Darkmans (58 page)

‘I’m
hungry
, Mummy!’

‘I can make you some warm milk…But we’ll need to put some calamine lotion…’

‘I want an egg in it.’

‘In your milk?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay. After we’ve put on the lotion I’ll make you milk with honey and a dash of nutmeg, how would that be?’

‘And an egg.’

‘Okay. With an egg. And how about if for a
special
treat I tuck you up in
my
bed. Would you like that?’

No audible response

‘Good. Then let’s go and get you settled.’

As he listened to her talk (his eyes unfocussed, the frozen bird held to his chest, a dopy smile teasing the corners of his mouth) Kane observed a slight movement at the far end of the hallway. He focussed in on it –

?

It was the dog. The spaniel –

Angela?

Sarah?

Michelle?

‘Hello, girl,’ he murmured.

The dog wasn’t hitched to its cart. It was dragging itself along – somewhat laboriously – by its front legs, the two back legs hanging flaccid (almost
boneless
, like rubber chicken wings) from the base of its spine. Its progress was agonisingly slow. Kane watched it, quite fascinated (by the various techniques it employed, the different muscles it used, the physical adjustments it made…) as it inched its way gradually forward.

‘It
is
a kite…’

Kane almost jumped out of his skin. Elen was standing beside him again.

‘Sorry,’ she smiled, ‘did I alarm you?’

‘No. It’s fine. I was just…’

He held out the bird to her but she didn’t take it from him, just moved around him, carefully inspecting it from various angles.

‘Totally frozen,’ she murmured. ‘You were right.’

‘It’s absolutely
solid
,’ Kane said, his eyes alighting on her chin, her nose, her lips. ‘My hand’s gone numb just holding it…’

‘And the eyes…’

She stared at the bloody sockets, grimacing, then reached out a
tentative hand and gingerly touched her finger to the top of its head. As her finger stroked the bird’s domed crown its beak suddenly snapped open, almost as if she’d pressed some kind of hidden mechanism.

Kane dropped the kite, with a yell.

‘
Jesus
,’ he gasped. ‘How’d you
do
that?’

Elen just stood there, frowning.

‘What d’you think it means?’ she wondered, slowly pushing her hair behind one ear.

‘Means?’

‘A kite. A
red
kite. I wonder what it represents…’

‘
Represents?
You think it’s an omen? A sign?’

He gazed down at the bird, anxiously.

‘Don’t you?’

She picked up the kite, inspected it again, then gently placed it inside the carrier bag.

‘A sign?’ Kane mused. ‘What kind of a sign?’

‘I don’t know.’

Kane suddenly thought of Peta.

‘I love your hair like that…’ Elen interrupted his brief reverie. Kane’s eyes refocussed and he smiled down at her.

‘…That’s just how Beede wears his,’ she continued. Kane’s smile faltered.

‘So what will you do with it?’ she wondered, apparently oblivious.

‘Pardon?’

‘The bird. What will you do?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Bury it, I suppose…’

She nodded. ‘That’s a good idea. I might have room in the back garden,’ she said, ‘or there’s a cemetery directly opposite where I work…’

She hung the bag on an empty coat hook. The hook promptly fell out of the wall.

‘Two hundred and nineteen,’ she announced, picking the bag up again and hanging it on the next hook along, then heading off down the hallway, grabbing a hold of the dog as she strolled past and propping it, easily, under her arm.

Kane followed her through to the kitchen where she placed the dog into her basket, washed her hands, dried them on a dishcloth and then indicated that Kane should do the same. As he obliged her she gazed over at him, frowning. ‘You’re still limping,’ she said. ‘Is it the verruca? Are you in pain?’

‘No,’ he lied.

‘You should come and see me at the surgery. It’s on Queen’s Road, just left of the Mace Estate. It’s only a short spit from your flat.’

As she spoke she removed a carton of milk from the fridge, poured a large quantity into a pan and began heating it up. Half-way through, she carefully turned away and sneezed, violently.

‘God. I think I may’ve caught a chill. I got soaked earlier. My clothes are still all damp…’

She held up a dark sleeve for him to feel.

He ignored the sleeve and reached out to gently brush the fabric covering her right collarbone with the back of his hand instead. The tips of his fingers tickled her jaw.

She dropped her arm and took an unsteady step away from him, then turned back to face the counter, quickly separated three egg yolks, plopped them into the warming milk and whisked the mixture, adding a generous pinch of nutmeg.

Kane walked over to the kitchen table. On top of it was a large box. On top of the box was a book. He picked it up. ‘
The Lily of Darfur
,’ he read. He stared at the picture of the woman on the cover. ‘Wow. She certainly looks like a force to be reckoned with…’ he mused, his eye resting on the gun.

‘Yes. Apparently she was…’ Elen added a tablespoonful of honey to the milky mixture. She peered over her shoulder at him. ‘I met her father today, out walking on the beach. It’s his book. He wrote it.’

‘Dr Charles Bartlett,’ Kane read out loud, and then (in suitably stentorian tones), ‘Rich, dark, funny, heartbreaking; a book which grapples with the fundamental issues of how it feels – and what it
means
– to be human.’

He sat down at the table and opened the book to the first printed page, a short preface…

‘If there’s only one thing that my long – and for the most part wonderful – acquaintance with Eva Jane Bartlett has taught me,’
he read,
‘it’s that more often than not, the act of love is all about letting go…’

Kane snorted, sarcastically. ‘So where’d he mine
that
little gem from?’ he wondered. ‘The book of Hallmark?’

‘It’s true, though, isn’t it?’

Elen continued whisking.

‘Yeah? Well that’s clichés for you…’ Kane grimaced.

‘But as a
parent
, especially…’ she frowned.

‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ Kane brushed her off.

‘Well just look at you and Beede,’ she persisted, turning from the stove, ‘he’s always encouraged you to follow your own muse hasn’t he?’

‘Trust me,’ Kane muttered. ‘When it comes to Beede and I you don’t have the first idea what you’re talking about.’

‘You’re right,’ she shrugged, ‘I can only judge Beede by the standards of friendship, but as friends go…’

‘As friends go,’ Kane interrupted, dryly, ‘I’m sure he’s been
very
friendly.’

Elen froze. Kane casually returned his attention to the book. After thirty seconds or so he glanced up. ‘I think the milk might be about to…’

An angry hissing sound interrupted him. She turned – with a start – and quickly removed the milk from the hotplate, cursing as she dumped the whisk into the sink.

‘Would you like some of this?’ she asked, refusing to look at him.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Why not?’

She removed three mugs from a cupboard and set them out.

‘Perhaps this is just another Hallmark cliché,’ she murmured softly as she poured, ‘but until you have kids of your own…’

‘When I do,’ he said tersely, ‘then I’ll be sure to send you a card.’

She finished pouring the first cup, picked it up, and turned to face him, holding it out. ‘So tell me,’ she said.

‘Pardon?’ He glanced up from the book, saw the proffered mug, reached over and took it from her.

‘Tell me what it was that Beede did,’ she insisted, ‘that was so unbelievably bad…’

‘You know what?’ Kane laid down the book and cradled the mug in his hands. ‘It really is the strangest thing, but every time we talk I somehow get the feeling like the conversation we have is the
same
conversation…’

‘You mean a conversation you don’t like?’

She looked hurt again. Baleful.

‘No…not…’ he frowned ‘…I mean the
same
conversation. As if I’d never been away. As if the conversation had never actually stopped…’

‘I don’t think I understand what you mean by that,’ she said, dully.

‘You look exhausted,’ Kane murmured, staring up at her, pityingly.

‘Did you feel like he
neglected
you?’ she persisted. ‘Is that it?’

‘No. Beede never did anything wrong,’ Kane suddenly felt tired himself, ‘not explicitly. If he had, then maybe I could’ve forgiven him. But Beede
never
does anything wrong. Everything he does is right. Everything he does is for the best possible reasons, with the best possible motivation…’

‘So you hate him because he’s good?’

‘I don’t hate him.’

She stared at him, unblinking.

‘Okay…’ Kane folded his arms. ‘So you
really
want to know?’

She nodded.

‘Fine.’

He drew a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak.

‘Actually…’ she suddenly glanced up towards the ceiling, tipping her head slightly, listening. ‘Just…Just
hold
that thought for me,’ she instructed him.

The Reverend slowly regained consciousness, yawned, scratched his nose, gradually eased open his eyes and lazily focussed them in on…

Eh?!

– a skinny, burgundy-haired girl with a badly broken leg, who was perched on the side of his bed and staring down at him, intently, like some kind of ravenous owl.

‘What on earth are you
doing
?’ he whispered, shocked.

‘You never said you was black,’ Kelly berated him, at normal volume.

The Reverend considered this for a moment. ‘I didn’t think I’d
need
to,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘
Shhhhh.
Because I didn’t think it was
relevant
, quite frankly.’

‘Well it ain’t.’

‘Well if it ain’t –
isn’t
…’ he corrected himself, ‘then why did you feel the need to
raise
the issue?’

‘Well if it ain’t an issue,’ she deftly back-handed, ‘then why’d you feel the need to
avoid
it?’

The Reverend tried to adjust himself – to pull himself up into a sitting position – but his freedom of movement was restricted by Kelly’s weight on the counterpane.

‘For heaven’s
sake
, girl,’ he expostulated, irritably, ‘what
time
is it?’

‘Quarter-past-I-don’t-give-a-shit,’ Kelly said, promptly.

‘How long have you been sitting there?’

‘Hours.’

‘
Hours?
Doing
what
, exactly?’

‘Thinkin’,’ she sighed, ‘just thinkin’.’

‘But why think on my bed,’ he demanded, ‘when you have a perfectly good bed of your own?’

‘Why?’ She gazed down at him, bemused (like the reason was as obvious as the nose on her face). ‘
Why?!
Because I wanna
know
, of course.’

‘
Know?
Know what?’

‘I wanna know about
Paul
, stupid!’

‘Who?’

‘In your dream. The kid who woke up. I wanna know what he said. I wanna know if he said the same thing my brother did…’

‘It wasn’t a dream,’ the Reverend interrupted her (somewhat preciously), ‘it was a
vision.
’

‘Yeah, yeah. So what did he
say
?’

The Reverend continued to scowl at her. She was actually rather an attractive young scrap.

‘D’you not think there might be some kind of impropriety?’ he asked. ‘I mean in your being here, on my bed, at night, after lights out?’

‘Are you a poof?’ Kelly delicately enquired.

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Then yes,’ Kelly confirmed, ‘it’s definitely a bit dodgy.’

‘I’m a Reverend,’ the Reverend upbraided her, ‘I don’t
do
“dodgy”.’

‘So what
do
you do?’ Kelly asked, raising a suggestive brow.

‘Just for the
record
, I mean…’

‘That’s none of your damn
business
!’ the Reverend hissed.

Kelly appraised him, frowning. ‘Do they even
have
black people in Canada?’ she wondered.

‘They have black people everywhere,’ the Reverend snapped.

‘My brother died,’ Kelly informed him.

‘I know.’

‘How?’

She slit her eyes at him, suspiciously.

‘Because you yelled the whole ward down for half an hour.’

‘Oh. Yeah…’

‘And I feel very sorry for you,’ he said, ‘if that helps at all.’

‘Thanks…’

She continued to stare at him.

‘…I
think.
’

‘So will there be anything else?’ he asked.

‘Yup.’ Kelly nodded. ‘Either you tell me what he said or I’ll tickle your feet till you piss the bed.’

She began Incy-Wincy-Spidering with her fingers down the counterpane –

Pause

‘Oh for
heaven’s
sake,’ the Reverend expostulated. ‘It wasn’t
your
brother. Visions aren’t
specific.
They’re symbolic. God isn’t literal, he speaks in
metaphors
…’

She straightened up. ‘Why?’

‘Because that’s how he’s always done it.’

‘So what did he
say
?’ she still persisted.

‘Who?
God?
’

‘
NO!
My
BROTHER!
’

‘Shhh!’
he winced, cowering. ‘I don’t
know.
I honestly can’t remember…’

‘Okay. Fine…’ Kelly recommenced her slow finger-crawl.

Silence

‘Oh
bollocks
,’ the Reverend cursed, quickly drawing his feet up.

Kelly stared at him, surprised.

The Reverend sniffed, then gently cleared his throat.

‘Well?’
Kelly persisted.

‘Well
what?
’

‘Well what did he
say
?’

‘Oh bollocks,’ the Reverend repeated. ‘
That’s
what he said.’

Kelly’s eyes widened, in amazement. ‘Oh
bollocks?
’

‘Yes.’

‘In a
vision
?’

‘Yes.’

‘A vision from
God
?’

‘Yes. And that’s
precisely
why…’ he looked slightly embarrassed, ‘I didn’t want to make an
issue
out of it…’

‘Oh
bollocks
? Are you
sure
?’

‘Completely.’

The Reverend nodded.

‘Oh
bollocks?
’

‘Say it enough times,’ he snapped, ‘and you’ll wear it out.’

Before he’d finished speaking, however, Kelly had abruptly leaned forward and cuffed him, delightedly, about the head.

‘Ow!’

‘Spot
on
!’ she gasped. ‘He
swore
–
real
loud – that’s what the nurse said…
Man!
’ Her eyes were now as bright and round as two new beach balls. ‘Would you ever
believe
it?!’

The Reverend shrugged.

‘High five,’ Kelly volunteered, offering him her flattened palm. ‘My arms are stuck,’ the Reverend demurred, ‘under the counterpane.’

‘So fine,’ Kelly beamed, chucking his pious cheek, instead, ‘you win. It’s a deal. Where do I sign up?’

‘Sign up?’

The Reverend frowned.

‘Yeah. You
convinced
me. You worked your magic. So how’d I join?’

‘Join? Join
what
?’

‘
You
, mate. The Church an’ shit…’

‘You want to join the
Church
?’

‘Yup.’

Kelly nodded.

‘To follow
God
?’

‘Yup.’

Kelly nodded again.

‘To dedicate your life to Jesus Christ?’

‘Yeah. An’ if you want
my
opinion,’ she expanded airily, ‘then fuck
Ashford
, mate, we wanna go to
Africa
, do some
important
work – help out all those little orphan kiddies with AIDS…’

‘Africa?!’

‘Yeah. I got this article…’ she reached down into the front of her nightdress and scrabbled around for a while. ‘Hold on a sec…It’s fallen under my…
Here
we go…’

She pulled out the relevant, neatly folded-up page from
Marie Claire
and threw it at him. It hit him on the chin then bounced back down on to the counterpane.

He freed his arms, grabbed it and unfolded it.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said, after several moments’ quiet. ‘This is an article about the benefits of solar energy.’

‘Huh?’

Kelly snatched it from him and perused it herself. The article was actually a detailed exposé on the environmental devastation generated in third world countries by their unnecessary dependence on bottled gas. Kelly flipped the page over. ‘It’s on the other side, you
twat.
’

The Reverend took the page back and gazed at it, terrified. ‘But you don’t even know what my
denomination
is,’ he finally blustered, glancing up. ‘You don’t even know what kind of Church I’m a member of.’

‘Well
he
knows…’ she shrugged, pointing skyward, ‘an’
he
obviously reckons it’s solid.’

‘But that’s…’

‘I mean
think
about it, Rev: God pushed me off a wall to get me here, yeah? You said so yourself. Then he gave me my
allergy
to prove to Kane how I was innocent. Then he sent
Paul
over at eight, on the dot, to snap at my bra strap. Those was
my
signs. An’ he gave
you
a special vision all about the whole thing – which was
yours
, see? So I don’t rightly
care
what kind of a Church it is, yeah?’ She threw up her hands. ‘That’s just
blah
, that’s just
details
…’

‘But what if I don’t want you to follow me?’ the Reverend quavered.

‘
Boo shucks.
That ain’t your choice…’ she shrugged. ‘An’ it ain’t
my
choice neither. It’s God’s choice, yeah? Whether
we
happen to like it or not.’

She sprang down off the bed. ‘Now you get yourself some shut-eye,’ she sternly instructed him. ‘Okay? ‘Cos we got a
whole
lotta shit to sort out come sun-up…’

She leaned over and snatched the Bible from his bedside table. ‘What are you planning to do with that?’ he asked, warily, as she shoved it under her elbow, steadied herself, and slowly began to hop.

She paused. ‘Whaddy’a
think
I’m gonna do?’ she demanded. He shook his head.

‘I’m gonna
read
it, Dumbo!’

She took another hop, wobbled slightly, regained her balance, and then (
just
as he was starting to get his confidence back,
just
as he was commencing to lean back and relax), she spun around and made as if to fast-bowl it at him – over her shoulder, at speed, like a seasoned pro (although she didn’t actually let go). He ducked (just the same), with a yell, and it was at
this
point (the sneering porter told the credulous lab assistant, over coffee, the following morning) that she lost her footing, grabbed for the Reverend’s drapes (to stop herself from
falling), and brought the whole edifice – the curtain, the rail, the joists, the plaster, large chunks of the actual
ceiling
– crashing down around them.

‘He was raised in Silopi – which is a Turkish border town – but his father grew up in
Sinjar
…’

‘Iraq,’ Peta murmured.

‘Exactly.’

It was just after twelve and they were sitting together, companionably, in Peta’s beat-up old van (the heating blasting out on full capacity) pouring themselves beakers of strong, milky coffee from their own individual, tartan flasks.

‘Our flasks are all-but identical,’ Peta observed, wrapping her cold hands around her beaker and taking a tentative sip.

‘Yes,’ Beede glanced over, anxiously, ‘how odd.’

‘Why?’ she demanded.

‘I inherited this flask from my mother,’ he promptly evaded her.

‘Me too.’

‘Really?’ he deadpanned, ‘You
knew
my mother?’

She groaned as he withdrew a KitKat from the rear pocket of his rucksack.

‘But the Kurds are fundamentally a nomadic tribe…’ Peta quickly returned to their former subject, ‘so there’s nothing especially strange about…’

‘I know,’ Beede interrupted her. ‘He did seem very ill at ease, though – very
uncomfortable
– when I raised the subject of his father…’

‘His father was a Village Guard, you say, in a feudal Kurdish army?’

Beede nodded.

‘Well they’re a notoriously despised breed – even amongst their own…’

‘Yes. But that aspect of it didn’t seem to bother him. He said his father was a hero, that he was killed in service after stepping on a
landmine. He was just a small boy at the time and yet he clearly remembered his father’s comrades bringing the body home. They’d stuffed a spare pair of trousers full of straw – to save the family’s feelings – but they hadn’t done a terribly good job of it. Gaffar said there was straw poking out from his ankles and his waist…’

‘That’s a grisly story,’ Peta conceded, ‘but why might it generate this tremendous fear of salad? A fear of
straw
, yes, or a horror of amputation, perhaps…’

‘He’s a fascinating young man,’ Beede expanded, ‘a boxer. Has the most astonishing presence, amazing posture…’

‘But is it only salad he’s afraid of?’ Peta demanded. ‘Not
all
vegetables?’

‘Just salad. Specifically lettuce. I think he’d probably be perfectly fine around a tomato – say – even a cucumber, at a push, but grew increasingly anxious in the supermarket because of the necessary physical proximity of these items with the one thing he was
really
phobic about…’

‘I knew a girl who was petrified of buttons once,’ Peta volunteered.

‘That’s apparently quite a common phobia,’ Beede nodded.

‘It was the thought of a button “coming loose” which terrified her…’

‘Really?’

‘She couldn’t even say the word, or write it down or type it…’

‘So how did she ever manage to raise the issue?’

‘She didn’t. It was just something I observed. Even as a child I had a powerful interest in detail…’ she shrugged.

‘Did she ever recover from it?’ Beede wondered, unwrapping his KitKat and breaking it in half.

‘Yes. She went into therapy eventually. We met at a school reunion about ten years ago and I interrogated her about it. She claimed that it was a complex phobia – the complex ones are much harder to resolve – because she wasn’t so much afraid of the buttons themselves as of what they represented. For ages the therapist thought it was a sexual fear…a fear of disrobing…’

‘No surprises there, then,’ Beede observed, cynically.

‘But after a while they discovered – following some bouts of deep hypnosis – that she’d swallowed a button as a baby. It’d become briefly lodged in her throat…’

‘
Hmmn
…’ Beede gave this scenario some consideration. ‘So you think it’s possible that Gaffar might’ve had an experience along similar lines?’

‘Well it’s not inconceivable.’

Beede frowned. ‘I have another theory,’ he said, ‘but it’s quite a strange one…’

He offered her half of his KitKat. She thanked him and took it.

‘In a spare moment earlier this afternoon I actually did a web-search on Sinjar and got some rather bizarre results…’