Nicola Barker - Behindlings

Doc was hardly five yards from the car before Wesley had yanked himself straight and tossed off the blanket. His hair was ruffled, his T-shirt pulled skew — one sleeve pushed right up (over his shoulder, under his armpit) and the remaining bulk concertinaed rather fetchingly across his midriff (Jo caught a quick glimpse of his skinny stomach — an object lesson in unswerving muscularity

— and felt her ears –

Ears?

— tingling in a bizarre response). His face was no longer swollen, but definitely pinkened in places, his chin –

That determined chin

— grazed very slightly. Not too bad, though, really, all things considered.

‘Sleeping bag,’ Josephine murmured, turning her eyes away from his belly and towards the ceiling. It was rolled up, fatly, on her lap. She put her arms around it. Squeezed it, furtively. Rested her head on top –

My cover’s blown

It’s over

He knows for sure now that I’m a real Follower

Wesley gave her a curious look, almost as if he could read what her thoughts were –

Mustn’t think

— then he turned his head away and stared (although there was no view, only moisture) at his side window. A few seconds later he turned and gazed at her again, his expression not so much hostile as profoundly heedful; like a too skinny dog sitting hard and fast against a well-laden trestle table.

‘There’s a flask,’ Josephine added, somewhat fatuously (as if he hadn’t heard her conversation with Doc perfectly well himself), ‘something hot.’

‘Seems like we’re all very well set up, then,’ Wesley responded, stretching (confinedly) –

Being sarcastic… (Was he?)

— pulling down his T-shirt, then brushing his good hand through his hair –

We… (Did he just say?)

Josephine nodded, modestly. They were well set up. She felt a brief glow of optimism. Perhaps misguidedly.

‘Good old Doc,’ Wesley added, his tone prodigiously jocular.

Jo nodded again, but slower this time, as she watched his –

False…

Had to be…

— grin turn into a scowl.

‘He admires you a great deal,’ she said, ‘if that helps.’

Oh God, just listen to me

‘I mean they all do — for the most part.’

‘It doesn’t help,’ Wesley snapped, ‘and it isn’t true. You plainly have absolutely no conception of what Following represents, what it consists of, in real terms.’

Not so much aggressive as… as… well, yes aggressive.

He snatched the flask, which was almost rolling from her lap, unscrewed the cup and then the lid.

‘It might seem novel to you,’ he said, ‘all this… this unexpected solidarity. But I’ve had four solid godforsaken fucking years of it.’

Josephine stared straight ahead, her shoulders rolled forward defensively –

I screwed up

‘Note,’ Wesley continued, jiggling the flask at her, ‘this is the kind of flask I have.’

He suddenly chuckled to himself, as if she wasn’t actually there and he was quietly partaking in a perfectly cheery yet despicably below average interior monologue.

‘ My flask, ’ he murmured.

‘What’s in it?’ she asked brightly.

Is mundanity the answer?

Avoidance?

‘I predict…’ Wesley sniffed, ‘ yup. Oxtail. That devious old prick virtually lives on the stuff.’

Josephine grimaced.

‘What’s with the face?’ he snapped.

She stopped grimacing.

‘You loathe oxtail, is that it?’ he asked. ‘You were force-fed it as a kid. Thought it’d put hairs on your chest, but they never actually sprouted… at least,’ he shrugged, gazing at her flat breasts, provokingly, ‘I don’t think they did, anyway.’

She slowly untied the sleeping bag.

‘I thought,’ she eventually muttered (utterly composed), ‘we weren’t meant to be talking about all that.’

‘That’s right, ’ Wesley congratulated her, perhaps a little too robustly.

He tipped some soup into the cup, still talking as he poured, ‘So what did Shoes do to you exactly in that cosy pub toilet? Did he show you his piercings? His etchings? Did he…’ he stopped pouring, glanced over, mischievously, ‘did he fuck you senseless? Did he shit you up?’

‘You were right. I’m not a great fan of oxtail,’ she said primly.

‘Not a great fan,’ Wesley repeated.

He blew on the soup then knocked it back. He poured her a cup.

‘Did you see his tattoos, Josephine Bean?’ he asked, offering it to her, cordially. ‘Weren’t you terribly impressed?’

Josephine took the soup. She sniffed it. She nodded. Her affirmation was suitably non-specific. Wesley grabbed the sandwich container. He pulled off its tupperware lid.

‘For your information, Josephine,’ he said, ‘I have a tupperware container exactly like this one in my rucksack.’

Josephine took a sip of the soup. Almost burned her tongue on it (it was extremely salty, but wonderfully hot). Then she took another sip, cradled her hands around the cup and allowed its steam to warm her nose, her chin, her cheek.

Wesley snaked out his hand and plucked a stray dock leaf from her lap.

‘Dock,’ he said, ‘I was about to go out and gather some of that.’

He screwed the soft leaf up, menacingly, and tossed it at the windscreen. Her side.

He was –

Bully

— intimidating her.

And quite successfully –

I don’t care, I don’t care, just so long as he stays here

She cleared her throat. ‘He had… he… Shoes had a strange one on his stomach,’ she said, struggling to maintain a rather puny sense of decorum, ‘a very… very strange tattoo.’

‘Really.’

Wesley wasn’t interested. He was inspecting the sandwiches.

‘Salmon paste,’ he muttered, peeling one open. He pushed it into his mouth, whole, and peeled open a second. ‘Chocolate spread,’ he said, through his mouthful.

She turned to look at him, her eyebrows raised.

‘Not together,’ he clarified, sensing her sudden interest, ‘obviously.’

‘Obviously,’ she echoed, still watching him, pointedly.

‘ What? ’

He scowled at her, his jaw working resentfully.

She shrugged, ‘I just… I only thought they might be exactly like the kind that you eat, usually, or… or something like that.’

Wesley jumped back, sharply, as if she’d burned him with her wit. Her sarcasm. ‘You’re a fucking razor, ’ he said.

They were both quiet for a while. Wesley devoured the second sandwich.

‘Hangman,’ Jo eventually continued (once she’d mustered the requisite stamina).

‘Pardon?’ He glanced at her, still chewing.

‘Two words. Seven and five. Like in the game you play on paper. And the little figure hanging there on the gallows with everything intact but a…’ she paused, swallowed.

Wesley picked up a third sandwich and took a bite. Spoke with his mouth full, ‘But a what? My God it’s like squeezing blood from a stone with you, Bean.’

‘But a hand, ’ she said, ‘a right hand.’

She glanced towards his — held hers up — took a final sip of the soup then passed it back. He delivered a scorching glance as he grabbed the cup, ‘You really love all this stuff, huh? All this fatuous, this… this pointless riddle-puzzle cack. ’

Jo didn’t answer.

He shook his head, ‘I never thought anyone would fall for it — least of all anyone remotely intelligent. A girl for fuck’s sake…’