Darkmans (32 page)

Dory held up his hands for inspection. They were uncontentious hands – innocent-seeming hands with long, slim fingers and neat, clean nails.

‘Well that’s…it could just be…’ Beede stuttered.

‘I tested it out, Beede – the fingers, the thumbs…And then – and I don’t even know
why
I felt the urge to do this, I just did – when I pushed up her other sleeve…’

He swallowed, hard.

‘
What?
’

‘There were
more
marks. Marks inconsistent with the story as she’d told it. Almost as if…’ he struggled to speak ‘…
you
know – as she’d been
held down
at some point…Pushed down. Against her will.’

Beede remained silent.

Dory straightened his spine, lengthened his neck, tucked in his chin and inhaled, deeply. He held his breath for several counts and then slowly released it.

‘You’re still doing the yoga?’ Beede murmured.

‘The Pranayama? Yes. It’s pretty much the only thing keeping me sane right now.’ He glanced over at him. ‘I know I keep hammering on about it, but you really
should
buy the book…’

Beede shrugged.

Dory smiled. ‘You think it’s all rather too “New Age” to be taken seriously, eh?’

‘Not at all.’

‘But it’s an
ancient
discipline…’

‘New Age disciplines invariably
are
,’ Beede said, disparagingly, ‘but in the modern world they lack context – we just pick them up and then toss them back down again, we
consume
them. They have no moral claim on us. No moral
value.
And without that they’re rendered meaningless,
fatuous
, even.’

‘Here’s the context,’ Dory said, determined to persuade him, ‘when I was a boy my father would constantly go on at me about something he referred to as “The Witness”. The Witness – as my father expressed it – was this inner voice, this calm, authoritative voice…’
he paused, frowning. ‘It’s quite difficult to express – to…to
explain
– just off the top of my head…but in the early chapters of Richard Rosen’s book he
also
refers to something which
he
calls “The Witness”, and from what I can tell – and I find this oddly comforting, somehow, strangely
uplifting,
even – Rosen’s Witness is pretty much
identical
– conceptually – to my father’s.’

He gazed at Beede, intently, as if awaiting a response.

‘So there’s this
linguistic
connection,’ Beede mused, ‘to some arcane practice from your childhood…?’

‘No.
Yes.
I mean it transpires,’ Dory continued (refusing to let Beede burst his bubble), ‘that The Witness actually has its earliest origins in Pranayama. In the yoga of breath. Although in Sanscrit I believe the word they generally use is
Sakshin…
’

‘I see,’ Beede said, blankly rotating his coffee carton.

‘It almost feels like a…I mean it sounds
silly
when I say it out loud, but it’s almost like a kind of…’

He lifted his hands.

‘
Sign?
’ Beede filled in, dryly.

Dory shrugged, apologetically.

Beede gazed back at him, warily. ‘So did you actually
ask
Elen…’ he began.

‘Rosen says that we can only get into
contact
with our Witness,’ Dory plodded on, regardless, ‘by divorcing ourselves from our everyday consciousness. By turning away from it. What generally happens is that over time, the…now how does he describe it?…the babbling
brook
of this consciousness – which basically consists of all our thoughts, our feelings, our passing desires, our physical and sexual impulses – slowly begins to overwhelm – or drown out – our inner or
real
sense of self, to the extent that we often find ourselves at a point where we actually believe that this everyday consciousness – or
citta – is
our real self. But the truth is that these momentary thoughts and impulses don’t describe who we are
at all.
Quite the opposite. They actively
limit
it. And if we allow ourselves to identify too strongly with them then it results in what the yogis like to call
duhkha
– a kind of profound confusion, a feeling of deep misery…’

Dory leaned forward and lifted his journal from the air vent. As he lifted it, the pages flapped violently, like the wings of an injured bird. He immediately calmed the bird with a soft cooing sound and then
drew it towards him, supporting it, gently, in both hands. He caressed its soft chest feathers with a tiny rotation of his thumbs, then spread out its wings – like a dark fan – with his other fingers. Beede blinked.

Dory had opened the journal and was scanning one of his early entries. ‘This is my journal,’ he explained, ‘Rosen insists that you keep one when you embark on the journey.’

‘So how long is it now?’ Beede asked.

‘Pardon?’

‘How long have you been…’ Beede faltered on the word ‘journeying’, ‘How long have you been
practising
now, in total?’

‘Uh…Two months. And I’m not practising, as such, not completely. It takes about a year to learn all the basics.’

‘And have you been feeling better for it?’ Beede wondered.

‘Yes.’

Dory was unequivocal.

‘Really?’ Beede seemed unconvinced. ‘
Significantly
better?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘During the eight or so weeks you’ve been practising, has everything…?’

‘Better?’ Dory scowled. ‘Yes…Well,
no…
’

‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ Beede persisted (remembering what Elen had confessed to him, in the laundry, several days before), ‘but I was under the impression that things had grown quite
difficult
over the past few months, that things might even have grown
worse
in some regards, less
controlled
…’

‘Sorry?’ Dory seemed confused. ‘When did I tell you that?’

As he spoke he slapped the book shut. Beede watched his hands closely, sensing the bird squatting down, readying itself,
tensing
itself, as if intending to take flight. Dory was scowling. ‘Over the past few months or so? I don’t know…I thought…’ His eyes moved around the car, restlessly, then focussed in on the dashboard clock.

‘
Christ
,’ he said, ‘it’s late…I should’ve been…’ He inspected his wrist-watch. ‘I should’ve been well on my way to Charing by now…’

Beede stared at him, perplexedly, for a couple of seconds. ‘Sorry…’ Dory apologised, yanking down his seat-belt and fastening it.

‘Don’t apologise…’ Beede grabbed his gloves and reached for the door handle, trying not to upset his carton of coffee.

‘Ring me,’ Dory said, ‘and next time let’s try and make it all a little less
ad-hoc
…’

‘Now you come to mention it,’ Beede told him, climbing out of the car, ‘I’ve actually arranged some time off from work. I thought we might…’

‘Great.
Fantastic.
’

Dory cut him short, leaning forward, pumping the clutch, reaching one hand for the gears and the other for the ignition. Beede continued to hold the door ajar as the engine roared into life.

‘I
will
phone you,’ he promised.

‘You do that.’

Dory checked his mirror, then glanced over his shoulder. Beede slammed the door shut and took a step back.

Beede.

Beede.

He blinked. Dory had wound down the passenger window and was addressing him through it.

‘Yes? Sorry?’

He inclined his head, slightly.

‘I meant to tell you,’ Dory shouted, over the din of the engine, ‘I met your son.’

‘Pardon?’

Beede leaned down still further.

‘Kane. Your
son.
I saw him. I met him.’

‘
Kane?
’

‘Yes.’

‘You saw…?’

‘Yes. He came to my house. This afternoon.’

Beede looked stunned. ‘Kane came to your
house
? Are you sure?’

‘He said he had an appointment. With Elen. Although she certainly hadn’t
mentioned
it. He claimed it was for his foot. For a verruca. He didn’t introduce himself, but I just…I
sensed
it was him. Call it…’ he shrugged, ‘call it
instinct.
In fact I recognised his
voice
of all things. His accent. You know…drawling, very distinctive, slightly American…’

Beede opened his mouth as if to speak, but he said nothing. His mind was racing.

‘You look very different,’ Dory said.

‘How?’ Beede put a hand to his face, panicked.

‘Not
you.
You and
Kane.
Different from each other.’

‘Oh. Yes…’ Beede nodded, distractedly, ‘I suppose we are very different.’

‘Phone me.’

Dory smiled. He waved. He wound the passenger window back up.

He pulled off, smoothly.

Beede stared after the car, his expression unreadable.

A white van sounded its horn. He started. He turned. The van’s driver gesticulated, indignantly, as he slowly drew past him. Beede stared down at himself, vacantly. How long had he been standing there?

He noticed – with small grimace – that he was still holding the coffee carton. He flared his nostrils, shoved out his arm, tipped his hand, and poured the remaining liquid, angrily – almost
contemptously
– down on to the tarmac. Then he crushed the carton in his hands, paused, and then popped it – ever heedful of the environment – into his coat pocket.

‘Lackwitted…?’ he muttered, heading for the kerb, scowling, ‘
lack
-witted? Where the hell’d he root up
that
particular configuration? Dim-witted, yes.
Dim
-witted I could almost accept –
almost.
But
lack
?’

It was a photograph; a picture of Kane, as a baby, sitting in a small, suburban garden, crammed into a plastic washing-up bowl (wearing a disarmingly sensorious – almost
Churchillian
– expression), totally naked but for a large, white hanky which had been knotted at each corner and plopped down, rather jauntily, on to his head.

Behind him sprawled a gorgeous, curly-haired blonde on a smart,
plaid blanket, wearing a skimpy pair of purple, suede hot-pants, some flip-flops, a tie-dye vest and a huge-brimmed straw hat. She’d just made a daisy-chain and was hanging it – with a huge smile – around the baby’s neck.

‘So where the
fuck
d’you unearth the Goth?’ Kane muttered, taking a swig of his beer and peering after her, suspiciously, as she sauntered off – in a girlish swirl of heels and black netting – towards the bathroom.

Gaffar didn’t answer. He was sifting through a dusty, old shoebox full of photographs which Kane had removed (several hours earlier – he wasn’t entirely sure
why
) from the top of his wardrobe.

‘Leave those alone, will you?’ Kane snapped. He was in a filthy mood. And nothing seemed able to lift it.

Gaffar quietly ignored him and continued sifting.

‘Is something burning in the oven?’ Kane asked, sniffing. The air was rich with the mingling scents of lamb and tomato and mint and cinnamon.

Gaffar shook his head. ‘Is Kurdish meatball,’ he said. ‘Slow cook.’

‘Did you ask Beede’s permission to use his kitchen?’

Gaffar shrugged, insouciant (he hadn’t).

‘She’s an incorrigible kleptomaniac,’ Kane grumbled, peeling at the corner of his beer, label, ‘did you know that?’

‘Huh?’

‘A thief. You literally can’t take your eyes off her.’

‘Thief?’

Gaffar looked up, briefly, then glanced down again. He was now staring at a photograph in which a younger Daniel Beede – with slightly longer hair, the same glasses but an
entirely
different – you might almost say
affable
– demeanour – graciously received some kind of special plaque at a large, social occasion from a gentleman wearing unthinkable quantities of gold jewellery and a three-tiered hat.

‘Who this?’ Gaffar asked, pointing to Ashford’s then-Mayor.

‘Not just a
normal
kind of thief – because that’d be fine, I mean she’s a
Broad
, after all – but she’ll literally steal
anything.
It’s actually an illness. A compulsion.’

He leaned across the sofa and began feeling around inside the pockets of Geraldine’s coat.

Gaffar continued to stare at the photograph, frowning. ‘
There’s a
strange kind of…of luminosity. It’s odd, but I’ve only ever observed this quality once before, in pictures of my own father, shortly after he left the Sheikhallah Bazaar, embraced
Islam
and journeyed to Silopi – the town of my birth
…’ He held the shot up for Kane’s perusal: ‘
When exactly was this taken?
Eh?
Kane?
’

Kane didn’t bother looking up, so he turned the picture over and inspected the back (as he inspected, Kane removed a small, metal kidney tray from Geraldine’s pocket of the type generally used in a hospital to deposit swabs or samples in). The photo wasn’t dated. Gaffar sucked on his tongue, irritated. He was suddenly fascinated by this luminescent Beede.

‘Well, well,
well…
’ Kane chuckled, cupping his hands together and rattling four, small dice in them. Gaffar’s eyes shot up, attracted by their familiar sound. He tapped, naively, at his jacket pocket, removed one, lonely die, gazed at it, appalled, then mutely held out his hand for the others. Kane passed them over and then delved back into the coat again…

Six used scratchcards.

‘Are these yours?’ Kane asked.

Gaffar shook his head.

‘Good,’ Kane grumbled, ‘I
hate
those fucking things…’

He tried Geraldine’s other pocket. ‘A-
ha!
’

He withdrew Gaffar’s set of house keys and cheerfully jangled them at him. ‘The mystery is finally solved…’

‘That evil vixen!’
Gaffar exclaimed.
‘She must’ve ransacked my pockets when we were riding on the scooter.’

‘Yup.’

‘
Damn!
’ Gaffar looked disappointed.
‘So that’s the reason why her hands were crawling everywhere.’

Kane dug around some more. He gingerly removed the bottom half of an old pair of dentures.