Darkmans (78 page)

‘Why?’
Kane was outraged.

‘For no other reason than that I’ve asked you to,’ Beede said. ‘Because I care about you. And because I care about Dory.’

Kane was quiet for a while, and then, ‘What if I can’t?’ he said. ‘I know you can,’ Beede countered. ‘You can do anything you set your mind to. You’re young. You’re strong.’

‘Then what if I just don’t
want
to?’

Beede closed his eyes. ‘She’s inhabiting you,’ he muttered, ‘she’s
invading
you. It’s all very subtle, very artful. You may not even fully realise – you may think it’s all happening on
your
initiative – but trust me, it isn’t. This is her talent, Kane, it’s what she
does…’

‘Inhabiting
me?’ Kane scoffed.

‘Yes.’

‘Did she inhabit
you?’
he asked, suddenly jealous.

‘Yes…’ Beede shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps…’

‘But isn’t that just
love?’
Kane demanded. ‘Aren’t you just in love with her?’

‘No.
No…’
Beede seemed horrified. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘But isn’t that what love’s all
about
?’ Kane persisted. ‘Isn’t it always an invasion of sorts? Isn’t that why people like to say that their hearts have been conquered or…or taken prisoner, or overwhelmed?’

‘No.’ Beede shook his head. ‘This is different. This isn’t love. It’s just a strange kind of…of
congruity.
She looks for a weakness…’

Kane flinched. Beede couldn’t help but notice. ‘That was a poor choice of word…’ he paused for a second, flustered. ‘Let me put it
this
way: in your particular case, for example, she knows that you have an amazing capacity to care, this deep reservoir…’

‘Do
I?’ Kane butted in, surprised.

‘Yes.
Yes.
Because of your mother. She senses this feeling of
hurt
within you, this…this vulnerability…’

‘No,’ Kane shook his head, ‘you’re wrong. I
didn’t
have an infinite capacity. Quite the opposite, in fact. I actually had a very
limited
capacity…’

‘Okay,’ Beede shrugged. ‘Then perhaps – at some level – she’s
feeding
on that knowledge, on the guilt you may well feel as a consequence of it…’

Kane stared at his father, suspiciously. ‘You can’t have it all ways,’ he said, and then, a few seconds later, ‘You seem
different,’
he murmured cruelly,
‘smaller,
less…less…’ he wanted to say
square,
but suddenly, for some inexplicable reason, he was struggling to separate his words from each other, ‘less-es-
esquare
,’ he finally stuttered, and then,
‘es-es-esquire
…’ he tried to correct himself.

Beede stared back at him, frowning.

‘I
feel
smaller,’ he said, ‘I don’t really know why…’ he gazed down at his knuckles. ‘It’s like everything suddenly closed in on me – caved in on me. I started thinking about the past,’ he sighed, his face full of regret, ‘and then, pretty soon, it was
all
I could think of…’

Kane said nothing.

Beede smiled, tiredly. ‘There must be something you could prescribe me for that,’ he joked. ‘A pill of some kind?’

Kane scowled.

‘Here…’ Beede threw down the diary, ‘put this back where you found it.’

Then he turned, without another word, and headed off towards the house.

Kane glanced down at the seat and noticed the envelope.

‘You forgot this…’ he murmured, picking it up, but Beede was already dodging his way through the scaffolding, grappling with the side-gate and disappearing from sight.

Dory was sitting, cross-legged, on the carpet, staring into the bulb of an old-fashioned standard lamp.

‘Isn’t this just
wonderful?’
he murmured. ‘The way it goes on and then off, on and then off?’

He reached out his finger and touched the bright bulb with it.

‘Ow!’

The bulb was burning hot.

‘How are you feeling?’ Beede wondered (speaking quietly, softly, keen not to alarm him).

‘Good,’ Dory said, smiling, still gazing into the lamp, ‘better than ever, in fact.’

‘I’m sorry about the scaffolding,’ Beede said, ‘I came in through the back…’

Dory didn’t seem to hear him.

‘I noticed that you have a dog,’ Beede said, indicating over his shoulder, ‘a dog in a box.’

‘Pardon?’

Dory frowned.

‘A little
dog.
A little spaniel. Sitting inside a box – a large, cardboard box – in the kitchen.’

‘Oh. Yes.’ Dory nodded, indifferent. ‘Michelle.’

‘She was crying.’

No response

‘She seems a little…uh…
distressed.
’

‘Who?’

Dory glanced up. He almost did a double-take. ‘Beede!’ he sprang to his feet, bounded forward and grasped him, warmly, by the hand.

Beede frowned, confused. ‘Who did you think I was?’

Dory shook his hand, vigorously.

‘I don’t know,’ he grinned, shrugging, ‘just a voice, a small voice in my head.’

‘You’re hearing voices, now?’ Beede asked, concerned.

‘Good
God,
no!’ Dory guffawed. ‘I just thought
you
were a voice…’ he paused,
‘the
voice…’ he paused again, ‘a voice…’

‘Oh.’

Beede frowned.

Dory dropped Beede’s hand and turned to face the table, then he took a small step back and tensed himself.

‘What are you doing?’ Beede asked.

‘I’m going to jump it,’ Dory said.

‘Jump the table?’

‘Yes!’ Dory grinned.

‘But I don’t think there’s quite enough
room,
Dory,’ Beede cautioned him.

‘Really?’

‘No. It’s just a little…a little cramped in here for all that.’

‘Oh.’ Dory relaxed again.

They both stared, in silence, at the matchstick cathedral.

‘La Berbie,’ Dory muttered dreamily.

‘I’m sorry about the scaffolding,’ Beede repeated, glancing nervously towards the window.

‘Are you?’ Dory smiled.

‘Yes.’

Beede pointed to the lamp. ‘Maybe you should turn that off?’ he suggested.

‘What?’

‘The lamp.’

‘The lamp?’

‘Yes. It looks rather hot.’

Dory peered over at the lamp. It was precariously balanced on a couple of cushions.

‘That damn
boy,’
he muttered furiously, striding over towards it, ‘I keep
telling
him not to move it, but he simply won’t
listen…’

‘Fleet?’ Beede asked.

‘He throws shadows with it.’

Dory knelt down in front of the lamp, as if intending to lift it from the cushions and turn it off, but instead he twisted his hands together and threw a shadow of his own.

‘Look who’s here!’ he chuckled, peering at Beede, mischievously, over his shoulder.

Beede took a couple of steps forward to try and see what Dory was doing. He blinked.

He saw a bird. A small, black bird, shivering miserably against the skirting-board.

‘Aw!’
Dory murmured softly, cocking his head, poignantly. ‘But he doesn’t look
well,
does he?’

The bird opened its beak to squawk, but nothing came out.

‘We can’t
hear
you, my little friend!’ Dory cooed.

Beede turned away, disturbed.

‘So is that
your
dog, Dory?’ he asked, keen to distract the German.

‘Is it new? I haven’t seen it here before.’

‘The dog?’

Dory scowled. He dropped his hands. Then something seemed to click back into place inside his head.

‘God,
yes
…the dog.’ He sprang up. ‘I have to return the dog.’

He barged past Beede and darted down the hallway. ‘I’d forgotten all about that. I’m in a ridiculous hurry. I really
must…
’

Beede followed him into the kitchen.

‘I was packing everything together,’ Dory said, scratching his head.

He peered into the box. ‘I’ve got her cart, her litter tray, her lead, her water bowl…’ he scowled. ‘What else?’

His eye alighted on her food bowl.

‘Her food bowl…’ he went over to grab it. ‘Would you mind having a quick look in the fridge, Beede? See if there’s a can of dog meat in there?’

Beede walked over to the fridge and opened the door. Inside he saw a half-eaten tray of dog meat, neatly sealed inside a plastic bag. He removed it. He closed the fridge. He paused. Still inside the tray was a spoon, an old teaspoon. He peered at it, closely –

Hospital Issue

He blinked.

‘Okay,’ Dory was saying, ‘that’s it. I think we have just about everything…’

He began hunting around for his car keys.

‘I need my keys…’ he murmured.

‘You’re going to drive?’ Beede asked, horrified.

‘Yes.’

Dory reached into his back pocket and pulled out a piece of paper.

He unfolded it. It was a Missing Dog poster.

‘This is the address,’ he said, pointing.

‘Perhaps I might come with you?’ Beede asked, passing over the tray of food.

‘Really?’

Dory placed the food into the box.

‘Yes. Just for the ride.’

‘Are you
sure
?’ Dory looked confused. ‘I mean it won’t be terribly…’

‘Yes. You just seem a little…uh…a little
tired.
I thought you might appreciate the company.’

Dory frowned as he straightened up.

‘Your keys are on the table…’ Beede pointed.

Dory turned, spotted his keys and grabbed them. He peered around him.

‘Did you turn off that lamp?’ Beede asked. ‘The lamp in the dining-room?’

‘No.’

Dory threw him the keys, but Beede was unable to catch them. His responses were way too slow. He bent down to retrieve them, wincing, as Dory sprinted off to the dining-room. When he arrived there he saw that the lamp had actually fallen, that it was lying, bulb-down, on the carpet. His nostrils twitched at the slight aroma of singeing fibre.

He quickly crouched down next to it. But instead of picking it up, he manipulated his hands in front of the small remaining segment of emerging light and threw a quick shadow with them.

Flames. Tiny flames, flickering against the wall. Next he threw the injured bird, cowering, terrified. Then back to the flames again.

He chuckled.

‘Dory?’

He heard Beede’s voice, calling from the kitchen, ‘Are you all right in there?’

Dory coughed, waving his hand in front of him to try and dissipate the encroaching cloud of dense, foul-smelling smoke.

‘Fine,’ he said.
‘Great.
Just coming.’

Kane snatched a magazine from the top of an unsteady pile in the surgery’s cramped – and rather unprepossessing – reception area, then quickly took his seat. He rested the magazine on his lap, pulled out his phone, turned it on, saw that he had over sixty messages, shuddered, turned it off again, and then shoved it back, hastily, into his pocket.

He wondered if he’d be allowed to smoke. He looked around for a sign –

Nothing

– then he looked around for an ashtray, and his eye alighted on a sign –

No Smoking

He scowled and peered down at the magazine. It was a copy of
The Wound –

Eh?!

– a specialist, nursing publication. He opened it up, randomly –

JEEESUS!

– and then promptly slapped it shut. He felt ridiculously jittery –

Why?

He closed his eyes for a second –

Guilt?

‘Would I even be here,’ he wondered, ‘if he hadn’t expressly asked me
not
to?’

Answer
 –

(In words of only one syllable…?)

Uh…

Hell, yeah.

‘Beede?’

Kane almost jumped out of his skin –

‘Kane?
Kane Beede?’

His eyes flew open.

The receptionist was pointing, encouragingly, towards the angular, open-plan stairwell. ‘First floor,’ she informed him (with a brisk smile), ‘second door on your left.’

Kane threw down
The Wound
and bounded upstairs (moving as quickly as he possibly could without breaking into a sprint). On reaching the designated door he clenched his hand into a fist and prepared to knock, but then paused for a second, his eye settling on a neatly typed card (slotted inside a small, metal frame which was screwed into the wood).

He drew closer:

ELEN GRASS

Chiropodist

he read –

Grass?

He unclenched his fist and lightly touched the card. As he applied a slight pressure to it, the card shifted. He pushed his finger to the right and the card shifted still further. Soon it was out of the frame altogether and resting in his palm. He smiled, closed his hand around it, and slipped it, softly, into his coat pocket. He drew a deep breath, then he knocked.

‘Come in.’

Kane entered the room with as much confidence as he could muster but was then immediately confounded by the ludicrous
size
of it. It was minuscule – a large cupboard, at best – barely 6 foot in width. Much of the space was taken up by a large, red, leather chair (centrally positioned), a grey, metal bookshelf-cum-desk-cum-supplies
cabinet (pushed up against the left-hand-side wall), a couple of open cardboard boxes (partly hidden behind the chair) and a small sink (in the back, right-hand corner) which was barely even broad enough to support a medicated soap dispenser and a thick wad of paper towels (which had been propped up, lop-sidedly, behind the tap).

Elen had her back to him. There was a tiny window (behind the chair) and she was standing, facing it, speaking on the phone – ‘Fine,’ she said, abruptly, ‘then put him through…’

She gestured an impatient welcome over her shoulder (without turning) and indicated for Kane to take a seat. Her hair was loose, he noticed, hanging in a dark, shiny sheet down her back. She was wearing a thigh-length white overall (her black trousers and boots poking out underneath) with a disposable, plastic apron tied over the top.

Kane gently closed the door behind him and then did as she’d requested. He sat (it was his only real option – there was insufficient room to do anything else).

‘You’d better take off your coat,’ she murmured, covering the phone’s mouthpiece with her fingers, ‘and hang it up behind the door, there. I won’t be a minute…’ she paused, then cleared her throat, nervously. ‘Sorry about this…’ she added, ‘I wasn’t actually…
Hello?
Charles? Yes, hello,
yes,
it’s Elen…’

She sounded slightly breathless, Kane noticed; agitated – excited. He stood up, removed his crombie and debated where to hang it. There were two pegs behind the door; Elen’s soft, black jacket was hung on one of them; the other supported a worryingly familiar-looking Sainsbury’s bag –

Urgh.

Hawk

Kane opted to place his coat over the top of Elen’s. The mere act of eclipsing her pliant, soft, black garment with his own (much heavier, much stronger) afforded him a secret thrill. He stood facing the door for a moment, delicately tweaking the grey fabric (to ensure that her jacket was entirely obliterated), then caught himself in the act –

God –

Just sit down,

You pervert

He turned, a little sheepish, and retook his seat.

‘No…
no,
not at
all,’
Elen chatted away quietly, her voice barely even audible above the gentle creak of the building’s antiquated heating system, ‘in fact I really wanted to say…’

She paused again ‘…Exactly…Yes. Me too.’

She fiddled with the tie on her plastic apron. ‘I’d love to, but I’m actually with a
client
right now…’

Client?

Kane was traumatised.

‘…if you could possibly just…’

A client?

Is that…?

‘…yes…just hold on for a…’

‘Kane?’

Kane lifted his head, sharply. ‘What?’

‘Remove your boot and your sock and I’ll be with you in a moment.’

Oh.

Kane stared down at his foot, blankly.

‘Hello? Charles…?’

But I wasn’t…

He frowned.

‘Yes…’ Elen’s voice was – if possible – even lower now. ‘Well, podiatry is actually the American…’

Small chuckle

‘Yes.’

Pause.

‘No.
No
…’

Slightly more serious.

‘…although I’m sorry to have to say that your blanket didn’t quite survive yesterday’s adventure…’

Pause.

‘That’s extremely kind of you. I hope the mess wasn’t…?’

Elen bit her lip.

‘Well that’s something, at least…’

She peered down at her feet, modestly.

‘Thank
you!’

Shy laugh.

As Kane listened to Elen’s conversation –

Who the hell is she talking to?

– he gradually became aware of a kind of dislocated drone –

Blanket?

He glanced up, somewhat listlessly –

Adventure?

– and saw a fly – a common house-fly –

Mess?

What kind of mess, exactly?

– rotating, senselessly, beneath the screw-in light fitment –

Is she actually flirting with this guy?

As Kane trailed the fly’s progress with his eye –

One circle, two circles, three circles…

Drop!

One circle, two circles…

– his sullen reverie was suddenly interrupted by an unexpectedly intimate physical sensation –

Eh?!

His head jerked around –

Wah?

It was Elen – Elen’s hand –

Her graceful hand

– gently adjusting the collar on his shirt. Kane closed his eyes for a second. He almost stopped breathing. Once the adjustment had been made, her hand –

Her lovely hand

– rested softly on his shoulder.

‘No.
No.
I insist on replacing it…’ Elen chatted away, amiably.

Pause.

Rather more determinedly, ‘No, Charles, I really
must
…’

Long, slightly awkward silence.

Kane opened his eyes and glanced up at the light-fitment (almost insanely attuned to the weight of her fingers). He watched the fly, passively, feeling himself vibrating, internally, as if his intestines were being powered by a small battery –

‘I now see, through practice, that in many ways I am the fly, that we have an identical energy…’

He blinked.

‘Yes…’ Elen murmured, ‘I did, too.’

Pause.

One circle, two circles…

‘Not at all. It was…I was…I was just incredibly
flattered.
’

Flattered?!

Kane stiffened –

How?

Why?

As if responding to Kane’s unease, Elen applied a comforting pressure to his shoulder, then lifted her hand and casually tucked a long, stray, blond wisp of his fringe behind his ear. Kane felt his ear heat up. He felt it glow.

‘Your boot…’

She was leaning towards him again, whispering. Kane blinked. He could feel her breath on his cheek. He automatically moved forward –

Stay, you fool!

– and began to remove it.

‘No, sorry, that was…’

Great amusement ‘…
Exactly!
’

Elen turned towards the window again. An extremely long silence followed, and then, ‘What an amazingly generous offer!’ Pause.

‘I honestly…’

Delighted laugh ‘…I really don’t know what to say.’

Pause.

‘No.
No.
Don’t be silly. Not at all.’

Pause.

‘I’m sure Fleet would just…’

Pause.

‘He’d absolutely
love
it.’

Kane brusquely tucked his sock inside his boot, then inspected his bare foot. He felt uneasy at the sight of it –

Bare/Raw/Nude

– but wasn’t entirely sure why he should feel this way. It wasn’t a
terrible
foot, all things considered (he appraised it, dispassionately), although it didn’t look quite…there was something…
uh
…

His mind turned, briefly, to his mother’s feet – her magnificently messed-up dancer’s feet, her scarred and brutalised dancer’s toes – and then to his earliest memories of Elen –

ELEN GRASS

Chiropodist

– down on her knees, tending to them.

A powerful, erotic charge coursed through him –

Oh God
 –

Not…

He glanced into his lap, chewing on his lower lip, his eyebrows rising. He tucked his hands between his legs and tried to think of something else –

Anything

He gazed up at the fly again –

One circle, two circles, three…

– then he smiled, pensively (as if struck by a divine insight) –

Play

It’s just playing
 –

Surely?

‘The human mind,’ an officious voice promptly informed him, ‘can only disengage itself from the magic circle of play by turning towards the ultimate.’

Huh?

‘I read the first few chapters late last night,’ Elen murmured, ‘and it was so sad – so beautifully written – I could hardly bear to put it down…’

Kane turned – still eager for distraction – towards Elen’s small, grey, metal desk. He carefully appraised it. The surface-area was chaotic. There were piles of papers – order forms, patient files, receipts – three pairs of scissors, two boxes of disposable gloves, a tray of sharp-looking silver implements –

Yik

– a large, open, plastic, screw-top jar of sterilising fluid, a book –

?

– its cover partly concealed by a terrifying black and white photograph of a young boy who had fallen prey to a severe case of ‘Hammer’ toe.

‘Absolutely…’ Elen was still smiling as she spoke. A very long pause followed, hemmed in by another soft laugh.

Kane squinted at the book’s spine:
The Lily of Darfur,
he read, then –

Urgh

But of course…

– he almost snorted, out loud.

‘Okay. Sure. I definitely will. And thank you.’

Pause.

‘No. I really
mean
that. I wouldn’t just…’

Pause.

‘I know. ‘

Pause.

‘I know. Thank you.’

Kane leaned back in the chair again. He slowly shook his head. He flexed his foot. Behind him he heard the splash of running water –

Tap?

He half-turned, surprised that the phone conversation had come to
an end. Elen was drying her hands, fastidiously, on a paper towel.

‘Right,’ she said, tossing the towel into a flip-top bin which was neatly stationed beneath the sink, ‘let’s have a proper look at this foot of yours, shall we?’

Kane leaned forward, anxiously. ‘I didn’t actually…’ he started off. Then he stopped, appalled.

Elen was pulling up a tiny stool and perching on it, grabbing a hold of his foot and lifting it, confidently, on to her lap. Her hair was casually tied back now, away from her face, revealing the early stages of a black eye (a bloodshot white, a puffed-up eye-lid), and a nostril (on that same side) which was also inflamed, bruised and daubed (deep inside) with tiny remnants of dried blood.

‘Ah-
ha
…’ she chuckled, immediately honing in on the problem area. ‘Well here’s the culprit…’

She glanced up. ‘It’s tucked in underneath the arch, which is fairly unusual for a wart – you generally find them forming on the pressure points…’

She carefully inspected the rest of the foot. ‘No secondary growths,’ she murmured, ‘which is great…’

As she spoke she pulled on each of his toes (keenly inspecting the gaps in between them). He tensed up. He remembered his mother playing a similar game with him as a boy –

This little piggy went to market

This little piggy stayed at home

This little piggy had –

‘Warts are such fascinating things,’ she was saying. ‘And really quite mysterious. Their aetiology can often be extremely baffling. Some vascular growths are caused by trauma, others are simply viral – although even then they’re pretty amazing: their incubation periods can extend anywhere up to twenty months – that’s the best part of two
years…’

She reached out and grabbed a tiny scalpel from a tray on her desk, then readjusted Kane’s heel on her lap –

Don’t think about her lap

– drew in close –

Don’t think about her mouth

– and scratched away at Kane’s foot with it. He felt nothing, right up until the point when he felt something –

Ouch!

His knee stiffened.