Nicola Barker - Behindlings

‘I’ve not lived here long,’ he acknowledged, ‘not really.’

‘Oh.’

She nodded. She shrugged.

They listened to the boat creaking. Brion sighed, noisily.

‘It should be light enough by seven, seven-thirty. And you never know, someone might… A rambler or a hiker or a farmer or someone… ’

‘Or someone, ’ the girl repeated, echoing his curious emphasis. He glanced up –

Is she taking the piss?

‘I bet you do have games,’ she continued, fiddling with the pom-poms on her wrists.

Arthur pulled open his laptop, turned it on. He blinked at the sudden light it generated.

‘Go to Start and call up the menu. Then roll up to Programs, ’ she instructed, leaning over. He ignored her, heading instead for the battery sign in the bottom right-hand corner, pressing it for more information. 1 hr20 flashed up –

Okay

Arthur whizzed over to Start.

‘ Programs, ’ she reminded him impatiently, pressing her finger onto the screen.

‘Keep your hands off,’ he warned. ‘It’s… it’s…’

Couldn’t think of the word. She ignored him, anyway.

‘Now over to Accessories, ’ she wheedled.

Arthur went to Accessories.

‘ Games, ’ she chuckled. ‘See? See? ’

She was pointing, rocking excitedly.

But Arthur wasn’t looking at Games (a choice of four: Free Cell, Hearts, Minesweeper, Solitaire). He wasn’t itching to play, or cursing his ignorance or celebrating his laptop’s extraordinary multiplicity. He was looking at the desktop, at his files (peeking out reliably from under the sudden city-scape of menu-boxes) and he was seeing,

Better watch your step, Arthur

‘Let’s play Minesweeper,’ the girl said, moving in closer, inching a proprietorial finger towards the keyboard.

WATCH YOUR STEP, ARTHUR

‘What?’

What?

This time Arthur didn’t try and stop her.

* correction: William Harvey would like it to be stated here that Wesley’s brother was not — as Iris specifies in the interview — younger than him, but older, by approximately sixteen months.. That’s why I never want him to have anything to do with my Sasha.’

It was still dark — still night — when he slowly unwound his arms from around her and –

Oh the smell of him

Like sweet ginger and leaf-mould and Polyfilla

— quietly left the car murmuring –

That voice

Like the wind through an ash tree

— something about –

Don’t wake up

Don’t worry

I just need a…

— not being gone a minute. Not a minute — he’d said, breathing into her ear. She remembered that breath –

Warm

— then a blast of cold air as he’d opened the door, pulled on his jacket, his waterproof, slammed it.

She remembered yanking the sleeping bag over her shoulder, her arm throbbing. She remembered her knee being punctured by the gear-stick –

Don’t care

— and her feet feeling like solid blocks of –

Stuff that falls from the septic tanks of aeroplanes

A bright blue colour

Crashes through the air and lands —

Oh God!

On the heads of an innocent couple going cycling

In a newly established country park near…

She woke up –

Wah?

Her feet were frozen. Crampy. She tried to shake them –

Where am I?

She was suddenly jolted. Sat upright, gasping –

Where’s Wesley?

The sun was rising. But it was cloudy. The windows were icy. There was snow — just a thin layer — and the simple reflection was making everything whiter –

Lighter

— than it otherwise might be.

The clock on her dash said 2.23. But that clock wasn’t working –

Actually

— so there was no point in looking. She was guessing 7.00… 7.30?

Jo threw off the sleeping bag, grabbed her clothes (still damp, for the most part) threw them back on (without even a murmur) found Utah Blaine, rolled the bag up, grabbed the flask –

Uh…

— Doc’s tupperware container –

Okay — Okay — Okay

She was almost panting –

Panicking

Then something occurred to her –

Footprints

— there was snow out there. There would be…

She threw open the passenger door, gazed down. There they were… relatively clear. Although a certain — and quite inevitable — amount of back-and-forthing –

Uh…

She slammed the car door behind her, stamped her feet to try and bring the life back into them, yanked down her hat (over her ears), secured the bag under her arm — shoved the flask into one coat pocket (pulling the seams too tight — not caring), the tupperware into the other, the book… the book… down the front of her jeans –

Only place for it

— and strode out, her brown eyes glued to the floor…

But it was never as –

Whoops

Arms rotating like a wind up wooden toy

Almost fell over

— but it was never as simple as it should be –

No

— because there were other footprints too –

And bird and dog and…

Bloody hell

— a total mish-mash.

It was still blessedly early, though. She turned a corner. A blast of cold sea air hit her –

Full in the face

A huge, perishing…

Fist

A mighty, spiralling

Whooah…!

She teetered on the edge of the pavement, blinking. The prints were even less decipherable here — and leading off in both directions. She tossed a coin in her head, rubbed her nose –

God, the tickling

— turned left, kept walking until…

Ahh

Ahhhh

Ahhh-tish-u!

Urgh

‘Bless you.’

Jo looked up, dazed, her eyes streaming. She’d been concentrating so hard it’d been almost like dreaming. Doc reached out his arm and took the sleeping bag from her. They were standing near the gates of the caravan site, the sea wall rearing above them like the precipitous brow of Frankenstein’s monster –

Did he come this way?

The other?

Gulls were circling, their keening cries at once muffled and amplified by the fleecy sky. ‘He’s long gone,’ Doc said, ‘and the phone and the internet sites are both still down.’

‘I was just bringing you back… uh… ’

Jo grabbed the flask from her pocket, the tupperware.

She glanced down at the footprints. Up again. Doc was offering her a tissue.

‘Those prints you’re following are mine,’ he said, ‘I came to check up on you about an hour ago — just before first light — and he was already well-gone by that time.’

‘Oh…’

Jo took the tissue, pained, ‘So you knew?’

‘Of course I knew,’ Doc looked suitably irritated. ‘It’s my job to know. I’m Doc.’

As he spoke he glanced around him with an air of slight anxiety (as if uttering his own name so brazenly might prove inexplicably risky). Jo gazed around her too. Her eyes settled on a man — still in the middle distance, but heading towards them, at speed — wearing a smart coat, holding a white stick. He was being led by another man, much younger, and sighted. Shoes was just behind, following in their slipstream.