Darkmans

Gaffar nodded. ‘My mother, my grandmother, my great-grandmother,’ he lied, effortlessly, ‘all sweated blood over the carpet looms of Diyarbakir.’

‘So you know about rugs? You think you can sort this out for me?’ Gaffar nodded again. ‘Leave,’ he ordered, ‘I am mend.’

Kane stood up just in time to observe the troublesome Siamese jumping lightly on to the kitchen counter. He glowered at it. ‘I can’t believe Beede’s got himself a cat,’ he murmured, taking a speculative step towards it, ‘and a fucking pedigree at that. Beede hates domestic animals. Cats especially…’

He paused. ‘At least…’ He frowned, his voice petering out.

Gaffar hissed. The cat flattened its ears in response. Gaffar picked up Beede’s Tupperware beaker and lobbed it at the cat. He scored a direct hit. He whooped. The cat kicked off the counter – its hackles up – and dashed, full pelt, into the sanctuary of Beede’s bedroom.

Kane rapidly shot after it, across the living-room, through the kitchen, but then faltered – like a mime suddenly hitting an invisible wall –

Bang!

– just on the cusp of entry.

I mean Beede’s bedroom…? His monkish cloister? His inner sanctum? His lair?

Beede’s bedroom? Was nothing sacred?

Kane drew a long, deep breath (steeling his resolve; throwing back his shoulders, sticking up his chin and squinting; like a heroic Sir Edmund Hillary trapped inside a damnable snowstorm), then entered, boldly, on the exhale.

SIX (#ulink_3eb51079-4a48-521f-bbd3-329bb2c2b8cf)

She was lying on a trolley in the hospital corridor, propped up on her elbow and reading an old copy of Marie Claire. She’d already made firm friends with two of the porters, one of whom was still buzzing around in the background; perhaps imagining – even though she was obviously suffering from a serious fracture – that he might be on to a Good Thing here.

And what more could she expect (the porter’s lascivious expression seemed to proclaim, as he slouched priapically against the Nurses’ Station and hungrily appraised her)? She was a Broad, after all. They were a degenerate bunch. The now-legendary Jason Broad’d had his stomach pumped on the exact same Casualty Ward a mere eighteen months earlier, and had celebrated this momentous occasion with – wait for it – a can of Budweiser (downed it in one, the nutter)! Dr Morton almost had a coronary; was actually quoted as saying that ‘Jason Broad should take out a restraining order on himself’ (and if his current three-year prison sentence was anything to go by, then he’d pretty much followed the doctor’s orders to the letter).

The whole family were delinquent (it was totally genetic): the dad, a child-fancier, the mother a basket case, the brothers all hoodlums, the sisters, sluts. The uncle was a trickster and the cousins, simpletons (although – so far as anyone knew – there was nothing concrete on the aunt).

Perhaps sensing herself the focal-point of somebody’s attentions, Kelly suddenly glanced up –

Ah…

Patrick?

Is that his name?

She nodded and smiled politely. He smiled back –

Christ she wants me

– then turned and muttered something to the nurse on duty. The nurse sniggered, peering over. Kelly’s mouth tightened. She looked down, her cheeks flushing.

The second (and rather more hands-on) porter had delivered Beede a message just as soon as he’d arrived at work: less a polite invitation to pop up and see Kelly, than a haughty – if carefully phrased – injunction (in the idiom of The Whips, this was definitely a Three Liner).

Even so, he didn’t head up there immediately. He changed into his spotless white uniform, tinkered away at a faulty dryer, put on four wash-loads in quick succession, then took the service lift from his musty but well-ordered Basement Empire to the exotic, chaotic heights of Casualty (delivering a batch of clean towels to Paediatrics on the way).

As he strolled along the corridor, he observed (with some amusement) that Kelly had her nose buried in an article about a charitable Aids Trust in Southern Africa (whatever next? Principia Philosophia?).

‘Better sort yourself out, first,’ he volunteered dryly, ‘before you apply, eh?’

She started, guiltily, at the unexpected sound of his voice, then her chin jerked up defiantly. ‘Ha ha.’ She slapped the magazine down, scowling.

‘I believe you left your two dogs at the flat,’ he continued (completely undaunted by his frosty reception). ‘They’re currently standing guard in the hallway. One of them mauled Kane’s house guest.’

‘Screw the blasted dogs,’ she whispered crossly. ‘Why ain’t you returned my calls? Why’ve you been avoidin’ me?’

Beede’s brows rose slightly, but before he could open his mouth to answer she’d already charged on, ‘An’ that was your big mistake, see? I ain’t no fool. You’ve been avoidin’ me ‘cos’ you feel bad, an’ you feel bad…’ she poked a skinny index finger into his chest, ‘because you stole those drugs from Kane and then sold me up the bloody Mersey. I’ve been thinkin’ about it a lot – for days, in fact – and nothin’ else adds up.’

Beede’s expression did not change.

‘So you fractured your leg?’ he asked, at normal volume.

Kelly was briefly put off her stride by his refusal to engage with her. She admired Beede, after all. She didn’t understand him –

Of course not

– but she respected him. She saw him as a being of an entirely different order –

Celestial/monkish

– a fraction cold, perhaps, but noble, defiant, honourable. One-dimensional –

Certainly

– a little boring, maybe. But entirely trustworthy. Above reproach – or so she’d thought – like the Good King in a fairy story.

‘I fell off your stupid wall,’ she grumbled.

‘Why?’

‘I was waitin’ for ya. To have it out.’

‘But why did you fall?’ he persisted.

‘I had a row.’

He didn’t seem surprised by this. ‘With whom?’

Kelly pushed her shoulders back, dramatically. ‘That coloured bitch who killed Paul.’

‘Ah,’ Beede quickly put two and two together. ‘That would be Winifred.’

She nodded (not a little deflated by his emotionless response).

‘Anyway,’ Beede spoke very gently (as if dealing with an Alzheimer’s patient who’d been discovered trying to buy a cup of tea in the staff canteen with a tampon), ‘he isn’t dead, is he?’

‘Stop tryin’ to wriggle off the damn hook,’ she growled.