Darkmans (61 page)

She ran a gentle finger along the sharp line of her jaw.

‘Even tiny things – phrases he used, hand gestures,
smells
…’

‘They definitely settle on you once they’re gone,’ he said, ‘like a strange kind of
powder
…’ His mind turned, momentarily, to the bottle of pills in Isidore’s pocket. ‘Like a fine layer of chalk.’

‘But it takes ages, doesn’t it? The same way it takes a while for the dust to settle after you’ve replastered a wall or a ceiling…?’

‘Months,’ he nodded, ‘years, even…’

They were quiet for a while.

‘So what did she want for you?’ Elen suddenly wondered.

‘Want?’

‘Your mother. What were her dreams for you?’

Kane frowned. Then he smiled.

‘She always thought I’d be a carpenter,’ he said.

‘Really?’

‘Yup. I used to whittle away at things, as a boy. I was actually quite good.’

‘A carpenter?’ Elen considered this for a moment. ‘I can’t really imagine that.’

‘I used to make woodcuts. Old-fashioned, oblong woodcuts…’

He approximated the shape and size in the air with his hands (and as he did so he had a sudden, sharp memory of his father’s cheerful indifference to his painstaking endeavours). ‘I did these amazing
Star Wars
ones, full of all this incredible detail…’

He shook his head, fondly.

‘What happened to them?’

‘I don’t know. I guess they must be at the back of a wardrobe somewhere…’

‘So why did you stop?’

He shrugged. ‘I just lost interest, I guess.’

He never encouraged me.

I was never really good enough.

‘A talented carpenter can always find work,’ Elen volunteered.

‘I carved her a cross,’ he mused, ‘but it was never finished.
God.
I’ve not thought about that in years…’

‘Is she buried locally?’

‘No. There was a family grave just outside Aylesbury, in Buckinghamshire…’

‘Wood’s so mutable,’ she sighed.

‘Everything’s mutable,’ he responded blithely, ‘that’s why it’s important to savour the moment.’

‘Oh
God
,’ she suddenly exclaimed, covering her mouth with her hand.

‘What?’

He jerked forward in his seat, concerned.

‘I’ve just had a
thought
…’ she turned to face him, her eyes full of wonder.

‘
What?
’ he repeated.

She grinned at him. ‘You must finish it.’

‘Pardon?’

‘The cross. You must finish it. Complete it. Take it to her…’

He frowned. He wasn’t especially impressed by the idea.

‘I mean finish what you started…’ she ran on excitedly.

‘Find
closure
, eh?’ he said, scratching four, tiny, deeply ironic speech marks in the air.

She looked hurt. Then, ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Why not?’

He reached for his cigarettes.

‘May I smoke?’ he asked, taking them out.

‘No,’ she slowly shook her head.

‘Why not?’ he demanded petulantly. ‘Doesn’t your husband like it?’

‘The smell,’ she explained, ‘will get on to Fleet’s bedclothes.’

She put out her hand and patted the small pile of linen. As she reached out he saw the mean line of bruises on her forearm.

‘Of course.’

He quickly put his cigarettes away again, frowning.

‘And no, Dory
doesn’t
actually like it,’ she expanded (somewhat unnecessarily, he felt).

As she spoke the dog – Michelle – appeared in the open doorway. Kane stared at her, moodily.

‘What happened to her legs?’ he wondered.

‘Her legs? Michelle’s legs?’

He nodded.

‘I don’t really know. I think she was probably born that way. The legs are malformed. They never grew.’

‘Have you had her for long?’

‘God, no. Only a month or so. She just…
uh
…she just kind of turned up.’

‘What?’ Kane scoffed, thinking of Beede and the cat. ‘Just landed on your doorstep with the special little cart attached?’

‘Isidore – my husband,’ Elen explained, frowning, ‘sometimes he does things –
initiates
things – and then forgets…’

‘Did he build the little cart?’ Kane asked, smirking (still niggled, at some level, by the smoking ban).

‘No.’ Elen shook her head. ‘At least…’ she frowned, ‘I’m not entirely sure…Although it’s beautifully made,
exquisitely
made, like a tiny work of art…’

‘Did he bruise your arms?’ Kane wondered (as if this question was of exactly the same order – the same
calibre
– as all the others he’d just asked).

‘Pardon?’

‘Dory. Your husband. Did he bruise your arms?’

Elen turned to apprehend him, shocked.

Kane calmly met her gaze. ‘You said that sometimes he initiates things and then he forgets, I just presumed…’

‘No,’ she drew back from him, visibly appalled. ‘
God.
How awful.

What an awful thing to…’

She pulled down her sleeves, offended.

‘I’m sorry,’ Kane apologised, ‘I must’ve got the wrong idea. It was just something Beede said…’ He shook his head. ‘It was nothing.’

‘It was an accident,’ she persisted.

‘Good. Fine. You don’t need to explain.’

‘I slipped on a patch of black ice while out visiting a client, and someone – this man – they just…’

She paused. ‘Beede? Did
Beede
say something?’

‘No. Nothing important.’

‘What did he say?’

Kane looked uneasy. ‘He just warned me to keep my distance, that’s all.’

‘Keep your distance?’ she seemed surprised. ‘Keep away from
me
, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he say anything else?’

‘Yes. He said the situation at home was complicated, that your husband wasn’t well…’

‘And that was all? That was all he said?’

Kane thought about the drugs.

‘Yes. That was all.’

‘So he warned you off? Beede warned you off?’

She looked forlorn.

‘He was right to,’ she added. ‘It
is
complicated.’

She glanced down at her arms. ‘But Dory didn’t do this.’

‘I’m relieved to hear it,’ Kane said, glancing over his shoulder. ‘So where is he tonight?’

He tried to sound nonchalant.

‘Dory?’

Her chin jerked up. ‘He’s at work. He’s just at work.’

‘I see.’

She suddenly drew her legs up, folded them tight into her body, pulled the baggy jumper over the top of them, yanked it down to her ankles, manoeuvred her arms from the sleeves (withdrew them inside), wrapped them around her legs and balanced her chin on her knees. She stared straight ahead of her like a grave, blue Sphinx. ‘I must put the dog to bed,’ she murmured, ‘otherwise she’ll just drag herself around, peeing all over the place…’

‘Can I give you a hug?’ Kane asked.

‘What?’

She turned, hostile. He didn’t dare repeat it.

‘I’m just so
tired
,’ she sighed, ‘and it’s made me a little fractious, I’m afraid. I’m not quite myself.’

‘Then you should sleep.’

He prepared himself – mentally – to go.

She closed her eyes. ‘I can’t. I can’t sleep. I just keep on waking up.’

She opened her eyes again. ‘I wish I could sleep.’

‘I can give you something,’ he said, gauging her reaction, coldly. She quickly shook her head. ‘No. I need to stay alert in case Fleet…’

‘
I
can keep an eye on the boy,’ he insisted. ‘And I give you something to make you relax,’ he expanded, ‘which’ll definitely help…’ ‘If I relax I’ll just shatter,’ she smiled, slightly self-consciously (as if perfectly aware of how dramatic this sounded), ‘like some beat-up, old windscreen.’

‘Damned if you do…’ he told her, watching on possessively as she gently tipped her head against the arm of the sofa, her long, dark lashes slowly fluttering to a close. After a while her breathing deepened.

He leaned over towards her, then, instinctively reaching out his hand to brush the damp tangle of hair from her forehead, her cheek, her throat, but not actually making contact – not
daring
to make contact – just holding his fingers aloft, mere inches from her skin, like a scrupulous pianist too enthralled by the thought of a tune to presume to play a note.

‘You
forgive
me?’

‘Yeah…’ Kelly slapped her Bible shut and grinned into her mobile’s mouthpiece, almost beatifically, ‘yeah, I
do
, as it so happens…’

She was sitting – legs akimbo – in a badly broken wheelchair, on a busy hospital corridor, alongside a lightly slumbering Reverend, patiently awaiting their latest x-ray results.

‘But
why
?’ Winifred demanded, her words slightly slurred. ‘I mean for
what
?’

‘Because I’ve found God an’ I wanted to make my peace,’ Kelly informed her, cheerfully. ‘I sent the same text to everyone in my address book…
Uh
,’ she frowned, concerned, ‘an’ if you don’t mind my sayin’, you sound just a tad
pissed
, love.’

‘So let me get this straight: you suddenly got this overwhelming
urge
at…uh…’

Pause

‘…five past eleven – pretty much on the dot – to forgive everyone you ever
met
?’

‘Yup,’ Kelly nodded. ‘That’s about the sum of it.’

‘But
why
?’

‘I already said,’ Kelly shrugged, unperturbed, ‘because it was the
Godly
thing to do…’

‘The
Godly
thing?’ Winnie snorted.

‘Yeah.
You
know, clean slate an’ all that…’ she paused, thoughtfully, ‘or maybe you
don’t
, come to think of it…’

‘So which God are we talking about here?’ Winnie enquired (as if Gods were just something you might select at the cheese counter). ‘
Which
God?’ Kelly was incredulous. ‘Don’t be stupid!
The
God. The God who
found
me.
My
God.’

‘
Urgh
…’ Winnie hiccoughed. ‘I’m suddenly feeling ever so slightly
sick
…’

‘An’ because of Paul,’ Kelly calmly continued, ‘I’m forgivin’ you for
Paul.
Paul died. He’s dead.’

Pause

‘Yes,’ Winnie spoke extra slowly, as if engaging with an imbecile, ‘I know that. You already told me that, remember?’

‘No I didn’t, as it happens,’ Kelly maintained, swapping her phone to the other ear (and inadvertently nudging the Reverend awake as she did so). ‘Well I
did
, but I didn’t, because he weren’t actually dead at that point.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I fibbed.’

‘You did what?’

‘I fibbed. I porky-pied.’

‘You
lied
?’ Winnie struggled to digest the full implications of this news. ‘But that’s just…I don’t understand. Why on earth might a person
do
that?’

‘Oi!’
Kelly harrumphed. ‘Climb down off your high horse. It was
you
as got him snortin’
glue
, remember?’

The Reverend delivered her a warning glare. She delivered him one straight back.

‘Well strictly speaking…’ Winnie slurred, ‘I mean to be completely fair, we kind of got started
together
…’

‘
Balls!
’ Kelly exclaimed. The Reverend nudged her, sharply. She drew a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling. ‘But who cares –
whatever.
It’s
over
with, yeah? A done-deal –
kaput.
I forgive you. So let’s just leave it at that, shall we?’

‘How’d he pass?’ Winnie demanded, patently still suspicious, ‘and
when
, exactly?’

‘Late this afternoon. He was in a coma. He sat up, he said, “Bollocks”, an’ then he died. Just like that.’

As she spoke Kelly’s raised eyes moistened.

‘He said
what
?’ Winnie chortled.

‘Bollocks.’

Kelly wasn’t chortling.

‘He sat up and said bollocks? He was in a coma? Then he sat up and he…?’

‘Yeah,’ Kelly growled.

‘Are you serious?’

‘Never more so.’

‘Honestly?’

Kelly drew a deep breath. She clamped her lips together (this forgiveness business plainly wasn’t all it was cracked up to be).

‘Yeah,
honestly
,’ she finally ground out.

‘So how long was he in this coma for?’

Winnie’s tone was now marginally – but only
very
marginally – more sober.

‘Two years.’

‘Two
years
?!’

‘Christ,’
Kelly expostulated. ‘You growin’
spuds
or what?’

The Reverend clucked. Kelly shot him a black look.

Silence

‘So you’ve forgiven me, huh?’

‘Yup.’

Kelly rested a gentle hand on her Bible.

‘But what if I don’t
want
your forgiveness?’ Winnie wondered.

‘Come again?’

‘What if I don’t want it? What if I’m not
interested
…’

Kelly rapidly lifted her hand.

‘Then you can fuck right off,’ she spat, ‘because you’re forgiven, and there ain’t bugger-all you can do about it.’

The Reverend slapped her arm.

‘Ow!’

‘Well I’ll need to forgive you too, then,’ Winnie graciously insisted.

‘Huh?’

‘For lying to me in the first place.’

Kelly gave this some thought. ‘Fair enough,’ she conceded, ‘though as grudges go, it’s hardly in the same
ball
-park…’

‘Well that’s a matter of opinion.’

‘No it ain’t. It’s a fact.’

‘Yes it is.’

‘No it ain’t.’

‘So where’d you get my number?’

‘Huh?’

Kelly was briefly thrown off her stride.

‘Was it Kane? Did he give it you?’

‘
That
skank? No. I got it from the envelope.’

‘The envelope? Which envelope?’

‘The one I delivered for ya. As a
favour.
An’ while we’re at it…’

Kelly continued, ‘that old story…’

‘Which one?’

‘The one in the envelope.’

‘You mean the stuff from the British Library?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What about it?’

‘The man who wrote it, the doctor…’

‘What about him?’

‘Nothin’…’ Kelly cleared her throat, guardedly, ‘I was just
interested,
is all.’

Pause

‘Why?’

‘Huh?’

‘Why?
Why
were you interested?’

‘Why the hell
shouldn’t
I be?’ she snapped.

‘Uh…’ Winnie gave this question some consideration. ‘No reason, I suppose. He was a fascinating character…’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ She paused, speculatively. ‘So you obviously took a quick peep inside the envelope…?’

‘Yup.’

‘Well that was wrong – a total breach of etiquette, of
faith
…’

Kelly scowled.

‘But I forgive you.’

Kelly continued scowling. ‘I’ll tell
you
somethin’ for nothin’, Miss Clever-Bum,’ she volunteered.

‘What?’

‘For all your fancy education, you ain’t much of a
speller.
’

‘Rubbish,’ Winnie shot back, ‘I’m an excellent speller.’

‘No you ain’t. You couldn’t even get his
name
right.’

‘Whose name?’

‘The doctor’s name.’

‘Of course I did.’

‘No you didn’t.’

‘Well there’s probably a perfectly good reason for that.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah. And if you’ll just hold your horses for one second then I’ll…’

Long pause

‘Hello?’

‘Keep your knickers on. I’m just fetching my notes. I’m finding the page. Here we go. Board. Andrew Board – b-o-a-r-d, or Boord – double “o” – or Boarde – b-o-a-r-d-e – according to where it is that you happen to look. I actually had
two
copies of the original text, and one was much earlier…’

‘So?’

‘Well they spelled words in a variety of ways back then.’

‘Who did?’

‘Everyone.’

‘Huh?’

‘The language was in flux.’

‘Come again?’

‘English,’ Winnie sighed, exasperated, ‘the
language,
it wasn’t always set in stone. It grew, it
developed.
Nowadays it’s considered such a fundamental part of the national character, the culture, something we’re all so sure about, so proud of, but back then it was just a baby – a fledgling. It was still finding its feet, still being painstakingly sewn together. And all the rules which we now take so much for granted…’

‘Hang on a sec…’ Kelly was confused. ‘So if there weren’t no
English,
then what did we speak?’

‘Pardon?’

‘If there weren’t no English then what did we speak, I mean
before
we could speak?’

‘We spoke French. Or Roman. Or Norse. Or Latin. Or a series of local dialects, I suppose…’

‘French?’
Kelly was horrified. ‘Us English spoke
French
?’

‘Yup. We still do. Where d’you think
pleasure
comes from, or
naive
or
liqueur
?’

‘But then…’ Kelly was growing increasingly confused, ‘but then how did they all
chat?
I mean amongst themselves?
Before?
’

‘I imagine they just muddled along as best they could. That’s one of the main reasons why the doctor’s story’s so interesting. He actually wrote one of the first truly English texts…’

‘He did?’

‘Yup…’

A brief scrabbling amongst papers…

‘The doctor – believe it or not – was also a monk.’

‘A
monk?
’ Kelly reached out and grabbed the Reverend’s arm. The Reverend quickly snatched it back.

‘Yes. A monk of the London Charterhouse. A Carthusian monk, which is the strictest possible order.’

‘How strict?’ Kelly demanded.

‘Well he was a vegetarian, wore a hair shirt, lived a life of abject poverty…strict as you like, really. And he joined early. He joined when he was still underage…’

‘How old?’

‘I don’t know. A kid, most probably. A teenager. But it was a tricky time to be affiliated to the Church…’

‘Why?’

‘Because Henry wanted a divorce, so he separated with Rome.’

‘An’ then what?’

‘Well the monks were basically screwed. He stole all their lands and money. He made them choose between their faith and their monarch – swear an oath of conformity. Many of them refused and were persecuted – imprisoned, placed under house arrest, deported. Boorde, too, more than likely – he was a bishop at one stage, I believe
…Uh…

Bishop of Chichester – 1521…’ she paused, distracted. ‘What’s that strange noise?’ she demanded.

‘It’s only me,’ Kelly squeaked, ‘I’m just excited.’

‘Excited? Why?’

‘Because…’ Kelly simply couldn’t hold it in any longer, ‘because he was my fuckin’
grandad,
’ she exploded.

‘Sorry?’

‘The
doctor.
He was my
grandad.
My great-great-…’

‘Dr Andrew
Board
?’

‘My pops was always goin’ on about how we had this great-great-great-…’

‘…etc…’

’…who was a
doctor.
A doctor to the
king.
Dr Andrew Broad. An’ he said how he wrote this book all about how you build a proper house…’

‘Board, Broad…’ Winnie tried this on for size. ‘Good Lord. How
odd
…’

‘An’ I always used to think it was just more of his old
bullshit,
yeah? I mean why would a doctor write a book about…?’

‘That’s a good point,’ Winnie interrupted, ‘a valid point. But the plain fact is…’ (she suddenly sounded rather excited herself) ‘…that he
did
…’

‘Fuck
off
!’

‘He wrote…I mean these are just rough
notes…
but I’ve written,
The boke for to lerne a man to be wyse in bylding of his house for the helthe of his soul.
Uh…I’m not sure if that’s an independent text or if it’s just part of
The First Boke of the Introduction of Knowledge,
which he also wrote…’

‘Bloody hell.’

Kelly turned to the Reverend.

‘This is too weird,’ she said.

‘Broad/Board/Boord,’ Winnie murmured. ‘Who would’ve thought it?’

‘It’s fuckin’
monster,’
Kelly shook her head, astonished, ‘it’s
huge.’

‘His
The Dyetary of Health
was actually one of the earliest medical works to be written in English,’ Winnie returned to her notes again, ‘which gives it great philosophical significance. Apparently the
OED
traces the first uses of several general words to that particular book…’

‘The
OED
?’

‘Yup. The
Oxford English Dictionary.’

‘Shit
…’ Kelly gasped, ‘my Uncle Harve’s gonna pop his fuckin’
clogs
…’

‘Although – on the down-side – there’s some question over the authorship of the work that I photocopied…’

‘Which work?’

‘Scogin’s Jests.’

‘But you said in that letter you wrote,’ Kelly rushed on, ‘about how it was all a bit dodgy. About how
he
was a bit dodgy

‘Did I? Oh. Well as I already mentioned, there were certain…uh
…confusions…about the authorship of the Scogin book,’ Winnie said carefully. ‘I mean there’s obviously still loads more to find out…’

‘Really? You’d
do
that?’ Kelly very nearly bounced out of her chair. ‘Uh…well,
yeah
…I suppose I could always head back down to the library. Or you could always try the internet. I already looked for Scogin – so did Beede – and he didn’t have a single entry, but
Boorde
on the other hand…’

‘When?’

‘Sorry?’

‘When will you go back?’

Winnie frowned. ‘To the library? I dunno. I mean how much more do you really…?’

‘EVERYTHING!’
Kelly bellowed, her voice shaking with emotion. ‘This might sound stupid, yeah, to someone like you, someone all educated who wrote a fancy book, but I always thought we Broads was just…’ she paused, judiciously, ‘just
shit
…’

‘Well you were obviously wrong.’

Winnie smiled as she spoke.

‘I know. It’s another
sign,’
Kelly was buzzing now, ‘and it ain’t just about
me
this time, neither. It’s about
all
of us. Because God loves you too, yeah? You’re a
part
of this thing, no matter what. Just like the Rev here…’

Kelly squeezed the Reverend’s shoulder. The Reverend winced, pained.