve seen him around just about every day since then. But today? I guess approximately half an hour ago — or an hour. I can’t be totally sure.’

The hippie turned to consult the blind man, ‘How long ago do you reckon it must’ve been, Herb?’

‘Half an hour, max,’ the blind man assured him. Then he crossed his arms — not a little aggressively — and fixed Arthur firmly with his fluttering white stare, ‘You weren’t here yesterday,’ he stated baldly.

Are you calling me a damn liar?

‘I suppose you must be a couple of those…’ Arthur chose his words disdainfully, ‘those Following types.’

‘Yes we are, mate,’ the blind man answered.

Mate?

‘And as it happens,’ Arthur continued, ‘I was here yesterday. This is my boat. I’ve had permanent tenure of it since January 1970.’

So screw you.

The blind man snorted. He was having none of it.

‘Let me see…’ Arthur pondered, provocatively, ‘ yesterday… uh… Wesley was setting some traps. I believe he ate gull for lunch — caught at the dump. We had a rather interesting discussion about bio-diversity… and later…’ Arthur paused, haughtily, ‘I think he said that later today he would be…’ The Hippie seemed mesmerised. The blind man was still glaring (but foiled, disgruntled), ‘breaking up camp and meeting with a librarian. Drinking lemonade. That was it. We made lemonade, earlier.’

‘Lemon slices from The Hotel,’ the Hippie spoke excitedly to the blind man, ‘I told Hooch he was mucking about finding lemons in the trash back there.’

Arthur’s expression was briefly a picture –

The trash?

The blind man suddenly raised his right hand. He was holding a white stick in it. The stick was splattered with mud. The hippie ducked slightly to avoid being swiped by it.

‘Somebody’s coming.’

The blind man seemed certain.

Arthur glanced up behind the two of them and along the embankment. In the middle distance (wading through the fog like it was a palpable entity) he saw another man approaching. Another stranger. Tall. Suited. Holding a briefcase.

The Hippie twisted around to try and look himself, but because of the acuteness of his angle at the base of the embankment, he was obliged to wait a little longer to get a proper sighting. When the man finally came into focus, however, the Hippie appraised him but didn’t show — or not so far as Arthur could tell — any sign of recognition.

He turned back around to face the blind man. ‘ Suit, ’ he muttered disparagingly (Arthur saw the blind man baulk at this description. He was wearing a suit himself, and a heavy grey crombie).

‘Let’s get out of here,’ he added, ‘before Doc gets away from us completely.’

He took the blind man’s hand, turned him, then slowly began guiding him back up the bank again. They were whispering as they clambered. Sharing confidences. But Arthur wasn’t interested. He couldn’t hear them, anyway, and he wasn’t bothered. He was already distracted by the approach of the fourth stranger. The fourth arrival to this icy, darkening, godforsaken hole in under an hour.

‘Wesley chose him,’ the Hippie whispered, ‘for the negotiation. He lives here. A little frosty, admittedly. But definitely not a Follower. He doesn’t have the Following… the Following odour… ’

‘You’ve got it all wrong, Shoes,’ Herbie shook his head, ‘he said he’d been here since 1970, yeah? Well that’s absolute rubbish for starters. And then there’s the computer…’

‘The computer?’

‘Didn’t you hear it bleeping?’

The Hippie gave this some thought, ‘I suppose I did. But what about it?’

‘There’s no bloody electricity. ’ ‘Are you sure?’

‘Can you see any wires?’

‘ Uh? ’

‘Overhead. There aren’t any. I’d’ve heard them buzzing. I’m not hearing anything at the moment except the clink of the Power Station, and that’s still-a couple of miles away.’

The Hippie peered up into the sky.

‘If you want my opinion…’

‘I do,’ the Hippie interjected.

‘I think this guy’s a plant. He’s from the company, probably. Or a pressure group. Or the papers. Shall I tell you how I know, Shoes? Shall I tell you why?’

The hippie licked his lips, like an oversized cat, waiting fatly for a delicious portion of free cream. The blind man rarely disappointed him. The blind man was keen. The blind man was a blade — his sharpness was legendary.

‘You don’t mention this to Hooch, okay? You don’t mention this to Doc.’

‘I wouldn’t think of it,’ the Hippie sighed, ecstatically.

‘Okay,’ the blind man took a deep breath, in preparation, ‘that craft belonged to Wesley’s father. Has done for years. Since 1973, to be exact, when he was working for the petroleum industry. And if that skinny little fuck back there doesn’t know that, then he doesn’t know squat. ’

‘Jesus bollocks, Herbs,’ the Hippie was blown away, ‘where the heck are you getting this from? It’s legendary. Is it police stuff? Is it inside information?’

‘Nope. Just basic detective work,’ the blind man smirked. ‘I went to the Town Hall and they turned up trumps, for once. Most obliging. I put my Temporary Careworker on the case this morning. Poor blighter’s fingers were bleeding by the time I’d finished with him.’

The blind man mimed someone struggling against the cruel advances of a copious filing system, chuckling to himself, gleefully. Then he poked the Hippie — twice — very sharply, very playfully, very exactly in the centre of his ribs. Perfectly certain, as he was, of their precise location.

Katherine Turpin yanked her front door open and stared out at Wesley, her pale face — considering how late it was (inexcusably so), and who he was (more particularly) — set into a cool mask of quite commendable equanimity.

‘Congratulations,’ she told him, after an extravagantly lengthy span of keen-eyed scrutiny (during which time, Wesley supposed, she’d discovered virtually everything she needed to know about him: –