Behindlings (55 page)
Bo was leaning in Katherine’s porchway, smoking a fag, casually perusing her paper.
‘Another loyal member of your ever-expanding fanclub, eh, Ted?’ he grinned.
‘Bo,’ Ted muttered, ‘it’s you.’
‘Ever the one for stating the fucking obvious,’ Bo responded, deftly re-folding the paper and shoving it through Katherine’s letterbox, ‘and it can’t be any coincidence, can it,
sir,
that your appearing here this morning happens to coincide with a series of rumours about a certain celebrity-troublemaker having taken up temporary residence at this address?’
‘
Uh…
’ Ted tried to think on his feet but they were already fully engaged in the act of supporting him. So he went with his gut, instead.
‘No,’ he said.
This wasn’t quite the answer Bo’d been expecting (a pathetic attempt to lie would’ve been marginally more satisfying). His mono-brow rose, fractionally. His black eyes glimmered.
Unfortunately this wasn’t quite the answer
Ted’d
anticipated delivering, either –
That damn gut
‘Because…’ Ted continued (perhaps ill-advisedly), ‘because
Pathfinder
set it up, late yesterday evening. Very late. After all that trouble in the bar…’
‘And was this before,’ Bo rubbed his wide jaw, speculatively, ‘or
after
that same charming lodger physically assaulted his wife?’
Ted stared at him blankly. ‘Wesley’s married?’
‘Oh
God,
’ Bo bit on his knuckles, faux-dramatically, ‘and you actually hold down a
responsible position
in this town, Ted?’
Ted frowned (was this question purely rhetorical?), then he nodded –slowly –almost imperceptibly (on the off-chance that it wasn’t).
Bo threw down his cigarette, crushed it underfoot and turned to the door.
‘I thought we had an agreement,’ Ted said (his gut working overtime; transcending his head), ‘I thought we’d agreed that you wouldn’t be bothering Katherine with any of this mess.’
‘The
Bean
girl,’ Bo smiled, caustically, ‘needs to
vamoose.
And who better to persuade her?’
‘How does the Bean girl enter into any of this?’ Ted asked, frowning confusedly.
‘If I can’t get what I want from the monkey…’ Bo shrugged, letting the second half of his sentence unfold silently, mid-air.
Ted stared at him.
I’m
waiting for life to start –he thought –just the same as the rest of them. I’m not the original picture anymore. I have become a
duplication
of the real me. I am a
copy.
‘Just go to the office, Ted.’
Bo made a dismissive finger-walking gesture, then turned to the door and lifted the knocker. Ted did as he was instructed, obligingly, then suddenly –and without warning –rotated back sharply to his former position.
‘You were
never
any good at tennis, Bo,’ he said.
He hadn’t thought it possible he could feel this tired. The Solitaire had played its part. Thirty or more games. Her idiotic
banter.
She’d developed a series of theories about the peculiar mind-set of his computer –
Tosh-eeee-baaa
– she kept muttering
Tosh-eeee-baaa
She thought this particular game’s designers were incorrigible bastards.
‘These people are just
scoundrels,
’ she’d say, ‘I
salute
them.’
Then she’d salute (quite traditionally) but integrating a v-sign into the second half of the gesture. She plainly found herself terribly amusing.
‘It’s Solitaire,’ Arthur kept interrupting her. ‘They don’t have to
do
anything to make it interesting. It was interesting
before
someone put it onto the machine. It’s only chance that keeps you playing. Nobody can design chance. It just happens. It’s random.’
She wasn’t convinced. ‘Of
course
they can design it. That’s the whole
point.
They have to keep you interested. It’s their job.’
‘It’s just random,’ he repeated.
Just random
‘When I grow up I’m going to…’ she paused for a second, considered – gazed over her shoulder towards the deer. Brion yawned. Then farted.
‘… Work with animals,’ she concluded, flatly (all emotional declarations of Game Designing instantaneously evaporating). ‘That’s my destiny.’
‘Do you have a computer at home?’ Arthur asked, trying – unsuccessfully – to tie a sock around his wrist using just his other hand and his teeth.
‘Give it here.’ Sasha put the computer aside, grabbed the sock and tied it around, firmly. ‘You’ve made a mess,’ she observed, pointing to his trousers. A dark stain covered the knee-area, but the sight of blood didn’t seem to bother her.
Arthur’s mind turned – for a moment – to the short-haired girl in the bar. The broken bottle. The slashes on her arm. He supposed – tiredly, idly – that through this wound he’d forged a kind of inadvertent kinship with her –
Hate that thought
It’s stupid
Sasha picked up the computer and recommenced her playing. ‘I keep in touch with my dad through the Internet,’ she suddenly announced, ‘and nobody knows a
thing
about it.’
Arthur’s head swung around – he’d been peering out through the door, listening to the groans of the boat above the
tap tap
of her fingers, ‘
Do
you?’
She nodded.
‘So how does that work exactly?’
‘Easy. There’s a special site I can connect to which gives me up-to-date reports on everything he’s doing. Sometimes hour by hour.’
She cleared her throat. ‘He works for a kind of Secret Service,’ she confided. ‘It’s all very
hush-hush-hush.
’
Arthur mulled this over for a second (that endearing one
hush
too many), ‘Do you ever get to see him?’
She nodded, cheerfully, ‘All the time. In pictures. And he has charisma,’ she peered up at him, proudly, ‘most people have to pay a
bundle
to get that.’
She continued to gaze at him. ‘
You
have it,’ she said (a smiling vision of shameless insincerity).
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.