Nicola Barker - Behindlings

‘Fucking madness, ’ Shoes gasped.

‘You said it.’

‘And how did Dewi react?’ Herbie asked.

‘Like he’d been punched himself. Everybody was stunned. Even Wesley was stunned. But that might well’ve been concussion.’

‘ I’m stunned,’ Shoes said, picking up his poker hand (his pint was finished).

‘Let’s get on to Furby,’ Hooch interrupted.

‘Well, Wes was punch drunk. The agent took him outside with the help of another chap. Thin man in a baseball cap. A stranger. Carrying a rucksack full of electronic stuff.’

‘A thin man, you say?’ Herbie butted in.

‘Apparently so.’

‘That’ll be the bloke on the boat,’ Shoes nudged Herbie, ‘he was thin and wearing a beige cap, wasn’t he?’

‘ Uh… yes,’ Herbie responded, irritably.

‘And he had some kind of portable computer thing. Battery-fed, we imagined, since there was no power to speak of on the craft. Herb here heard it beeping,’ Shoes continued.

Herbie’s top row of teeth were methodically gnashing against his lower lip.

‘And the hack says he wasn’t local?’ Shoes enquired.

‘I think he did, yes,’ Doc nodded.

Herbie nodded to himself, irritably, yet smugly.

‘Who’s this, then?’ Hooch asked.

‘On the craft, by Wesley’s camp,’ Herbie explained, keeping it casual, ‘we had a little chat with him on the perimeter walk. It was nothing important. I thought he might be Wesley’s go-between, for the… for the negotiations… ’ Herbie pulled a significant expression. He was obviously fishing.

Doc didn’t like the direction this conversation was heading, ‘I don’t recollect seeing him myself,’ he said, struggling to remember a thin man on the walk, ‘I saw some foreign-looking bloke, though, down by the river. But I was bloody whacked at that stage. It was foggy… you mean on that boat on stilts with the messed-up walkway, presumably?’

‘Yep.’

‘So who was he?’ Hooch looked up.

‘We don’t know,’ Shoes answered, glancing over to Herb who was distractedly tapping his stick on the floor. Doc observed his unease and resolved to follow it up, later.

‘Did they arrest the Welsh chap?’ Hooch asked.

‘Didn’t ask. I imagine they must’ve.’

‘Was he pissed?’

‘As a bloody newt, I imagine, but don’t quote me.’

‘And so Wes got carried outside and then Furby approached?’

‘It’s all a little confused,’ Doc said. ‘Some guy had his case stolen — by Furby — and he reported it to the policewoman. Furby used the bag to help him pose as a medical man.’

They all sniggered at this, except Shoes.

‘I hate that little prick,’ the Hippie murmured, with unusual vehemence.

‘God yes,’ Herbie turned to face him, ‘he broke your knee, didn’t he? During that whole moped catastrophe?’

‘ Scooter. ’

Shoes nodded, his hand now protectively stroking the fabric covering the affected area, ‘Ruined my Following habits for almost a year. Totally out of order.’

‘Nobody’s going to dispute the fact,’ Doc intervened, counselling reason, ‘that he’s the kind of person who gives Following a bad reputation. He even had a small run-in with…’ Doc paused –

My boy

Set fire to his tent when he refused to give him money for a taxi fare…

— then he shook his head, irritably, ‘anyway…’

He attempted to continue, inspecting his palm, clearing his throat.

The rest of the group caught up, became sober, exchanged looks.

‘So Furby stole a case and then posed as a doctor…’ Doc finally got back on track, ‘God only knows how he got Wes alone after that…’

‘The really odd thing is,’ Shoes interrupted, ‘that Wes doesn’t seem to have a problem with him. He tolerates Furby in a way that he doesn’t tolerate some of the others. Even after the knife attack.’

‘True.’

‘Recognises a fellow maniac,’ Hooch growled.

‘Landlord’s going to be pissed off,’ Shoes sighed, gazing over poignantly towards the bar (as if he’d only just that second become sensitive to his glass’s dryness), ‘if the website’s down and nobody knows to come in here. I guess Wes got some cash off him, up front, as usual.’

‘You could be right,’ Hooch conceded, disinterestedly.

Herbie tapped his stick again, excitedly. Hooch frowned. It wasn’t a relaxing sound.

Doc slid his hand into his pocket and drew out a fiver.

‘Get me another stout, Shoes, will you? And whatever you’re after having.’

Shoes took the note and stood up, still staring at the bar, a mite distractedly. ‘Need a quick slash first,’ he said, ‘if you don’t mind waiting, Old Man.’

‘Remember to wash your hands, love,’ Hooch trilled after him.

Ladies… Ladies… Ladies ’ toilets. Or had she… uh…

Nope

(The Sanitary Towel Dispenser on the wall to the left of her was a sure-fire give-away.)

Jo craned her neck around to confirm in fact the distinctively male reflection which’d quietly materialised in the mirror before her (she was standing at the basins, the tap running, washing and washing).

Not simply… not…

Not hiding

Shoes.

She shuddered, careful to keep her body angled strictly away from him, her wrist hidden.

‘I think you’re in… This is meant to be…’

She felt a million miles away from everybody (and what did rules matter, anyway, in this alien, fucked-up, Wesley-informed environ?).

Why am I still here?

‘We were just talking about you,’ Shoes said, smiling at her (his reflected image transformed — in person — by her frazzled neurons into something ever-skewed — buckling — distorted).

His toenails made a subtle kind of clattering on the lino as he walked over and casually rested his bulk against the hand dryer.

Jo wiggled her wet hands in the air ineffectually, the left hand more gently. She didn’t…

‘Is it bad?’ Shoes asked, matter of factly.

‘What?’

Hunted rabbit

‘The cut. Didn’t you wrap it up?’

‘No I… But how did…? I was just rinsing it… under the warm tap…’

‘I’m a wholehearted fan of pain myself,’ Shoes informed her. ‘It’s the root of my connection to both the Following and to Wesley. Are you the same way inclined yourself, Josephine?’

Jo stared over at him, confused.

He straightened up and pressed the wide silver button on the hand dryer, activating it.

‘Hold the wound under here,’ he advised, ‘to dry it out. I’m just going for a slash…’ He disappeared into a cubicle, but didn’t close the door.

Jo walked over to the dryer. She held her hands under it. Her wrist. The wrist was bleeding, the blood still mixing and diluting with what remained of the tap water.

It was stinging now. A good two hours since she’d cut it. Had tried to start her car. Had tried to flee. Had failed, abysmally –

Damp in the pistons

Dried them

Dripping blood

Snivelling

Sat inside there for an hour

The pain singing

Motherfucking Mini

‘Remember how I told you…’ Shoes’ voice emerged affably from the cubicle, over the splash of urine hitting the pan, the purr of the machine, her own breathing, ‘that I had your name tattooed on my…’

‘Pardon?’

Shoes popped his head around the door, halting his flow of urine to order.

‘My arse. Remember I told you earlier how I had your name tattooed on it? Do you remember that?’

Jo held her slashed arm under the dryer. The cubicle was at an exact halfway point between the handbasins and the door. She felt the wounds instinctively tightening as the blood released its moisture. They weren’t as bad as all… as all… saw much worse every half-hour on her training stints in Casualty.