Nicola Barker - Behindlings

‘I’m Sasha,’ the mouth in the head announced, ‘and this is Brion.’

The torch dipped left, its beam illuminating a monkey-puzzle of horn, a wide brown eye. A long — a very long — nose. A suggestion of whisker.

‘Don’t panic. Brion is from Norwegian breeding stock and very meek…’

Arthur stared at the deer, blankly.

‘Unless he’s provoked.’

Bri-on…?

‘I mean he kicked a boy once who poked him in his privates…’ she sniggered, ‘but who wouldn’t?’

Bri-on…?

The beast grumbled at the unwelcome torch-light; a sound not unlike an old Douglas motorbike struggling up a steep incline.

‘What are you doing here?’ Arthur asked, bringing his hand even closer to his face, confusedly, trying to focus in on it –

Warm

Wet

‘Before I give anything else away,’ she said, ‘if you don’t mind…’

She shone the torch directly at him. Arthur covered his face with his arm, pained by the light, grimacing.

‘You definitely aren’t the person I was expecting,’ the girl mused, after a brief period of quiet scrutiny, ‘and you’re not my stupid Uncle Toby, either. Are you renting this craft, or are you just an impostor?’

‘No. I’m… Yes, of course I’m renting. I’m Arthur Young,’ Arthur said, ‘and I’ve actually…’ he indicated towards his hand, speaking very slowly and clearly, as if presenting an item of general interest during a primary school Show and Tell, ‘I’ve cut my hand. I’m bleeding.’

‘That’s the least of your problems,’ she informed him, twirling the torch around flamboyantly. He blinked over at her, suspiciously, through the moving light –

Is she a poltergeist?

He felt confused. Not a little nauseous.

‘Take a look…’

She walked towards him (as if in slow motion) –

Is it her?

Is it me?

— then paused, turned briefly, pointed firmly at the reindeer, ‘ Stay, Brion.’

She was about nine years old, warmly ensconced in a thick fur jacket –

Rabbit, mostly, by the look of it

— and waterproof trousers which rustled as she moved. Heavy boots. A red knitted deerstalker-style hat, tied under her chin, with a white pom-pom on top. Red gloves; matching pom-poms dangling at either wrist.

Arthur couldn’t tell if it was the girl or the animal, but as she drew closer there was definitely the sense of an encroaching scent; a powerful musk-based aroma of some kind or other.

She stood next to him, pushed open the door and shone the torch out onto the bridge.

‘Oh my… God. ’ Arthur’s jaw dropped.

There was no bridge. Half of it was gone. The other half. He briefly remembered part of the rail rotting away under his fingers

— the left-hand-side — earlier — but this was…

Wow

Now all that remained was the right-hand rail (his knees went weak — Didn’t I just…? and some arbitrary slats of wood breaking off almost into thin –

Pretty much into thin

— air.

‘Don’t know how you made it over,’ the girl ruminated, ‘I thought about trying to cross back myself, but it seemed too shaky. And I wouldn’t leave Brion,’ she continued passionately, ‘he’s my rock.’

‘I did think it was a little…’ Arthur murmured, still staring at the walkway, confounded, ‘a little wobbly. ’

‘Understatement of the year, ’ she snorted, ‘the whole bloody structure’s collapsing. I noticed soon after I climbed on board. I told Brion to stay outside — at the bottom of the bank — but he came on over anyhow — to investigate — while I was busy snooping. The bridge must’ve fallen in under the weight of him. Luckily he’s sure-footed. And he has a very level head…’ she paused. ‘For a deer, ’ she conceded.

‘We should definitely get out of…’ Arthur let go of his wrist, pulled his hat down, decisively, ‘if I go first you… whoops’.

The entire structure tipped as the reindeer shifted its weight.

‘ Stay, Brion,’ the girl barked. The reindeer moved back to its original position. The structure righted itself again.

‘Just hold the torch out ahead of me.’

Arthur adjusted the girl’s hand with the torch so that he could see exactly what he was up against. ‘You didn’t think,’ he asked, gazing at the full horror of the ruined bridge anew, ‘to try and warn me in some way before I stepped out onto that thing?’

‘I was hiding,’ she shrugged, gazing up at him.

There was something… a certain…

A quality…

Arthur blinked.

‘Anyway, I thought you might be one of the bad people…’ she put out her hand to adjust the pom-pom on her hat, ‘but I changed my mind when you started screaming. We have a fish eagle back home who screams exactly like that…’ She paused, delicately, ‘a lady fish eagle,’ she elucidated, releasing the pom-pom and smiling.

Arthur half-smiled himself, more from –

Pain

Embarrassment

— exhaustion than anything.

‘Which bad people did you have in mind?’ he asked, trying –

Failing

— to conjure up an air of gentle superiority.

‘The ones who sabotaged this craft, silly, ’ the girl performed a rapid guide with the torch, ‘see? I was hiding out in that blackthorn copse,’ she pointed (the torch’s beam didn’t reach that far), ‘for a good hour at least before I came over. There was someone on board. Making a real racket. Once they’d gone I decided to have a quick poke around. Saw straight off that there were deep cuts into all of the major supporting struts. So if the wind rises — and with your added weight on board, obviously — we are well and truly…’ she smiled sweetly, ‘ shafted. ’

As she spoke, the girl shifted her torch to one of the several side beams. It had been hacked up with an axe. Clumsily.

‘And look…’ she continued, pointing the torch to one of the oil lamps.

Smashed

‘Oil everywhere. I’m only glad you didn’t try and strike a…’

Before she’d completed her sentence, a crashing outside made her calmly adjust the torch’s focus. The section of the gangplank closest to them had just fallen clean away. Seven, maybe eight planks in total.

Arthur stepped back. The boat shifted, infinitesimally.

‘ match, ’ the girl concluded — but somewhat distractedly — placing her hand onto the doorframe for added support, then leaning boldly forward and shining the torch down and down and down, into the distant swirl of icy black water.

Katherine sat — like a pony-club princess — bolt upright astride her burnished-brass bed, supported from the rear by two large cream-coloured, quilted-nylon pillows (heavily frilled and fully coordinated with her cream-coloured wheat-and-cornflower-design counterpane). She had Wesley’s rucksack held firmly between her thighs, and the lamb’s tail he’d given her shoved — like a pen — behind her ear.

She was steaming slightly — from a recent bath — and her white hair was parted and divided into two wonky plaits (the ends bound up tightly by thin pieces of lilac ribbon) which hung — still damp — across either shoulder.

In the gentle light of her two matching wicker-work bedside lamps, her chin and nose appeared slightly pink and raw from her energetic sexual exploits of earlier.

Protruding from beneath her right thigh — and crushed into the counterpane — lay a letter, already opened, the envelope postmarked from two days before. On her left-hand side lay an old, blue, pocket-Oxford dictionary, its spine broken and its cover partially torn.