Darkmans (49 page)

Elen shoved her hair behind her ears, drew a deep breath, closed both eyes for a second – as if calling up some special reserve of patience or forbearance – and then leaned in towards the bed.

‘Dory?’ she whispered.

He didn’t respond at first.

‘Dory?’

She gently touched his mud-coated cheek.

Dory’s eyes suddenly flew open, he knocked away her hand and sat up, abruptly.

‘What’s that?’ he asked, touching his head, panicked. ‘A spider? A rat? Is it the
bird?
That
infernal
bird?’

‘Relax, Dory,’ Elen spoke quietly and calmly. ‘You’ve been asleep, that’s all. You’ve been asleep in bed.’

Dory held his arms out in front of him, horrified. ‘But my
skin’s
flaking off…’

‘It’s not your skin,’ she explained, gently drawing back the eiderdown, ‘it’s just mud.’

‘My skin’s flaking off,’ he repeated.

‘It’s not flaking off, Dory. It’s fine.
You’re
fine…’

‘I feel strange.’

He looked around him, scowling. ‘Are we at sail? Are we in France?’

‘No. We’re not at sail. We’re in England.’

‘Who are you? Are you French? Are we in France?’

‘We’re in England, Dory. I’m Elen, remember? It’ll all come back to you soon enough.’

‘What is this?’
he asked, putting his hand to his lips.
‘What is this in my mouth? What are these strange shapes?’

‘Just words,’ she answered.

‘Words?
Are we speaking English?
’

‘No. We’re speaking French.’

‘But why are we speaking French? Who speaks French? Do I speak French?’

‘
A little, yes.
And German, too. But we can speak English, if you prefer.’

He gazed around the room, frowning.

‘This isn’t my room,’ he announced.

‘No. It isn’t your room. You’ve just been resting here…’

‘This
definitely
isn’t my room.’

‘No.’

‘This definitely isn’t the house in Cheapside.’

‘No…’ she frowned. ‘This isn’t your room. But the car’s parked outside. And Fleet’s in the car. Remember Fleet? He’s waiting in the car with Michelle.’

Dory suddenly threw his legs out of bed and placed his feet, firmly, on to the wooden floor. ‘Then let’s go,’ he said. But he didn’t move.

‘Take your time…’ she cautioned him, grabbing the eiderdown and trying to fold it. ‘Don’t do anything until you’re quite ready…’

‘Ready for what?’

‘Don’t move until you feel strong enough…’

He stared down at his hands. ‘
Mudde
,’ he mused, idly.

Then he scowled. ‘
Modde
,’ he modified.

‘Mud,’ Elen casually corrected him, almost without thinking. Then she winced, realising her mistake.

Dory drew a sharp breath. ‘I’m
sorry…
’ he threw back his shoulders and gazed up at her, haughtily, ‘but who are
you
?’

She gently placed the folded eiderdown on to the end of the bed.

‘I’m Elen,’ she said softly, ‘I’m your wife.’

‘My wife? My
wife
?!’ he seemed to find this thought entirely preposterous.

Elen nodded.

‘And my wife is…my wife has…’

He pointed towards her nose, almost shrinking back, in horror, ‘…a
mäl
?’

‘A mole. Yes, I do,’ she responded calmly. ‘A birthmark.’

He considered this notion for a while. ‘
Mal
…Mole…
Moll…
’ he slowly permutated, ‘Moll…
Molest…Molestus…
’ He suddenly clapped his hands together, delighted. ‘Surely there must be some kind of
joke
in this?’

Elen just stared at him, blankly.

‘Very well,’ he sighed, piqued by her refusal to play along (as if
familiar
, in some way, with this strange dynamic between them), ‘then let’s go…’ He stood up, sulkily. He grabbed a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around his upper body, forming a deep cowl around his head.

‘Let’s
go
, woman,’ he repeated, more urgently this time, his voice oddly muffled by the dense swathes of fabric.

The smallest slip of the tongue was all it took to set everything back in train again.

She’d taken a wrong turn at Rye – went left at the bridge instead of right – and had headed uphill towards the lush greenery of Peasmarsh instead of down and around and through the flat marshes of Brookland.

She pulled over, once she realised, and unfolded the map, determined to navigate a new route home through Beckley and then Tenterden.

Dory (who’d been silent until this point) turned to stare at Fleet, who was curled up with Michelle, fast asleep, on the back seat. ‘But who on earth
was
that man?’ he asked, tiny flecks of dried mud peeling from around his mouth as he spoke.

‘Pardon?’

Elen glanced up from the map, surprised to hear his voice.

‘That man. Who was he?’

‘Which man?’

‘The man in the house. The man in the tie.’

‘Oh
him…
His name was Charles. Charles Bartlett. He’s a writer, apparently…’

‘I see.’

Dory nodded.

‘We met on the beach,’ Elen explained. ‘We were standing on the shingle…’

‘The three of us?’

‘No. Just Fleet and I. The tide was out. You were down near the sea, in the mud, searching for the forest…’

‘Sorry?’ Dory raised a hand to silence her, his expression incredulous.

‘I was searching for
what
?’

‘A forest.’

‘A
forest
?’

‘Yes.’

‘On the
beach
?’

‘Yes.’

‘But why in God’s name would I have been doing that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Elen shrugged, ‘in fact I’m not even sure if you
were
– it was Fleet’s idea. He seemed convinced. He said you were looking for the forest and I said, “How could there possibly be a forest on the beach?” Then suddenly…’

She caught his expression and abruptly stopped speaking.

‘Don’t falter
now
,’ Dory muttered dryly, ‘not when it was all starting to sound so
convincing…
’

‘It’s not a matter of convincing you,’ Elen said, ‘it’s just the truth.’

‘And the truth,’ he continued, boredly (as if he’d fallen prey to this particular brand of questionable logic a thousand times before), ‘is sometimes rather less coherent, less
believable
than it might be, eh?’

‘But it
wasn’t
odd as it turned out,’ Elen did her best to ignore him, ‘it wasn’t odd at all. Because there
was
a forest. Charles was walking past and he overheard our conversation and he told Fleet that there
was
a forest, a petrified forest, but only at low tide, and slightly further along…’

‘A petrified forest?’

‘Yes. In fact I think it’s quite famous. You probably read about it in the guide book at some point…’

‘And I was searching for this forest?’

‘Yes. At least…’ She frowned. ‘Well – to be fair – you didn’t actually
say…
’

‘And did I find it?’

‘No. I don’t know. I didn’t ask…’

‘And this man, this…this
Charles
character,’ Dory interrupted her, ‘he was just strolling past at the time?’

‘Yes. He’d been digging for worms. He was dressed in oilskins. He had a bucket and a spade.’

‘Dressed in oilskins? A
writer
, you say? Digging for worms?’

‘Yes.’

‘How wonderfully…’ Dory shrugged, wordlessly, smiling broadly, as though thoroughly delighted by the extravagance of her explanation.

‘What?’

She sounded defensive.

‘Colourful. How wonderfully
colourful
that all sounds.’

‘It didn’t
seem
colourful,’ she said, almost sullenly, ‘it just seemed…’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. Embarrassing.
Invasive.
I just wished he would go.’

‘But he didn’t, did he?’

‘No. He didn’t. It was complicated. He was chatting away to Fleet, and then he mentioned that he had a daughter, and I said, “How old is she?” – just to be polite – and he said, “She’s dead, actually. She was kidnapped in the Sudan and then decapitated.” At which point…’

‘Let me just get this straight…’ Dory murmured. ‘He had a daughter…’

‘Eva.’

‘He had a daughter called Eva who was kidnapped in the Sudan, and once he’d shared this information with you, you calmly resolved to lock up our five-year-old child in the car and go
home
with him?’

‘I didn’t leave Fleet alone. I wouldn’t do that. I left
you
looking after him.’

Elen tried her best not to sound resentful, but didn’t quite manage it.

‘Bear with me for a second…’ Dory scowled, ‘because I’m experiencing some difficulty in pulling this all together,
spatially…
Wasn’t I on the beach at the time, searching for a forest?’

Elen pursed her lips. ‘I’m not sure what you’re trying to imply,’ she said sharply, ‘– or
why
you’re trying to imply it – but his interest was in Fleet. He had this long conversation with
Fleet…
’

‘So you said.’

‘Fleet reminded him of his daughter – his dead daughter.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t
know
why. Because she liked to build things. She was very precocious. She was a gifted child.’

‘So he had this long conversation with Fleet about what? About building?’

‘Yes.
No.
He had this long chat with Fleet about…’ she frowned, ‘…about history.’

‘History? About
history
? How extraordinary. I don’t believe I’ve
ever
had a long chat with Fleet on that subject.’

Dory almost sounded forlorn.

‘
Exactly.
It was odd. I won’t pretend it wasn’t odd. It was definitely out of character. Fleet just suddenly grew very…very animated. I was as surprised by it as you are…’

‘Fleet had met this man before, perhaps?’ Dory reasoned.

‘Never.’

Elen was unequivocal.

Dory leaned back in his seat and thought for a while.

‘I know it sounds a little…’ Elen began.

‘Yes it does,’ he agreed.

Elen stared down at the map again.

‘Why do you have the map out?’ he asked, as if he’d only just noticed.

She glanced up at him, confused.

‘The map,’ he reiterated. ‘Are we lost?’

‘Not lost, no…I just…I took a wrong turn in Rye. I was heading for the marshes but now I’m…’ she pointed, ‘I’m here, half-way to Beckley…’

‘Bixley,’ he corrected her, drawing in closer, his eyes instinctively drawn towards the greened-in sections.

‘I thought we could drive home through Beckley and then Tenterden…’

‘
Cock
Wood,’ he suddenly pointed to a small area on the map (a mere inch to the right of their current location), ‘is
that
where we’re headed?’

Elen gave him a strange look. ‘No,’ she said, ‘we’re heading home.’

‘And here…’ he grinned (moving his finger a couple of inches along), ‘
Sluts
Wood…’ he sniggered, coarsely, and then, ‘
Hookers
Wood! Who would’ve
thought
it, eh?’

‘Don’t be silly, Dory,’ she said, her voice almost inaudibly low. ‘Birch Wood, Gilly Wood,’ Dory rapidly reeled off the place names, prodding the map with his finger, jabbing at it, savagely, almost ripping through the paper, ‘Kicker Wood, Twist Wood, Spouts Wood, Stocks Wood, Lord’s Wood, Pond Wood, Gray’s Wood, Glover’s Wood…’

‘
Stop
that, you’ll tear it,’ Elen exclaimed, knocking his hand away.

‘Where
are
we?’ he asked, almost menacingly.

‘We’re near Beckley. I told you…’

She tried to flatten out the map where he’d dented it with his finger.

‘Bixley,’ he corrected her.

‘Beckley…’

She pointed to the town of Beckley.

‘No,’ he said, refusing to look, ‘that’s just a lie. I’m not a fool. I
know
what you’re up to, Elen…’

‘It’s not a lie, Dory.’

‘It’s not a lie, Dory,’ he mimicked her.

‘What’s
wrong
with you?’

‘He just happened to be walking past?’

‘Who?’ she almost wailed.

‘Who?!’

He suddenly began reciting something, off pat, in an incredibly precise and cruel parody of her voice: ‘Next time you feel depressed or confused,’ he cooed, ‘just try and focus in on the pure
idea
of Eva, on the
gestures
she made, the
defiance
she showed, on the
moment
, the
fire…
Remember that everything else is just a
distraction.
An
aside.
A
footnote…
’

He paused, then, ‘Oh Elen!’ he continued, in equally asinine (but now intensely male) accents. ‘That’s
beeeautiful!
’

Elen’s jaw dropped.

‘You were listening?’ she asked, stunned. ‘You were
spying
on me all the while?’

Dory glanced out of the window. ‘Where
are
we?’ he asked, as if he hadn’t actually heard her.

‘But that’s…’ she frowned, confused, ‘that’s not
fair
, Dory.’

‘Not
fair
?’ he snorted.

Elen said nothing.

‘Where
are
we?’ he persisted.

‘I
told
you, we’re just outside Beck–…’ she faltered. ‘We’re just past Peasmarsh, on our way to Rolvenden.’

He stared at her, blankly. ‘Who am I?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Who
am
I?’ he repeated.

‘You’re
Dory
,’ she exclaimed, reaching out to try and touch his arm, to offer him some kind of comfort. ‘You’re
Isidore…
’

‘Really?’

He jerked his arm away from her.

‘Yes.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you absolutely
certain
? Absolutely
sure
?’

He continued to stare at her, fixedly, a half-smile playing around his lips.

‘What do you want from me, Dory?’

Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Just tell me what you want me to say and I’ll
say
it…‘

‘This feels all wrong,’ he suddenly announced, ‘
I
feel all wrong…Everything’s all…all
awry…
’

He reached for the door handle.

‘
Stay
in the car,’ Elen implored. ‘It’ll be fine. Just give it a few minutes and it’ll all become clear. I
promise…
’

‘Bixley,’ he repeated, obdurately, stabbing at the map with his muddy finger. She peered down at her lap, frowning. He was pointing to a large, wooded area: Bixley Wood. The small town of Beckley lay just above it, and Beckley Wood, somewhat confusingly, lay directly below.

‘Bixley,’ she said, finally apprehending the small kink in their linguistic wallpaper, ‘Bixley. Of
course
, yes…’

She glanced up, keenly. But it was too late.
She
was too late. Dory had sprung from the car and had begun to run, the muddy blanket flying out like a cape behind him.