Darkmans (34 page)

Uh…

Yup

– not from steel or aluminium or
glass
 –

Nuh-uh

– but just basic, red
brick.
Hand-made, red brick –

More to the point

–
thousands
of them;
millions
, even –

Fuck…

Kane craned his neck –

Well that’s one helluva pointing job…

Although –

How odd…

– as he touched it with his hand the brick suddenly seemed to blur and then transmogrify into…

Into what, exactly?

– wood. Tiny chips of…slivers of…

Uh…

(Like one of those old-fashioned, ridged and laminated cards he’d been so fond of as a child where the image is cleverly split into two, so that when you stare at it, straight on, you see one thing, but then, when you
angle
it, you see…

Uh…

No.
)

Kane shook his head, withdrew his hand and stepped back so that wood returned – as if by magic – to its former constituency –

That’s it
 –

Much better…

He was currently standing and gazing up at the East Entrance (he wasn’t sure how or
why
he knew it was the East, he just did). The East Entrance was actually still under construction (a chaotic mish-mash of scaffolding and ladders; a huge, gaping
maw
in what was otherwise a flawless facade).

Right…

Good.

Kane drew a long, slow, steady breath, steeled himself, glanced furtively around him, yanked his hood down low to obscure his face –

Eh?

Hood?

– and stealthily entered the building.

Once inside he observed (with a strange feeling of smugness) that the basilica was constructed under fairly traditional lines –

Basilica?

– an oblong hall with a double colonnade and apse –

Apse?!

Yet while the basic design of the interior was fairly uncontentious, the
scale
of it was anything but.

It was gigantic –

Stupendous!

– and there was this –

Wow!

–
ow!

–
ow!

– this quite astonishing
echo
 –

–
ho!

–
ho!

– so as soon as his boots hit the floor –

Granite?

Marble?

– he observed
another
pair of boots – the
same
pair, to all intents and purposes – landing just a
milli-second
after; almost as if he were
two
people, two explorers, two dreamy, mid-light voyagers…

Mid-light?

Hang on…

It was evening –

But of course

– definitely
evening. The giant hall was suddenly illuminated (or had it always been?) by a thousand flickering candles. He sniffed. He could smell cheap tallow. He could smell burning honey.

And then –

What?

– without any kind of warning, the echo from his footsteps faltered slightly – it adjusted itself; it missed a beat. He glanced anxiously behind him – with a start. But there was only his shadow –

My shadow?

Really?!

He gingerly lifted an arm. His shadow’s arm lifted. It was a tiny arm. He kicked out his leg. His shadow’s leg lifted. It was a curiously
feminine
leg. He pushed back his hood and tried to inspect his profile, but every time he posed (to get the best possible slant on his features) the shadow – like a twig in a game of Pooh-sticks – drifted gently out of view.

He inspected his hands. His hands were very beautiful; a scholar’s hands. A gentleman’s hands –

Still a gentleman’s hands, eh?

After all this time?

– and there – very reassuringly – further up on the forearm; his burn. He fondly recalled how he’d acquired it; setting fire to the barn –

Barn?!

His eyes quickly returned –

No.

That’s just silly.

It wasn’t…

– to those fine, scholarly hands. He smiled down at them, proudly, spreading out his fingers and quietly perusing his uncallused palms, his neat, clean nails…

A sudden
rustle –

What?!

– from directly behind him –

Who?!

– caused him to spring sharply back, but way too late. She was already hard upon him; a woman, lean; dark; distinguished; dressed, from head to toe, in deepest mourning. He froze, certain he’d be exposed –

Exposed for what?

To what?

– but she hurried straight on by him, as if she didn’t even see him.

He turned and observed her rapid progress down the aisle (her skirts were long and black, the fabric seemed heavy –
shiny –
almost as if wet, as if
water
logged. He stared at the floor, anticipating some kind of damp trail, but there was nothing, only tiny tornadoes of dust which danced and spiralled gaily in her wake).

The woman –
The Mourner
(he didn’t know why he felt the
strong urge to call her that) hastened on towards the altar, drew to an abrupt halt in front of it, crossed herself and fell into a deep curtsey. Her dark skirts rose around her like a singed blackcurrant soufflé.

As he watched her he felt something unexpected rise within him. A naughty urge? A
cackle
, perhaps? He held his breath, purely out of instinct, to
curtail
it, and as he held it he slowly began to –
Wa-hey!

– to
levitate.

He lifted straight up into the air; 2 feet, 4 feet, 10 feet, 20. He rose so high that he disturbed a wood pigeon from its roost. It clapped its wings, furiously, as it flew on by (and this single clap resounded around the ceiling, like a flurry of gunshot).

Then he panicked –

Oh shit…

How the hell will I come down again?

He exhaled, sharply – alarmed – and then he dropped –

Woah!

He suspended his breath again and held steady. He experimented with this system a few times –

Okay…

– then he tried to move forward, but it was difficult. He performed a kind of clumsy breast-stroke with his arms and made gradual headway.

Soon (in a blink) he was suspended directly above her –

The Mourner…

Who’s she mourning for?

He exhaled gradually. It was a good feeling, a
warm
feeling. He slipped lower and lower, like the mercury in a cooling themometer.
Twenty feet, 10 feet, 5 feet, he wobbled on 3. His shoes finally touched the ground, but so
lightly.
He stood on his toes, holding out his arms (like the poignant Christ carved in exquisite marble behind the altar).

He was mere
inches
from her. He breathed out – slowly and deeply – from his loin, from his belly, and then he inhaled the
scent
of her. He smelled…

Peppermint?

Clove?

Lavender?

He rose a delighted inch and then landed. He was aroused by her. She was standing now, and there was this irresistible
sliver…

Uh…

– of white flesh on the back of her shoulder, peeking out like the slip of a moon from between the gloom of her dress and the pitch of her shawl. He fluttered out his hand and landed on it – like a moth, drawn to the light – with the soft pads of his scholarly fingers. She didn’t move. She didn’t react to the moth. She was muttering a prayer.

He rose and then fell again –

Ahhh…

This time, as he landed, he reached out both hands and slid them around her waist’s tight hourglass. Her waist was so tiny he thought he might almost…
almost
fasten his hands around it. So he did. He clamped his hands around her, hearing – and thrilling to – the resisting creak of her corset; the aching groan of her stays…

His middle fingers touched each other. His scholar’s thumbs touched each other…

Ahhh

He moved in still closer – so close now he was literally shoved up against her. He slid his hungry palms over the swell of her belly and
then up, towards her breasts. His fingers pitter-pattered like rain on the gently rising dough of her chest.

Still, she did nothing. So he shoved his hands down –

Hard

– on to her breasts, from above, almost viciously, as if trying to push those neat, white buns back into the stern corset that supported them. Then he lifted them, sharply, and freed her nipples, rolling them between his fingers, with a satisfied grunt. Her nipples felt hard between his fingers as two cultured pearls.

He rose and then fell away.

Ahhh

He rose and then fell.

Because it was all in the breathing, see? Each breath sending a tiny pulse, a thrill, to his belly and his groin.

He breathed. He
breathed.
He squeezed her breasts. He pushed his face and lips into the tender white skin on the side of her neck.

And then suddenly, just when it seemed like he could do exactly as he liked, that he
would
do as he liked (that he might no longer be able to
stop
himself from doing so), she gasped and her head snapped around. Her eyes were wide. She seemed terrified. He saw her, in profile, and he
knew
her, but just as with his own shadow – when he tried to see her, to recognise her completely – the face lost focus and she was only…

Uh…

She struggled to turn and confront him, but he couldn’t let that happen, he couldn’t stop what he was doing –

Just can’t…

Just need to…

– so he grabbed her arms, roughly, and pinned her to him, bruising her (he could feel the savage squeeze and crush of his grip against
the milky blancmange of her skin). He ground himself into her, into the blackness of her skirts, into the softness and the muffledness, like a ravenous man trying to land a fish from a fast-flowing river; and the fish is resisting – as all fishes naturally must – the fish is pulling the line taut – still tauter – but he counters, hungrily, he lugs, he wrestles, he strains, he
heaves
, and then, and then, and then…
smack!
 –

Oh God!

Thank God!

– the fish jumps, it
springs
, spontaneously, unrestrainedly, out of the water.

‘Did
you
put that bell on the cat?’

Kane had ventured downstairs, at dawn (okay, seven-thirty-
ish
); dazed, befuddled, and somewhat –

Uh…

Yuk

–
sticky
, to grab a bottle of milk from the front step, only to be unexpectedly
ambushed
by his father.

‘Sorry?’ Kane frowned, startled, slightly caught on the hop (he felt stained –
tattooed
, almost – by the sleep he’d just had. He felt it indelibly
inked
upon him. He felt…

Urgh

– he felt
filthy
).

‘The cat?’

‘Yes,’ Beede nodded, ‘I have a cat. A Siamese cat. I’m borrowing him. I mean I’m looking
after
him.’

Kane just stared at him, perplexed. ‘What’s that smell?’ he said, finally.

‘Smell?’

‘Yes. Like…like smoke.
Wood
smoke.’

‘Woodsmoke?’

‘Yes.’

Beede sniffed, then shrugged. ‘I’m not getting it.’

‘Oh.’

Kane bit his lip, distractedly. Then he focussed in on Beede again. Beede seemed pale – strained – almost
stricken.
It wasn’t a good look.

‘I’m sorry,’ Kane murmured (struggling to suppress a sympathetic pang), ‘you were saying?’

‘There’s a bell on the cat. A
new
bell. Hanging on a collar around his neck. I was simply wondering…’

‘No.’ Kane shook his head.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive,’ Kane insisted, yawning. ‘Why the hell would I be putting a bell on a cat?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Talking of necks…Is something…
uh…
’

Kane indicated, tentatively, towards the offending area on his father.

Beede moved a cagey hand to his shoulder.

‘Have you pulled something? You look…’

Old

‘
No.
It’s fine…’ Beede wrestled with himself. ‘
Yes.
I don’t know. I think I may’ve sat up too abruptly in the night, and just…just
jinked
something…’

‘Ouch.’

Beede shrugged, then winced.

‘Perhaps it was Gaffar,’ Kane volunteered.

‘Pardon?’

‘The bell.’

‘The bell? You think?’ Beede gazed up at him, keenly.

‘Actually, no. Gaffar despises cats. Although…’

‘What?’

‘Maybe that’s why. Maybe he put the bell on to try and keep some kind of
check
on it.’

‘Is that possible?’

‘No,’ Kane snorted, ‘it isn’t.’

Beede scowled (Why was it always such a
dance
with Kane?

Why was nothing ever…?).

Kane sniffed at the air again. ‘Woodsmoke,’ he murmured, ‘
definitely.
’

He moved over towards the door. ‘I’m just getting my milk,’ he said. ‘D’you want yours?’

‘Yes,’ Beede nodded, ‘thanks.’

Kane went out, grabbed the milk, then came back in again, shivering. He handed Beede his bottle. Beede took it, then he winced.

‘Have you taken anything?’ Kane asked.

‘Pardon?’

Beede pretended not to follow. Kane frowned. ‘For your
back.
It’s obviously…’

‘It’s probably just a cold,’ Beede fobbed him off, ‘in the muscle. In the shoulder.’

‘Are you planning to go to work?’

‘Of course,’ Beede snapped. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

They stared at each other.

‘I’ll ask Gaffar about the bell,’ Kane murmured, feeling around in his pocket with his spare hand for his cigarettes, unable to locate them. He turned towards the stairs. He gazed up at the stairs. He grimaced. Then he turned back around again.

‘I have something for it,’ he said. ‘I mean I can
give
you something for it, something that’ll help…’

‘It’s not a problem,’ Beede said gruffly. ‘If I’m desperate I can always take a couple of Anadin.’

‘It’s all perfectly kosher,’ Kane persisted. ‘I
know
about backs, remember? It’s kind of my
speciality
because of…
uh…
’

Mum

Beede’s eyes widened. ‘Of course,’ he butted in, keen not to venture a single step further down this particularly treacherous emotional bridleway, ‘I appreciate the offer.’

Kane shrugged.

The unmentionable hung between them like a dank canal (overrun by weed and scattered with litter – the used condoms, the bent tricycle, the old pram).

‘Well I’d better…’

Kane shrugged again,
hurt
(he’d tried to reach out, and he’d palpably failed, so that, he supposed, was that).

‘Yes.
Thanks.
’

Beede inspected his milk bottle. Kane headed upstairs. He was at least five steps up when he could’ve sworn he heard something. A muttering. He paused. He peered over his shoulder. Beede had not moved. He was gazing down at the floor.

‘Did you just say something, Beede?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Did you just
say
something?’

‘No.
Yes.
I simply…’ he glanced up, ‘I just asked after your foot.’

Kane stared at him –

What?

‘Your
foot
,’ Beede reiterated, tightly. ‘Is it feeling any better?’

‘My foot…?’ Kane glanced down at his foot, flushing. ‘It’s fine.’ ‘Apparently verrucas can be hereditary,’ Beede informed him.

‘Yes.
Yes.
Apparently so.’

(Had she told him that, too?
Elen?
)

Beede was scowling again. He was passing the milk bottle from hand to hand.

‘Is there something on your mind?’ Kane asked (quite boldly, he felt, under the circumstances).

‘I can always give you the number of another chiropodist,’ Beede said, ‘a
good
chiropodist, if seeing Elen doesn’t quite pan out…’

‘Why? Don’t you think Elen’s a good chiropodist?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ he snapped.

‘But didn’t she heal
your
foot?’

‘Yes,’ Beede conceded grouchily, ‘in a manner of speaking.’

‘Well either she healed your foot or she didn’t heal it…’

‘The foot’s better – much better. But verrucas can be very persistent.’

‘Neurotic,’ Kane shot back, ‘sustained by a kind of inner turmoil.’

‘Ah,’ Beede smiled, grimly, ‘so you had the little lecture, did you?’

Little lecture?

‘Yes,’ Kane said.

‘Good.’

Beede’s voice was bitter. His colour was high.

‘I actually remembered her,’ Kane said, struggling to justify his position to his father (although he wasn’t entirely sure
why
), ‘from before…From Mum.’

‘Ah.’

(Again, that deep canal, that unnavigable bridleway.)

‘And what’s stranger still,’ Kane continued, ‘she actually remembered
me.
’

‘I see…’ Beede cleared his throat. ‘Well I’m sure you’re very
memorable
, Kane. It’s just a complicated situation, that’s all…’

‘It’s only a wart, Dad,’ Kane scoffed.

Dad?

Beede flinched.

Dad?

‘It’s only a wart,’ Kane repeated, blankly.

‘So did she ask you for anything?’ Beede wondered. ‘When you saw her?’

‘
Ask
me for anything?’ Kane didn’t follow. ‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know…Drugs?’

‘Drugs?’

‘Yes. I just wondered if the conversation might’ve got around to…’

‘Drugs?!’

‘Yes.’
Beede was defiant. ‘Isn’t that what people generally ask you for?’

Kane was appalled. ‘What on earth are you talking about? She’s a
foot
doctor. I have a verruca…’

‘You went to her
house
, Kane.’

‘So?’

‘Do you make a habit of visiting the homes of
all
your healthcare professionals?’

‘It wasn’t…’ Kane started.

‘I mean do you make a habit of visiting your
dentist
at home?’

‘I just turned up,’ Kane was exasperated, ‘on a whim. There was nothing sinister about it. My foot was hurting…’

‘Oh
yes
,’ Beede sneered. ‘Your foot.’

Silence

‘Did she tell you I went to see her?’ Kane asked, suddenly anxious. ‘Did she complain to you about it?’

‘No.’

‘So how…?’

‘Isidore. Her husband. He told me. He mentioned it in passing. He seemed…’ Beede pondered for a moment.

‘He seemed what?’ Kane enquired.

‘Bemused.’

‘I see.’ Kane shrugged (perhaps a touch disingenuously). ‘Well I don’t really know what
cause
he had to feel that way.’

‘What
cause
? You just turned up at her
home…
’ Beede threw out his hand, exasperatedly. ‘Don’t you think that’s a little…?’

‘What?’

‘Odd?’

‘Odd?’

‘Yes.’

‘
No.
No I don’t. She nursed my dying mother. We
knew
each other…’ ‘She didn’t nurse her,’ Beede snapped. ‘She’s a chiropodist. She massaged her feet – a couple of times, at best – ten long
years
ago…’

‘I know exactly what she did,’ Kane said, hoarsely, ‘I know exactly what happened. I was
there
, remember?’

‘All I’m telling you is that it’s a complicated situation,’ Beede struggled to keep a lid on things, ‘her husband isn’t 100 per cent well. She’s under a great deal of pressure…’

‘For
fuck’s sake
, Beede, she’s just taking a look at my
verruca
,’ Kane remonstrated, still trying himself – at some level – to make light of it.

‘Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

Beede turned, abruptly.

‘
Ditto
,’ Kane hit back (somewhat childishly).

Beede paused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn
you.
’

‘Warn
me
? About what?’

‘About…’ Kane scowled (I mean where exactly to
start
?), ‘about Winifred.’

‘Winifred?’

‘Winifred Shilling.
Anthony’s
Winifred.’

‘What about her?’

‘She’s trouble.’

‘Trouble?’ Beede scoffed. ‘
Winifred?
’

‘You’d better believe it.’

‘At one time, yes, maybe…’ Beede conceded, ‘but not any more.

Things’ve changed. She’s grown up. She’s moved on…’

‘Moved on?’ Kane butted in, incredulously. ‘From
where
? From
here
? From
me
? Is that what you’re suggesting? From
my
bad influence? Holy
Fuck
…’

‘All I’m saying is that she’s got her life back on track…’

‘She’s
poison.
’

‘She loves her work, she published her book…’

Kane rolled his eyes.

Beede ignored him. ‘She got married about eighteen months ago to some Haitian academic…’.

‘And then they split. Because she’s poison. Everything she touches turns to shit.’

‘You exaggerate,’ Beede scowled.

‘I wish to God I did.’

‘Then perhaps you’re still too…’ he mused, provocatively ‘…too
close
to the whole thing.’

‘Too close? It’s been almost four
years.
’

‘Exactly. Four years. That’s a long time.’

‘Not nearly long
enough
,’ Kane sniped, ‘from where I’m standing.’

‘Well I’ll certainly heed your advice,’ Beede allowed him, ‘and I hope – by way of fair exchange – that you’ll heed mine…’ he paused. ‘Although as far as Winnie’s concerned,’ he couldn’t resist adding, ‘you have absolutely nothing to worry about.’

Winnie?!

‘I’m
not
worried,’ Kane insisted haughtily, ‘I just thought you should know.’

‘Good. So now I do.’

‘Good.’

They both turned. They both paused. They both took one measured step forward, then another; like a pair of old adversaries engaging in a duel, but without weapons, or seconds, or anybody to call.

The surly, farting roar from the blackened exhaust of Beede’s old Douglas had barely finished resounding off the walls in the hallway before Gaffar was padding nonchalantly downstairs (Beede’s precious
casserole dish cradled lovingly in his arms) and trying to gain access to the ground-floor flat.

He eased down the handle with his elbow and then nudged at the door with his shoulder, fully expecting it to just
give
, but it didn’t, it
wouldn’t
 –

Eh?!

– so he placed the dish down gently against the skirting and tackled it for a second time using both hands.

Nope.
Solid as a rock. He attacked it for a third time (
harder
– slamming into it with his hip, just to make sure) –

Nuh-uh

– but the door wasn’t merely stuck, it was
locked.

He drew a step back and stared at it, frowning. Then he shrugged, spun around and checked his appearance in the hallway mirror (he’d abandoned the suit and was wearing a smart, new outfit: black trousers from Burton, black shirt from Topman, black lambswool jumper and leather jacket from M&S, black boots from Clarks). He looked – to all intents and purposes – like a monochrome assassin.

But something was missing. He frowned. Then he reached out his hand and ‘borrowed’ Kane’s favourite, hand-knitted, Dennis the Menace scarf from the heavily laden coat-rack (wound it around his neck – two, three,
four
times) checked his reflection again (wolf-whistled, approvingly), removed the keys to Kelly’s moped from his trouser pocket, twirled them, jauntily, around his index finger, and briskly headed out.

‘He’s gone,’ Kane said (glancing up from his well-thumbed copy of Philip K. Dick’s
Beyond Lies the Wub
). ‘There’s only me here now, so why not save yourself the bother and drop the stupid act?’

He appraised her, somewhat critically, as he spoke. She was fully dressed but dishevelled, standing in her stockinged feet with her big toes bulging – like two wilful carp – out of their fishnet restraints. She had mascara caked down one cheek. Her lips were still sealed up.

She slit her eyes at him, leaned forward, removed the cigarette from between his fingers, jammed it, hungrily, into the side of her mouth and took a quick puff.

‘There’s tea and toast if you want it,’ he said (eyeing her ample cleavage as she bent down, extra-low, to hand it back). ‘God knows you must be starving after the night you’ve had.’