Darkmans (25 page)

Beede’s face dropped. ‘Oh.
Yes.
Of course. I see what you mean…’

He suddenly looked tired again. He sat down, stiffly, on the sofa,
pinched his sinuses between his fingers and remained – hunched over, his elbows pressing into his knees – for what seemed like an age. Gaffar hung around the doorway, uncertain whether or not to enter. After a certain duration he subtly drew Beede’s attention to his continuing presence with a polite cough.

Beede opened his eyes and glanced over. ‘I’m sorry, Gaffar,’ he apologised, ‘it’s been a long old day and I’m not much in the way of company…’

Gaffar nodded, mutely, and took a small step back into the halflight.

Beede instantly took pity on him. ‘But you said you had a problem of some kind…?’ he asked, straightening up, pushing back his shoulders, taking off his glasses (placing them, carefully, on to the arm of the sofa) and rubbing his face, vigorously, with both hands.

Gaffar scowled. ‘
Problem?
No.
No.
’

He shook his head, emphatically.

‘I see…Well, I must’ve misheard you, then.’

Beede picked up his glasses and carefully reapplied them. He stared at Gaffar, enquiringly.

Gaffar took a step closer. ‘Is just…
you could hardly call it a
problem
…
More of a…
’ he bit his lip, ‘
a puzzle…A hiccough. Yes. Hiccough. Something which…which recurs. Something which infuriates and disrupts, which persists. What’s the
English
word for that?
’

‘For what?’

Gaffar hiccoughed.

‘A hiccough?’

‘
Hey presto!
’

‘Right…’ Beede patiently awaited further elucidation, but none was forthcoming.

‘Okay, a
hiccough
, eh?’ he gamely struggled to improvise. ‘So let’s see…Is it an
immigration
issue, perhaps, or…or something connected to the local authorities?’

Gaffar flapped his hand, dismissively.

‘Is it
policemans?
’

Gaffar snorted.

‘Is it Kane?’ Beede suddenly looked worried. ‘Is he forcing you to do something that you feel uncomfortable with?’

At the mention of Kane’s name, Gaffar placed his finger over
his lips, hurried into the room and closed the door, gently, behind him.

‘Is Kane upstairs?’ Beede whispered. ‘Don’t you want him to hear us?’

‘Kane is…
uh
…Kane is out,’ Gaffar spoke at normal volume, ‘in car.’

‘Oh…’ Beede paused. ‘So is somebody
else
up there? The redhead?

Kelly? Is it Kelly Broad? Is it something
she’s
said?’

‘No…’ Gaffar shook his head. ‘But is
with
her – this Kelly – I have…’ he gesticulated.

‘Hiccough,’ Beede filled in, helpfully.

Gaffar strolled over, grabbed Beede’s helmet, the post and his bag, placed them – carefully – on to the kitchen counter, then sat down next to him.

‘What I need is…
uh
…’ he scowled, exasperated, clenching his hands together, earnestly, ‘I need friend…
Friend
?’

Beede stared at him, unblinking. For some reason his heart was sinking.

He had a bad feeling.

‘
Okay
…’ he murmured.

‘Yes.
In fact more of a…a
confidant
…’ Gaffar paused, speculatively,
‘actually,
no.
Not
confidant.
Just…just someone discreet, someone who doesn’t need me to confide in them. Someone who takes things at face value. That kind of a person…’

Beede said nothing.

Gaffar cleared his throat, carefully.

‘Yes. So what I need…
uh
…I need for
you
, Beede, old man…
uh
…’

Gaffar swore under his breath.

‘Just relax,’ Beede counselled him, ‘there’s no rush. Take your time…’

‘Is so. Yes. Is
good
,’ Gaffar nodded, ‘for because…uh…
What I need is a favour,
okay? Do you get me?
Just a small favour. But I don’t want Kane to find out about it. I don’t want anyone to know about it
…’

‘A favour? From me?’

Gaffar nodded.

‘Is it money?’

Gaffar blinked.
Money?!

He glared at Beede, insulted.
‘What kind of opportunist
skank
do you take me for?’

‘Oh. Right. Sorry. So
not
money…’

‘No. Absolutely not. It’s just a small demand on your time…’

‘When?’

‘In tomorrow morning…’

‘Okay.’

Gaffar blinked (
Wow.
That was considerably easier than it might’ve been). ‘
Really
okay?’

Beede shrugged. ‘Sure. As long as whatever you want me to do isn’t illegal and doesn’t take too long…’

‘Not long,’ Gaffar butted in, ‘just few minute. Five minute. Is all.’

‘Then that’s fine. It’s a deal.’

Beede reached out his hand and Gaffar took it. They shook.

‘So what do you want me to
do
, exactly?’ Beede couldn’t resist asking. Gaffar grimaced, he dropped Beede’s hand. ‘I need for you to go
shop.
I need for you to get for me, I,
Gaffar
…’

He pointed to his chest.

‘Yes?’

‘I need…’ He drew a deep breath. ‘
Salad.
’

Beede stared at him, blankly. ‘Pardon?’

‘Salad,’ Gaffar repeated (with an involuntary shudder).

‘Salad?’

Gaffar nodded.

‘Sorry…Did you just say “salad”?’

‘Yes. Salad.
Salad.
’

‘Salad? Like lettuce? Or tomatoes?
That
kind of salad?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right. And you need
me
to do that? You need salad but you have…you have no
money
, perhaps…?’

‘Oh no. I have money,’ Gaffar insisted, ‘I say before…I say I
have
money. Money is no problem. Kane give money – money for salad.’

As Gaffar spoke, Beede was staring down at the rug, with a frown.

He was trying to think of the Turkish word for salad.

‘Leaf!’
he finally exclaimed.

‘Not “leaf!”’
Gaffar snapped. ‘
Salad
, you fool.
Salad. Salad.
Salad.

Salad.
Salad.
’

‘You want me to go
shopping
for you?’

‘No,’ Gaffar shook his head, ‘I shop.
I
buy shop. But you –
you
– you shop salad.’

‘So who’s the salad for?’

Beede glanced down at the rug again. ‘Kelly. Kane’s
whore.
’

‘And you want me to take the salad to her?’

‘No.
I
take. So long…’ Gaffar made a complex motion with his hands. ‘
So long as it’s completely covered up. Packaged up. In a bundle. Wrapped up. And I don’t have to look at it.
’

‘How odd,’ Beede murmured.

‘What?’ Gaffar straightened his back, defensively.

‘My rug.’

‘Rug?’

‘Yes. My rug.’ Beede pointed. ‘I thought there was something wrong with it, and now I realise…There’s nothing
wrong
, as such, but it’s been…it’s been turned around…’

Gaffar glanced down.

‘Ah, yes,’ he grinned, ‘I do that.’

‘What?’ Beede seemed confused. ‘
You
turned my rug around?’

‘Yes.’

‘But why?’

‘Kane.’

‘Kane?’

‘Yes. Kane
dropped his
cigarette
on it – or, to be completely accurate – that stinking cat knocked it off the little table with its pesky tail while he was searching through your books. Burned a small hole in it. Kane went nuts. So I told him I could fix it – told him my mother and my grandmother worked on the carpet looms of Diyarbakir…you know, blah blah…
’ Gaffar scoffed, jovially
‘…and – blow me – if he wasn’t completely taken in by it! Swallowed it whole! So I sent him off to your bedroom – to seek vengeance on that filthy puss – then, quick as a flash, I’d moved out all the furniture, turned the carpet around, and placed it back…’

Gaffar jumped up, to demonstrate.
‘Oh my God! When he returned he fell to his knees, looking for the place where the burn had been…’
Gaffar fell to his knees, with a theatrical gasp.
‘You should’ve seen it! It was hilarious! His face was a picture!’

He glanced over at Beede. Beede did not appear to be overwhelmed by hilarity.

‘Don’t worry…’ Gaffar tried to pacify him,
‘it’s only a tiny mark. You can barely even tell from this angle. And – let’s face it – this carpet’s hardly a priceless work of craftsmanship, is it? Just some cheap reproduction…’
Gaffar sniggered,
‘I mean the Minaret of Iam? Afghanistan?!’

‘I appreciate your candour,’ Beede smouldered.

‘
Natch
,’ Gaffar swiped a hand through the air.

‘So Kane was going through my books, you say?’ Beede murmured, tightly. ‘Do you have any idea why?’

Gaffar shrugged.

‘Because that just seems very…’ Beede scowled, ‘
strange.
Strange behaviour. For Kane.’

‘First he looked into the envelope,’
Gaffar tried to remember the exact order of things,
‘the brown envelope with the papers inside which Kelly – his whore – brought with her. He read them for a while and his face was like…’

Gaffar pulled an expression of condensed fury.

‘
This
envelope?’

Beede grabbed the aforementioned brown envelope from underneath an old newspaper.

‘Uh…Yes.’

‘But why would he look in
this
envelope?’

Beede pulled the papers out of it and inspected them, his eye settling, just briefly, on Winifred’s handwritten note.

Gaffar shrugged again. ‘I no idea. All I care for is
salad.
’

Beede gazed up at him, distractedly.

‘Of course,’ he eventually murmured, ‘the salad.’

‘In morning. We go Tesco Supermarket – Crooksfoot –
big
Tesco. Near hospital.’

‘Right.
Yes
…’ Beede struggled to re-focus. ‘My shift starts at ten.

So…uh…nine-thirty, say? Would you like a lift down there? On the bike?’

‘
No!
’ Gaffar widened his eyes, warningly. ‘We meet in front.

Secret
, yes? By…uh…’

He made a pushing motion.

‘The trolleys?’

‘Bingo.’

‘Okay. Out front, by the trolleys,’ Beede confirmed, ‘I’ll be there.’

‘God bless you.’

Gaffar took a small step back – bending his knee, dipping his head,
graciously, his hands clasping together – as if offering his humble obeisance to the old man. But then he paused, mid-genuflection, peeking up through the deep pile of his luxuriant brows and indicating towards the rug, with a sly grin.

‘So this was
damn
good joke, huh?’

He kept telling himself that it was the foot – the verruca – which was encouraging his thoughts to dwell on her. A small and previously dormant wart (hardly the world’s most
alluring
thing) which was suddenly throbbing and smarting and
twingeing
him –

Twingeing
…

Is that really a word?

Although –

Uh
…

Now just hang on there
…

– was the foot
really
the spur? The root of it all? The instigator? I mean couldn’t it just as easily be the other way around? ie his thoughts being absorbed by her –

The soft voice

The smooth fall of her hair…

– then frantically retreating –

The birthmark/patronising manner/pyromaniac son/his psychotic father

– and so turning, instead, by…by
proxy
, you might almost say, to the foot (which – because of some strange, fucked-up biological imperative –

Hysterical
 –

Didn’t she actually say that?
)

– had become the unwitting locus – the physical expression – of all his rancour.

Wasn’t the wart just a collaborator? A patsy? Wasn’t it simply giving him
carte blanche
to think about – to dwell upon – to
linger
…

On her?

Elen?

Or
…

God
 –

Worse still (standing quietly behind her, almost eclipsed by her shadow):

Beede?

No.

No. It was the foot. It was the wart. It was the twingeing, the itching –

Now that truly is disgusting…

– and the occasional, entirely arbitrary dart of stabbing pain –

Ouch.

There it goes again
…

It was definitely the foot. Because the more he dwelt on it, the more he realised that these irritating symptoms had been solidly in evidence since well before Monday’s fateful meeting. Not quite so patently – so obviously – as they were now, not nearly so…so
belligerently
– but they
had
been there.

Although –

Yes
…

– he didn’t mind admitting (on the subject of mental unease etc) that he’d been somewhat alarmed (shaken up, even) by the letter from W. From Winnie. From Winifred. Because so far as he was aware (which wasn’t very far – he couldn’t honestly remember the last time he’d bothered asking Anthony – her father – about her general
health/happiness/wellbeing) she’d moved permanently to Leeds (the university. Had some kind of fancy, post-graduate position in the History Department there).

He hadn’t seen her for several years –

Four
 –

At the very least

And yet here was Beede, his father (dull old Beede, musty old Beede –

Mysterious old Beede?

Secretive old Beede?

Randy old Beede?!
 –

Urgh.

– Kane shuddered), conducting some kind of secret, but oddly
intimate
relationship with her (I mean all the stuff about the Madeira cake. Why would Beede give a damn about such trivia? Did Beede even
eat
cake? Did the fact of cake even offer up a tiny
blip
on Beede’s psychological radar?

Because you wouldn’t…

Cake?!

…you wouldn’t even
mention
the cafeteria unless there was some kind of shared background in tea or food or…

Did Winifred even like cake?

He struggled to think. He tried to remember. Cake. Sharing cake.

Enjoying cake together…

Nope.

Nothing.

Sharing tabs. Having sex. Smoking dope. Enjoying blow-backs. Yeah.

But
cake
?

Winifred Shilling – pill-fiend extraordinaire – sitting quietly with a fragrant
pot of Earl Grey at her elbow in a suburban tearoom somewhere?

Eh?!

Kane snorted, contemptuously.

Nah
).

He glanced down –

Damn

The tip of his spliff had dropped off into his lap. And there was still a small –

Fuck!

– ember…

He cuffed it from his jeans and down on to the floor. He checked the fabric – no hole, but a tiny, brown…

Bugger

He took a final, deep drag –

Nope
…

Dead

– then tried to push the damp dog-end into the ashtray, but the ashtray, it seemed, was already full to capacity. He frowned, then tutted, fussily. Some fool had shoved a
cigarette
packet in there –

Gaffar
…

– he tried to remove it, manoeuvring it out so as not to spill ash everywhere. As the packet came free he saw – with a slight start – that it wasn’t actually what he’d thought –

Not a packet
…

He unfolded it, thinking it might be some kind of supermarket scratchcard. But no. A card –
yes
, certainly – but not a scratchcard. A
playing
card. A Jack. A Jack of Hearts. He gazed at it, blankly, as he shoved his dog-end into the ashtray. Then he blew on the card (to clean off the ash) and slipped it, with a small smile, into his pocket. As he pushed in his hand he felt
another
card. He frowned –

What…?

Then he remembered. The card he’d taken from his father’s book. The
business
card –

Yeah?

He pulled it out. But it wasn’t the business card. It was
another
playing card. A
second
playing card. He stared at it, scowling.

The Joker.

The Joker?!

He delved back into his pockets again, searching for that
other
card – the business card.

Nothing.

Where’d it go?

And then he remembered the book.
Beede’s
book…The one he…

Nope.

He inspected the Joker again. But it wasn’t the Joker. It was the Jack.

The Joker…

He turned the card over. He searched his pockets. The Joker was gone.

He held the Jack and stared at it.

‘Must’ve mis-read…’ he murmured.

Ho-hum.

He shoved the card away, scowling, then peered up at her house –

Elen’s house
…

Because here he was –

Sure as eggs

– for all his well-rehearsed expressions of confusion/nonchalance/indifference etc – lounging casually in his car (a mere three days since their last encounter), planning on…expecting to…hoping to…

Uh
…

He’d tried to track down her practice in the phone book, but hadn’t been able to find it there. She was married now and he didn’t know her surname, so he’d finally resorted –

Yes, yes
…

– to a furtive inspection of his father’s address book.

He’d noted – with some interest – that she wasn’t listed under ‘c’ for chiropodist, or under ‘e’ for Elen, even, but under ‘g’.

G?

He’d discovered other things, too. Further to the bank statement (which he’d uncovered, accidentally, a couple of days previously) he’d unearthed two old cheque books (
all
of the stubs –

Thanks, Pops!

– religiously filled out, if somewhat cryptically, in his own special shorthand), some meticulous account books, several letters from the bank manager (further to our meeting on…etc etc), and a demand from a shonky loan company (dated 27 November) –

What the…?!

That’d been the biggest shock.

Kane took out his cigarettes and sparked one up. He gazed over at the house again. He frowned. So was this the reason his father currently found himself over £38,000 in hock?

His mind dwelt, momentarily, on the envelope Beede had passed her in the restaurant –

How furtive he’d looked
 –

What was it? Love? Sex? Blackmail? (
Sex? Blackmail?!

Seriously?!
Knowing Beede, it was far more likely to be some kind of mealy-mouthed petition about the ‘brutal coppicing’ of a group of ancient Limes on the cycle track near the Stour Centre).

Whatever the reason, this certainly wasn’t the kind of place he’d pictured her living in. Not Elen (
El-en
– he found himself tripping on the name – mid-syllable – just like his father had done).

Cedar Wood –

Cedar?

Wood?

– was a brand, spanking new development. Blank. Generic. Everything detached, or semi-detached. No personality. No atmosphere. No newsagents (for that matter), or chippies or pubs. No trees –

No woods
–
or cedars
–
that’s for damn sure
…

– just bushes. No birds…

He turned off the stereo, wound down the window and stuck his head out to make certain –

Nope

Just this awful, all-pervasive quiet. This
muffledness.

He was shocked – quite frankly – by the feel of the place. He felt something within him revolt against it (the sense of quiet conformity. The dullness. The heart-sinking
blankness
). He was almost…

What?

Disappointed.

Oh come on
…

As he sat and watched, a tall, thin, young man in scruffy work apparel suddenly appeared from around the side of the house. He was carrying a dog – a pathetic-looking spaniel – under one arm and holding what appeared to be an empty jam-jar in his free hand.

‘
Bollocks
…’ Kane murmured. He moved to duck down in his seat, but that same instant the young man glanced over.

‘Aw
shit
,’ Lester said, taking a quick step back.

Kane drew a deep breath, stuck his fag into the corner of his mouth, yanked the keys from the ignition, shoved open the door and clambered out.

‘I ain’t
got
it,’ Lester began snivelling, ‘an’ you got no fuckin’
right
botherin’ me at work, man.’

‘You?
Work?!
’ Kane scoffed.

‘Leave me
alone
, man,’ Lester seemed terrified.

Kane sighed, bored. This was just too bad. A fly in the ointment. But certain, well,
responsibilities
were inherent to the trade. He pulled his jacket slightly tighter around him, stiffening his body against the cold, then slammed the door shut (activating the alarm and the locks –

Click
 –

Beep-beep
)

‘
Don’t hurt me, man
,’ Lester all-but squealed.

‘Got no choice, my friend,’ Kane regretfully informed him, ‘because if I don’t, you’ll paint me a pussy all over town, and
then
where the heck would business be at?’

Lester turned and bolted down the side of the house. Kane strolled casually after him, finally catching up with him in the small, paved rear garden where he was crouching – somewhat poignantly – behind a sheet on the washing line. Kane stooped under some socks. ‘Put down the dog,’ he instructed him.

‘Uh-
uh.
’

Lester shot up against the brick of the back wall, shaking his head.

‘Put down the fucking
dog,’
Kane reiterated, then he drew forward slightly, with a frown. ‘What’s in the jam-jar?’

‘Nothin’.’

‘Nothing?’

He moved in for an even closer look, blinking, for a second, through the smoke from his cigarette.

‘Yeah.’

‘You’ve got a jam-jar of nothing? Why?’

‘I’m collectin’ it.’

‘You’re collecting
nothing
?’

Lester nodded.

‘Are you fucking
insane
?’

Kane snatched the jar from him and squinted in through the glass. Couldn’t see anything. Saw nothing, in fact. Then he straightened up and punched Lester in the face.

Crack.

Lester’s mouth flew open on impact. His skull smacked into the brickwork. The dog yelped as his grip inadvertently tightened around her. But his nose took the brunt of it.

‘Okay, then,’ Kane grinned, ‘so here’s to nothing…’ He toasted him with the jar and then handed it back.

Lester snatched the jar, his eyes smarting, the bone in the centre of his nose glowing whitely, as though it’d just been lightly dusted with phosphorescent powder. Then – on a count of three – warm, dark blood began to gush from his nostrils. Kane pulled a tea-towel from the washing line, yanked back Lester’s head with a handful of his hair –

‘
Owwww!
’

– and blotted his face with it.

‘This all seems strangely familiar…’ he mused, idly. ‘Didn’t I break your nose sometime before? Or was it your arm on that occasion?’

‘Cracked my fuckin’
ribs,
’ Lester hissed through the fabric.

‘Ah…’ Kane sighed, ‘well there’s surely some kind of
lesson
in this, my old friend…’ he counselled, sagely.

‘Hello?
Hello?
’

Uh-oh

Kane froze, mid-axiom.

A man’s voice. Germanic.

‘
Lester?
’

Kane turned. Then he took a quick step back –

Wha?!

His eyes widened. Directly behind him (about 2 feet away, at most), perched neatly on the washing line: a starling. A thin and greasy, yellow-beaked starling, cocking its head at him.

Kane stared at the bird. The bird stared back at Kane. Kane removed his cigarette from his mouth and flipped it down on to the paving. ‘
Shoo!
’ he said.

As he spoke he heard the spaniel growling. A deep growl. A menacing growl. Then his eyes lifted – he didn’t know why…instinct, perhaps – to an upstairs window at the back of the house. There he saw the boy (the strange boy. The imp) standing at the window and gazing out at him, impassively. Kane waved at the boy, but the boy didn’t respond. Instead, he slowly – very deliberately – lifted up his hands and covered his face with them (but not in panic or alarm – so much as…almost as if in…

In warning?
)

That same instant –

Oh balls

– he saw the mother, dressed in black, standing directly behind him. She looked…What
was
that look? Apprehension?
Fear?