Nicola Barker - Behindlings

When the first sock finally came away completely — victory! — Dennis trotted over and ploughed his keen nose into it. Doc knocked him back, expostulating gruffly, then tucked the sock firmly into a battered boot. He did the same — moments later — with the second sock, then gently wiggled his ten pulverised toes, quietly conducting a grim inspection of them.

It was a dark, dark night. But Doc was not dark. He was radiant. His mundane labours were being grandly illuminated by an old-fashioned streetlight. He sat under it, dwarfed by the lofty grandeur of its wrought-iron spine, its generous yellow areola; like a pixie perched squatly under a supernatural buttercup; his breath vaporising around him into a soft golden floss, his generous figure compacted into bright, abstract blocks: sentimental as a Hogarth, stark as a Hopper.

He was whacked. He’d had enough. Even Dennis was showing signs of trauma (after his recent tragic cuffing), dramatically collapsing onto his side in the gutter, then jumping up, with a growl, as a large jeep rumbled past them.

Police.

A whirling flash of sapphire suddenly rotated — in a delirious foxtrot — with Doc’s own dizzy nimbus of gilded amber.

Hooch flinched at the sight of it, glowering owlishly from behind his glasses (as if momentarily whiplashed by this unexpected convergence), then craned his neck nervously after the whirling blue globe as it gradually retreated.

He had every reason to feel anxiety: his white van was parked on a double yellow (just a few feet along from them), half up on the pavement, half off, the back door swung open to reveal a small stove (unlit), two camp-beds, an unzipped sleeping bag, an ice-box, a pair of Wellingtons, two back-packs (his and Doc’s: Doc’s much the larger) a rolled up tent and a clean shirt on a peg.

Only once the jeep had passed into the distance did he turn back towards Doc again and commiserate softly with him, ‘You’ll kill yourself this way, Old Man.’

He spoke fondly.

He offered Doc the mug of tea. Doc half-turned, reaching out his arm for it. ‘Too true. Too true.’

He didn’t sound regretful. Or chastened, even. He embraced his destiny willingly. Tragic or otherwise. He wasn’t particular.

His hand eventually made contact with the cup. But Hooch held on to it, a second longer, as if fearful Doc might drop it. His fingers seemed stiff and hot — paradoxically so, in all of this iciness — burning with a scarlet, puffy-jointed arthritic buzz (early morning and late evening. Extremes of temperature. Always a trial for him.).

‘I saw The Blind Man,’ Doc muttered, nodding towards the retreating jeep to indicate his train of thought, taking the cup, finally, gripping at it tightly and ducking his head in thanks for it, ‘I believe you said he’d turn up.’

This comment seemed to wash over Hooch, initially.

‘You must’ve done twenty-odd miles today,’ Hooch ruminated, ‘or thereabouts.’

‘Yup,’ Doc confirmed. ‘Seventeen for the perimeter and then the rest. Probably eight or more this morning.’

The Old Man sighed once he’d finished speaking, still not breathing easily — getting no pleasure from his calculating (if anything, all the more exhausted by it) — then took a sip of his drink. He sighed again, gratefully, after swallowing.

‘I sometimes wonder,’ Hooch couldn’t resist pushing his luck a little, ‘whether he doesn’t do these ridiculous distances just to take the mick. I mean the island’s perimeter every fucking day? What’s the point of it? Why’s he doing it?’

Doc chuckled, indulgently, ‘I’ve thought it myself, Hooch, I have. When my toes start their throbbing and my chest starts its heaving. It’s not his usual style — to retrace like this…’ he paused, as if unable — or unwilling — to consider the deeper ramifications of Wesley’s behaviour, ‘but he’s younger than we are and a genuine… well, adventurer. He takes real joy in it. And he has all that boundless energy. All that anger. He walks them off. He observes stuff. He — I was only just thinking this, an hour or so ago, to fight off the tiredness while I was Following — he kind of… he integrates himself. He becomes a part of things. And that’s a gift. There’s nothing untoward in it. Absolutely not.’

‘I had a kip in the van,’ Hooch justified his absence on the perimeter walk, with a slight vocal tightness. ‘The spur’s been playing me up a bit lately.’

‘No explanations necessary, Hooch,’ Doc reached out a heavy hand and tenderly caressed Dennis’s chin with it, ‘least of all to me.’

His rebuttal wasn’t entirely sincere. Following was a job, after all, like any other. No margin here for skivers or wasters or half-cocked loafers. Hooch knew it. The corner of his mouth twisted slightly. His eyes narrowed a fraction behind his glasses. He turned and peered suspiciously after the police jeep again, thereby re-accessing Doc’s earlier allusion, ‘You were saying The Pig turned up this afternoon, then?’

Doc winced, not appreciating the coarseness of Hooch’s language. He took another sip of his drink — to indicate his displeasure — then answered, after swallowing, ‘He did. Joined us just before two-thirty. On his own, he was. Shoes passed the time with him.’

‘What a ridiculous sodding liability that man is,’ Hooch sniped, ‘and what an unrepentant bloody flea. I told you he’d show his face at some point, didn’t I?’

‘You were right, Hooch,’ Doc affirmed, tiredly.

‘The South East is his manor. The Estuary. He always turns up here, regular as clockwork.’

‘He was affiliated to the docks in Shoeburyness for twelve years, he was telling me. Then close to Purfleet for five. Customs-related stuff, I’d expect. Then a spate at Grain, when his eyesight started going. It’s his patch alright.’

‘His beat, ’ Hooch spat, ‘and I bet the sightless little tit already grassed us up with that bloody lot.’ Hooch thumbed, grimacing, after the police jeep.

‘Give the poor sod a break, will you?’ Doc put his mug of tea down, grimacing exasperatedly. ‘Herb’s an ex-cop and he’s blind. How the hell could he be expected to know you were parked illegally?’

‘He’d sense it,’ Hooch pretended to be joking, but he wasn’t entirely, ‘he’s like a damn bat. He has a bat’s radar.’

Doc merely snorted, choosing not to fuel Hooch’s psychotic imaginings any further.

‘Wesley hates him. I know that much,’ Hooch muttered, resenting Doc’s flagrant lack of involvement, determined to provoke him further.

‘You don’t know that.’

Doc was immediately engaged again.

‘I do. He can smell a pig at fifty paces. Loathes them.’

‘Ex-pig,’ Doc corrected, ‘and a loyal Behindling.’

In the distance the police jeep’s brake lights were sparking. It stopped. It indicated. It began a slow but inexorable three-point turn.

Damn

‘So whereabouts exactly did he catch up, then?’ Hooch asked, a touch of real tension entering his voice.

‘Just after you left us. Just beyond the hotel.’

‘And how did he know where we were?’

‘Now there’s a question…’ Doc was tense now, too. ‘Probably used his…’ He tipped his head towards the blue light.

‘I knew it. The swine. And did he tell you anything?’

‘Nope,’ Doc lifted his tea out of the way and then slowly began pulling his socks on again, ‘I already said Shoes kept company with him. They were a distance behind me. The going was heavy. And the fog…’

He impatiently mopped some cold sweat off his forehead, ‘I lost Wes at the putting course. He put on a spurt. Got away from me there.’