Nicola Barker - Behindlings

‘And those… those institutions which on the one hand seem to celebrate his so-called individuality, are the very same institutions which unwittingly curtail it. They dog him. They smother him. They torment and they control him.’

As he spoke, Dewi observed Arthur’s hands moving between his knees; as though they were playing some kind of invisible instrument — a harmonium, a small organ, maybe… slowly at first, and then faster…

He frowned at them. For some reason those hands made him feel uneasy.

Arthur was still speaking. Dewi tuned in again.

‘Wesley likes to project this enviable sense of… of freedom — from care, responsibility, from any kind of con… con…’ Arthur squinted, ‘conventional moral life, even — but he’s like a wild hare trapped in a jeep’s headlights. He’s frozen inside that glare. He’s blinded by it. He’s incapacitated. There’s no release, no reprieve, no… no escape from it.’

On escape, Arthur’s frantic hands quietened, and in the calm following the tumult — the peace after the climax — Arthur’s thin face broke into a gentle half-smile. ‘Perhaps,’ he spoke kindly, ‘perhaps you should try and take some kind of comfort from that fact, Dewi.’

Ah…

Used the name

Finally

Dewi leaned forward and threw another log onto the fire, choosing not to comment on Arthur’s assessment of things, not to give any inkling as to whether he’d accepted or digested the stuff he was telling him.

‘When you have sex with Katherine again,’ he murmured (settling back down onto his stool, not changing his tone of voice, not meeting Arthur’s benign gaze, but speaking directly into the fire, almost tenderly), ‘could I ask you to use protection? And to bear in mind the things I’ve said? And to be gentle with her. And to be kind. She has a…’ he suddenly chuckled, fondly, ‘she has a sensitive spot just behind the lobe of her left ear. There’s a small birthmark… I don’t know if you… I don’t know if you… but she always laughs when you touch her there.’

As he spoke he pushed his hand into his shirt pocket and took hold of something. For a second, for a brief –

Awful

— moment, Arthur thought it might be a neat packet of prophylactics –

With spermicide

Ribbed

Unflavoured

‘Here’s that money I promised… for Harmony,’ Dewi stretched his arm towards Arthur. There was a roll of notes in it. He did not look at him as he handed it over, but kept his eyes fixed — all the while — on the licking flames ahead of him.

Arthur stood up to take the money, feeling slightly like a boy who’s been asked to vacate the cub-house after using bad language –

Akela’s arse is grass

Baden-Powell’s a knob-head

— feeling low and vulgar and somewhat flustered.

‘That’s very… very generous,’ he muttered, gauging the density of the roll; instinctively weighing up its financial content –

Significant

He remained standing for a minute or so, longing to say something –

To exonerate

— but this was no time — no place — for justifications. He knew it –

I am dismissed

He stood still for a second longer, then moved off, almost sloping (hyena-like) towards the door, shoving the bundle into his pocket, pulling up the collar on his jacket — as if protecting himself, but not from the cold outside so much as something… something

interior —

He instinctively knew I could be bought off

Is it really that obvious?

Exactly the same way Wesley knew, earlier

He pulled the door open, stepped through, then softly closed it behind him. Once outside –

Deep breath

Deep breath

— instead of fleeing, Arthur paused for a second on the Welshman’s wide verandah.

The evening was still foggy. He looked up. He smelled the fruity smoke from the woodfire; saw it hanging in the air. He saw a slip of moon, peeking, just momentarily — undelineated, a fuzz of potentiality — through the moist and whited cloud around him. He observed the green paint on the timber, too, reflected in that nearly-shine –

Cool mint

— and he was suddenly caught up and transported on that mild patina — that green — through winter, through spring, to the middle of an unimagined — an unimaginable — summer –

Yet here I am

Here I am…

Imagining

— found himself reborn, standing tall on that roomy porch, early evening; a loose-limbed boy, full of anticipation –

Ah yes…

Possibility

‘ his head flung back, his mouth hung open, his innocent eyes roundly gazing as the clouds of fireflies commenced their nightly swarming — rising from the swamps, the high-tide-line, the marshes ‘ and then rapidly descending, en masse (who gave the instruction? Who was it? Who told them?), to candy-coat that smooth, creamy-clean-leaf-ice-green facade into a billion strong, crazy-black-speck-fidget of double-double-chocolate chipping.

She was still –

Like a corpse

— for the first hour, at least. He was still, too. Seemed almost unconscious –

Motionless

— his breathing shallow but regular.

They were touching –

Shoulder

Hip

Bottom

Inside thigh

Inside knee

Foot

His arm was looped around –

Breath — on — my — neck

— her scrawny waist, holding them close together –

For the warmth

There was –

Yes

‘ a certain pressure –

A firmness

‘ to the back of her –

No suggestion of impropriety

‘ which after forty minutes she realised –

God

‘ was actually the pocket on his jacket, fallen open –

Fallen back

— full of stuff, acting as a tiny yet very distinct –

Push

‘ barrier between them. Against her buttocks.

The front pocket — when she started thinking about it — was directly beneath her left arm — which was slung — light/heavy/mad with tension

— over the top of his.

Josephine Angela Bean steadied her breathing and considered that pocket for a very long time. She opened her eyes; the sleeping bag was pulled up and tucked firmly under her chin. Down lower she was covered by it entirely, like a small insect encased in its silky pupa — could see nothing. It was more a question of –

Of feeling

‘ of moving slightly, perhaps adjusting her position. But very –

Very

— casually.

She sighed — a dozy sigh, almost a snore — and shifted sleepily — just those parts that were necessary –

Shoulder

Thigh

Fingers especially…

— so that her hand was now gently positioned on top of the pocket, her thumb already pretty much pushed inside it. She felt a mixture of –

Can’t — help — myself

‘ intriguing sensations; tantalising objects –

Paper, foil, loose tobacco…

‘ but needed to… to investigate still more thoroughly –

To pilfer

‘ so gradually moved her index finger deep inside to join the other.

This is my job, she told herself; I am trained for it. I am good at it –

Talented…

A vocation to enter