Читать книгу Darkmans - Nicola Barker - Страница 9

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’.

I mean wasn’t that more plausible? Even from the outside?

Over time (their working relationship – their ‘friendship’ – had lasted about twenty-two months, in total) Beede had started to modify things. He knew that this was risky (perilous, even) but he simply could not stop himself. He’d long observed in Dory a kind of helpless paranoia (a desperate vulnerability) which somehow made the truth seem so immeasurably illogical (and stupid and cruel) that it was sometimes virtually impossible not to suddenly find yourself quickly inserting a small –

Tiny

– neat, white lie to try and make things more bearable. He knew that Elen sometimes did the same. It was difficult not to when you cared for a person. It was only natural (call it a maternal/paternal instinct) to feel a tugging need to assuage their distress in some way; to apply some kind of remedial blotter to the leaking ink of their misery.

So approximately ten minutes into the walk Beede had begun to modify the story (it was boredom, more than anything. Dory would keep on asking the same questions – again and again and again – until he felt satisfied by the answers; and if he wasn’t satisfied he may well turn hostile. There might be –

God forbid

– an ‘episode’.)

Consequently – according to Beede – the horse had simply ‘escaped from a field’. Beede had ‘just happened across it, wandering around in the road’, so had gone off in pursuit of it, then Dory had arrived – ‘in the nick of time’ – and had helped him to subdue it.

In this new scenario Dory was quite the hero…

‘Yes, I know you hate horses. Don’t you see? That’s what made the whole thing so…so admirable.’

The only problem with this approach was that Dory wouldn’t automatically give up on all his former scraps –

Dammit

– and a few hours later there was always the risk that he might suddenly remember being in the play area (for example) and then get all agitated and jumpy, and the questions would start over. He was tenacious. He was suspicious.

Things were definitely –

Definitely

– getting worse on that score. Elen had said so herself (and Isidore had strongly indicated as much too, in some of his rare – but precious – moments of unselfconsciousness).

On the positive side (and there was always a positive side), he was actually ‘going under’ slightly less often than he had done previously; but when he did, he ‘fell’ much more quickly, was in deeper, and for significantly longer.

When he came to he was just a mess; he was in chaos. It was as if his brain had been placed inside a food processor (set on to its ‘chopping’ function); everything got hacked-up and jumbled together. And the end result? A horrible, indigestible mental coleslaw.

On this particular occasion Beede had taken the precaution of checking his watch at his very first sighting of Dory in the French Connection, and he’d calculated (another quick peek. Yup) that it’d taken twenty-five minutes for him to return to himself (fully return – so that he remembered his address, his wife, his child, his date of birth; all the basics, in other words).

Beede had been on hand for almost the entire process, and so far as he could gauge, things were definitely degenerating. Elen had told him that this’d happened twice before (a serious degeneration): once when they were first engaged, and once a short while after Fleet was born, when Dory had been forced to quit his job with Ashford’s Fire Department (a severe blow from which he’d still barely recovered).

While Beede was certainly no expert, the attacks themselves seemed to have become far more…more perverse…more…uh…tricksy of late –

For want of a better word

More dangerous (even). They were stealthy. They seemed almost to creep up on him. They had no sense of propriety; were untimely, inexpedient and often socially embarrassing. They never (or very rarely) stood on any kind of ceremony. They were merciless. They were indecorous. They were delinquent.

Previously – and again, this was chiefly relying on the information which Elen had given him – they’d had a much more controllable evolution. They were constant but reliable. Were predictable. Were minimal. Had exhibited an internal logic of some kind.

Now there was something almost cruel, almost…

Vindictive?

Is that too emotional?

Now there were ‘flashpoints’. And the paranoia was terrible. Really terrible. Much more severe than it had ever been (ever, Elen said). And the denial was absolute. But worse than all of this – worst of all – Dory had become – and this might not seem like much, superficially, but it was actually the most heart-breaking element of the whole thing – he’d become humourless.

He’d lost his ability to just laugh it all off. He was really – really – brought down by it. He was depressed. He kept saying (for example) that he was finding it ‘hard to focus’ (he’d been twice to get his eyes tested over the last six weeks. His eyesight was pronounced perfect, on both occasions).

He was barely sleeping. Insomnia. He’d always been a light sleeper (needed only four good hours, at most – like Margaret Thatcher), but there was no doubt – no doubt whatsoever – that sleep was a major factor in the whole scenario; a ‘trigger’.

Nobody dared use the word ‘narcolepsy’, and certainly not in front of him (he was German. Self-reliance was his watchword – and clarity, and precision). There was a stigma – Dory felt – with this particular condition, because of its inevitable connection with childhood trauma; the underlying sense of an inability to cope. At some fundamental level Dory closely aligned coping with his masculinity (coping was something he needed to do, and do well, to be a successful male).

Isidore’s finer feelings aside, however, narcolepsy was definitely one of the medical conditions which best fitted his particular combination of symptoms. It didn’t fit completely (symptoms could be like that). Elen said it was as though Dory was missing a shoe, and narcolepsy was a slipper (ie they were related, but not entirely compatible). Beede found this description telling. He found it apt.

The other unsayable word was – but of course – schizophrenia. This word made everybody panic (even Elen). But it was not a fearful word for Beede. For Beede it was just a combination of letters which didn’t even feature in his old Pocket Oxford. The closest they came to it there was ‘schist’; a kind of crystalline rock, whose components were arranged in distinct layers. Beede liked that. He’d tried to tell Elen about it (the ‘layers’ ie the concept of something separate but unified), yet for some reason she seemed to gain no palpable sense of relief from the idea.

Of course Isidore had been medicated for his condition in the past – so far as it was possible (which wasn’t very far at all), because every doctor he visited seemed to have a different opinion (and these medical practitioners were few and far between). Dory hated doctors – found them ‘meddlesome’ – flew into a blind panic at the idea of ‘a diagnosis’. To be diagnosed was to be boxed up, to be compartmentalised, to be made separate, to be lost. For Dory a diagnosis represented ‘the death of hope’. His optimism – and he was optimistic, by and large – thrived in unknowing.

There were some things (some symptoms – side-effects, you might say) which Dory simply wouldn’t factor in during medical consultations (refused to, point-blank, Elen said), and this obviously made it very difficult for any kind of practitioner to complete their medical assessment of him. He could be extremely secretive (for such an extraordinarily ‘open’ person), as if protecting something precious – something vulnerable – inside of him.

And like nearly all people with serious long-term medical conditions, Dory associated medication – being medicated – with a lot of the bad stuff from his past (things from his childhood which he’d never openly discuss: his mother was over-protective, his father very controlling, the usual stuff). So he was heavily resistant to any kind of ‘help’ (medical, analytical), which obviously made things incredibly difficult…

‘Damn!’

Beede suddenly (and unexpectedly) ground to a halt. He put a hand to his chest and drew a deep breath (he was surprisingly short of puff). As he exhaled, he quickly checked his watch. He cursed again. Dory – who was at least ten paces ahead (not even a vague sheen of sweat on him; he was fit as a cheetah) – heard the horse come to a stop. He turned, quick as a flash. ‘Beede? Something wrong?’

Beede glanced up, almost guiltily. ‘No. Nothing. Just a meeting…’ he shrugged, ‘I’m late. In fact I’ve already missed her. I completely forgot…’

‘A meeting at work?’

‘No…’ Beede shook his head. ‘Not at work.’

‘At home?’

Dory looked flabbergasted (this was for comic effect, Beede presumed).

‘Yes, Dory, at home.’

Beede crisply enunciated his response to try and railroad any potential ribbing. It wasn’t a successful ploy.

‘A personal arrangement?’

Still, Dory maintained his little act.

Beede found himself blushing. He had no idea why. He said nothing.

Dory’s eyes flew even wider. ‘What? Beede – Mr Daniel Beede – actually socialising?!’

Beede’s flushed but sombre face cracked into a smile (Ah yes. This was the real Dory. The real him. He could be tender yet mocking, could needle you in that special, gentle way of his which even the most ferocious curmudgeon would do well to take umbrage at).

‘A date?’ Dory rapidly expanded on his theme, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘An assignation?’

‘Yes. No,’ Beede scowled. ‘I didn’t…It’s just some…’

He started to walk again, then stumbled, slightly, on the narrow pavement ‘…some insignificant person,’ he finished off, clumsily.

Dory seemed utterly delighted by Beede’s coy evasiveness. ‘Well perhaps you might ring her?’

He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, then grimaced, and tried his other. Nothing.

‘We need to cross before we reach the fly-over.’ Beede quickly changed the subject, staring first down the road, then up it. He started off (firmly grasping his trousers) at a slow trot. Isidore glanced left himself, then followed.

They reached the other side (Beede now a little ahead) and walked rapidly onward. But after only a few moments, Beede abruptly stopped for a second time. Isidore found himself hard-up against the horse’s rump. He took a quick step back. They were standing at the near-end of the fly-over. Cars and lorries were roaring past. Isidore frowned, glanced behind him, saw a small gap in the traffic and took his chance. He speedily overtook the horse.

Beede was staring down over the embankment to his left and frowning. He seemed deeply preoccupied. A large field lay ahead of them – a semi-circular meadow, full of bleached grass, young trees (huddled inside their protective, plastic sheaths) and a muddle of bushes. They were almost at the point where the road they were taking divided into three separate parts: one section charging boldly onwards, the other two curving sharply off and around to form the different sides (the valves, the ventricles) of a divided heart (or – in the pursuit of absolute anatomical accuracy – the two segregated cheeks of a pair of buttocks). Snuggled into the hinterland of that voluptuous curving were two good-sized plots. The one on their particular side currently contained a thin sprinkling of mixed livestock.

But Beede wasn’t interested in the meadow (nor even in the animals). He was staring past it, towards the Brenzett roundabout which lay a short distance beyond.

Isidore silently followed the line of Beede’s gaze.

‘Oh shit,’ he whispered.

It was his car – definitely his car. It was parked in the middle of the roundabout with the driver’s door left wide open (a total hazard to all other traffic). A police car was pulling up behind it (no siren, but with its blue light rotating). Dory blinked (he didn’t generally respond well to anything that flashed).

‘Superb timing,’ Beede said dryly. ‘But don’t worry…’ (he was extraordinarily composed)…‘tell them the car was stolen while you were on the job, that you’ve just been phoned and informed that it’s been dumped here. You can imply that the kids in question might’ve released the horse,’ he glanced up at the filly, ‘as part of the prank.’

Dory’s eyes made sudden contact with Beede’s – for a split second, perhaps even less.

‘Quick thinking,’ he murmured (instantly breaking his gaze), his clipped voice tinged with something corrosive –

Fastidiousness?

Suspicion?

Disgust?

‘Naval training,’ Beede demurred, with a casual shrug.

Dory half-smiled then jogged on, across the fly-over and a few yards beyond. Here he turned sharply, preparing to swing himself, lithely, over the crash barrier (this was a short cut), but before he did, he paused, glanced back towards Beede and shouted, ‘You won’t tell her, will you?’

Beede didn’t respond at first.

‘Elen,’ Dory yelled. ‘You won’t tell?’

Beede shook his head, automatically. ‘Of course not,’ he shouted back.

‘Hurry.’ He waved him on.

Dory sprang over the barrier, scissored his way between the saplings and then hurdled a second (wood and wire) fence, before clambering and lurching down the field’s muddy embankment. At approximately the half-way point, his trousers started slipping; the fabric locked just above his knees, and he tumbled. It was a dramatic fall – a jester’s fall – with all the additional frills and embellishments.

Beede closed his eyes (in an effort to repress a sharp bark of laughter –

Where did that urge come from?)

– then he turned his face away, waited patiently for a slight lull in the traffic, and moved implacably onward.