Authors: Nicola Barker
‘You treated my mother,’ he said, feeling his chest tighten. She sat down on Beede’s chair, facing him. ‘I think I did. Years ago.’
‘That’s right. You came to the house. I remember now.’
They were both quiet for a moment.
‘You’d just returned from Germany,’ Kane continued, plainly rather astonished (and then equally irritated) by the extent of his own recall.
‘Yes I had. I went there for a year, almost straight after I’d graduated.’
‘I remember.’
He sniffed, trying to make it sound like nothing.
‘You have an impressive memory,’ she said, then put a polite hand up to her mouth, as if to suppress a yawn. This almost-yawn infuriated him. He didn’t know why.
How old was she, anyway? Thirty-one? Thirty-three?
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s just your mole. Your birthmark. It’s extremely memorable.’
She didn’t miss a beat.
‘Of course,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry,’ he struggled to repress a childish smile, ‘that must’ve sounded rude.’
‘No…’ she shook her head, her voice still soft as ever, ‘it didn’t sound rude.’
Didn’t
sound
rude.
Kane stared at her. She stared back at him. He took out his phone and inspected his messages.
‘A psychiatrist,’ she observed mildly, ‘might call what you do with that phone “masking behaviour”.’
He glanced up, astonished –
The cheek of it
– then quickly checked himself. ‘I guess they might,’ he said, returning casually to his messages and sending a quick response to one of them, ‘but then you’re just a foot doctor.’
She chuckled. She didn’t seem at all offended. ‘You have eyes just like your father’s,’ she murmured, gracefully adjusting the long hem of her skirt (as if hers was a life without technology, without
chatter.
A life entirely about thinking and pausing and feeling. A quiet life). Kane’s jaw stiffened. ‘I don’t think so,’ he murmured thickly, ‘they’re a completely different colour.’
She shrugged and then sighed, like he was just a boy. She glanced down, briefly, at her son (as if, Kane felt, to make the connection 100 per cent sure), then said blandly, ‘It was a difficult time for you.’
‘Pardon?’
He put his phone away. The tone of his voice told her not to persist, but she ignored the warning.
‘Difficult. With your mother. I remember thinking how incredibly brave you were. Heroic, almost.’
His cheeks reddened. ‘Not at all.’
‘Sometimes, after I’d seen her, I’d just sit in my car and shake. Just
shake.
I didn’t know how you coped with it. I still don’t. You were so young.’
She smiled softly at the memory, and as she smiled, he suddenly remembered. He remembered standing at the window and seeing her in her car, shaking: her arms thrown over the steering wheel, her head thrown on to her arms –
Oh God
His gut twisted.
He turned and gazed out into the car park. He was unbelievably angry. He felt found-out – unearthed –
raw.
But worst of all, he felt
charmless. Charm was an essential part of his armoury. It was his defensive shield, and she had somehow connived to worm her way under it –
Damn her
He drew a deep breath.
Outside he could suddenly see Beede –
Huh…?
– walking through the play area towards the blond imposter and the horse. The imposter had now dismounted. He was touching his head. He seemed confused. Beede offered his hand to the horse. The horse sniffed his hand. It appeared very receptive to Beede’s advances.
‘I wonder what happened to the other man,’ Kane mused, then shuddered. Everything was feeling strange to him.
Inverted.
And he didn’t like it.
‘Maybe there were two horses,’ the boy said. He was now standing next to the table and fingering Kane’s lighter. He looked up at Kane and held it out towards him. ‘Red,’ he smiled, ‘that’s
your
colour.’ The lighter was red.
He showed his mother. ‘See?’
She said nothing.
‘See?’ he repeated. ‘He comes from fire.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ His mother took the lighter off him and held it out to Kane herself.
Kane walked over and took it from her. She had beautiful hands. He remembered her hands from before.
‘I lived in the American desert,’ he said to the boy, ‘when I was younger. It was very hot. I once almost died in the heat out there. Look…’
He pushed back his sleeve and showed the boy a burn on his arm. The boy seemed only mildly interested.
Kane was about to pull his sleeve down again when the woman (
Elen
, was it?) put out her hand and took a firm hold of his wrist. She pulled his arm towards her. She stared at the scar. Her face was so close to it he could feel her breath on his skin. Then she let go (just as suddenly) and focussed in on the boy once more.
‘America,’ Kane said, taking full possession of his arm again, drawing it into his chest, shoving the sleeve down, feeling like an angry child who’d just had his school uniform damaged in a minor playground
fracas.
As he spoke he noticed Beede’s book on the floor. He bent down and picked it up. He shoved it into his jacket pocket.
‘In a magic trick,’ the boy repeated, plaintively, ‘they would’ve had
two
horses.’
‘How old are you?’ Kane asked, glancing over towards the serving counter and noticing Anthony Shilling standing there.
‘Five.’
‘Then you’re just old enough to keep it…’ he said, showing Fleet his empty hand, forming a fist, tapping his knuckles and then opening the hand up again. The red lighter had magically reappeared in the centre of his palm. The boy gasped. Kane placed it down, carefully, on to the lacquered table, nodded a curt farewell to the chiropodist, and left it there.
‘I’m Beede; Daniel Beede. I’m your friend. Do you remember me, Dory?’
Beede peered up, intently, into the tall, blond man’s face, struggling – at first – to establish any kind of a connection with him. He spoke softly (like you’d speak to a child) and he used his name carefully, as if anticipating that it might provoke some kind of violent reaction. But it didn’t.
‘Of course.’
The tall, blond man blinked and then nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, of
course
I remember…’ He talked quietly and haltingly with a strong German accent. ‘It’s just that…
uh…
’
His eyes anxiously scanned the surrounding area (the road, the horse, the tarmac, the vehicles in the car park). ‘It’s just that I suddenly have the strangest…’
He winced, shook his head, then gazed down, briefly, at his own two hands, as if he didn’t quite recognise them.
‘…uh…
fu…fu…
füh
len?’
He glanced up, quizzically.
‘
Fee
ling,’ Beede translated.
The German stared at him, blankly.
‘Feeling,’ Beede repeated.
The German frowned. ‘No…not…it’s this…this…’ he patted his own chest, meaningfully, ‘
fuh
-ling.
Feee…
Yes. Yes. This
fee
ling. This horrible, almost…’ he shuddered, ‘almost overwhelming
feeling.
Like a kind of…’ He swallowed. ‘A dread. A deep dread.’
Beede nodded.
‘…a terrible dread.’ He moved his hands to his throat, ‘
Suffocare.
Suffocating. A smothering feeling. A
terrible
feeling…’
‘You’re tired,’ Beede murmured gently, ‘and possibly a little confused, but it’ll soon pass, trust me.’
‘I do,’ the German nodded, ‘I do
traust
you.’ He paused. ‘
Trost
you…’
He blinked. ‘
Troost.
’
‘Trust,’ Beede repeated.
‘Of course…’ the German continued. ‘It’s just…’
His darting eyes settled, momentarily, on the pony. ‘I have an awful suspicion that this feeling – this…this…
uh
…’
‘Fear,’ Beede filled in, dryly.
‘Yes…
yes
…
fff
…’
The German attempted to wrangle the familiar syllable on his tongue – ‘
Ffffah…’ –
but the word simply would not come. After his third unsuccessful attempt (pulling back his lips, like a frightened chimpanzee, his nostrils flaring, his eyes bulging) he scowled, closed his mouth again, paused for a second, took stock, then suddenly, and without warning, threw back his head and roared, ‘
GE-FHAAAAR!
’ at full volume.
The horse skipped nervously from foot to foot.
‘
Urgh
…’
The German grimaced, wiped his chin with his cuff, then closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. On the exhale he repeated the word – ‘
Gefhaar
’ – but much more softly this time. He smiled to himself and drew another breath. ‘
Fhaar
,’ he sighed, then (with increasing rapidity), ‘
Fhaar-fhar-fhear
-fear-
fear…Yes
!’
His eyes flew open, then he scowled. ‘But what am I saying here?’
‘This fear,’ Beede primed him.
‘Yes. Of course.
Fear.
This
fear
’
The German rapidly clicked back into gear again. ‘I have a feeling – a…a
suspicion
, you might say – that this dread, this…this…this
fhar
may be linked in some way…
connected
in some way…’ he jinked his head towards the pony, conspiratorially ‘…to
it.
To
that.
To…’ he struggled to find the correct noun, ‘to
khor-khor-khorsam
…’
He shook his head, scowling. ‘
Khorsam. Horsam. Hors.
Horse. Horsey. Horse.
Horses.
’
He glanced over at Beede, breathlessly, for confirmation. Beede nodded, encouragingly.
‘But you see I’m not…I can’t be entirely…uh…
certus,
’ he scowled, then winced, then forged doggedly onward, ‘
certanus
…’ He paused. ‘
Cer-tan.
I can’t be certain, because it’s still just an…an
inkling
…’ he shuddered ‘…a slight shadow in the back of my mind. A hunch. Nothing more.’
While he spoke he distractedly adjusted the wedding band on his
finger (twisted it, as if of old habit), then gradually grew aware of what he was doing and glanced down. ‘What’s this?’
His eyes widened. ‘A ring? A
gold
ring? On my third finger?’
He glared at Beede, almost accusingly. ‘Can that be right?’
Beede nodded. He seemed calm and unflustered; as if thoroughly accustomed to this kind of scenario.
‘
Mein Gott!
’ The German’s handsome face grew stiff with incredulity.
‘You’re telling me I’m…I’m…’
‘Married?’ Beede offered. ‘Yes. Yes, you are. Very happily.’
‘
Seriously?
’
‘Just wait a while,’ Beede patted his arm, ‘and everything will become clear. I promise.’
‘You’re right. You’re
right…
’ the German smiled at him, gratefully, ‘I
know
that…’
But he didn’t seem entirely convinced by it.
‘So do you have any thoughts on where the horse may’ve came from?’ Beede enquired, gently stroking the mare’s flanks. She was exhausted. Her tongue was protruding slightly. There were flecks of foam on her neck and her ribcage. He was concerned that someone inside the restaurant might see them (a member of staff – the manager). They were in a children’s play area, after all. The horse was plainly stolen. Did this qualify as trespass?
The German closed his eyes for a moment (as if struggling to remember), and then the tension suddenly lifted from his face and he nodded. ‘I see a field in the middle of two roads, curving…’ he murmured softly, his speech much less harsh, less halting than before, ‘and beyond…beyond I see Romney. I see the marshes. ‘
He opened his eyes again. ‘I was checking over a couple of vacant properties earlier,’ he explained amiably, ‘in South Willesborough…’
Then he started –
‘
Eh?!
’
– and spun around, as though someone had just whispered something detestable into his ear.
‘
WHO SAID THAT?!
’ he cried.
‘Who said what?’
Beede’s voice was tolerant but slightly teachery.
‘About…About South Willesborough…?’ He continued to look around him agitatedly. ‘Was it
you?
Did
you
speak? Were
you
there earlier?’
‘
Hmmn.
A field in the middle of two roads curving…’ Beede mused (pointedly ignoring the German’s questions), ‘I think I know the place. And it’s not too far. Perhaps a mile – a little more. We’ll need to lead her back quickly. Someone might miss her. Do you have a belt?’
The German peered down at himself. ‘Yes,’ he said, and automatically started to unfasten the buckle.
‘I’ll take mine off, too,’ Beede said, unfastening his own.
The German pulled his belt free, passed it over, then tentatively sniffed at the arm of his jacket. ‘
Urgh!
’ he croaked. ‘What on earth have I been doing? I smell
disgusting
, and look –
look
– I have horse hair simply
everywhere
…’
He began frantically patting and slapping at the fabric, but after a couple of seconds he froze – mid-slap – as something terrible dawned on him. ‘Oh
Christ,
’ he gasped. ‘Oh
Jesus Christ
– the
car.
Where’s the
car?
What on earth have I
done
with it?’
Beede had buckled the two belts together. He whispered soothingly into the mare’s ear and then looped them around her neck. She was a sweet filly. She nodded a couple of times as he pulled the leather tighter.
On the second nod – and completely without warning – the German sprang back with a loud yell. The horse took fright and reared up. Beede clung on, resolutely.
‘Hey,
hey
…’ he hissed (managing – rather miraculously – to rein in both the horse
and
his temper), ‘just calm down, Dory. She won’t hurt anybody. She’s worn out. Let’s try and hold this situation together, shall we?’
‘But I
hate
horses,’ the German whimpered, hugging himself, tightly (the way a frightened girl might), and gazing up at the horse with a look of sheer, unadulterated terror. ‘I absolutely…I…I
loathe
them…’
‘That’s fine,’ Beede interrupted, ‘
I’ll
lead the horse, see?’
Beede led the horse two steps forward. ‘The horse is fine. Everything’s fine. There’s no need to panic. Everything’s just
fine
here.’
But the German was still panicking. ‘Oh
God,
’ he wailed, ‘if I’ve lost the car they’ll sack me for sure. Then where will we be?’
‘You won’t have lost it,’ Beede said determinedly.
‘Why?’ He grew instantly suspicious. ‘How do you know? How can you be sure? Were you there?’
‘No.
No
, I was
here,
’ Beede pointed towards the French Connection, ‘I was in the restaurant. I was having a coffee with my son. My son is called Kane. He’s still inside, actually.’
As he pointed, Beede glanced over towards the window where Kane had stood previously. The window was empty. ‘
Coffee?
’ The German peered over towards the window, scowling – ‘
Coffee?
’ – but then something powerful suddenly seemed to strike him – a revelation – ‘But of
course!
’ he gasped. ‘
Kaffee…
kaff…
kaff…
Koffee. Coffee. I
remember
that. I
know
that. I
know
kaffee…’
He put a tentative – almost fearful – hand up to his own chin and gently explored it with the tips of his fingers. Then he smiled (it was a brilliant smile), then he gazed at Beede, almost in wonder.
‘
Beede,
’ he said, rolling the name around in his mouth like a boiled toffee. Then he clutched at his stomach (as if the memory had just jabbed him there), leaned sharply forward and took a quick, rasping gulp of air –
Oh God –
Oh God
Just to be…to be…to be…
He stared around him, quite amazed –
Where?
‘Of course,’ Beede smiled back, clearly relieved by this sudden show of progress (tastes and smells, he found, were often the key), ‘of
course
you remember…’
He placed a reassuring hand on to the German’s broad shoulder. ‘Now – deep breath,
deep
breath – are you ready? Shall we get the hell out of here?’
Kelly Broad was sitting on a high wall, chewing ferociously on a piece of celery. She was passably pretty and alarmingly thin with artificially tinted burgundy hair –
Because I’m worth it
Her face was hard (but with an enviable bone-structure), her ‘look’ was urban – hooded top (hood worn up), combat mini-skirt and a pair of modern, slightly scuffed, silver trainers (the kind astronauts wore – devoutly – whenever they went jogging above the atmosphere). No socks (not even the ones you could buy which made it look like you weren’t wearing any – the half-socks you got at JD Sports or Marks & Spencer).
Her legs were bare and white and goose-bumping prodigiously. But she didn’t feel the cold. She had bad circulation, weak bones (fractured both her wrists when she was nine in a bouncy-castle misadventure. Earned herself a tidy £3,000 in compensation, and the whole family got to spend three weeks in Newquay; her gran lived there), a penchant for laxatives and an Eating Disorder –
Might as well bring that straight up, eh?
Un,
Deux,
Trois…
Bleeeaa-urghhh!
Although her eating habits (if you wanted to get pedantic about it – and Kelly did, because she was) were ridiculously orderly (the Weight Watchers’ manual was her bible; she drew up a special weekly menu and stuck to it religiously, counted every calorie, took tiny mouthfuls, ate with tiny cutlery – just like Liz Hurley), so it wasn’t actually a problem, as such; more of a…a
preference
, really. She simply preferred her food fat-free. It was a Life-Style decision (the kind of thing they were always banging on about in magazines and on the telly), and so all perfectly legitimate (especially when your own mother was too big to cram herself into an average-size car-seat – used the disability section on the bus – belly arrived home seven seconds before her arse – hadn’t seen her toes
since 1983 –
Feet?
They had their own fucking
passports
down there).
Kelly came from a bad family.
No.
No.
That was just too easy. They weren’t bad as such (no, not
bad
) so much as…as
known
…as
familiar
…as…as –
Notorious
That was it
And only locally. Only in Ashford –
Well…
– and maybe in Canterbury. And Gillingham (where her older sister Linda supported The Gills – I mean
really
supported them – with a fist-guard, business cards, a retractable-blade). And in parts of Folkestone. And Woodchurch. And some of those smaller places which didn’t really matter (except to the people living there).
In the local
vicinity
, basically. It wasn’t
national
or anything (no special reports on
Crimewatch UK –
aside from a small, pointless item on
Network South East –
November 2001. And that didn’t really count. It was probably just a quiet day – a craft fair had been rained off in Sheppey or something – and they had to fill up the time
somehow
, didn’t they? Yeah. So the Broads copped it again – Uncle Harvey; Dad’s oldest brother; the world’s shonkiest builder –
Blah blah
).
Notorious.
Like the Notorious B.I.G. The rapper. That fat American dude who got shot –
Bang
– dead. And then they made a documentary about him. And she’d watched it. And they’d said that he was actually a really nice guy (underneath. But fat.
Very
fat. That was partly what he was famous for. That’s essentially what the BIG stood for). And his mamma loved him (which had to count for something). And when he died they made a tribute song for him. With Sting. And Puff Da –
Di
– Daddy.