Nicola Barker - Behindlings

He snaked his hand across the front of Wesley’s belly.

‘I’m Edward, Wesley’s estate agent,’ he said, stammering a little, ‘and I’m not… I’m not involved, directly.’ His eyes unfocussed for a moment and his hand went limp. ‘I mean, not… not directly, ’ he repeated, with just a fraction less certainty.

Wesley was currently unable to stand unsupported. He had an arm around each of Ted and Arthur’s shoulders. His chin was cut and pinkening-up, while the usually unobtrusive cheekbone under his left eye was highlighted by a white-green bump.

Many people watched them from the opposite pavement, restrained by — and lounging against — the pedestrian railings. About a dozen or so; fifteen, maybe.

Arthur heartily wished it would rain and drive them all back inside again. He wasn’t accustomed to the attention. Didn’t thrill to it, particularly.

He adjusted Wesley’s weight and then shook Edward’s hand.

‘I’m Art,’ he said, ‘we were supposed to be meeting up in the bar. My involvement is…’ he paused, thoughtfully, ‘ tangential. ’

Ted looked impressed (to understand so completely — so effortlessly — your relation to a situation was creditable enough, but then to have a wide-ranging vocabulary with which to express it? That was… that truly was compelling).

In those few, brief seconds Arthur fully apprehended Ted’s gullible nature –

Oh Arthur Young

You stinking liar

‘I suppose it might be…’ he muttered, glancing around him shiftily –

Stinking

Stinking

‘It might be a good idea to take him somewhere a little more…’

Not long before the rest of the pack get wind of this in the Lobster Smack

Come storming on over

‘To take him somewhere a little more…’ he repeated, staggering slightly.

Wesley was heavy. Arthur’d seen the punches he’d taken. Wouldn’t be surprised if he suffered major concussion, although –

Frankly

— this might be… uh…

Quite useful, really

‘I have the keys…’ Ted whispered, pointing back across the road, ‘to the agency. But with the picture window and everything… it’s all fairly public. There’s a back room — a bathroom — but it’s really much too tiny…’

Arthur was momentarily concerned about his rucksack — still in the bar. And the girl. The local girl. He couldn’t help wondering whether… if she…

That was quite some display she’d put on in there. Saved Wesley’s bacon –

More’s the damn pity

— although he couldn’t –

This is ridiculous

help — well — secretly admiring her chutzpah (however deranged), her crazed intrepidity.

The big, wild, Welsh moose, meanwhile — Arthur surreptitiously noted –

A coward? Moi?

— was being led — unrestrained — to the back of a police car. He offered no resistance. He seemed perfectly sober. Even in the unhealthy, inconsistent yellow-white of several passing headlights he looked to be a… a reasonable enough chap –

We’re on the same side here

Remember that

A black-haired man clambered up the steps behind them and patted Arthur (Arthur flinched) –

Oi! Hands off!

— on the shoulder (a greasy looking creature in a mac. He’d noticed him tormenting the local girl earlier. He’d seen him go through the pockets of her coat. Wouldn’t trust him an inch if it actually came down to it).

‘Excuse me,’ Bo panted jovially, proffering Arthur his rucksack, ‘I believe this is yours.’

He handed it over, with a puff, ‘What’ve you got in there, mate? Solid gold ingots? A 20 °CC bike engine? Your horse-shoe collection?’

He was speaking to Arthur but had eyes only for Wesley.

‘Thanks,’ Arthur took the bag — God it was heavy — and half-slung it over his shoulder.

Wesley lifted his head, blinked twice at the stranger and spoke an entire sentence, in perfect order, ‘I will never sleep again,’ he stated emphatically. ‘And that is very, very fucking sad.’

‘Not feeling too good there, then, Wes?’ Bo asked.

Wesley shook his head, violently. ‘I will not feel,’ he told him, ‘and you will not bloody make me.’

Ted glanced over at Arthur, trying to send him a warning look. ‘Perhaps we should…’ he said. (Needed to get Wesley away from… as a matter of some… but without…)

‘Oh shit man. My nails are growing like ivy… ’

Wesley was staring at his right hand now, full of wonder.

There were no fingers on this hand. No nails. No greenery.

Fortunately they were saved by the doctor.

‘I’m the doctor,’ he barked, materialising — without any kind of prompting — at Ted’s elbow, and holding up his doctor’s briefcase. He was a very small man but exceedingly charismatic.

‘Where can we take him? We need to sit him down. We need clean water. We need calm. We need…’

‘I’m wondering if there’s any particular reason that you should choose to return to Canvey at this point, Wes…?’ Bo continued, doggedly.

‘Hydrangea… stranger, ’ Wesley pondered this distinction.

Bo whipped a high-tech palm from his pocket, flipped it open and removed the metal pen.

‘A kind of… of plant… or… or flower… ?’ he questioned, starting to scribble.

‘ Quiet, ’ the doctor snapped, ‘for God’s sake let’s get him out of this circus.’

‘Over the road,’ Arthur nodded to the bag-bringer a second time. ‘Much obliged again,’ he said, pushing past him.

‘I can carry it for you, if you like,’ the greasy-haired man offered, finishing scribbling and then sticking the contraption hurriedly back into his pocket… ‘or take a turn with Wes, even…’

The doctor, however (almost as if sensing the threat Bo posed), was having none of it. ‘No stragglers,’ he growled, ‘just give me the bag and let’s get moving shall we?’

Arthur passed the bag over and they staggered off down the steps again, around the railings, across the road, back through the small crowd of onlookers. Ted found his keys and opened the agency’s front door. He reached over for the light switch, automatically.

‘No lights,’ the doctor instructed, dumping Arthur’s bag with a grunt and pointing to the swivel chair, ‘put him down on that. Do you have a bathroom, a secure room? Anything approaching?’

Ted pointed, ‘But it isn’t very…’

The doctor indicated towards the front door, ‘I want you to lock it and stand guard. And you…’ he nodded to Arthur, ‘help me push him out into the back space.’

Arthur did as he was instructed. Wesley sat slackly on the chair, meanwhile, emitting a curious whistling sound — as if communicating in whale — while they struggled to shove him. The chair’s wheels kept buckling. He almost fell off and tried to stand. The doctor pushed him back down again, a fraction aggressively, Arthur felt — no finesse — Arthur hated doctors. They were all fucking Luddites.

Once they’d found their way into it, the small bathroom did indeed seem exceptionally cramped. Smelled of… (Arthur sneezed. He was echoed, in kind, by Wesley)… of wax. The doctor had a torch in his pocket. He took it out and turned it on. He shone it into Wesley’s face. Wesley closed his eyes.

‘ Owwwwww, ’ he groaned, abandoning all pretensions to bravery.

‘Open your eyes,’ the doctor said.