Darkmans (82 page)

‘Molly,’ Garry persisted. ‘How’d you…?’

‘Oh.
Uh…She just turned up,’ Isidore explained, ‘at my home…’ ‘What?’ Garry seemed baffled. ‘Under her own steam?’

‘Good
God,
no…’ Isidore scoffed at the very idea.

‘Because she initially went missin’ from my van,’ Garry expanded. ‘Someone prised open the window…’

‘Well it’s a rather complicated story,’ Isidore confessed, ‘but the long and the short of it is that I’ve had a certain Harvey Broad doing some renovation work on my home…’

‘Oh yeah?’ Garry frowned. ‘So how’s that pannin’ out?’

‘I sacked him this morning.’

‘Ah.’

Garry didn’t seem especially shocked by this news.

‘Anyhow, I think his son – Lester – must’ve brought the dog around to begin with, and then my young son – Fleet – grew very attached to the poor creature…’

‘Hang on,’ Garry interrupted. ‘So you’re sayin’ you think
Lester
might’ve stole the dog?’

‘Or Harvey, and then entrusted it to Lester to look after…’

‘Harvey bloody
Broad,’
Garry growled, ‘I should’ve bloomin’
known.’

‘I saw the poster this morning,’ Isidore continued, ‘and then the coin suddenly dropped.’

He paused.

‘Although I suppose there’s no actual
proof…’

‘Harvey bloody
Broad,’
Garry repeated, obviously furious. ‘When my mum finds out she’ll do her bloomin’
nut…’

‘If it’s any consolation,’ Isidore added, ‘shortly after I sacked him this morning, the scaffolding on the front of the house collapsed and almost wrote off his Toyota…’

‘You know what the worst part is?’ Garry demanded (not mollified in the slightest by the Toyota anecdote).

Isidore shook his head.

‘The worst part is that he’s a good builder. When he puts in the effort, he’s a solid builder. He actually started off in an apprenticeship wiv’ my dad. In fact when I was a kid I just loved the fella. He was like the older brother I never had,’ Garry shrugged. ‘But then the rot gradually set in. He just got bored of
tryin’,
somehow. It reached the point that he’d rather spend twice the amount of effort
avoidin’
a job…’

‘You’re not telling me anything that I’m not already painfully aware of,’ Dory grimaced.

‘I don’t suppose,’ Beede suddenly interjected, half-turning towards Isidore, ‘now Harvey’s out of the picture, Garry’s got his dog back and you’re in desperate need of a new contractor…’

Garry and Isidore stared at each other, slightly startled (like two women wearing identical dresses at a cocktail party).

‘Truth is,’ Garry volunteered, ‘I’ve been cuttin’ back on my work commitments in recent months in the hope of doin’ some travellin’ abroad…’

‘That’s absolutely
fine,’
Dory insisted, keen not to press the matter.

‘Don’t give it a second thought…’

‘…But now that I’ve
got
the time set aside,’ Garry continued, wryly, ‘I don’t really have the first clue where I wanna go or what the hell I plan to do wiv’ myself when I actually
get
there,’ he grinned. ‘Pathetic, ain’t it? So if you’re keen on the idea, then I’d be more than happy to take a look at the job…’

‘What’s that word the Arabs use to describe situations like this?’ Beede interjected (delighted by his own involvement in this happy scenario).
‘Kismet?’

Garry inspected his watch. ‘I’ll just grab a sandwich, change my jacket…’ he gently fingered the lining of his leather coat, ‘an’ then head straight on over. Give you a quick quote. Can’t say better than that now, can I?’

Beede turned to the German, smiling, but was surprised to notice that Dory didn’t seem quite as enthralled by these developments as he might’ve expected. He appeared jittery and distracted.

‘Just scribble down your address for me…’ Garry pulled a pencil from behind his ear.

‘Sure…’
Dory suddenly snapped to attention. ‘Let me…’

He felt around inside his jacket pocket for a scrap of paper, eventually locating a scrunched-up piece of packaging, unfolding it and turning it over to write on the back.

Beede’s smile evaporated.

Garry passed Dory the pencil.

‘Bell,’
Beede murmured quietly, almost to himself.

‘Come again?’ Garry interjected.

‘Bell,’ Beede repeated, ‘it’s a fascinating noun with virtually no relatives in the European languages…’

He watched closely as Dory carefully printed out his address.

‘…Although apparently there was an ancient verb in Old English,’ he continued, raising a hand to his shoulder and massaging it, clumsily, ‘related to the baying call made by a hound or…or a
stag
…’ Beede paused, his face contorting, ‘of which…of which “bellow”,’ he finally concluded, hoarsely, ‘is a direct descendant.’

‘Well I never!’ Garry exclaimed (without the slightest idea as to what Beede was banging on about).

Dory completed the address and handed it over. Then he turned to Beede with a cheerful smile. ‘So, ready to head off, now?’ he wondered.

Kane took out his kays –

KEYS, Goddammit!

(He shook his head –

STOP this now!

ENOUGH!!)

– inserted them into the lock, then paused for a second and stared down, frowning, at his outstretched hands –

Surgeon’s hands?

He snorted, derisively –

Nah…

– although they were certainly
attractive
hands (tapering hands, rather graceful). They were strong hands –

No bones about it –

But
surgeon’s
hands?!

Is she crazy?

He removed the book Elen had given him from his coat pocket and carefully inspected it. It looked like a fascinating book – gory, visceral, thoughtful, challenging – a worthwhile book –

Worthwhile?!

Kane shook his head, grimacing, then quickly re-read the synopsis on the inside cover, his eye halting, irresistibly, on the words ‘medical vagabond’. He turned to Elen’s dedication and gazed at it, blankly, then sighed, slapped the book shut and roughly shoved it back into his coat pocket. He unlocked the door and pushed it open.

‘Gaffar?’
he yelled, stepping into the hallway. ‘You home yet?’ There was a letter lying on the mat. He picked it up. There was no name or address on it –

Junk

‘Gaffar?’
he yelled, slamming the door shut and tearing the letter open. ‘You back?’

Nothing

He peered towards Beede’s flat. The door was slightly ajar. He walked over to it. ‘Beede?’

He knocked.

Nothing

He removed the contents from the envelope. Inside it was a folded-up piece of paper, and when he unfurled it, a car key dropped into his hand –

Huh?!

‘Beede?’

He pushed the door open, still staring at the key. He flattened the paper it’d been folded up in and turned it over –

Nothing

Although…

He frowned, looking closer…

Isn’t there something…?

A vague…?

A kind of…?

He moved over towards the window to try and inspect the paper in a better light, but as he moved it gradually began to dawn on him that there was something very different, something very…

Wrong

He glanced around him –

JEESUS!

His jaw dropped. The room looked like some kind of explosive device had recently gone off in it.

‘Beede?’

He suddenly had a vision of his father lying dead (or injured) in another room. He panicked –
‘Beede?’
– and ran into the kitchen, then the bedroom –

‘Dad?’

The bedroom was dark. The bed was a mess. He stared, uneasily, at the rumpled counterpane.

‘Dad?’

He ran into the bathroom. The floor was soaking. And there were tiny traces of…

He peered at the walls –

What?

Blood?!

Kane returned to the living-room and gazed around him, horrified –

Is anything…?

Was he…?

He scowled –

Could this conceivably be…?

He ran to the door –

‘GAFFAR!’

– then sprinted upstairs.

His own flat looked exactly the same as when he’d left it that morning. He stood in the middle of his sitting-room for a moment, struggling to catch his breath, then promptly headed off to find his stash. He found it, undisturbed, and shoved it – all of it – into his coat pockets before sprinting back downstairs again and standing in the open doorway to Beede’s flat, his eyes ransacking the room for clues – evidence – ideas –
anything…

Kane suddenly froze –

Oh my…

– then he slowly began moving – as if hypnotised – towards the sofa. Propped up, carelessly – lop-sidedly – against the arm, was a cross; a large, beautifully carved wooden cross –

Can that…?

Is that…?

He knelt down to inspect it, his eyes lingering (to begin with) on the terrible, naive lettering in the mid-section before moving, ineluctably, to the marvellous profusion of exquisitely carved wild roses on the outer reaches.

Kane gazed at the cross, in silence, for several minutes. ‘But why…?’ he finally murmured, scratching his head, confused.

He peered around the room again –

Where’s the fucking cat?

He glanced up at the light-fitment –

Is that broken, too?

– then became aware, once more, of the letter in his hand. The key –

Peta…

He sprang to his feet and walked over to the window. Outside he saw The Blonde (parked – rather haphazardly – over by the front gate) and sitting neatly – unobtrusively – in The Blonde’s habitual parking space? A mysterious, black Lada with darkened windows –

Now what did she call it again?

Kane frowned –

The Commissar?

He stared down at the key. He inspected the envelope –

Nope

– then he held the plain piece of paper back up to the light.

When he looked at it carefully, at a particular angle, he was sure he could see…

He turned and strode over to the mess of books, furniture and papers against the opposite wall. He fell to his knees, took a pinch of soil from an up-ended plantpot and applied it, very gently, to a small section of the paper. As he rubbed, a tiny line of letters and digits came into relief. Kane walked back to the window and held the paper up to the light again –

II Corinthians XII. IX

?!

He stared around the room –

Bible?

– then began hunting through the debris –

Hopeless

His mind turned to Kelly (waving at him from her scooter – Bible
clutched in her hand – a couple of hours earlier). He grabbed his phone and dialled her number –

No answer

As it rang, he stared over at the cross again, with a shudder. Kelly’s voicemail clicked in. He cut it off and texted her instead:

2 Corinthians 12.9

K.

A couple of minutes later – on his way out to the car – he quickly checked his reflection in the hallway mirror, then paused, shocked, and drew in closer. He looked odd – faded, haggard,
spooked
– as if he’d just seen a ghost. Or perhaps – even worse than that –

Much worse
 –

Much scarier…

– as if he was actually the ghost
himself
(a transient ghoul, a fugitive spectre), drifting – aimless and confused – through a bold, clearly defined world of private jokes, cast-iron alibis and irrefutable facts.

Dory was speaking to him, but Beede couldn’t actually focus on what he was saying because –

Pain

– it had recently begun to rain and the sound of the paindrops –

Raindrops

– hitting the Rover’s roof had generated this strange counter-conversation inside his head –

A Master of Art is not worth a fart,

Except he be in schools,

A batchelour of Law, is not worth a straw…

The sound of the pain –

Rain

– was soon eclipsed by the wailing siren of a fire engine. They were turning off the A2042 (on to the steeply curving slip road beyond) when the engine drew abreast of them, its blue light flashing. Dory rapidly slowed down and allowed it to pass. He muttered something, but Beede didn’t quite catch it because he was gazing, dazedly, out of the window, where his eye was momentarily arrested by a pretty, young, blonde girl who was methodically removing the plastic collars from the trees and the bushes at the top of the embankment.

The girl straightened up as the fire engine passed and their eyes made brief contact. He blinked. She blinked. He was certain that he’d seen her before, but he couldn’t say where, exactly. He also knew (in that same moment) that –

A Master of Art is not worth…

– her father was in recovery from breast cancer, that her mother was going to be very angry indeed –

Too angry,

Silly moo…

– about the dent in the car, that she had an irrational fear of small spaces, that she hated the taste of uncooked tomatoes (but virtually lived on ketchup), that she fervently regretted not taking A-level Japanese (or Spanish, or Arabic), that when she was thirty-two she would develop diabetes during her second pregnancy, that this child would subsequently inherit a slight heart-murmur (from her grandfather on her mother’s side), that her first child (a daughter), would
become a leading expert in the field of post-traumatic stress, that the boy with the whispering heart would become a keyboard player in an unsuccessful pop band, but would then write a tune (in his late forties) – a short jingle – which would eventually be adopted to spearhead a ten-year campaign to sell the world’s most successful brand of sugar-free, fat-free, dairy-free chocolate…

Dory accelerated off again. He quickly built up speed.

…But most important of all, Beede saw that this girl – this damp, diligent, blonde girl with her savagely pinned-back curly hair – would loyally support her husband through medical school, and that when he eventually graduated they would travel to Uganda together (and do great work there), then on to the Congo, then on to the Sudan – to Darfur – where he would soon become embroiled in a tragic, sexual liaison with a talented engineer called Eva Jane Bartlett (who had helped to design, build and fund a small hospital he was working at), that he would be shot – and fatally wounded – by her estranged husband, a famous local brigand, and that…

Isidore suddenly slammed his foot down. Beede heard a loud squeal of tyres, then felt a nasty, searing pain across his shoulder –

Seat-belt

– as the car jolted to a sharp halt.

Beede turned to stare at Dory. Dory was gazing into the road wearing a look of mute astonishment. Beede turned to look into the road himself –

Good God!

Standing there, in majestic profile (its tail covering a full two-thirds of the total width of the tarmac): a magnificent peacock –

What?!

Dory honked his horn, glancing, terrified, into his rearview mirror – ‘I have a bad feeling about this…’ he was muttering, unfastening his seat-belt, ‘a really strong sense of
déjà…’

The bird lifted its beak and stared haughtily towards the car, then it
swung around, and in one, sublime movement it lifted its tail and fanned it out.

Beede’s mouth fell open. Dory began to scrabble (sightlessly) at his door handle.

‘No,
wait.
Let me…’

Beede unfastened his own seat-belt and leapt from the car. He hobbled towards the bird. The blare of the fire engine was still wailing in his ears (‘Must be the strange acoustics,’ he reasoned, ‘on this part of the road…’).

‘Okay, big fella,’ he murmured, ‘get out of the way now. Quicksmart…’

The bird turned to face him, shaking out its feathers. Through Beede’s rain-splattered lenses the peacock was a gorgeous, blue-green blur, a shimmering, technicolour waterfall, a faultless jewel. It cocked its crested head and eyed him, archly.

‘You’re going to end up as cat food if you don’t move pretty smartly…’

Beede tried to hustle the bird backwards, towards the grass verge. The peacock immediately took offence. It squawked, furiously, then turned, panicked, to reveal a slightly bare (and somewhat dingy) back-end, supported by pair of surprisingly long and muscular legs.

Beede shoo’d him swiftly forward, but as he moved he felt something crunching under the soles of his shoes. He glanced down –

What is that?

Grit?

No
 –

Seed…?

Tiny ears of…?

In ten seconds, at best, the indignant bird was safely stationed on the embankment.

‘You’d better drive off,’ Beede yelled, waving Dory onwards, ‘I’ll…’ That moment, a second fire engine came careering around the bend, its siren blaring, and smashed straight into the back of Dory’s Rover.

Dory hadn’t yet refastened his seat-belt. As the engine made contact he flew forward – wearing a look of slight bewilderment – into the steering wheel, then up, and over, and into the front windscreen. The windscreen cracked and then Dory slumped back.

But that wasn’t the end of it. Because he’d barely touched the seat again before another vehicle – a car – shunted into the back of the fire engine, then another car behind that, then a van, then another car, then another van, and each time a new vehicle made contact, this cruel, metal snake, this ravenous, steel gecko devoured a few extra metres of the road.

Beede glanced down. The bird had turned on its heel and had run for cover. Only a single, bright feather remained, pinned under his foot. Beede bent down to grab it (because what could he…? There was nothing…Because he couldn’t…).

As he bent over he felt a heavy weight (a
familiar
weight) on his shoulder, and calmly realised – in that instant – that he probably wasn’t going to be able to straighten back up.

The small courtyard was deserted. No geese – no turkeys – no dogs – no armed, hatchet-faced, Northumbrian housemaids in bizarre, wooden clogs.

Kane parked The Commissar and sat quietly for a while (gently strumming his fingers against the dash), then he clambered out and took a quick walk around. The farm machinery was gone. He tried the doors on a couple of the barns –

Locked

– then walked over to the cottage. The curtains had been taken down. He peered inside. All the furniture had been removed.

He stared up at the tiles on the roof. He slowly shook his head, then reached into his pocket and took out his cigarettes. He propped
one between his lips and then tried to find his lighter, but couldn’t. It had started to rain. He returned to the car and climbed back inside it, then slowly and methodically emptied his pockets. He removed ten or fifteen packets of tablets, his phone, Elen’s book, the rolled-up brown envelope that Beede had left earlier. He threw each object – one by one – on to the passenger seat. Still, no lighter.