Darkmans (26 page)

‘
Lester?
Is that you?’

Again, the German…

Kane’s eyes returned – fleetingly – to the bird. The bird shat down the sheet. Then it squawked. Then it flew at him.

‘
Shit!’

Kane dropped his chin and covered his face, instinctively. The bird hit him, with some force. He felt its beak slice into his knuckles.

He tried to swipe it away, but there was nothing.

‘What are you doing?’

Lester was staring at him, warily, over the tea-towel.

‘The bird…’ Kane looked around him, his hands still up, still slightly panicked. ‘Didn’t you see it? The bird on the line? The starling. It shat down the…’

He pointed at the sheet. The sheet was clean.

‘It
flew
at me. Didn’t you
see
it?’

‘Hello…?’

The German had walked across the paved garden and was now standing on the other side of the sheet. He was talking down at their feet. ‘Is everything all right back there?’

‘Lester’s banged his nose,’ Kane observed brightly, drawing aside the sheet, like a theatrical stage-hand, to reveal a tragic Lester in all his newly bloodied glory.

‘Good
God.
What happened?’

The German drew closer. Lester gesticulated, pointlessly.

‘He’s trying to stem the flow,’ Kane said, still holding the sheet in his hand and failing to locate any bird dirt on it.

‘It looks bad, Lester,’ the German seemed shocked, ‘it’s swelling right up. Do you need a doctor?’

Lester shook his head, waved his arm and gurgled.

‘Let me at least take Michelle from you…’

He reached out for the dog. The dog snarled.

‘She don’t like you,’ Lester spluttered, through the towel.

The dog looked up at the German, her round eyes bulging, fearfully.

‘I should drive you home,’ the German murmured, withdrawing his arm again. ‘You can’t possibly do any work in that condition.’ He turned to Kane. ‘Are you one of Harvey’s people?’

Kane opened his mouth to respond, but before he could answer, Elen had come flying through the back door, down the steps and out on to the patio. She was clutching a pack of frozen peas. ‘For the swelling,’ she panted, ‘here…’ She removed the tea-towel. ‘Hold back your head, Lester. Let me take a proper look…’

‘Is it broken?’ the German wondered.

‘Was it the scaffolding?’ Elen asked Kane, staring up at him, pointedly. ‘A huge plank fell down this morning and almost decapitated the postman.’

‘Well
something
certainly fell on him,’ Kane murmured, noticing
how much smaller she was than he’d remembered (five two? Three?), and how large her husband seemed by comparison. He was certainly handsome – in that blond way; that pure, square,
aryan
way. He was powerfully built. Muscular. Held himself gracefully, like an athlete.

Kane instinctively pushed back his shoulders and contracted the lazy muscles in his stomach.

Elen, meanwhile, was gently applying the bag to one side of Lester’s nose. Lester bleated.

‘Harvey left me a message about an hour ago,’ the German was saying, ‘promising to send someone this afternoon to have a look at it…’

‘He’s not one of Harvey’s people, Dory…’ Elen turned to her husband with a breezy smile, ‘he’s just a client. He’s come about his foot. I’d completely forgotten. He has a…’

‘Verruca,’ Kane butted in (
just
a client?
Just?
). ‘It’s been driving me crazy, actually.’

‘…an
appointment
,’ Elen persisted, ‘he has an appointment. He’s not
with
Harvey.’

‘Oh…’ The German seemed disappointed. ‘Well that’s a pity…’ He paused for a second, scowling. ‘But didn’t you use his
name
before…?’ he wondered (almost to himself). ‘Didn’t you say, “
Lester’s
banged his nose…”?’

Kane nodded, unflustered. ‘I’ve known Lester for years,’ he said cheerfully, ‘I dated his
cousin
, in fact…’

‘His cousin?’ Dory repeated. ‘
Lester’s
cousin?’

‘Yeah. Uh…’ Kane glanced around him. ‘I actually worked for a scaffolding gang in my teens. I’d happily take a quick look at it for you – perhaps tighten a few of the bolts up…’

Elen smiled. ‘That’s a very kind thought,’ she said, ‘but there’s probably some kind of prohibitive clause in our Builder’s Insurance…’

‘Well, the offer’s open…’ Kane shrugged.

The German was still gazing at Kane, very intently. ‘I have this strange feeling that we’ve met before…’ he murmured.

Kane slowly shook his head.

‘Are you sure? It’s just…’ He rubbed his chin, thoughtfully,‘…there’s something…’

As he was speaking, all the lights came on in the house behind them –

What?!

But how…?

Kane suddenly became aware that it was growing darker –

Out here

By contrast
…

– that it was almost…almost…

Dusk

Yes.

‘Would you mind holding the dog for a second?’

Elen briskly pushed a traumatised Michelle into Kane’s arms. He looked down. The spaniel’s sharply domed, white head had been crowned by three bright drops of blood. She was stiff to the touch, and bony, like a factory-farmed hen.

He shuddered.

‘She’s disabled,’ Dory informed him (an edge of revulsion in his voice). ‘Her back legs…’

‘
Oh.
I see…’ Kane tried to arrange her more comfortably, but she was shaking, uncontrollably.

‘
I’ll
take her.’

Kane started, then turned. The small boy – Fleet – was standing directly behind him, holding out his arms. ‘She’s frighted of strangers.’ ‘Fright
ened,
’ his father corrected him.

Kane passed the dog down to the boy, noticing, as he did so, that his hands and his jumper felt curiously warm. Then suddenly cold. Then wet.

‘Oh
God
,’ Dory murmured (missing nothing), ‘I’m afraid she must’ve…’

He winced, looking horrified. Kane gingerly prodded at his sweater. It was sodden.

‘She’s got a voluminous bladder for such a tiny scrap,’ he mused. ‘Fleet, put the dog down,’ Dory shouted after his son, ‘she’s still doing pee-pee…’

Fleet was heading back into the house, at speed. He completely ignored his father.

‘
Fleet
…’ Dory barked.

The boy disappeared into the kitchen.

Dory glanced over at Kane with a helpless shrug. ‘She isn’t actually
our
dog,’ he confided. ‘She’s an awful creature. I really have no idea how she ended up here…’

As he spoke, both Lester and Elen glanced over at him. Kane couldn’t quite decipher their expressions (disbelief? Irritation? Incredulity?) but there was definitely a level of concord between them.

‘Hold them more firmly,’ Elen spoke softly, returning swiftly to her patient and readjusting the pack of peas, ‘and keep your head back or you’ll start to gush again…

‘…You’d better remove your jumper,’ she instructed Kane (without even looking at him). ‘I’ll pop it in the wash. It shouldn’t take much more than half an hour.’

‘No, it’s fine – it’s
fine
, really…’ Kane began fobbing her off.

‘But you must,’ Dory interjected, plainly appalled. ‘You can’t possibly go anywhere like that. The
smell
, for one thing…’

He waved his hands around, fastidiously.

The smell?

Kane sniffed, deeply. He couldn’t actually detect anything. ‘It doesn’t…’ he began, and then suddenly he was quite overwhelmed – rabbit-punched – demolished –
abrogated
– by an unholy aroma –

Sweet Lord!

He staggered back a step.

The most…the most
terrible
stench. A smell so noxious, putrid and malodorous that it assaulted each of his senses, individually, then drew them all together and melded them –
soldered
them – into a kind of crazy disharmony. It wasn’t just a scent now, so much as…as
sound
, as
colour.
He could
hear
it – it was…

Woah
…

– it
hissed
, and the light cascaded off it – almost liquid, in a gush; glistening and pulsating. It was opalescent. It was
iri
descent. He felt ambushed by it,
saturated
in it.

‘Oh God…oh
shit
…’

He clapped his hands over his nose, leaned forward and gagged, then took another clumsy step back into the sheet. But the feel of the fabric wasn’t quite as it should be, it was like a…like a solid
wall
of thick, white smoke. He tried to push his hands through it and his hands were suddenly burning. His hands were on fire. He tripped –

Whooo-uuup!

– then he retched again. Violently. He began to cough, to choke. He felt the tender flesh straining in his throat.

‘Take it off…’

The German was speaking. He’d moved over to assist him. He seemed very close –
too
close.

‘Just pull it off…’

He yanked Kane’s denim jacket from his shoulders, then grabbed at the sweater…

As his hands made contact with him Kane felt a sensation of such…a
ferocious
tickling. An
excruciating
tickling. He felt his skin goose-bumping and his nipples tightening.

‘Please…’ he gasped, flinching, his eyes watering, uncontrollably, ‘I’m actually…’ he panted, then he retched again. ‘
Fuck. No.
I’m perfectly…’ he grabbed at the sweater himself, ‘just let me…’

He tore the sweater off and threw it away from him, disgusted. It landed in the middle of the paving.

Jesus Christ.

He tried to catch his breath. He was panting and almost…almost
laughing.
He was high. Flying.

His entire body was still electrified.
Vibrating.
His heart was banging and hammering like an angry bailiff at the door of his chest.

And the smell? Different now. A sweet smell. A sharp smell. Blood? Filth?
Flowers?
Pumping through his temples, burning into his sinuses; acrid and savage, like singed plastic.

He sneezed, then winced, then blinked. Elen was standing next to him, holding the sweater in her hands. He gazed down at her, almost in wonder…

Roses.

No
…

No.

Lilies?

Dory had moved several paces back.

‘Perhaps you should drive Lester home, Isidore,’ Elen spoke at normal volume, perfectly calmly, ‘on the way to your evening shift?’

Dory peered down at his watch, ‘
Gracious
– the time…Yes. Of course. Good idea.’

He turned to Lester, put a hand on to his shoulder, and then slowly began guiding him through the washing.

‘Keep your head tilted…’ Elen reminded him.

‘Will you be all right here?’ Dory murmured as they passed. ‘Of course. Keep that head
back
, Lester,’ she reiterated, grabbing Kane’s jacket from the crook of her husband’s arm, passing it over to him and then motioning him, casually, towards the house.

‘And do try not to bleed on the upholstery,’ she persisted, smiling over at Kane as she spoke, almost sardonically. ‘It’s a company car, remember?’

The moment Gaffar left him, Beede promptly set about rearranging his old rug (and all of the surrounding furniture) with a fierce – almost
neurotic
– meticulousness. He turned the rug and angled it, precisely (using an old-fashioned, yellow-fabric, roll-up tape-measure), then slotted the sofa, the side-table and the small chair back into position by dint of those slight indentations in the carpet’s weave which’d long been established by their former tenure. He stood over the burn for a while (breathing heavily), and inspected it, morosely.

It was a small mark, but ugly. He winced, placing a weary hand to his temples. They were thudding. Throbbing. He felt quite empty – hollow – like a neatly rinsed-out milk bottle. He could feel nothing –
hear
nothing – bar the sound of his own blood pumping –

Just
…

So
…

Exhaust
…

He threw himself down on to the sofa and closed his eyes, with a heavy sigh. Then something odd suddenly struck him. His eyes flew open again.

‘But what on earth did he mean…?’ he muttered. ‘Just some cheap reproduction?’

He peered down at the rug, frowning. He felt…

He shook his head –

Don’t be silly

Just tired

Too tired
…

But he continued to sit there and to stare.

After several minutes he stood up. He scratched his chin. He dropped – carefully, somewhat creakily – on to his knees and he inspected the
rug more closely. He ran his fingers through its short, stiff fibres. Then he lowered himself on to his stomach (prostrating himself, as if for prayer) and took a long, deep sniff.

He closed his eyes and really concentrated. He sniffed again. Then he raised himself up, scowling.

‘Smell’s changed,’ he murmured.

He scanned the room, slightly panicked, his anxious gaze finally settling on the large and precarious pile of books to which Kane had had recourse a mere three days earlier.

He reached out and grabbed the compact paperback of A.R. Myers’
England in the Late Middle Ages.
He held it in his hand for a minute and inspected the cover – not so much the illustration as the intimate, individual details of his own particular edition: the creases, the wear, the tiny marks in the patina.

He ran a gentle index finger up and down the spine which had been so well-flexed over time that the binding had cracked and whitened, rendering the title and the author’s name virtually indecipherable.

He opened the book up. The first page was loose (he nodded slightly, remembering), and it was waterstained, too (again, a small nod).

He’d bought it second-hand. The price had been written, in pencil (£2), in the centre of that first, loose page, at the very top –

Good
…

– and just to the right of the price was a stamp – a circular stamp – which read ‘Davison School, Worthing’. There was another stamp – identical in colour (a faded blue-black) – slightly lower down, which read: 7 September 1971.

He flipped his way through the text, stopping, every so often, to inspect his own comments (scribbled messily but emphatically into the margins). As he paged, he visibly relaxed, appearing to find everything utterly familiar and in perfect order.

‘It was an age of contradictions,’ he read quietly, at one point, ‘as vivid as the bright colours which it loved…’

He smiled, weakly, placed the book back on to the pile again, stood up, and walked through to the kitchen. He grabbed his post in one hand, and the kettle in his other (to confirm that it was full enough –

Yup
)

– but then he froze, slapped down the letters, shoved his glasses up on to his head and gazed intently at the kettle’s lid. Why did it seem so
different
, suddenly? He wobbled it, tentatively, between his finger and his thumb…

Hmmn

Was the
fit
less easy? He closely scrutinised each detail: the base, the filament –

Scandalously limed up
 –

What’s wrong with me?

Should’ve sorted that out weeks back
…

– the handle, the spout. Then he cursed, softly, under his breath. ‘Enough, Beede, you old fool,’ he murmured, ‘
enough.’

He pushed down his glasses, plugged in the kettle and strolled through to his bedroom where he was enthusiastically greeted by Manny, the cat. He squatted down and gave him a gentle pat. The cat’s backbone arched in response, and his tail shot up. Beede smiled, then emitted a sharp, light, utterly instinctive
pswee-pswee
noise using his teeth and his tongue.

The cat loved it, rubbing up against him – purring blissfully. Beede’s eyes settled, flatly, on his bed –

Tired
…

– on the counterpane, then dropped down lower, to the legs, then finally, to the carpet. He noticed – with a tiny fluttering in his chest – that the bed seemed to have been moved recently. Or nudged. Just by a couple of inches. He observed the indentation from its weight in the pile of the carpet.

He stared at the bed again. It was heavy. Wooden. Darkly varnished. Victorian.

So what…?

Or how…?

He stood up and walked over to it. He ran his hand along the headboard. He looked for ridges, for scratches, for familiar imperfections. The cat followed him, tangling around his ankles, mewling.

He glanced down, as if relieved by the distraction. ‘Hungry, are we?’ He moved over to its ‘food station’ (ie its water bowl, its food bowl, its litter tray; all neatly arranged on a plastic mat – although the tray – as was the animal’s habit – had been fastidiously nudged clear, and the granules from its several careful evacuations had been scattered over the carpet).

The food bowl was still half-full.

‘So what is it, boy?’ Beede asked. The cat gazed up at him, quizzically, then its head snapped around as the kettle reached boiling point and turned off with a sharp
click.

‘Strong coffee,’ Beede murmured, ‘a
pint
of it. Care to join me?’

He headed back into the kitchen again, the cat at his heels. He opened the cupboard and removed a jar of Nescafé and a cup. He placed them both down on to the counter, grabbed a teaspoon from a drawer, unscrewed the coffee jar and dipped the spoon inside. His eyes settled – momentarily – on the first letter in his pile of post. He released the spoon. He reached out and picked it up. He inspected the address, irritably. He tore it open.

Inside was a copy of some minutes from a meeting of the Ryan Monkeith Road Crossing Initiative. He scowled as he glanced through them. His scowl deepened as he unfolded a handwritten note from a woman who signed herself Pat Higson/Monkeith which said:

Beede,

Sorry you had to leave so early – hope you’re feeling a little livelier by now. After you’d gone we took a vote on the contentious issue of Chairman (Tom didn’t let me stand in the end. Think it was for the best, but Sarah Howarth did, and Jack Cowper(!!)). Isidore nominated you (in your absence) and I took the liberty of seconding him. The vote was all-but unanimous. So we dearly hope you’ll do us the great honour of accepting this pivotal role in our small organisation!

All details etc will be ironed out at our next meeting – Wed. 24th. 8pm. Our place again, I’m afraid (Hope the
new Chair won’t mind – I’ve heard he runs a tight ship!).

Yours…

As he read, Beede’s jaw slowly stiffened. His eye returned to the line ‘Isidore nominated you (in your absence)…’

‘Damn him!’ he gasped. ‘But
why
?!’

He screwed up the letter and smashed it down,
hard
, on to the counter, then stood – stock still, eyes unfocussed, thinking deeply. The cat mimicked his reverie, his slim tail kinking, then sprang back, alarmed, as Beede exploded into life again: grabbing his helmet and his jacket, rummaging around inside his pockets for his keys and slamming his way, violently, out of the flat.

Once he’d gone, the cat jumped up, soundlessly, on to the counter and sat there, head cocked, listening intently to the Douglas’s old engine (turning, cutting out, turning, cutting out, turning, catching, and then noisily accelerating).

As its clamour gradually faded he reached out a dainty paw and gave the contentious note a gentle tap with it, then watched – eyes narrowing, whiskers a-quiver – as it slid, seductively, across the counter-top.

‘I’m sorry it’s such a mess in here,’ she murmured, bundling his sweater into the machine, yanking out the small detergent drawer, pouring in some washing liquid and adding a tiny drop of fabric conditioner, ‘but our electricity cut out this morning – half-way through a washload…’

She gestured, wearily, towards all the chair-backs and the radiators which were currently festooned in towels, t-shirts and underwear –

Kane glanced around him –

Oh God, yes
 –

Her underwear
…

Elen deftly programmed the machine and pressed the start button. As he stood there –

Stop staring at her bra, you twat

– his phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. It made him start –

Fuck
 –

Still feeling the after-effects of that crazy sensimillia
…

‘So,’ Elen straightened up, smoothing down her skirt, ‘shall I take a proper look?’

Her eye moved to his pocket where the phone quietly shuddered.

‘Pardon?’

‘The foot.’

‘Oh. Yeah…’ he frowned, glancing down, suddenly embarrassed by the notion of actual physical contact.

She observed his sudden reticence and smiled at him, teasingly. ‘I thought you said you were in agony.’

‘Yes. Well,
no
…’ he back-pedalled, ‘not
agony
exactly…’

As he spoke the dog trundled past him (her rear-end now attached

– by a series of tiny, silver-buckled leather harnesses – to a jaunty red cart). Kane gazed on – somewhat startled – as she made her stately progress across the floor, her wooden wheels bumping and rattling against the reproduction slate tiling. She stationed herself, with a heavy sigh, directly in front of the washer-dryer.

Elen glanced down at the dog, fondly. ‘The machine seems to mesmerise her. She’ll stand there for hours, just watching the clothes turning.’

Wow

Kane put his hand to his head. He still felt slightly woozy.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ she asked him. Her voice sounding distant, then very near. He blinked.

‘Do you have any spirits?’ he asked, sitting down, heavily, on a chair, ‘whisky, maybe, or brandy?’

She leaned over and grabbed a hold of the vest which he’d inadvertently knocked down on to the floor. As she leaned her hair fell
against his shoulder. He inhaled it. The blackness of her clothing creaked. He felt a powerful urge to touch her.

‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’ she asked.

‘What?’

To touch?

‘Perhaps a coffee would be better. Or some sweet tea? You look a little pale.’

Kane shrugged. ‘Sure. Coffee – or tea, even…’ he murmured, ‘…if you feel that’s more appropriate.’

She gazed at him for a second – quite blankly – then she turned, opened the freezer and pulled out a bottle of frozen Stolichnaya. The bottle was so cold that it stuck to her fingers. She removed a tiny, highly decorated antique thumb glass from a cupboard, filled it and passed it over.

Kane took the glass and held it aloft, staring at it, in a kind of dreamy stupor.

‘Is something wrong?’ she asked, rolling the cap between her fingers.

‘Are you familiar with the story of the Moscow Hotel?’ he wondered.

‘Pardon?’

He glanced up, distractedly. ‘The label. On the bottle. It’s a picture of the Moscow Hotel.’

She peered down at the bottle. She saw an uncontentious line drawing of a plain-looking building.

‘Won’t you join me?’ he suddenly asked, with a slight smirk, saluting her with his shot.

‘It’s a little early,’ she said.

He shrugged, knocked his drink back, swallowed, then shuddered.

‘You were always such a
sober
little creature…’ she murmured gently ‘…as I remember.’

Was it gentle?

Truly?

Or was it regretful?

‘I wasn’t little,’ he snapped, ‘I was fourteen – fifteen – a teenager.’

‘Yes,’ she tipped her head, thoughtfully, ‘I suppose you were…’

‘And as
I
remember,’ he interjected, almost harshly (determined to
defend the honour of that once virulently hormonal adolescent monkey), ‘I thought you were…’ he frowned ‘…quite magnificent.’

Magnificent?!

She chuckled, wryly. ‘You didn’t get out much,
huh
?’

He grinned back at her.

‘Although…’ her expression grew serious, ‘in retrospect…’ she looked at him, almost pityingly, ‘you
can’t’ve
got out much. Weren’t you your mother’s principal carer?’

The smile died on his lips.

‘So they needed to build this new hotel in Moscow,’ he returned, somewhat sullenly, to his former subject –

Why’d she insist on doing that?

On ruining things?

– ‘and because the building was to be so close to the Kremlin, in the centre of town – a landmark building – they commissioned two top architects to come up with designs for it. When they’d completed their plans, they sent them to Comrade Stalin so that he could tell them which one he preferred…’

He offered her the glass back.

She didn’t take it at once. She gazed at him, intently, then smiled, took it, poured another large shot and downed it. ‘
Nasdravye
,’ she murmured.

He gave her a sour – almost withering – look. She promptly poured and downed a second shot, then a third, before covering her mouth with the back of her hand, leaning forward and coughing, hoarsely, her hair swinging darkly across her cheeks, her eyes tearing up, like some kind of wildly romantic girl consumptive –

No.

Stop that.

She cleared her throat. ‘It’s been a wretched day,’ she croaked.