Nicola Barker - Behindlings

Arthur wasn’t taken in, obviously.

‘You’ve never seen him in person, though?’ he asked, already knowing the answer (wanting to knock some of the perkiness out of her — but failing, quite markedly, and feeling secretly relieved that he had).

She shrugged her shoulders, ‘When it’s a question of National Security, people’s feelings don’t really…’ she paused, ‘ damn… ’ peered even closer at the screen, ‘I thought that’d be the Ace of Clubs. I don’t need another red four…’

Arthur gazed at the screen himself. ‘Six on your seven,’ he nudged.

‘Do you have any children, Arthur?’ she asked.

Arthur felt both surprised and infantilised by her using his name so confidently. He shook his head.

‘Yes,’ he said.

She gave him a perplexed look.

‘A boy?’ she eventually continued.

‘No. A daughter. A couple of years younger than you are.’

‘Does she live here? On this boat?’

‘No,’ he smiled, wryly, ‘she lives with her mother.’

Sasha completed one game, then promptly began another. ‘Are you divorced?’

‘I was never married.’

‘Why not?’

‘She was…’ he paused –

Preoccupied

Lost

Ruined

Undone

‘She just didn’t want to. Not in the end.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Bethan. She was in love with somebody else. Someone she knew from before we met each other…’ he paused, ‘not in love, exactly… she just couldn’t… couldn’t get over the effect he had on her. She went a little bit mad. He made her feel differently. He invaded her.’

‘Sex?’ she asked, scowling.

He almost smiled at this. ‘No.’

Yes

‘One of the strangest facts of life,’ he murmured, ‘is that some people have more of an impact on you when they aren’t even there. As absences. Like your dad.’

Sasha continued scowling. ‘I’m still not getting it,’ she said.

‘Well, when our daughter was born,’ Arthur tried to explain further, ‘Bethan became very… very preoccupied by her. That was all part of it — of the effect this man had. Our daughter was extremely ill. She thought it was all connected — that it was her… her punishment. Or a kind of justice.’

‘And was it?’

Arthur scowled, ‘Yes… No …’ he fought with himself, ‘ Yes. ’

Sasha’s eyes widened, ‘What kind of ill?’

‘Serious…’ Arthur said. ‘She gets…’ he struggled to find the word. She waited for it, patiently.

‘… im-im-imperfections,’ he said, then frowned.

‘Pardon?’

‘She gets… infections. Chest infections. She’s in hospital much of the time. She needs a big operation. I do a lot of fund-raising.’

‘How?’

He paused, considered his answer carefully. ‘Walking,’ he said, ‘long distances…’

Running

He quickly cleared his throat. ‘Getting sponsorship.’

‘And is that enough?’ she asked brutally.

Art’s eyes widened. He was cut. ‘No,’ he said, tightly, ‘it isn’t. I do some other things too, which help.’

Sasha didn’t notice the tightness.

‘What’s her name?’ she asked, turning over a red King in the game and moving it into a gap.

‘Harmony.’

‘No kidding?’ She glanced up.

He shook his head. ‘I don’t…’ he paused, couldn’t finish –

Kid

‘Brion had an aunt called Harmony. Like the hairspray. But she broke her leg so my Grandad shot her. This was years ago, when I was still tiny. Of course I was devastated, ’ she said, with a roll of her eyes, ‘I loved her…’ she paused — just like Arthur had — and groped for the word she needed, ‘to… to destruction.’

Arthur frowned suspiciously at her malapropism.

‘To distraction, ’ she corrected herself, smiling.

‘That’s…’ he said, his eyes focussing on the computer.

‘Do you see your daughter much?’ she persisted.

Arthur didn’t appear to like this question.

‘When I can,’ he said. ‘It’s sometimes difficult.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve been unwell myself. I have certain… obligations. Certain… interests that keep us apart.’

‘Same as my dad,’ she nodded, as if comforted by this thought.

Arthur looked upset. He plainly didn’t like this comparison.

‘And do you have the same thing your daughter has?’

Arthur glanced up, ‘Pardon?’

‘The illness?’

‘ God no. No. I was a heavy drinker for a long while… for a long while after… I have a…’ he struggled, ‘a condition. It affects my memory. My short term… my kidneys.’

‘Yours is a tragic tale,’ Sasha announced portentously.

Her eyes followed his, down onto the desktop. She gazed at the files which protruded from under the game she was playing.

‘I love Gumbles,’ she announced passionately, ‘I knew you were a friend when I saw that Gumble on your hat.’

‘What?’

He frowned, putting his hand to his head, removing his hat, staring at it, blankly.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘but this isn’t really…’

My hat

‘Can I try it?’ she asked.

She took it from him, inspected it closely, squinting at it in the darkness. ‘Yup,’ she said, ‘exactly like in the story.’

‘I’m not…’ Arthur murmured, ‘… not acquainted with it.’

‘ Bottersnikes and Gumbles. S. A. Wakefield. He’s an Australian. My gran gave me a copy my dad once had when he was still a little boy. I keep it hidden under my bed.’

Arthur was shaking his head, slowly, trying to comprehend what she was telling him.

‘There are two groups,’ she explained, needing no further prompting, ‘the Bottersnikes who have ears which turn red when they’re angry and who are very lazy but rule the rubbish dump just the same, and the Gumbles who are very squidgy and white and get shoved into jam-jars and tins and stored there as slaves until the Bottersnikes want to use them to do their bidding…’ she paused, ‘and the Bottersnikes say Foo! when they’re cross. They’re very funny.’

He didn’t react to this. His mind was suddenly elsewhere…

A rubbish dump

The early 1970s

One little boy was pushing another towards a disused refrigerator Shoving him inside there

Closing him in

Preserving him for ever

He shuddered.

‘It sounds … in… interesting,’ he said, finally. His voice was hoarse.

Sasha adjusted his hat on her head and then recommenced her play.

The reindeer shifted.

The boat shifted.

‘Do you keep other animals,’ Arthur asked, gazing tiredly over his shoulder, ‘apart from reindeer?’

She nodded, distractedly.

‘What kind?’

‘Hawks. Birds of prey. Owls.’

The computer commenced a high-pitched beeping.

‘Battery,’ Arthur said, taking the machine from her, using his bad hand to turn it off, clumsily.

Sasha yawned — wide — making no attempt to cover it; her jaw snapping smartly shut like a tightly-hinged letterbox. ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed,’ she said, ‘but we seem to be tipping back slightly.’

‘I hadn’t noticed,’ Arthur lied.

She shuffled up closer to him, rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

‘Probably for the best,’ she murmured.

The penny finally dropped on the short walk over. It wasn’t Wesley’s wife (Wesley didn’t have a wife), it was Pathfinder’s. It was Eileen.