Behindlings

After a few seconds’ strained hiatus, Doc turned from Hooch and back towards Jo again, a slight frown still pinching the loose skin between his eyes.

Hooch, however –not in the least bit subdued by Doc’s subtle rebuff –jinked in rapidly, grabbed Doc’s communicative baton, and ran swiftly on with it. ‘What he actually does,’ Hooch expanded ebulliently, ‘is he strolls in there, casual as anything, and quietly asks the first person he comes across serving behind the counter if she’s the Head Librarian. I’ve seen him do it…’ he threw up his hands, ‘must be a hundred times…’

In his excitement, Hooch’s generous lower lip grew shiny with spit, flecks of which settled on Jo’s cheek and neck after every emphatic s and t. She tried not to flinch, but didn’t succeed entirely.

‘And although chances are that she probably won’t be…’ Hooch bowled on, perfectly oblivious, ‘Head Librarian, I mean; he’ll still find her captivating. And he’ll gradually get her talking. He has this ridiculous theory about the universal language of mammals…’

Jo frowned. Hooch shrugged, ‘It’s just a pile of bollocks, basically. But he’ll invite her out for a drink, eventually. He’s charming. He’s got no scruples. He’ll ask out virtually anybody; even saggy old dears in their fifties.’ He grimaced (plainly appalled by the notion).

Doc rolled his eyes at this.

Hooch noticed. ‘I only mean,’ he quickly modified, ‘that his motivation isn’t entirely sexual.’

‘Not entirely?’ Jo echoed, slightly alarmed.

For a second nobody said anything, then Patty sneezed three times in quick succession. When he’d finished, a drip of moisture clung tenaciously to the tip of his nose. He flipped it off with a sudden, violent jerk of his head.

‘Sawdust,’ he exclaimed, ‘bah!’

‘Bless you,’ Hooch murmured, quickly withdrawing a paper tissue from his pocket, patting his mouth with it and then carefully inspecting his pristine anorak for any stray remnants of damp residue.

Doc, meanwhile –after swiftly yanking a meandering Dennis to heel –formally introduced Jo to the rest of the party. ‘This is Jo, everybody,’ he said, ‘and I’m Doc obviously, he’s Hooch, that’s Patty, and this here is Shoes.’

Jo nodded at Shoes, then instinctively glanced down at his feet. They were bare –filthy –his toenails the approximate length and shade of ten rooks’ beaks. Dennis, for one, seemed absolutely riveted by them.

‘Shoes here is very clever with his feet,’ Doc explained, following the direction of Jo’s gaze, ‘he can use them like hands if he chooses. He can even hold a pen with them.’

‘I can eat a meal with them,’ Shoes volunteered, ‘I have double-jointed knees.’

Shoes was a fat Geordie hippie in his forties.

‘That’d be a great bonus,’ Jo smiled, ‘if for some reason you needed to write a letter and eat a meal, concurrently.’

‘I must confess, I never yet tried it,’ Shoes replied, blinking uneasily, ‘but I suppose it’s always an option.’

‘Concurrently,’ Hooch parroted, under his breath, feeling blindly again for the pad in his pocket.

‘He can’t write,’ Patty interrupted scornfully, ‘even with his…’

‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ Doc spoke simultaneously, moving in a few steps closer to Jo and pulling out his pager, ‘perhaps you might go over the details of what just went on back there –between you and Wesley –for the benefit of the rest of the group.’

The rest of the group?

Jo glanced around, unsure whether to be delighted or disturbed by her sudden inclusion. She scratched her head, nervously, ‘I can’t recall… I mean not exactly – not word for word… but he seemed… Wesley seemed to have acquired the impression from somewhere that I was being… that I was actually being paid to follow him.’

‘And are you?’ Hooch asked, his pad open, his pen raised.

Jo looked startled, ‘Paid? Who would pay me to follow Wesley?’

‘The same person, probably,’ Patty speculated mischievously, ‘as pays Doc to follow him.’

‘Shut up,’ Doc spoke softly.

Patty wasn’t quelled, though. ‘I’ve seen Wesley in the library,’ he expanded nonchalantly, ‘and he doesn’t do nothing special with maps or globes or computers… Mostly all he ever does is sleep or read stupid cowboy books with bloody great letters…’

‘Large type,’ Hooch corrected, ‘he’s a lazy reader, but his vision is infallible.’

‘How can you tell?’ Jo asked.

‘By watching. He favours…’ Hooch licked his thumb and quickly paged back through his jotter, ‘he likes J.T. Edson and Louis L’Amour. He finds them relaxing. But he reads plenty of other stuff. Only last week it was…’ he inspected the jotter again, ‘The World Encyclopedia of Twentieth Century Murder by J.R. Nash, and some big old tome by Thomas Paine –the philosopher –and then…’ he flipped the page over, ‘… something called Orientalism by…’ he coughed, ‘… by a Mr Edward W. Said.’

‘Louis L’Amour?’ Jo echoed, apparently bewildered by this sudden barrage of information.

‘You didn’t actually say yet,’ Doc continued tenaciously, ‘whether you are being paid to follow him.’

‘She did say she came from Southend,’ Patty interrupted, ‘I heard that much.’

‘Do you come from Southend?’ Hooch asked, already writing.

‘No… Yes…’ she struggled with her answer for a moment, ‘I was from Canvey itself, originally.’

‘Almost local,’ Shoes sucked on his tongue, ‘you messed up, man. You messed up badly.’

‘Messed up?’ Jo frowned. ‘You think I messed up?’

Shoes turned to Doc, ‘I’d’ve played the local card, Doc. I’d’ve merged into the background –like the estate agent –and got taken into his confidence that way.’

‘You think I messed up?’ Jo repeated, rather more emphatically.

‘Of course you messed up,’ Patty snorted, jumping off the pavement, into the road, then back onto the pavement again.

‘Why?’

‘Because he hates being Followed,’ Doc interjected, smiling (as if the thought of Jo messing up was somehow completely irresistible to him), ‘and he never speaks to the people Following. That’s the whole point. It’s the rule. We are the Behindlings. Wesley actually coined our name as a kind of swearword, as an insult, but we don’t treat it that way; we quite like it. It unites us. It…’

‘It legitimises us,’ Hooch interrupted.

The others all nodded in unison at this, but Jo was still frowning, so Doc expanded further, ‘Wesley thinks you have to be backward to follow things. I’m talking organised religion, football teams, brand names. Anything at all. He’s a free spirit. People call him an anarchist –in the papers and so forth –but he despises labels; even that one…’

‘Especially that one,’ Shoes butted in, before instinctively tipping his head towards Doc and drawing a couple of steps back again.

‘The funny part about it,’ Doc continued, ‘is that people are drawn to him. They can’t help themselves. They like what he stands for –although he constantly bangs on about not standing for anything. And he has this strange way about him –a kind of simple charm –an innocence. Add to that all the pranks, the trickery, the mischief-making… and not forgetting the confectionery Loiter…’ Doc paused, ‘Wesley’s an angry man, make no mistake about it. We’ve all felt the brunt of it in one way or another.’

Hooch grunted, gently, under his breath, as if this comment had an especial significance for him, personally. Shoes just sighed, tellingly.

‘He’s high-minded and he’s unpredictable, and most important of all: he’s a trouble-maker, and trouble-makers value their privacy. So he resents our eyes. We irritate him. In point of fact,’ Doc grinned widely, ‘he loathes the watching.’

‘Poor Wesley’s hiding from the truth,’ Shoes interrupted.