Darkmans (68 page)

‘But how exactly does this relate to Kelly?’

‘Hold on. I’m getting to that. Because in the detailed analysis accompanying the text the author of the book – I forget
who,
exactly, but he certainly seems to’ve had a certain amount vested in upholding the doctor’s reputation – says that after much investigation he’s discovered that there was actually
another
family of Boards,
also
from East Sussex – which is where the original Board was raised, in Cuckfield, a place called Board Hill…’

‘Okay…
Okay
…’ Kane was struggling to keep up. ‘And this
other
family…’

‘A really bad lot. Undistinguished. Opportunistic. Constantly cited in local court files…But with the same name, from the same area, and so this understandable
confusion
naturally arose…’

‘Ah.
Now
I get you…’

‘It just seems…’ Winifred almost sounded ashamed of her hypothesis, ‘I don’t know…somewhat
probable
…’

Kane shook his head. ‘Nah…’ he stubbed out his cigarette, ‘I’m not buying it.’

‘You aren’t?’

‘Nope. Because for starters, the original Board, the doctor, was a disreputable bastard himself…’

‘Well that’s hardly fair…’

‘Fair?
He was a monk who kept
whores
in his chambers. A Catholic bishop who signed the Oath of Conformity and betrayed his
faith
…’

‘These were different times, Kane…’

‘Yeah, yeah. Colours were brighter, smells were stronger. I know all about that. But the guy was a snob. He even lied in print about working for the king…’

‘But he
didn’t,
not necessarily. As I already said, the Scogin book was probably…’

‘No. You’ve been banging on for hours now about how certain
clues
in the text strongly indicate that Board
did
write the thing…’

‘I was just
speculating
…’

‘It’s pure, academic
snobbery,
’ Kane scoffed, ‘plain and simple. This pathetic need on the part of subsequent intellectuals to protect their own. To try and remove any stain from the great doctor’s name…’

Winnie was quiet for a while, and then, ‘So you
don’t
think I should tell her, after all?’

‘Come
on,
Win,’ Kane exclaimed, growing impatient, ‘you’re a
historian,
for Christsakes. Work it out for yourself. Anyone who’s studied the past in any real detail knows that people will invariably draw their own loaded conclusions, whatever the actual
facts
are. Why should Kelly be any different?’

‘I just feel…’ Winifred paused, thoughtfully. ‘This may sound odd – no, it
is
odd – but I just feel strangely
protective
of her – of the story – strangely
grateful
to her…’

‘Why?’

‘I dunno. Because our brief conversation – this stupid conversation – just made everything crystallise, somehow. It brought these arguments, these ideas, these
people
into an extraordinary kind of relief…Made them throw all these weird
shadows
inside my head…’

‘You
seriously
need to get some sleep, Win,’ Kane interrupted her.

‘Maybe.’

As she was speaking the door to the house suddenly opened and Dory re-emerged. Kane winced (
God.
That awful
bruise
again). Dory slammed the door shut behind him. He was frowning. He seemed to be deeply preoccupied by something. Kane sank down in his seat. ‘Look, I’ve
really
gotta make tracks now,’ he murmured.

‘Fine,’ she sighed. ‘See ya,’ and cut him off.

Ow.

Kane stared at the phone for a second, then shoved it into his pocket.

Dory, meanwhile, was strolling back down the path and towards his car. He paused for a moment, though, on the pavement. Kane glanced over his shoulder, thinking he’d been spotted. But he hadn’t. Dory was actually standing by a lamp-post, reading something. A leaflet or a poster…He was scowling. He opened his mouth and spoke – quite emphatically – swore, perhaps, then reached out his hand and tore whatever it was from the post, screwed it up and shoved it into his pocket. He climbed back into his car, started up the engine, revved it, fiercely, then drove off.

Once he’d gone, Kane clambered out of The Blonde and glanced around him. Twenty or so yards away he espied something flapping on another post further along. He walked over – limping slightly – to
take a look, standing in front of it for a while, frowning, holding it steady with his hand –

Eh?

It was a hand-made poster about a missing dog. A spaniel. There was a large, colour photograph. And underneath, in neat print, he read:
Missing! Much loved spaniel bitch. Spayed. Lame. 12yrs old. Large reward offered. Any information gratefully received: Garry Spivey, The Saltings, 27 Talley-Ho Road, Stubb’s Cross
(followed by a number).

Kane inspected the picture again – a small, slightly bemused smile playing around his lips – then he carefully smoothed it out and retaped the corners (as best he could), before turning and striding out across the frosty lawn towards the house.

‘Woodsmoke…’ Beede said, returning to the sofa, frowning. ‘Do you smell it?’

Elen shook her head.

‘Are you sure?’

‘No.’

She picked up her cup of tea, her eyes fixed to the carpet, and took a small sip of it.

‘He’s been behaving very oddly of late,’ Beede mused, ‘like he’s suddenly started revisiting things, re-accessing things…’ he paused, ‘the
past
…’ then he frowned. ‘Although perhaps it’s just me. Perhaps it’s just
my
perception of his behaviour that’s altered. Perhaps it’s just some kind of…of internal
shift
on my part…’

Elen cleared her throat. ‘You’re worried about him,’ she said. Beede shook his head. ‘No. Not at all. Kane’s tough, just like his mother was.’

‘And you?’

‘Pardon?’ He seemed surprised by this question.

‘Are you tough?’

She stared up at him, intently. He looked away, embarrassed.

‘I don’t know.’

He frowned.

‘I think you are,’ she said.

‘I don’t know,’ he repeated flatly, ‘I’ve never really thought about it.’

‘So have you tried talking to him?’ she wondered, leaning forward and idly tucking her trouser into her boot-top.

‘Who?’

Beede blinked. He’d been staring at her neat hand, her slim calves.

‘Kane.’

‘Kane? Talking to Kane?’ Beede almost smiled. ‘No. Kane and I don’t really…that’s not really…’

He sat back down on the sofa, wincing. ‘Talking’s not really our style.’

‘Why not?’

He shrugged, then winced again.

‘You need a massage,’ she said, ‘to release that knot.’

Beede ignored her.

‘It’s not that we don’t understand each other,’ he mused, ‘because we do –
too
well, perhaps. There’s simply this lack of a common…a common
goal,
a common
language…
Our moral outlooks don’t match up. They barely even overlap…’ He shrugged. ‘It’s probably just a generational thing. ‘

‘Then you need to invent one,’ she said.

‘Pardon?’

‘A language. You need to invent one. To improvise a little, to experiment.’

Beede shook his head. ‘Kane’s my son and I care about him deeply…’ he paused, ‘but increasingly I can’t help thinking that there are some things you just
can’t
talk about. Issues that shouldn’t be discussed. Because to do so would be diminishing,’ he paused, scowling, as if he’d thought about this a great deal recently, ‘I mean to both of us.’

She stared at him, sympathetically. ‘You prefer to keep it all bottled up?’

‘Yes.’ Beede nodded, irritated. ‘There’s far too much talking nowadays. Too much pointless self-analysis, too much endless
venting…
It’s like we’re all slowly drowning in this awful glut of
feeling.
We need to become more resilient, more reserved, a little less self-indulgent. How a person behaves is the best possible demonstration of who they are. Not how they
feel,
but how they act.’

‘The Blitz spirit,’ Elen grinned, almost teasing him now. ‘How ridiculously old-fashioned you sound.’

‘Yes,’ Beede said, smiling wryly at himself, ‘I’m an old stalwart, an old war-horse, an old partisan.’

Then he winced again.

‘Who cares, anyway?’ she shrugged. ‘So long as you’re happy. That’s what really counts.’

Happy?

Beede stared at her, blankly, as if astonished by her choice of word.

Elen placed down her teacup, pulled herself to her feet and moved around to the back of the sofa. ‘Although I don’t really hold with moral absolutes myself,’ she mused, ‘this idea that certain kinds of
behaviour are always completely right or definitely wrong. The best any of us can hope for is to function successfully within the particular constraints that life has imposed upon us.’

Beede shrugged. ‘Everybody’s different,’ he said grudgingly.

‘You’ll need to remove your jacket,’ she told him.

He peered up at her, alarmed. ‘Why?’

‘For the massage.’

‘Good
God,
no.’

He looked away, horrified.

‘No?’
She pretended to be hurt by his rejection of her.

He frowned, embarrassed. ‘I mean…I mean
no
…’ (he couldn’t think of another word, off-hand) ‘…It wouldn’t feel appropriate.’

‘Appropriate
? Don’t be ridiculous,’ she mocked him. ‘It’s probably just a trapped nerve. It won’t take a minute to sort it out.’ Beede didn’t move.

‘I trained professionally in Germany. I’m perfectly proficient. Here, let me…’

She gently leaned forward and slipped the jacket from his shoulders, folded it and laid it over the back of the couch. Next she reached for his jumper. As she leaned forward again one of her brown plaits fell across his shoulder. Beede started, in terror, as if the brown plait were a snake.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m removing your jumper. It’s too bulky…’ she paused, smiling,

‘Stop being such a terrible
baby,
Danny.’

‘I’m not,’ he said, his colour rising.

She removed his jumper, setting his glasses askew as she pulled it off. He quickly set them straight again.

‘Now the shirt,’ she said.

‘It’s very cold in here,’ he complained.

‘Then I’ll turn the heating up,’ she said. ‘Where’s the thermostat?’

‘I don’t…’ he scowled, then swallowed down his frustration. ‘It’s on the wall – behind the door.’

‘Fine. Good. Now take that off.
Pronto.
’

She clapped her hands, twice – like a no-nonsense schoolteacher – then walked over to the door, opened the small box there and turned everything up.

‘Not too high,’ Beede grouched, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it off, resentfully.

She returned and stood before him, steadily appraising him, in his vest.

He clasped his hands together, struggling to meet her gaze. He felt ridiculous. He hated being stared at.

‘There’s this slight – almost imperceptible – imbalance,’ she said, ‘it’s evident
here
…’ she pointed, ‘in your shoulders, in the way you’re holding yourself.’

She described the shape of him, in the air, with her hands.

‘Oh.’

He tried to push his shoulders back, but they were already as far back as they could possibly go.

‘It’s not your posture,’ she emphasised, ‘you’ve got amazing posture for a man of your age.’

‘Oh,’ he said again, stupidly.

‘Wait…I’ll show you…’

She pulled off her jumper – in preparation – and threw it down on to the sofa next to him. Underneath she wore a plain, slim-fitting, long-sleeved vest – in an appealing dove grey colour – and no bra. The soft, brown bulbs of her nipples were partially visible – like two milk chocolate truffles – through the thin, downy fabric. Beede rapidly averted his gaze. Elen walked back around to the rear of him, flexing her hands and her fingers, then leaned forward and carefully locked her arm around his neck. ‘Stay very still,’ she murmured ominously, her breath tickling his ear. ‘Be sure and relax your jaw.’

He felt her small breasts cushioning his head. She seemed very lithe, very strong. He closed his eyes, appalled at her closeness, feeling her other hand slipping under his chin and grasping it, firmly. She paused for a second, inhaled, and then suddenly jerked her arm and her hand – quite violently – in opposite directions. Beede gasped, shocked. There was a loud, cracking sound. He felt a dramatic release of pressure in his throat and upper back.

‘There…’ she stepped away from him again and casually appraised the progress she’d made. ‘That’s better…’

She pushed up her sleeves in a business-like manner, then drew forward again, carefully placed each of her fingers on to different parts of the dome of his skull, and slowly began applying a steady pressure. ‘How’s that feel? Not too uncomfortable, I hope?’

He felt his eyebrows beginning to melt.

‘You trained in Germany?’ he asked. His voice sounded slurred.

She began to rotate her fingers, but without moving them, and without any lessening of the pressure.

‘I was there for almost a year. Isidore’s father was dying. Dory insisted on nursing him himself.’

‘I see.’

Beede’s eyes suddenly filled with tears.

‘This can sometimes makes your eyes water,’ she said (although she’d no way of apprehending the effect she was having). ‘It’s these two fingers here…’

She lifted the two fingers in question for a second.

‘Were they close?’ he asked, blinking rapidly.

‘Yes. His father was a lovely man, but rather overbearing. An ideologue. Very stern.’

She relaxed the pressure in her fingers and gently ran her hands though his hair.

‘You have wonderful hair,’ she said. She leaned down and sniffed it, her plait falling across his shoulder again.

‘Isidore never speaks of him,’ Beede moved his head forward, swallowing. His mouth was dry.

‘Pardon?’

‘His father. He never mentions him.’

‘No.’

She straightened up again, firmly repositioning his head to the correct angle, and moving her index fingers to his temples, her thumbs to a position behind his ear. Again, more pressure.

‘Unclench your hands,’ she said.

He promptly unclenched them.

‘Good.’

‘That was very dutiful of him,’ Beede continued vaguely, his eyes scanning the room for any available distractions.

‘Pardon?’

‘To nurse his father like that.’

‘Ah.’

She released the pressure from his temples and then smoothed her fingertips around his jawline, down on to his throat, to the back of his neck and on to his shoulders. She rested them there for a moment, light as two chaffinches.

Beede suddenly shot out of the chair.

‘The
cat,
’ he exclaimed.

‘Cat?’ Elen echoed, confused.

‘Didn’t you hear him? In the bedroom? He’s probably anxious to get out.’

‘You have a cat?’

‘Yes.’

Beede strode through the kitchen to his bedroom. He pushed the door open.

‘Manny?’

He peered around him in the gloom. He couldn’t see the cat. Not at first. The curtains were still closed and the room seemed different, somehow. Cavernous. Fuzzy. Airless. He closed his eyes and shuddered. He drew a deep breath.

‘What kind of a cat?’ Elen asked.

Beede started. His eyes sprang open. She was standing directly behind him.

‘Oh
look,
a
Siamese
…’ she moved forward, smiling, before he could answer her. ‘He’s on the
bed,
all curled up.’

Manny lay in the middle of Beede’s counterpane.

‘Hello, boy…’

She bent forward and put out a hand to stroke him. ‘Is he friendly?’

The words had hardly left her mouth before the cat had uncoiled, with a hiss, and had lashed out at her, spitefully, with his claws unsheathed. She gasped and quickly withdrew her hand, instinctively placing it to her lips. The cat sprang from the bed and ran next door, the bell on his throat jangling.

‘Did he scratch you?’

Beede was horrified. Elen turned, removed her hand from her lips and offered it to him, like a child.

Beede resisted taking it for a moment, but she continued to hold it out, plaintively.

‘Here…’ his resolve quickly weakened, ‘let me see…’

He took her hand and inspected it, drawing it close to his face in the half-light, trying his best to be business-like. But the hand was so small and so soft…

‘He’s drawn
blut,
’ Beede murmured thickly, his chest tightening as he inhaled the roses on her, then he frowned. ‘Blood,’ he repeated.

She didn’t speak. He continued to inspect her hand, almost hypnotised by it now, following the line of the scratches with his finger like they were the path of a river on a map. She drew a step closer and
pressed the back of the injured hand against his cheek. He held the hand there, staring at her, in silence, for what seemed like an age.

‘I’m seeing Dory at ten,’ he murmured, finally, as if uttering the name alone might save them.

‘I have a client to see then,’ she said.

Neither of them moved.

‘What time is it now?’ he wondered.

‘I don’t know,’ she said.

He heard her voice speaking and then echoing, like a trickle of water falling into a deep pool.

‘Do you hear that?’ he asked, tipping his head slightly towards the sound.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I hear it.’

Then he let go of her hand – suddenly – almost like it was some kind of experiment to see if it would stay aloft. If it
could
stay. The hand remained suspended, quite effortlessly, against his skin.

He reached out and took a hold of her two plaits, running his fingers down them as if they were bell-pulls, then his grip changed and tightened. ‘Braid,’ he murmured softly, thinking of a horse’s tail, sensing the gloss and slide of horse-flesh ‘…
Bridle
…’

He rapidly twisted the plaits around his knuckles as if they were reins – and yanked them in towards him, cruelly, as if to pull her up short, to bring things to a halt, but this sharp movement had quite the opposite effect. It pulled her still closer. He felt the soft pressure of her body against him. He frowned, confused, his hands dropping to her shoulders. Her own hand flipped around now and her palm caressed his cheek, then slipped down lower, to his mouth where she followed the outline of his parted lips with her index finger. Her touch felt liquid. He felt subsumed in it. He could hardly breathe. He felt dizzy. He closed his eyes.

BOO!

A man leapt out at him; sharply etched, brightly lit, fully dimensional against the heavy black curtain of his eyelids; a lean man with a shaved head, a tattered, yellow coat, an inquisitive stare. Beede gazed back at him, quite amazed.

Who are you?
he heard a voice whisper. It was his voice. The man didn’t answer, but he smiled.

‘Oh
God,
’ Beede said. He knew that smile. He peered over his shoulder, panicked, hearing Elen suddenly calling –

‘Hello?
Hello?!
John? Is that
you
?’

– her voice a strange, somewhat
disquieting
combination of apprehension and longing.