Darkmans

‘Right.’

She was already twisting around to scramble down when something suddenly dawned on her. She paused, mid-manoeuvre, gripping hard with her hands to stop herself from falling. ‘But that’s Kane’s place,’ she grunted, a hint of accusation in her voice.

‘Yes.’ Winifred made no apology for it.

Kelly pulled herself up again, kicking a leg back over (sitting astride the wall now, a hand pushed down on to her skirt to preserve her modesty). ‘So what’s your business with him?’

‘With Kane?’

‘Yeah,’ Kelly growled.

‘I don’t have any. I’m here to see his dad.’

‘Ah.’ Kelly was plainly relieved. ‘Well that’s a shame, ’cos Beede ain’t here, either. Neither of them are.’

‘Are you sure?’

Kelly nodded. “Course I am. That’s actually who I’m waitin’ for.’

Winifred seemed mildly irritated by this news. ‘But we arranged to meet at twelve,’ she said petulantly, ‘and it’s ten past already. He’s usually very reliable.’

‘Yeah,’ Kelly conceded, unhelpfully.

Winifred frowned and peered down at her watch. ‘Damn. I’ve got something I really, really needed to give to him,’ she muttered.

Kelly rolled her eyes at this transparent little charade. ‘So pass it over,’ she volunteered boredly, ‘and I’ll stick it through his box.’

The woman gave Kelly an appraising look. ‘Could I?’

‘Well I’m not gonna nick it or anythin’, if that’s what you’re thinkin’,’ Kelly snapped.

‘I know that.’

Winifred opened her satchel and removed a large, brown envelope from inside it. She passed it up to Kelly. Kelly took it (the removal of a hand from her skirt causing a dramatic flash of her baby-pink g-string) and then placed it, neatly, on to her lap. A car horn sounded. The woman – Winnie – glanced over her shoulder. A boy was hanging out of a car window as it drove past, performing a wanking gesture. Kelly stared fixedly ahead of her.

Winifred took a few steps back, fastening her satchel again. ‘I really do appreciate this,’ she said, ‘I’m in one hell of a…’

She flapped her hand.

Kelly nodded, sternly.

‘Bye then,’ Winnie smiled, ‘and thanks.’

She turned and began to walk.

‘Hey,’ Kelly suddenly yelled.

Winifred spun around. ‘What?’

‘He never went to Readin’,’ Kelly blurted out, her cheeks reddening, holding the jiffy bag in front of her chest now – like a protective corset – and folding her arms over it.

Winnie looked confused. ‘Who didn’t?’

‘Paul. He died. Early last year.’

It took a while for this information to sink in. ‘My God,’ Winifred murmured softly, ‘I had no…’

She paused again, her mind obviously racing. ‘Shit. I’m really sorry…’

She seemed stunned.

‘Don’t be.’ Kelly was suddenly full of bravura (her hard eyes brimming with indignant tears). ‘He overdosed. Solvents. Cans. He was addicted for years. That’s why my sister always used to hit him. That’s why he always had those awful fuckin’…’

she put her hand to her mouth, touched her chin, to illustrate, ‘those spots, around here.’

Winnie shook her head. ‘No. No, I didn’t mean…’ She paused, plainly in a state of some confusion. ‘I meant…’ she scowled, ‘I meant that I was sorry because we used together,’ she said finally, her own hand suddenly fluttering to her nose, her lips, ‘we started using together, as kids.’

Kelly’s face dropped.

Another car horn sounded. And before the woman – Winnie – could say another word, Kelly had stuck the envelope into her mouth, kicked her remaining leg back over the wall, and shoved herself off.

THREE (#ulink_94a65dc8-f4ae-5ce9-8a80-4c7acfc8585c)

He just blocked it all out. It was as simple (or as complicated) as that. Denial – as the Americans were so fond of calling it – was Isidore’s basic coping mechanism (his ‘survival strategy’). That was how he dealt with it. And Beede (for all his cynicism) was sensible enough to just go along with the whole thing; the self-delusion, the subterfuge, the bunk, the bullshit.

He didn’t want to push or to provoke or to challenge; because – bottom line – it was none of his damn business. And – more to the point – if he did (push, provoke, challenge etc), where would it actually lead?

Seriously?

What could be gained? Dory was (after all) just a man; a human being, battling – against horrendous odds – merely to function; to hold down a job; to raise a family; just to…to…

Oh God, here it comes –

…to be.

He was a simple man. A good man. He had integrity and dignity. He had pride –

A little too much, occasionally…

Dory was a person, not some psychological experiment. He was no benighted beagle or tragic lab rat; nobody’s fool, nobody’s victim – although Beede sometimes struggled to remind himself of this fact (he still harboured those Reformist tendencies in him – that persistent urge to just roll his sleeves up and dive in – no matter how diligently he might’ve tried to repress them).

It could certainly make things difficult (this ‘denial’): the explanations, for one thing. Dory often ‘displaced’ his confusion on to the people surrounding him. Beede had read a book by R.D. Laing (The Divided Self) and several of Freud’s case studies (Wolfman, in particular). He’d quickly picked up on all the jargon, and tended to use it – not because he liked it or trusted it – but because it was a convenient short cut, and short cuts – in working scenarios – were an issue of sheer pragmatism.

When it came to ‘displacement’, this particular situation was a perfect example. As they slowly picked their way back along the Bad Munstereifel Road (and it was a bloody treacherous hike, let alone with a horse in tow and your trousers sagging), at an approximate interval of every three to four minutes, Dory would turn and ask Beede (with complete guilelessness) why he had a horse with him, and what he thought he was doing with it (his territorial army background and his job in security made the whole thing even more dodgy; Dory – this Dory – had a ridiculously over-developed sense of propriety).

And whenever Beede said (as he was obliged to, because it was true), ‘You took it, Dory,’ or ‘I found you with it – I was having coffee with my son…’ etc – he could see Isidore’s mind turning over, could see him putting two and two together (making five), could see him growing increasingly guarded and suspicious, as though Beede (for his own sick reasons – whatever they may be) was intent on surreptitiously inveigling him into some atrocious form of perjury.

Because in Isidore’s mind (when he weighed it all up) the likelihood that he had stolen a horse himself (when he both feared and hated horses, and when he was intrinsically law-abiding) seemed somehow far less plausible than the likelihood that Beede had stolen it (or found it, or whatever) and that he had just ‘blanked out’ (as he sometimes called it) and then miraculously ‘turned up’.