Darkmans (8 page)

Beede was staring down over the embankment to his left and frowning. He seemed deeply preoccupied. A large field lay ahead of them – a semi-circular meadow, full of bleached grass, young trees (huddled inside their protective, plastic sheaths) and a muddle of bushes. They were almost at the point where the road they were taking divided into three separate parts: one section charging boldly onwards, the other two curving sharply off and around to form the different sides (the valves, the ventricles) of a divided heart (or – in the pursuit of absolute anatomical accuracy – the two segregated cheeks of a pair of buttocks). Snuggled into the hinterland of that voluptuous curving were two good-sized plots. The one on
their particular side currently contained a thin sprinkling of mixed livestock.

But Beede wasn’t interested in the meadow (nor even in the animals). He was staring past it, towards the Brenzett roundabout which lay a short distance beyond.

Isidore silently followed the line of Beede’s gaze.

‘Oh
shit,
’ he whispered.

It was his car – definitely his car. It was parked in the middle of the roundabout with the driver’s door left wide open (a total hazard to all other traffic). A police car was pulling up behind it (no siren, but with its blue light rotating). Dory blinked (he didn’t generally respond well to anything that flashed).

‘Superb timing,’ Beede said dryly. ‘But don’t worry…’ (he was extraordinarily composed)…‘tell them the car was stolen while you were on the job, that you’ve just been phoned and informed that it’s been dumped here. You can imply that the kids in question might’ve released the horse,’ he glanced up at the filly, ‘as part of the prank.’

Dory’s eyes made sudden contact with Beede’s – for a split second, perhaps even less.

‘Quick thinking,’ he murmured (instantly breaking his gaze), his clipped voice tinged with something corrosive –

Fastidiousness?

Suspicion?

Disgust?

‘Naval training,’ Beede demurred, with a casual shrug.

Dory half-smiled then jogged on, across the fly-over and a few yards beyond. Here he turned sharply, preparing to swing himself, lithely, over the crash barrier (this was a short cut), but before he did, he paused, glanced back towards Beede and shouted, ‘You won’t
tell
her, will you?’

Beede didn’t respond at first.

‘
Elen
,’ Dory yelled. ‘You won’t
tell?
’

Beede shook his head, automatically. ‘Of course not,’ he shouted back.

‘
Hurry.
’ He waved him on.

Dory sprang over the barrier, scissored his way between the saplings and then hurdled a second (wood and wire) fence, before clambering
and lurching down the field’s muddy embankment. At approximately the half-way point, his trousers started slipping; the fabric locked just above his knees, and he tumbled. It was a dramatic fall – a jester’s fall – with all the additional frills and embellishments.

Beede closed his eyes (in an effort to repress a sharp bark of laughter –

Where did that urge come from?
)

– then he turned his face away, waited patiently for a slight lull in the traffic, and moved implacably onward.

An entry-phone engineer was taking what Kane could only (in all detachment and impartiality) call ‘an obscene amount of interest’ in Kelly’s thigh area. She was collapsed on Kane’s front step, both her legs stretched out stiffly in front of her, drinking from a flask of coffee and eating a Mars Bar (pulling back her lips as she bit down on it, almost in horror – like a donkey taking a Polo Mint from a suspicious-seeming stranger). He was crouched over her and gently massaging her upper knee as Kane drew closer.

Kane was not happy. His rage had two, distinct constituents. The first: simply that she was
there
(he was tired. He had dumped her. She was a pest). The second, that she was flirting. And this other man (his
rival;
a young man, looked Italian) had his filthy hands pretty much everywhere.

Kelly didn’t notice Kane until he was almost upon them. When she did, she let out a small squawk and dropped the chocolate bar on to her lap (as though Kane was the caustic battle-axe in charge of her slimming club). The Italian glanced up (blankly, momentarily) then returned his full attention to her thigh (it was an appealing thigh. Even Kane knew that).

‘How cosy…’ Kane murmured, affably (brandishing his finely wrought shield of charm before him).

‘Oh
Fuck.
’ Kelly seemed mortified, almost frightened. ‘This ain’t…it’s just…I fell off the
wall
and I…’

Kane was so unimpressed by the calibre of her excuse that he didn’t even bother to let her finish it. ‘Fell off the wall? How
awful
for you.’ He smiled, falsely.

She grimaced. ‘I was waitin’ on Beede. I had a special package for him. The gate was locked…’

Kane seemed quite riveted by this story. ‘The gate was locked, you say?
That
gate?’ He pointed behind him, towards the open gate. ‘How strange…And you were waiting for Beede?
The
Beede?
Daniel
Beede?’ ‘It fuckin’
was,
’ she almost squealed, ‘I
swear
…’

‘Hmmn. A
special
package…’ Kane mused.

Kelly looked down, then around her, in a sudden panic. ‘Oh
shit.
Where
is
the fuckin’ thing?’

Kane rolled his eyes. Kelly didn’t even notice. She was still looking around for the brown envelope, visibly alarmed by its absence. ‘I had a package. Some black girl gave it me. Cross my heart…’

Kane reached out his foot and gently poked the crouching Italian with it. ‘Excuse me,’ he said sweetly. ‘May I interrupt you for a moment…?’

The Italian turned, sharply (still crouching) and raised the flat of his hand. ‘
No,
’ he said (in his threadbare English), ‘get loss.’

He wasn’t Italian. He had a heavy accent (mid-European, maybe an Arab, maybe Romanian). He was crazy-looking, like a sallow Frankie Dettori on some kind of growth hormone. Kane carefully reconsidered booting him for a second time. He was smallish, and thin, but the veins stood out on his fists like worm-casts.

Kelly struggled to get up.

‘Oh
bollocks,
’ she was muttering, ‘I lost Beede’s package. I’m in so much fuckin’
shit…
’

‘What the hell are you doing?!’
the Romanian bellowed (and in his indigenous tongue, so it was just a stream of crazy babble to the both of them), then, ‘
You,
’ he continued, more haltingly (giving Kelly a firm glare), ‘jus’
stay
! Okay?’

Kelly fell down again, shocked.

‘
Wow.
’ Kane took a small step back, as if the Romanian was a complex work of modernist art, best appreciated at a distance of several paces. ‘This guy’s a real
gem
, Kell. How on earth’d you hook up with him?’

‘I already
told
you,’ Kelly snapped, ‘I was waitin’ on
Beede…
’

‘
Enough.
’ Kane raised his hand in a gesture of weary compliance. ‘I give in. Do what you like. I’m knackered. My head’s totally mashed. Just shift out of my way, will you?’

He touched his fingers to his pounding temples.

The Romanian did not move. Kane tapped him on the shoulder. ‘I said just
shift…
’

The Romanian sprang around.
‘What are you?’
he demanded.
‘Some kind of imbecile?’
Then, ‘
You! Go
!’ he insisted, flapping Kane away as if he were some kind of vile bluebottle.

‘Go
where?
’ Kane tapped his index finger against his own chest. ‘This is where I
live
, you moron. This is my
home.
’

Kelly attempted to struggle up again.

The Romanian turned –
‘Idiot girl!’
– and firmly pushed her back down.

‘
Ow
!’ she expostulated, plaintively, as her bony arse made contact with the stone step.

At the sight of the Romanian manhandling Kelly, Kane completely lost it. He grabbed him by the shoulders – as if to spin him around again – but the Romanian was already moving smoothly of his own volition, and as he turned, his right fist turned with him. He punched Kane in the chest with it, then followed through with a hard left to his gut. They were powerful punches.

Kane doubled over with an embarrassing squeak. He saw the Romanian starting to lift his knee, then hesitating, as if re-considering delivering him a swift kick to the groin area (although it was still very obvious – even to him – that if the Romanian had seriously wanted to finish him off, he probably already would’ve. Those were amazing punches for a man of his stature – he was 5' 5" at a push).

Kane remained down for a few seconds (catching his breath, consolidating, thinking this all over), before his watering eyes finally settled on the steaming coffee Thermos (Ye Gods! A
gift
!), and, quick as a flash, he’d grabbed it, straightened up, and thrown the contents into the Romanian’s face.

The Romanian screamed. Kelly screamed (she was splattered, and the Romanian staggered sideways, accidentally knocking into her). Kane dropped the Thermos and heard the glass break inside of it (he took an active – almost adolescent – pleasure in the sound of its fracturing).

The Thermos had been open for some minutes and the coffee wasn’t exactly boiling, but it was hot enough. The Romanian was scalded, yet seemed far more concerned by the damage to his clothing. He was hopping mad.

‘This is my work shirt!’
he yelled, pulling the still-steaming fabric away from his hairy chest, gesticulating wildly.
‘You have ruined me!’

Kane suddenly started laughing. It was a hoarse laugh (he was winded). He pointed, weakly, at the ruined shirt (it was hardly the most glamorous-looking garment he’d ever laid eyes upon). The
Romanian, meanwhile, had noticed his damaged Thermos. He snatched it up from the paving, almost howling.

‘My
Thermos
!’ he wailed (his pronunciation of the brand-name was – even to Kane’s ears – rather endearing).
‘What have you done?’

At this point a second man arrived; another entry-phone engineer, potentially the Romanian’s senior. He had Kelly’s two lurchers with him.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked the Romanian. The Romanian didn’t answer. Instead he took the Thermos – his knuckles white with fury – and threw it, violently, against the nearest windowpane. The window – it was a large, double-glazed one – chipped but did not shatter.

Even so, the second entry-phone man was visibly alarmed by this display. ‘Gaffar,’ he gasped, ‘are you off your fuckin’
head
?!’

Gaffar stood his ground, his arms at his sides, breathing heavily (like the Invisible Hulk, transforming), his fists clenching and unclenching (‘the glass hasn’t shattered,
dammit
’ – his eyes were screaming – ‘so now I might be obliged to
hospitalise
somebody’). ‘That’s not even my window,’ Kane said, still chuckling, still limply pointing, like everything was a joke to him.

The second engineer glanced down at Kelly. ‘You all right there, love?’

Kelly nodded. Her eyes were closed now. She was resting her head against the door. Her face was very pale. One of the lurchers nuzzled her open hand. At its tender ministrations she emitted a gentle groan.

In the midst of all his hilarity, it finally dawned on Kane that she might not actually be bullshitting him about the fall.
Had
she fallen? He peered down at her, properly. He blinked (it was almost as though he hadn’t seen her there before –

Kelly?
).

His mirth evaporated. A shattered piece of shin-bone was poking out – like a discarded lolly stick – through the tight, smooth flesh just underneath her knee. The lower half of her leg was purpling and swollen to almost twice its normal proportions. Her trainer was off (lying on the ground nearby, next to her slightly mangled-looking Nokia). If her foot was a balloon, then it’d been pumped too full of air (looked like some kind of zeppelin sent up to advertise a discount
shoe-store; or one of those themed lilos which kids loved to bob around upon, in the hotel pool, on holiday).

It was
gruesome.
As a boy Kane suddenly remembered shoving a piece of driftwood into the heart of a beached-up, blue-white jelly-fish (to see if it was alive, to see how it would react). That was her leg – what it reminded him of –

Christ –

What a cruel child I was

He glanced over at the Romanian. The Romanian was standing exactly as before (arms down, fists clenched, breathing,
breathing
). His cheeks were wet – were shiny – with remnants of the coffee. In the distance Kane picked out the insistent bray of an ambulance –

Hee-haw!

Hee-haw!

Oh
shit.

If the Romanian had punched him again – right there, right then: square in the face – he would’ve considered it an act of the most extreme beneficence.

His full name was Gaffar Celik and he wasn’t Romanian. He was a Kurd. He had just turned twenty-four. He was born in a poor town called Silopi, in Turkey, on the Iraqi border. His father had died – when Gaffar was only three – working as a Village Guard in a private army under the control of a Kurdish feudal lord. His mother had then taken them eastward (Gaffar, and his younger brother), first to Marlin (to stay with her widowed father), then on (when he passed) to be with her sister, in the beautiful mountainous village of Hasankeyf.

Hasankeyf was a kind of tabernacle to Kurdish culture (40 miles
from Batman, straddling the Tigris River), and the sister was married to a man whose paternal line had found gainful employment for over twelve generations guiding tourists around the ancient sights there (the legendary caves, the remains of the old bridge, the magnificent obelisk, the beautiful, stone archway).

But few people visited them any more. The Turkish government had plans to flood the town as part of the Llisu Dam project, and so, gradually, one by one, the tour operators had wiped them from the cultural map (the south east had always been a difficult area). The decision – they insisted – was in no way political (to systematically flood all significant Kurdish landmarks? But what, they asked gently, was remotely contentious in that?).

Sometimes Gaffar felt like they were already submerged (there just wasn’t actually any water, yet), that they had been abandoned, betrayed, cut off. But he was not bitter (had no
time
for bitterness). He merely felt a dreamy nostalgia (for a non-existent future), coupled with a tender, almost poignant, regret.

Occasionally – and with scant warning – things could turn nasty. Battalions of Turkish soldiers would suddenly descend upon them,
en masse
, and burn down people’s homes (frighten them, move them on, accuse them of insurrection, of supporting the PKK and the Kurdish Revolution). Gaffar’s family were just one among many (the working estimation stood at 70,000) to be methodically oppressed (and displaced) in this way. Eventually it all got too much and they fled north, to Diyarbakir: Town of the Black Walls, where – for a short while, at least – they felt a little more secure.

Gaffar’s mother was a devout woman (especially since his father’s passing. You might almost think – Gaffar sometimes thought – that she was ‘making up’ for something). She was a follower of the Alexi Sect (Alexi was Mohammed’s brother-in-law; they were Shi’i, and persecuted – for radicalism – by the Sunni majority). Gaffar gave every appearance of conforming to this belief system. He had an actual, a
palpable
genius for pretending. Pretence was an essential part of his inheritance, of his
pathology.
He was proud of his duplicity (he didn’t have much, but at least he had this; he
owned
it. It was
his
).

There was a secret, you see, about his father – something shameful and unspeakable – which, even when he was alive, they only talked about in whispers. And now that he was gone, it was either never mentioned or hotly denied. But it was still true, nonetheless.

His father had been a
Dawasin
, one of the Yezidis; the oldest and most singular of all the Kurdish tribes; a reclusive, secretive, clannish people who worshiped Malik Taus, the Peacock Angel. They believed that they were the last remaining direct descendants of Adam’s line, that their race (and their race alone) was unbesmirched by the sins of Eve. They were
pure
(this was part of their patrimony), but they were not ‘of the Book’ (at least, not formally), and so, even amongst Kurds, they were both feared and despised.

Gaffar’s father had been born in Sinjar, on the Syrian/Iraqi border (it was the Kurdish lot to be born on the edge of things, the perimeter; to be squeezed into the outer reaches; at worst to be persecuted, at best loathed and ignored). In 1975 the Dawasin in that area had been forcibly evicted from their land and placed into collectives.

Times were hard. He had drifted to Baghdad, searching for work. He’d left a wife and a daughter behind him, staying away – out of desperation (or so he claimed) – for many months in conjunction. In Yezidi culture absence was a crime of excommunicable proportions. And there was no coming back from it. So after a while, he didn’t even try. His soul was lost from that point onward.