Darkmans (12 page)

Kane snorted, dryly. The next section was smudged. But further down…

‘…different sides of the fence, but after a tragedy of this magnitude
we hope a certain amount of…’ more smudging ‘…and that’s why we feel your involvement would be especially…’

Blah blah

His eye was caught, briefly, by something at the bottom of the page –

‘Isidore has been amazing – you’ll be more than familiar with his energy and enthusiasm. He recommended you very highly…’

Gaffar popped his head around the door.

‘Is fix,’ he announced, smiling broadly.

‘What? You fixed it already?’ Kane slammed down the tray. ‘You fixed the rug?
Seriously?
’

Gaffar threw out his arms in a shrug of pseudo-modest self-aggrandisement.

Kane followed him back through to the living-room. He located the precise spot where the burn had been (just next to the sidetable), squatted down and tried to find any sign of it.
Nothing.
Not a damn thing.

‘
Jesus
,’ he muttered, ‘you’ve even…the burn went right through to the rough fibre underneath. How’d you get rid of that?’

‘I just turned it around, you imbecile,’
Gaffar explained, smiling,
‘and hid the burn under the sofa.’

Kane glanced up. ‘So you’re from Turkey? You really know about this stuff, huh?’

Gaffar nodded. ‘Turk.’

Then he paused. ‘Kurd,’ he modified.

‘Did you
train
in this kind of shit?’

‘Are you kidding me?’
Gaffar snorted, haughtily.
‘Do I look like one of those rough-thumbed, short-sighted, carpet-weaving cunts?’

Kane peered down again, feeling the spot with his hands. He was in love with the job Gaffar had done.

‘You’re a genius, man,’ he murmured, gazing up through his lank fringe again. ‘What’s your name?
Gaffar?
I owe you big-time, Gaffar. You are an unbelievable fucking
God-send.
You’ve saved my fucking
life
here.’

Gaffar tipped his head, bashfully (although he found himself a perfectly fitting receptacle for Kane’s panegyric). ‘Uh…an’
look…
’ he clumsily stuttered, in his make-shift English, pushing his hand into
his suit pocket and deftly withdrawing a small, neat disc of semi-transparent plastic ‘…Under sofa,
lid
, eh?’

Mrs Dina Broad had a wonderful facility for getting total strangers to do exactly as she wanted. It was something to do with her size, the tone of her voice (at once wheedling yet strident), her filthy tongue, and the considerable force of what a quality horse-breeder might call ‘her character’.

Dina’s manipulative genius was a happy coincidence, because she simply adored to be waited upon (to be bolstered and escorted, indulged and cosseted). In fact she absolutely demanded it. The cornerstone of her ideology was:
if you don’t fuckin’ ask, you don’t fuckin’ get
– a maxim which she used so often when her kids were young that – during a fit of high-spiritedness while working Saturdays in a print shop – her eldest son had designed her a t-shirt with this, her favourite slogan, emblazoned across the chest.

If Dina’s life was a carousel (which it was anything but), then there was only enough room on the rotating podium (midst the high-painted roses, the mirror-tiles, the lovely organ) for a single pony; and Dina’s was it (there was her name, in exquisite calligraphy, on a beautifully embossed tag around the neck…And just look at the mane: real
silk.
And see how straight the brow! How flared the nostril! How long the tail!).

Dina flew up and down (as her moods – and her blood-sugar levels – dictated), and the carousel just kept on spinning, with the music (Ah, the lilting music) never seeming to stop. It was Dina’s show, entirely – paying customers could cheerfully go hang (Dina would supply the rope; would even – although it was a great deal of effort, and she
hated
effort – tie the noose herself. She was good like that).

The Dina Broad Show (like Celine Dion in Las Vegas) was a show that never ended (it just went on and on and
on
); but this low-budget extravaganza (in perfect Technicolor) by no means ran itself.

Nuh
-uh.

There was the buffing and the oiling (to be regularly undertaken); the electrics (the wiring, the lighting, the amplification), not to mention the construction, the deconstruction, the reconstruction (this was a mobile – well,
semi
-mobile – proposition, after all), the ground-rent, the barkers, the cashiers, the crowd control…A whole
battery
– in other words – of tedious, time-consuming rigmarole.

Taken in total, The Dina Broad Experience had a technical staff numbering well over a dozen (the doctor, the social worker, the neighbour, the policeman), and Kelly Broad (poor, skinny, weak-boned Kelly) enjoyed the unique distinction of being at the very heart (or – depending on your take on things – deep in the colon) of this hardworking, poorly rewarded, long-suffering division.

Dina would not perform without her:
Fin.

By a series of complex, Machiavellian ruses (there were two people in Casualty – aside from her own daughter – who were currently sharing a single crutch between them) Dina had somehow managed to commandeer a ‘spare’ wheelchair in the foyer, and a rather bemused-looking member of the general public (a willowy and slightly effete man in his sixties called Larry who was meant to be visiting his ninety-year-old aunt in an adjacent ward) was making a brave attempt at pushing her around in it.

‘Aw
shit
, man!’ Kelly gasped, grabbing a tight hold of Beede’s arm. ‘What the fuck’s
she
doin’ here?’

‘She’s your mother,’ Beede explained patiently. ‘She’s visiting. It’s part of her function.’

Kelly gave him a quizzical look. ‘But she’s never troubled herself visitin’ me in hospital
before
…’

He stared down at her for a moment, almost with tenderness. It was difficult to decipher from the inflexible set of her gaunt features, but wasn’t there a sudden, tiny gleam of childish delight (mixed in with an overwhelming air of bemusement) at the prospect of this most basic of demonstrations of maternal care?

His heart promptly went out to her.

‘I should probably get on,’ he muttered (not wishing to involve his emotional self any further).

‘
Don’t
go!’

She tightened her grip on his arm.

‘I’m
working
, Kelly,’ Beede explained, trying to disengage her claw-like fingers.

‘But you don’t know what she’s
like…
’ Kelly started off (almost pleading with him now), ‘or how ticked-off she’s gonna be with me…’

‘It’s not
real
anger,’ Beede counselled, sagely, ‘it’s just
worry
…’

Kelly rapidly changed tack. ‘Either you stay,’ she threatened, ‘or I’ll tell Kane all about the drugs,’ she reached for her broken phone with her free hand, ‘I’ll ring him. I’ll
text
him. I
swear
…’

This was a foolish manoeuvre.

‘Do exactly as you wish.’ Beede coldly shook his arm free.

‘If you go…’ her eyes scanned the surrounding area, frantically, ‘then I’ll…I’ll
leg
it.’ She threw back her blanket and revealed her injury. He winced at the sight of it. She sat up and shifted her weight, as though fully preparing to hop off.

‘Okay,
okay,
’ he snapped, flipping the blanket back over again, ‘I suppose I do need to have a quick chat with her about the dogs…’

Kelly’s eyes flew wide. ‘Are you
crazy
?’

‘Pardon?’

‘She’ll
flip.
She’ll go
spare.
’

‘
What?
’

‘Just…’ Kelly put her hand over her mouth and spoke through a pretend-cough ‘…
trust me.
’

Dina (now perilously close), had already espied her daughter and was waving her walking stick at her (like a
Dr Who
Dalek, intending to exterminate).

‘D’YOU HAVE
ANY FUCKIN’ IDEA
,’ she bellowed, from a distance of 12 or more feet, ‘WHAT IT’S
TAKEN
TO
GET
ME HERE?!’ (Her prodigious rage came as a complete surprise to Larry, who’d been chatting with her, perfectly amiably, only moments before.) Several people turned and stared. The less-busy porter glanced up, grimaced, and then quietly sidled off.

‘You shouldn’t’ve bothered, Mum,’ Kelly murmured, all the stiffness disappearing from her backbone (rendering it floppy as a stick of soft liquorice). ‘All’s I did was break my stupid
leg…
’ (she cuffed the leg, weakly, as if it was the limb’s fault entirely), ‘and I smashed my stupid
phone
, so I couldn’t even…’

‘
SCREW
YOUR STUPID LEG!’ Dina yelled (indignant tears already
brimming in her curiously mesmerising pipe-tobacco eyes). ‘I’VE BROKE MY
FUCKIN’ ARSE
GETTIN’ HERE TODAY, KELL. SO WHAT
EXACTLY
D’YOU PLAN TO DO ABOUT
THAT
, EH?!’

The whole party was quiet for a moment, as if jointly considering the most feasible solution to this perplexing dilemma (I mean what
could
Kelly do?). No suggestions were forthcoming, although Beede (for one) appeared to be deriving a measure of laconic amusement from Dina’s proximity. The woman was a legend, after all; she was Jabba the Hut with a womb, chronic asthma and a council flat. She was an old-fashioned bully – that much was clear – but her fury was swaddled by her considerable upholstery; her rage hijacked by blubber and then rapidly redirected into teary vulnerability.

Dina’s laser-guided eyes (she could detect independent thinking at 200 paces) quickly alighted upon Beede’s smirking visage. ‘Pay a good price for that front-row ticket,
Mister
?’ she enquired icily.

‘Not nearly enough, I fear,’ Beede answered smoothly.

Kelly stiffened. Dina sniffed the air, like a stag (he could almost hear her antlers rattling) and then turned to her daughter. ‘That old stiff
botherin
’ ya, darl?’ she asked, thumbing towards him, rudely.

‘This is Beede, Mum,’ Kelly explained, endeavouring to facilitate a polite introduction. ‘Kane’s dad. I’ve told you all about him, remember?’

‘Nope.’

Dina Broad shook her head, refusing, point-blank, to acknowledge this possibility.

‘Yes I have. He
works
here…’

Beede stepped forward and offered Dina his outstretched palm. ‘I’m Beede, Daniel Beede. Very pleased to meet you.’

Dina ignored his hand.

‘He on Day Release from the fuckin’
morgue
or what?’ she asked, with a sideways smirk.

‘He don’t work in the morgue, Mum,’ Kelly spluttered.

‘You sure?’

Dina gave Beede the once over. ‘Been takin’ the odd nip of
embalmin
’ fluid, have we?’ she enquired.

Beede smiled, weakly.

She leaned forward and peered down at his feet.

‘What’s up, Mum?’

Kelly leaned forward too, concerned.

‘Eh?’ Dina gazed up at her daughter, her eyes watering slightly
with repressed hilarity. ‘I’m just tryin’a read what that
tag
says on his toe, kid…’

‘But he don’t
work
in the morgue, Mum,’ Kelly repeated, shrugging hopelessly, ‘he works in the
laundry…
’

‘Your mother seems a little confused,’ Beede murmured (plainly eager to paddle awhile himself in Dina’s metaphorical slip-stream). ‘Is she operating two rinses short of her spin cycle, perhaps?’

Kelly’s eyes bulged.

Dina’s mirth evaporated.

‘Oh yes? Oh
really
?’ she exclaimed, straightening her back, her voice taking on a sharp, fluting quality. ‘So you think it’s a real
laugh
, do ya? A real, fuckin’
hoot,
eh? To rip the piss out of a poor woman who’s stuck in a wheelchair?’

Beede mulled this over for a second, frowning. ‘I’m not quite sure. Do you mean
literally
stuck?’

‘It was the biggest one we could find,’ Larry interjected (keen not to be found wanting in his capacity as Dina’s temporary carer).

Everybody turned to stare at him, Dina with a look of especial ferocity.

He removed his hands from the chair and patted his damp palms on to the front of his jumper, ‘I was only…’ he muttered.

Dina spun back around to face Kelly again. ‘Who
is
this man?’ she enquired imperiously.

‘I dunno. Who
are
you?’ Kelly asked.

‘Larry.’ Larry said, ‘I’ve come to visit my aunt.’

‘Then FUCK RIGHT OFF AN’ VISIT HER!
’ Dina yelled.

Larry took a quick step back, then paused. ‘But I promised Matron that I’d return the…’ he pointed, limply, to Dina’s chair ‘…just as soon as we…’

Dina flew around and tried to swipe him with her stick.

Larry took yet another step back. ‘There’s no need for that…’ he tried to caution her. She swiped again, this time making contact with his right knee.

‘
Ow.
’

‘Now GET LOST,
DICK
!’

The chair tipped, quite alarmingly, to one side.

‘I think you might’ve developed a puncture,’ Larry said (not intending to provoke, but succeeding, nonetheless).

Dina lobbed her stick at him. She missed her target. Larry scarpered.

‘Okay,’ Dina turned back around, snapped her fingers at Beede, and pointed. ‘Go fetch.’

‘Pardon?’

Beede’s thermostat instantly clicked on to freeze (Kelly could almost hear his engine buzzing).

Dina immediately felt his chill (it was three-star), and pulled her coat tighter.

‘Well what
else
does the old fart get paid for?’ she grumbled, glancing over her shoulder (the stick had just been kicked out of the way by a very flustered expectant father). ‘
Oi!
D’you
MIND
?!’

‘Beede’s in charge of the
laundry
, Mum,’ Kelly gently explained. ‘He ain’t a porter.’

‘Okay,’ Dina smiled, grimly. ‘Well if
he
won’t fetch my stick for me,
who
will?’

She gazed up at Kelly, moist-eyed (like an over-bred Pekinese begging pork rind at dinner). Kelly (who’d been virtually weaned on this particular look) started to get up.