Nicola Barker - Behindlings

What time was it?

What time was it?

I am…

I…

Jesus bollocks

A bloody mess!

A bloody…

It’d been –

God. Had to admit it

— quite the most horrible, the most distressing walk he could ever remember. And there had been thousands of walks –

Countless

— and hundreds of night walks, in particular; Arthur Young liked night walking; could often be seen striding along purposefully until late into the evening –

Often

— and quite happily (in the summer, mainly, admittedly). But this? This was –

Absolutely Godawful

— very different, somehow from other walks: the mud — the sea — the fog — the struggle. The pitch dark, dark, dark.

The pervasive sense of being… of being…

Don’t think it

Of being watched –

I said…

— of being…

Please…

— of being…

Don’t…

— of being…

Followed-Ambushed-Trapped-Killed-Ripped-Cut-Skinned-Devoured

— Oh God…

Deep breath — deep breath — deep breath

And then the bloody torch –

Ah yes…

The torch

Totally –

Fucking

— unreliable. Batteries went dead after approximately fifteen…

(Katherine’s face. That look she’d pulled when he’d bolted. Got out of there so quick –

In/out

Just like that

— he even overtook the agent on the driveway — still dragging on his jacket, still holding his rucksack open in one hand — laptop inside, all higgledy-piggledy — still struggling to get the lead rolled up, still muttering a pack of inconsequential rubbish about having to get… to get… to get…

Back

But for what?

And Dewi. Standing at his window –

Indomitably

— tiger-striped from the front by the thick slats of his wooden shutters, from behind by the flickering, orange-tinged glow of the fire.)

Arthur shuddered. He felt the torch in his pocket. Blinked. Rewound –

Dark

Can you do a special test for n-n-n-night-blindness?

Is it an actual condition?

Is it a…

Could it be a…

A symptom?

He was barely past the first oil storage complex before the torch began to weaken, then flicker — barely past the Lobster Smack, in fact (shut) and the caravan sites (dead).

The want of light had been almost…

Should fucking sue that battery company

… almost lethal, in places –

Fucking rain came down

Fucking relentless fucking rain

The later, less well-delineated segments on the muddy bank had been especially treacherous. He’d fallen countless times –

Countless

So undignified for a…

Arthur snatched the offending torch from his pocket and threw it into the soup of darkness, just about as far as he could possibly muster. Tried to hear the sound of it landing. The plop. Couldn’t. Only the gentle splat of the rain. Swore.

But there were so many subsidiary noises; all competing furiously for their place in the darkness — scrabbling to scratch their print into the deep night ink: squeals and whispers, cracklings and rustlings, hoots and splashes –

Fifty thousand rats, launching themselves into the water like a huge, utterly coherent, sharp-toothed Armada…

Badgers running riot, under the bastard bramble bushes…

Snipe. Screaming. Flapping from their low roosts up into the air…

The infernal

The fucking, bloody, infernal rip and squeak and scurry of the limitless Big Black

He reached a tentative hand towards the wooden rail — (had clambered down the bank backwards — skulking like a crab — on his hands and knees. Abandoning all remaining vestiges of locomotive dignity. Clawing into the mud with his bare hands and fingers –

Clinging on

Desperate).

The boat was dark. The water was vile and black and treacherous — he peered sideways, over the rail, squinting into the sleeting rain (which duly blinded him for a moment), looking for confirmation –

Where was the water?

In? Out?

Couldn’t actually see anything, only hear the smack and the suck and the gurgle of it –

Same as ever

The walkway wobbled under him –

Or is it actually my legs, wobbling under me?

I am wobbling…

Totally

He staggered across it, wiping his eyes with his fingers, grumbling (more for effect than anything; to bolster). Wrestled with the knob on the door. Finally mastered –

Thank God

— the dodgy mechanism, and yanked it open. Paused on the brink. Felt –

Scared, dammit

— a brief moment of unease. Swallowed it back. Entered. The door slammed shut behind him.

Tried to remember the exact whereabouts of the two gas-fired lamps. Felt for the lighter in his pocket. Staggered around blindly with his outstretched –

Uh…

— hands –

What the…?!

— then suddenly began –

Sweet Jesus!

The stink!

— sniffing obsessively. Turning his head around, reaching out his hands, just… just sniffing –

Badly rotting egg?

Pure sulphur?

Horse shit?

Total decomposition?

He stopped moving. Drew his arms in. Stood very still. Could hear…

Oh Jesus —

Worst-case-scenario

… could hear breathing.

And it was… it was…

Big

Is that possible?

Can breathing have a size?

A stature?

… like the breathing of a boxer, or a… a wrestler. An American WWF monster with biceps like pineapples and a head like twenty-two pounds of pink boiled ham.

Arthur backed off a-way, towards the door. His rucksack hit a picture or a bookshelf or a cabinet. Made it clatter. He jumped forward –

Like a silly tart

— jibbering, then turned and rushed — headfirst — towards the exit. The door, when he grabbed it –

Oh yes,

Of course

— was stuck.

‘I wouldn’t…’

Aaaaaargh!

A horrible — Tiny

— little voice was squeaking. It was –

Directly

— behind him.

Uh…

Vindictive-woman-dwarf

Uh…

Red cape

Uh…

Intent on murder

‘Just listen to me,’ the small voice said.

Art had somehow contrived to push his hand –

How did…?

Fuck!

— through the glass in the window. He pulled it quickly back –

Mistake

Seconds after — long seconds — he could hear the fragments tinkling down onto the gangplank, into the water.

‘I’m only a small girl, ’ the voice said (not a little irritably), ‘I don’t mean you any harm.’

‘Just do what you have to do,’ Arthur found himself whimpering, withering up inside with fear, ‘just do what you have to do. And do it quickly. ’ He was holding his bloody hand out in front of him, like a bit-part actress in a horror movie.

A small patch of light suddenly appeared, to the far end of the cabin. Arthur blinked towards it

A torch

It was low, held by — it swung around — a small hand — an arm (fur-encased) — Arthur shuddered — a shoulder (more fur, grey in colour) — then a little head. Not a crazy-ugly-killer dwarf face. A nice enough face. Gappy-toothed. Boyish.