Darkmans (72 page)

Beede peered down at the cat from his chair, with a shrug. Then he blinked. Then he looked down again, shocked, as if suddenly the floor seemed like it was many miles below him. He grimaced. He gave the distant cat carcass a tentative, little wave (almost as if suggesting that the cat might save
him
this time).

No movement from the cat. Beede grew increasingly alarmed by his high altitude. His knees began to knock. He gnawed on his fingernails. He personified anxiety. And then – in the wink of an eye – he’d back-flipped from the chair and on to the carpet, landing neatly and cleanly, like a seasoned gymnast –

Hah!

He slapped his hands together, smugly (to indicate a job well done) then turned and marched off jauntily towards the bedroom (obviously well-satisfied with the performance he’d given). Half-way to the door, though, the unexpected happened: his knees almost buckled under him –

Argh!

He threw out both arms (to prevent himself from falling) and ground to an abrupt halt. His face creased up in agony. He gazed down at his feet, despairingly. He groaned. He tried to walk again, but he couldn’t (his toes were in an awful rictus – curled up like claws – while the arch looked strangely pinched and contracted), the best he could muster was a pathetic hobble.

He glanced around him, looking for some kind of relief. His eye alighted on a mop and broom leaned up against the wall in the corner of the kitchen. He shuffled towards them, grabbed them, upended
them, placed the padded/bristled sections under each of his armpits and employed them as a pair of piece-meal crutches. Slowly, stiffly, wincing – quite the oldest man in the planet – he pitched and staggered his way into the bedroom.

Five minutes passed. During this interlude the cat didn’t move. When Beede finally re-emerged he was well-spruced and tidily dressed – his hair neatly greased, his shirt buttoned up (in the traditional style), wearing a well-pressed pair of trousers, clean socks and shoes. His shoulder seemed tense – a little stiff – but his gait (in general) seemed relatively normal. He was holding the mop in his hand –

Eh?!

– and wearing an expression of slight confusion.

As he entered the kitchen he drew to a sharp halt. He peered at the floor, at the wet tiles underfoot…

‘Good
God…What
…?’

He inspected the mop again, scowling –

Oh
 –

Of course…

He placed it down on to the tiles and began cleaning up. Once the mop was saturated he looked around – somewhat dazedly – for the special bucket in which to wring it out…

Where is it?

He glanced over into the living-room, perplexed. His jaw dropped.

‘Kids
…’ Kane drawled boredly, slowly pulling past a smart-looking saloon which’d recently been dumped at the entrance to the slip road
from the Bad Munstereifel segment of the A2042 (half-on the kerb, half-off it), the door thrown open into oncoming traffic.

‘…Idiot, fuckin’
joy
riders…’.

He drove on, accelerating boldly, casually negotiating one of the voluptuously looping, helter-skelter of curves leading down towards the roundabout while howling along, raucously, to an old Zappa cd –

Don’t go where the huskies go!

Don’t you eat that yellow snow!

He was still able, nevertheless (and quite miraculously, under the circumstances) to detect something strange (something anomalous, external,
extraneous
) beyond this marvellously impenetrable, aural wall –

A horn?

Kane scowled –

Eh?!

– instinctively covering the brake with his foot and reaching out, blindly, to turn down the music, when –

Fuck!

– he almost hit a man – one-handed. He wrenched at the steering wheel, gasping, to avoid the collision, then wrenched at the wheel again to avoid hitting an old Metro which’d just that second braked and swerved for precisely the same reason –

Bollocks!

He clipped the Metro’s back light as he flew past it, hearing a horn repeatedly sounding in time to the music –

My horn…?

(He inspected his hands)

Yup

– pulling over just as soon as was feasible –

Speeding…

Was I?

– hurling the Merc up on to a grassy verge –

Ouch!

Undercarriage didn’t like that much…

– as a third car shot by which had somehow succeeded in avoiding a collision –

Jammy swine!

– and so drove on, without stopping.

Kane glanced into his rearview mirror to check on the progress of the car he’d just clipped. It was currently stationary; stalled, at an angle. A woman sat the wheel. His eyes quickly shifted beyond her to confirm something which (instinctively, at gut-level) he already knew –

Isidore?

Is it…?

He sprang from the Merc and ran over to the Metro. Just as he was drawing near, though, the car’s engine turned, unexpectedly, and it shot forward (without warning – still in gear, presumably), almost ploughing straight into him –

Jesus!

He leapt out of harm’s way as the driver (with an audible squeal) steered herself, clumsily, back into the kerb.

Isidore, meanwhile – about 10 yards behind them – seemed supremely oblivious to the chaos he was generating. He hadn’t even looked up. He was inspecting the road, bending over, scowling,
scratching his head, clearly deeply preoccupied by something.

Kane winced, horrified, as a fourth car swung past, sounding its horn, only narrowly avoiding Dory, being obliged to swerve for a second time to avoid the Metro, and then –

Balls!

– for a
third
time to avoid him. Kane made eye contact with the driver and casually waved him on –

No problem, my friend
 –

It’s all under control…

The driver cussed him, furiously –

Charming!

Kane jogged over to the Metro, slapped his hand on to the roof, bent down and peered in, benignly, through the passenger window – ‘You all right in there?’

The car had stalled again. The blonde woman was twisting her keys in the ignition and pumping on the accelerator. She barely even glanced up.

‘I’m fine,’ she yelled. ‘The starter motor’s just dodgy. What about
him
…’

She indicated behind her, finally making proper eye contact. A
frisson
passed between them, then the engine abruptly sparked and roared into life.

‘There’s a short, dirt track,’ Kane pointed, ‘on the left – you should pull off…’

She stuck the car into reverse (squinting over her shoulder, spinning the steering wheel, slamming down on the accelerator) and then – zip – nix –
zilch.
It cut out.

‘Shit!’

A fifth car roared past them, its horn sounding.

Kane ran to the front of the car and immediately began pushing it.

‘Handbrake,’
he yelled.

She took off the handbrake and the car slowly lurched uphill. As soon as it was pointing in the proper direction he jumped aside and the
car commenced rolling, unaided, down the slope, although it couldn’t build up enough momentum to take the turn in one go, but simply ground to a halt about half-way along, its back-end still jutting out – perilously – on to the tarmac.

Kane quickly jogged down after it, shoving hard from the rear this time, heaving and pushing until it was fully contained within the short, dirt drive, its nose pressed up snugly against a neat, wooden gate. Just the other side of this gate stood a horse and a sheep, companionably observing the unfolding drama with expressions of cheerful resignation.

Kane was panting, exhausted. Two more vehicles roared by – a jeep; a white, Ford van – but neither sounded its horn.

He turned –

Eh?

– and gazed up along the road again. Isidore was gone. He’d vanished. He scratched his head, puzzled.

‘Where’d he go?’ the woman demanded, clambering from the old Metro and peering around her, spooked.

‘I don’t know…’

Kane suddenly remembered the estate car, abandoned, at the start of the slip road. He put two and two together, ‘Remember that Rover?’ he pointed. ‘Just after the turn-off with its door slung open?’

‘What a total, bloody
nutter,’
the girl exclaimed, and then,
‘WAH!’
she yelled, jumping violently up and down in a novel (and somewhat startling) attempt to unburden herself of the stress she felt.

Kane stared at her, impassively.

‘I met you at the cafe,’ he said (once she’d finally stopped bouncing), ‘a few days ago…’

‘Yeah,’ she nodded, her mass of blonde curls in a state of chronic disarray now.

‘Kane,’ he said, offering her his hand.

‘Maude,’ she said, taking it and squeezing it. Her palms were hot but her fingertips were icy.

‘So what d’you think he was looking for?’ Kane wondered, glancing up along the road again.

‘Who?’

‘On the tarmac. He was looking for something…’

‘I dunno,’ she shrugged, helplessly, ‘I mean I didn’t
see
anything…’

He frowned. ‘I clipped your back light, didn’t I?’

He went to take a proper look.

‘It’s my mother’s car,’ she said, grimacing, ‘I’m not actually insured to drive it.’

‘There’s not too much to worry about,’ he said, determined to put a brave face on it, ‘just a broken light and a tiny dent in the boot…’

‘How’s yours?’

She indicated, nervously, towards The Blonde.

‘I dunno. Probably just a scratch on the bumper. She’s tough – built like a tank.’

The girl nodded, biting her lip.

‘Sure you’re all right?’ Kane asked, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes.

‘He was crying…’ she murmured. ‘And did you notice that awful
bruise
…?’

‘Smoke?’

He offered her the packet. She shook her head, then lifted her hands and began savagely pinning back her stray curls.

‘D’you think he’ll be okay?’ she asked.

Kane propped a Marlboro into the corner of his mouth and then slowly began sauntering along the grass verge. The girl followed, still pinning.

‘Will I be liable for the damage to your car?’ she asked. ‘Nope…’ he found his lighter and lit the cigarette. ‘I hit you, so it’s my responsibility…’

‘It’s just that if we get the police involved, or the insurance…’

‘God forbid,’ he inhaled deeply. ‘That’s the last thing I need. Just get me a quote and I’ll happily cover it.’

‘Good. Great. Fantastic.’

She seemed considerably cheered by this.

He reached the approximate point on the tarmac where Dory had been standing and stared over at it, intently –

Nothing

‘Don’t step off the kerb,’ she warned him, grabbing on to his arm as he instinctively moved forward.

‘No,’ he said, glancing down at her hand.

She let go, embarrassed.

Kane removed the cigarette from between his lips and casually flicked its ash on to the tarmac. Maude quickly moved away and began inspecting the plastic collar on a small Holly bush nearby. ‘They plant these damn things in their
thousands,’
she grumbled, ‘but then there’s never any proper
after
-care…’

‘Jesus,’
Kane mused idly, ‘you sound just like my dad…’ He glanced at her, sideways, but she was already striding back, purposefully, towards her car. Kane gazed blankly at the road again. Two highly customised Volkswagens sped past (possibly en route to some kind of specialist car show). He shuddered.

After a minute or so Maude returned, pulling on a pair of black, hand-knitted gloves – with a neat line of pale, pink ribbons sewn on to the knuckles – and holding a treacherous-looking Stanley knife between her teeth. She caught Kane’s quizzical look. ‘My da ha breatht canther,’ she lisped. ‘I thell the ribbonth for tharity…’

She formed her hands into fists and held them out. ‘Wou you li one?’

As she spoke a small quantity of spit dribbled down on to her chin. ‘Uh…’

Before he could answer she was reaching into her pocket to locate him a ribbon. She pulled one out, but it didn’t have a pin attached.

‘Your dad died of
breast
cancer?’

He winced at the idea.

‘He din’t
die,’
she removed the knife, shocked (carefully dabbing at her chin with her sleeve). ‘He’s
fine.
He’s in remission…’ she stared up at him, candidly. ‘Men have breasts too, you know.’

‘Of course…’

Kane reached into his own pocket, scowling, as she continued to try to locate a spare pin.

‘No bloody pins,’ she muttered.

‘It doesn’t matter. Just hang it over the button or something…’

She did as he’d asked. ‘Don’t you go and lose it,’ she warned him. ‘I won’t.’

He found a pound coin and handed it to her. She inspected the coin. ‘This is Gibraltarian,’ she said, and passed it straight back again.

‘Oh.’

He inspected the coin himself while Maude calmly released the blade on her knife, moved over to the small Holly bush, and started hacking away at its plastic collar. The collar came off, quite readily.

‘Urgh,’
she muttered, indicating angrily towards a thick gash in the bark. ‘See the damage it was doing?’

She tossed the collar aside, enraged, and then moved on – automatically – to the next bush in line.

‘Are you allowed to do that?’ Kane enquired, almost without thinking –

Allowed?!

‘Allowed?’
Maude shot him a withering glance.

‘Is it legal?’ he persisted –

Legal?!

‘Legal?’
Another withering stare.

‘Sure…’ Kane stuck to his guns, ‘I mean aren’t those collars Council property or something?’

‘You planning to stage a Citizen’s Arrest?’ she snorted.

‘No.’

‘You seriously think the
Council
gives a shit?’ she sneered.
‘Ashford
Council?
Jeez.
Just look around you. When I was a kid this place was a beautiful, rural backwater, and now it’s like fucking
Lego-land
…’ She shook her head, disgusted, hurling the second collar to the ground.