Nicola Barker - Behindlings

‘Did you see the new girl afterwards?’

‘I did. Not fifteen minutes since. On the High Street. With the boy. Outside the pub. Climbing into an old brown Mini. Thick as thieves they were.’

‘I still can’t get over Wes talking to her like that,’ Hooch grumbled (as if this simple act had been a terrible offence to him, personally).

‘It was certainly a little…’ Doc paused, ‘ odd. ’ He shrugged. ‘They’ll both be up here in a minute, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Not if the little rapscallion sees…’ Hooch tipped his head, morosely, towards the approaching police vehicle.

Doc finished yanking on his boots then set about rapidly re-tying his laces, ‘You’re on the bloody money there.’

Hooch nodded sagely to himself, gazing over the road towards Katherine’s bungalow (the lights were on but the curtains were drawn. The stained glass in the front door was glowing brightly).

‘And now Wesley’s back here again, you reckon?’

‘Yup,’ Doc affirmed, ‘I lost him on the fourteenth mile or thereabouts, so I don’t know for certain. But it’s what I’m assuming…’

‘Perhaps he’s considering renting from her,’ Hooch said, almost joking, but with a slight edge of anxiety.

‘Never. Not our Wes. And why the silly tart’d give him house-room — even overnight — after what he did to her…’

Doc had removed his pager from his inside pocket and was frowning at it, bemusedly, as he spoke. He gave it a shake. ‘Something’s definitely up with this thing today.’

‘It’s not just that,’ Hooch told him, ‘I tried the info-line earlier. Didn’t get any answer. No updates, anyway. And the last message deleted. Which’ll go some way to explaining why the weekend crowd haven’t made an appearance yet.’

‘I’ve had dozens of text messages,’ Doc half-smiled, ‘but I haven’t responded. I like it quiet. Makes a nice change, eh?’

‘ Snap, ’ Hooch concurred.

‘It’s never happened before,’ Doc opined, ‘at least not in my memory.’

‘Then your memory’s getting shaky, Old Man,’ Hooch seemed delighted to set Doc straight on the matter, ‘because it happened the February before last. In Skeggy. Skegness. Went down for two days then, remember? We were freezing our arses off in that three man tent with Martin Hopsmith, just before he got cancer.’

‘Good old Mart.’ Doc turned off his pager again and stuck it into his pocket, scowling as the police jeep pulled to a standstill in front of them.

‘Estate agent at two o’clock,’ Hooch spoke — barely moving his lips — over the sound of the engine, ‘check it out.’

Doc glanced over. Sure enough: the estate agent, pushing aside Katherine’s living room curtains, then the nets, spotting the police car, frowning, letting them swish gently back together again.

The jeep was driven by a young officer. He was accompanied by a diminutive female wearing casual gear. The officer unwound his window, opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Hooch had bounded forward onto the roadway. ‘I’m right on the case, lad,’ he shouted, indicating with his thumb towards the van, ‘just picking up my old pal here…’

He bent his knees slightly to try and confirm eye-contact with the un-uniformed female, ‘If you’re from the Social, love, and it’s the boy you’re after, he’s just down the road a-way, outside the pub. We saw him there not ten minutes since…’

The woman frowned back at him, blankly –

Love?

The police officer, meanwhile, had turned off the ignition, unfastened his seat belt and jumped out of the car. He glanced over his shoulder for any sign of traffic, then strolled over.

‘I’m not here about the van, sir,’ he told Hooch curtly, ‘but I’m sure you can appreciate that this is a busy road and as such…’ he paused, closely inspecting the still-seated Doc, momentarily losing his thread, then promptly relocating it, ‘it’s always our priority to keep it clear.’

While he was speaking his right hand made the slow but ineluctable journey from his side to his front pocket, ‘In all good conscience,’ he smiled (an edge of steel in the artificial glow of the streetlight sparking off his fillings), ‘I should be writing you out a ticket.’

Hooch hopped back onto the pavement, plainly appalled by this possibility. ‘I’m right onto it, officer,’ he told him, needing no second warning. ‘Coming Old Man?’

The officer’s head snapped around at the sound of Doc’s familiar nomenclature. Doc was grumbling to himself under his breath as he untangled the dog’s lead with his uncooperative fingers. Once it had been neatly unwound, then applied, he tried to stand up, unleashing an almighty grunt, staggering slightly.

The officer put out a firm hand to steady him. Doc contrived to ignore it.

‘Doc,’ the officer said.

‘Don’t wear it out,’ Doc mumbled, making brief but furtive eye-contact, then looking down again, sullenly (he always pushed his luck with the local constabularies. He noticed himself doing it, disliked himself for it. But irascibility was one of the few real advantages old age afforded him. Seniority was his trump card; he played it, unstintingly.

And anyway… Anyway, Behindlings were no lovers of authority. Behindlings were harassed by the forces of the law, traditionally… Although they were so good when… The Welsh lads… so sympathetic when…)

No

‘Might I trouble you with a few questions, sir?’ As if on cue — but for no explicit reason — Dennis suddenly bounded forward towards the officer (bowing cheekily, bottom in the air, his small stump wagging provocatively). This unexpected manoeuvre very nearly toppled the Old Man over. He tripped two short steps after the animal, cursing him furiously.

‘Are you alright there, sir?’

Doc crossly yanked Dennis to heel again, swiping his stiff fingers through the air, ‘I’m perfectly fine,’ he snapped, ‘and stop “siring” me. I was a scaffolder for thirty-five years. A working man and proud of it. Destroyed my bloody hands at it. And my knees.’

He resentfully showed his free hand to the young officer, as if its heinously arthritic state was somehow his personal responsibility.

‘And anyway, like Hooch just said,’ he rumbled, his voice unexpectedly deepened by a heavy bubble of phlegm rising, ‘if she’s with social services…’ he indicated, contemptuously, towards the un-uniformed female (clearing his throat, noisily — the persistence of his catarrh making even Hooch flinch a little), ‘and it’s the young lad — Patty — you’re after, then he’s down by the pub. He…’

Doc turned his head sideways and expelled a dark globule onto the pavement, brusquely apologised for it, then glanced sharply off to the far right, alerted by an unexpected movement on the edge of the roadway.

It was the girl, Josephine, walking quickly towards them, her coat overlaid by a pair of red and yellow braces — nauseatingly reflective — like the kind of protective garb cautious cyclists wore, at night, in out of the way places.

‘In actual fact,’ his voice brightened, ‘you should have a quick word with this young lady,’ he pointed, ‘she was keeping company with the little bugger a short while earlier.’

Josephine was walking in the gutter, her arms folded tightly, the hood on her duffel coat up, her chin down, her nose glowing coldly.

‘ Josephine, ’ Doc boomed. ‘Where’d Patty get to?’

Jo jumped (as if having had no expectation of seeing anyone on the path ahead) then stopped, confusedly, before starting up again and walking rapidly towards them, ‘I just drove him to Benfleet, to the train station…’