Читать книгу Behindlings - Nicola Barker - Страница 10

She was cycling on the pavement. At worst, Arthur mused tightly, an illegal act, at best, wholly irresponsible. And that, in fact, was the only reason he’d troubled to notice her. He was not, by nature, an observant man when it came to women. In all other respects his observational faculties were keen, although in general, if he looked for things, then it was mainly for the stuff that interested him: roadsigns, landmarks, industrial centres, museums, farm machinery, traditional breeds. He had an inexplicable soft spot for Shetland Ponies.

She jinked past him. He’d been walking –strongly, cleanly –since sunrise. Her sweet perfume assaulted his olfactory organs as she clattered by. It tickled his nostrils, but crudely. She smelled of cigarettes and dog violets.

Twenty minutes later he caught up with her again. It was a long road, the A127, north of Basildon. She was on her knees, cursing. The traffic whizzed past them. Its speed and its volume were mentally trying. But he was a veteran.

‘Something wrong?’ he asked, his voice (he couldn’t help it) fringed with a facetious edge.

‘Nothing earth-shattering,’ she grunted, as if instantly gauging the true nature of his gallantry. ‘Flat tyre.’

Her voice was so low that he almost started. Husky didn’t do it justice. His mind struggled to think of another canine breed –even more tough, even more northerly –to try and express it with greater accuracy. He could think of none.

‘You have a pump?’

She looked up, took her littlest finger, stuck it into her ear and shook it around vigorously.

He watched her, frowning, unsure whether this was an insulting gesture of some kind which he –because of his age, perhaps, or his sheltered upbringing –had hitherto yet to encounter. She stared back at him, quizzically. He was all sinew. Grizzled. He reminded her of a dog chew. Tough and yellow and lean and twisted.

‘Sorry,’ she said, removing her finger, ‘I’ve got water in my ear.’

‘So you do have a pump,’ he pointed at the pavement to the right of her. She raised her eyebrows, picked up the pump and gave it a thrust. The air blew out of it like the tail-end of a weak sneeze.

‘Yes I do have a pump, but I also have…’ she paused and then spoke with exaggerated emphasis, ‘a fast puncture.’

He pushed his baseball cap back on his head.

‘Cute,’ she said, pointing at the little, squidgy koala-like creature smiling out from the front of it.

He stared at her, blankly. Then something registered.

‘I lost my…’ he scowled, defensively. ‘It’s new.’

She half-shrugged.

As her shoulder shifted he noticed –and it was difficult not to –that instead of a dress she seemed to be wearing some kind of long, antique undergarment. Not see-through. But fragile. An apricot colour. Over that, two pastel-coloured silky pearl buttoned cardigans, half-fastened, and over these, a thin brown coat featuring a tiny but anatomically complete fox-fur collar.

As he watched, she shoved her hand into the pocket of her flimsy coat and withdrew some Marlboros. She offered him the packet.

‘Smoke?’

Arthur shook his head. She shrugged, knocked one out and stuck it between her lips, feeling around deep inside her other pocket for a light. She withdrew a large box of kitchen matches, opened the box and carefully removed one. It was at least three inches in length. She struck it and applied its bold flame to her cigarette, inhaling gratefully, then blew it out while still keeping the cigarette in place. A complex manoeuvre.

Arthur continued to gaze at her. For some reason he found the blowing pleasurable. He watched closely as she replaced the remainder of the match back inside the box again.

She was possibly the palest woman he had ever seen. Her hair was bright white. Shoulder-length. Thin. Straight. Most of it shoved under a small, round hat fashioned from what looked like dark raffia. With cherries. The kind of hat old women wore in fairytales.

But she was still young, if jaded; crinkling gently at her corners, like a random, well-worn page of an ancient love letter. She had disconcertingly pale blue eyes. Eyes the colour of the exact spot where the winter sky brushed the sea. Eyes the colour of the horizon, he supposed. Trimmed with white lashes, and topped by two haughty brows. A phantasm’s brows; cold and high and light and spectral. Barely there. Just a suggestion of hair.

Puffy underneath… the eyes. He thinly smiled his recognition. Oh yes. A drinker. He knew the signs. And he warmed to her, then, but it was a warmth imbued with a profound contempt.

‘It’s portable,’ he noted.

She nodded, and spoke with the cigarette still dangling, ‘Yes. An absolute bloody miracle of engineering.’

Her tone troubled him. ‘How far?’ he asked.

‘What?’

Smoke trickled ineluctably into her right eye. The eye filled with water. She blinked it away.

‘I said how far?’ he repeated, pointing ahead of them. ‘Canvey.’

‘Oh. Far enough.’

He nodded sympathetically, looking down the road again, then he checked his watch. It was only eleven-fifty.

‘Second hand?’ she asked curtly. ‘Pardon?’

‘Do you have a second hand?’

‘Uh…’ he finally caught up with her, ‘yes…’ he blinked, ‘yes I do.’

‘Give me the exact time.’

He checked his watch again then paused for a moment. ‘It’s now eleven fifty-one,’ he said, ‘precisely.’

‘Right.’ She began to fold up the bike. Her hands flew from wheel to seat to crossbar, inverting, twisting, unscrewing. She knew what she was doing. Her hands were small and bony and chalky, but she was impressively adroit. It was quickly done.

‘Finished,’ she exclaimed, slamming the seat down and tapping it smugly, ‘and the time now?’

He inspected his watch. ‘Eleven fifty-one and twelve seconds,’ he said.

She smiled, then stopped smiling. ‘Dammit,’ she cursed, ‘I forgot the sodding pump.’

She grabbed the pump and clipped it into position.

‘The manufacturers say it should take twenty seconds,’ she explained, standing up and dusting off her knees, ‘but I can halve it.’

‘Right. Good. I’m actually heading towards Canvey myself,’ Arthur informed her, deigning not to comment further on the fold-up phenomenon but staring down the road fixedly. He loved the road. He loved roads.

‘On foot? Are you crazy?’ she scowled over at him. Smoke in her eye again. ‘It’s a piss-ugly walk. Nothing to see.’

‘I like to walk,’ he said, ‘I like the fact of walking.’

He found the pale flash of her lashes fascinating.

‘It’s miles.’

‘I know exactly how far it is.’

She spat on her hands and rubbed them together. Then she thought of something and stopped what she was doing.

‘I get it,’ she said, a teasing tone suddenly hijacking her low voice as she removed the cigarette from her mouth and held it, half-concealed, inside her moist, milky palm, ‘you’re one of those…’ she scrabbled for the word, ‘those following people. A Back-ender. You walk places.’

‘Behindling,’ Arthur corrected her, looking disgruntled, but nonetheless refraining from either denying or affirming her assumptions.

She chuckled dryly (sounding, Arthur couldn’t help thinking, like a territorial squirrel: a base, clicking, gurgling), then she focussed in on him again, ‘It’s been all over the local papers because of the clue mentioning Canvey in that stupid, chocolate bar treasure-hunt thingummy.’

‘The Loiter,’ Arthur interjected impassively.

She nodded. ‘Clue three, I believe. Daniel Defoe once called it Candy Island,’ she grimaced, ‘whoever the fuck he is.’

‘Robinson Crusoe,’ Arthur’s eyebrow rose disdainfully, ‘he wrote it.’

‘Oh…’ she shrugged, ‘and what with that poor man dying, obviously.’

‘Don’t hike across beaches if you can’t understand the tides,’ Arthur counselled, somewhat unsympathetically, ‘especially in Anglesey. The water’s always been treacherous there. Everybody knows it.’

‘Good point,’ she concurred, ‘you heartless bastard.’ Then she smiled, casually up-ended her cigarette, softly blew onto the smoking tip of it and carefully inspected the glowing embers below, her knuckles peppered with flecks of ash.

Several long seconds passed before she replaced the cigarette between her lips, grabbed hold of the bike, carried it to the edge of the pavement and stuck out her pale thumb. Now she was hitching. Now she was done with him.

Heartless. Yes. Bastard. Yes. Arthur took these two words on board –not even flinching –and packed them neatly into his mental rucksack. ‘Good luck,’ he said, yanking up his actual rucksack, settling it comfortably between his two lean shoulders and walking on again.

Katherine Turpin turned and stared after him, her chin high, her lips skewed, her characteristically disdainful expression seeming, for once, oddly ruminative.

He was raddled. Yes. Emaciated. Yes. A rope. A bad thumb. An oar. An old oar. But even she had to admit that he walked, well, beautifully. An oiled machine; his legs snapping in and out with all the smooth, practical precision of a trusty pair of ancient, large-handled kitchen scissors.

There goes a man, she thought idly –cocking her hitching thumb a couple of times like she was striking a flint or popping a cork –there goes a man who should always keep moving.

‘He’ll head straight for the library.’

Doc threw out this apparently random observation towards Jo so pointedly, and with such clear intent, that had his words transmogrified into a volleyball they’d have hit her square between the eyes. They’d have fractured her nose. It was a fine nose.

‘I said the library,’ he reiterated, ‘and that’s an absolute bloody certainty.’

Jo glanced around her, just to double-check she wasn’t simply imagining. No. It was beyond question: he had purposefully singled her out. She drew a deep, preparatory breath. ‘But how do you know?’ she asked cautiously, her voice wavering slightly at the prospect of a rebuff.

‘He always goes to the library when he first arrives somewhere,’ Doc elucidated matter-of-factly, as if there was nothing at all remarkable in his sudden decision to include her, ‘he considers the library the best place to gather local information.’

He paused for a moment then added, ‘And while I suppose to an outsider Wesley might seem a little old-fashioned in this respect, in reality the whole process is much more complicated, much more…’ he pondered for a moment, ‘much more social than…’

‘Oh yes.’

This unexpected interruption from Hooch’s direction was followed by a big wink, a small burp and then a succulent chuckle as he rubbed a gloved hand over his heart and lungs, his ribs and nipples, ‘It’s all very social indeed, eh, Doc?’

Doc stiffened, visibly, at Hooch’s intervention. He plainly did not appreciate it. In fact and in principle he was far too sober a creature to involve himself in suggestive banter. He tried to play a higher game. His entire approach to the Art of Following was underpinned by a profound sense of ceremony. It was an intensely serious business; at least, he wanted it to be.

He needed it to be. For how else might he –a weak old man, no funds, no education, no family to speak of –sustain his tacit position of undisputed pre-eminence in matters concerning Wesley, if not by strictly eschewing casualness and irreverence and pointless tomfoolery?

How else, precisely?

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.

The others all looked askance at this.

‘What truth?’ Jo indulged him.

‘The truth that he needs Following. Because –let’s face it –he is the very thing he’s so set upon despising. At root he’s the contradiction. He’s the puzzle. That’s what nobody understands. But we do…’ Shoes looked around him, detecting scant support in the others’ faces. ‘Well I do,’ he qualified.

‘Shoes is very philosophical,’ Doc sighed, ‘but no good at deciphering things. And terrible with maps. So we all try and help him out, time allowing.’

‘I do tend to go my own way, intellectually,’ Shoes averred.

Patty –who’d finished his doughnut several minutes previously –now made a meal out of scrunching up the paper bag and drop-kicking it towards the hippie. It hit Shoes squarely on the thigh. Shoes’ wide face rippled piously, then he stretched out his left foot, picked up the bag with his toes and tossed it straight back to him. ‘Put it in a bin, lad,’ he said.

‘Aw, fuck it man!’ Patty exclaimed, full of bravado, but he took the bag and shoved it hard into his jacket pocket.

‘Wesley also said,’ Hooch told Doc, inspecting his notebook again, ‘that she wouldn’t find what she was looking for here.’

There was a pause. Hooch eyed Jo closely, ‘What are you looking for, exactly?’

Jo did not answer this question immediately. She was still gazing at Shoes’ feet. Then her focus shifted gradually onto Patty’s coat pocket. Her mind was working differently. It was working lengthways, horizontally.

‘Love.’

Her face brightened. ‘Love,’ she repeated.

‘Love?’ Doc echoed querulously.

‘Yes,’ Jo grinned. ‘Love. I was just thinking…’ she counted off the words, one by one, onto her fingers, ‘Wesley… the library… Louis L’Amour… love.’

They all stared at her, blankly. ‘Clue One,’ she said, ‘remember? Look for love.’

‘Okay… Okay…’ Hooch laboriously drawled out his vowels as he wrote down the letters, ‘Looking for love, you say? L… o… v… e. And your full name is?’

He glanced up. Four backs, one tail. All emphatically retreating.