Nicola Barker - Behindlings

The crackle of needles, underfoot

The yaffle of the woodpecker

The bark of the deer

— then came to again, seated –

How long have I been here?

He felt the faded velvet of the chair’s upholstery, the polished wood at the tip of its arm. He stared at Dewi’s magnificent profile –

A bison

A bear

— gilt-dipped in the fitful yellow of the fire’s flickering.

‘Was it true?’ he found himself asking. ‘What they… what they…’

KATHERINE (whore) TURPIN ABORTED HER OWN FATHER’S BASTARD

Couldn’t say it

‘What they wrote about her — the graffiti?’

Dewi shook his head, ‘Katherine had a reputation, and she was no angel, but she was hardly…’ he shrugged, ‘and her father was a decent man — much loved…’ Dewi nearly smiled, remembering, ‘a great educationalist. Energetic. Motivated. Enthusiastic. A real innovator. A real improver… ’

A long silence.

‘But then there’s never smoke without…’ he indicated towards the hearth, then rubbed his knees, resignedly, ‘and I suppose that’s what people thought. And they weren’t entirely… they weren’t absolutely wrong to think it, either.’

Arthur struggled to comprehend this answer. He tried to recall whatever it was that Wesley had written on the subject –

Hard to bring it to…

Hard to conjure…

— all the stuff about perimeters; those ‘savagely drawn margins of small-town orthodoxy…’ ‘Who will we side with, ultimately? Those coddled straight-jackets, walled in by their own conventionality? Or the giant, impassive gush of wave and foam and spray — fearless, remorseless, free…? ’

Sheer hyperbole

KATHERINE (whore) TURPIN ABORTED HER OWN FATHER’S BASTARD

Fact

Scrawled onto the grey concrete of that tall sea wall. One foot by seven. Contravening just about every…

Did salt actually work as a preservative for graffiti?

And in mentioning it –

Back to the point, Arthur

— in mentioning it Wesley had celebrated that contravention (hadn’t he?). Under the guise of celebrating her. Had made her humiliation a kerbstone, a signpost, a landmark attraction on his map of the estuary –

A Rubicon for the people Following.

‘She slept with her father? ’

He couldn’t help himself.

Dewi smiled, tiredly, ‘No. That’s the whole… it was never as simple… never as literal. I thought you people were meant to be fond of riddles.’

You people

Arthur grimaced, sourly, then tried to think.

‘Her father was the local headmaster…’

Dewi nodded.

‘… and her mother was active in the church in some capacity?’

Dewi rubbed his two huge hands together. ‘Low church. They were descended from Dutch stock.’

‘So where are they now? Do you know? Do you keep in touch?’

‘The father’s in Scotland. He runs a boys’ boarding school there. The mother was a missionary — New Guinea. Died last year. Pancreatic cancer.’

‘But Katherine stayed here? Why?’

‘Because she wouldn’t walk away from it… and… and because if she stayed, nobody got away with anything.’

‘Least of all you, eh?’

Dewi shook his head, ‘Least of all her. I was the weak link. I made things worse by caring about all the wrong things. I deserved to suffer.’

‘But the graffiti’s still there, you say? After — what is it — thirteen years? And it still matters? Isn’t that…?’

Dewi smiled, leaned forward, poked the fire. ‘It’s a landmark.’

Arthur leaned forward himself, in his chair, struck by a sudden thought. ‘Somebody must’ve hated her. Who was it? Do you know? Did you ever find out?’

Dewi shrugged, ‘It’s a small town. People feel things deeply here.’

‘And you didn’t ever feel tempted to defend her in any way?’

Dewi twisted around on his stool, gazed at Arthur, blankly. ‘I did,’ he said, ‘I painted over it. Twice. She begged me not to. We’d been dating for over a year when it all first blew up. She told me there was no truth in it and I believed her. She said if you destroy a thing it gives it more power. She thought no one would dream of taking it seriously. But she was naive. And she was wrong. And I did paint over it. And she hated me for it — she hated that conformist side of me. She took it as a lack of faith. Which it was. And then when it came back — which it did — it was like…’ he turned towards the fire again, ‘like a splinter. Under the skin. Fighting, pushing, to get out again.’

Arthur closed his eyes for a second. ‘It must’ve…’ he visualised the splinter. The image touched him. ‘It must’ve hurt. ’

Dewi nodded, slowly, ‘At first, perhaps, but it grew… it grew familiar,’ he murmured, ‘and after a while I resigned myself to it. It was my own mess, my own fault. I learned that to love someone is to accept everything. Even the bullshit. The self-deceit. Even the lying. The graffiti meant nothing. It was a public act, yet a strangely private thing. It was faded… it was history — part of the grain,’ Dewi slid his flat hand through the air, unthinkingly, ‘part of the weft, the weave of my life with Katherine…’

‘Then Wesley happened along,’ Arthur interrupted, ‘and made it all feel fresh again.’

Dewi’s profile hardened. ‘I think he imagined that he was championing her in some way,’ he shook his head, as if unable to comprehend, ‘but it was an act of such staggering… such revolting vandalism. He used her…’

Dewi glanced over at Arthur, fleetingly, ‘Katherine was always used you see.’

Arthur knotted his fingers together, rested them on his lap, covered his crotch, unconsciously.

‘The point was,’ Dewi turned back to the fire, ‘the words he read on that wall — the ones he repeated in his stupid book — took no account of anything. He pretended he was defending her, but all he really did was make her into some kind of tourist attraction. He made her the same as… he pulled her into his story. He made her into him. ’

‘God I know how that feels,’ Arthur whispered, covering his face with his hands, falling back into his chair again, ‘I know that pain. ’

Dewi remained motionless. Arthur almost considered repeating what he’d whispered. Louder –

Louder

For the drama

— but he held off.

‘Katherine’s been through the fire,’ Dewi murmured, ‘and she’s grown very accustomed to the burn of it. I’ve watched her acclimatise. I’ve seen her skin harden. But after Wesley, I finally saw her do something I never thought she’d do. I saw her becoming the lie. I saw her living it. And he did that to her. He made that happen.’

Arthur nodded –

Yes he did

He did

‘And all of the others,’ Dewi continued, ‘they’re just as bad: the people who Follow, the sad Old Man with his dead son, the business corporation behind that stupid competition, the people running those computer sites who repeat those lies about her, the publishers… they’re all implicated. They spread the lie too. They revitalise it. They re-energise it. Make it real. Give it its power.’

Arthur suddenly stopped nodding.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s more…’ he frowned, ‘if you don’t mind my saying so, it’s much more subtle than that — and this is what you have to try and take some kind of solace in — because the people Following, the site on the Net tracking Wesley, the articles in the paper; these apparent trappings of his success are actually its very opposite. These people aren’t his allies — you’d have to be a fool to think that. These people are his punishment.