Behindlings (19 page)

The stranger quietly processed this answer, seeming to find no contradiction in it.

‘I set some of my traps around here,’ he told Arthur, ‘in case you sensed anything awry. I’ve been knocking about since Wednesday.’

‘No I didn’t,’ Arthur answered, looking gingerly about him, ‘no I didn’t sense…’

Awry?

‘Just string,’ the man continued, ‘string traps. Nothing to worry about…’ he paused, ‘for humans,’ he added, as an afterthought. Then he paused again, tangled, ‘Not
for
humans. The traps are for
rodents
is what I mean.’ His voice was smiling.

Arthur headed back up the embankment. When he reached the top, the man was bending down, picking up the magazine.

‘I bought this edition myself,’ he said, dusting some mud off it, ‘when it first came out. I remember it very clearly.’

He checked the date, ‘February ‘99. That’s the one. I got so infuriated by it I nearly wrote them a letter…’

‘You did?’

‘Yup. There’s this whole fucking tirade about the ecology of biodiversity –did you read it yet?’

Arthur nodded.

‘Yeah, well the main story,’ the man continued, almost as if Arthur hadn’t nodded, as if he hadn’t read it, ‘involves some excruciatingly fat-headed scientific
twat
making his way through
a rainforest and spraying the trees, willy-nilly, to gauge the number and variety of insects in that particular jurisdiction. Spraying with fucking
pesticide.
In the name of research. In the name of
biodiversity.
A million dead insects, just like that. And what about the birds who feed upon the insects? What about them? And what about the animals who catch the birds? Jesus
wept,
it bugged me.’

The man glanced up.

Oh my God. It was him. It was him. It was him. It was Wesley.

‘Chicken leg,’ Wesley said, slicing through the sudden silence between them with the cold and succulent hen’s limb; proffering it to Arthur, cordially.

‘Thanks.’ Arthur took it from him. Saw the hand.
The hand.
Fingers missing. This sight so familiar in his imagination it was like a poem or a favourite song or…

A poem?!

His eyes filled with liquid. He thought he might sneeze (what a painfully
ineffectual
reaction. Was he Man or Mouse? Was he trapper or trapee? What was wrong with him?).

‘Couple of ants on it,’ Wesley said, gazing –with a half-frown –at the cuddly creature on the baseball cap Arthur was wearing.

Arthur looked closer at the chicken leg.

‘Turn around,’ Wesley continued, ‘and I’ll try and get the rest off the back of your jacket.’

Arthur turned around, hesitantly, almost not believing in the ants. Perhaps the ants were imaginary. Perhaps Wesley was imaginary. But when Wesley drew near him and swatted at his back a few times, iron-handedly, there really was no disputing his status as a solid entity.

‘
A-ha,
’ he expostulated, ‘it’s no bloody wonder they’re crawling all over. You still have a hunk of bread stashed in there.’

He removed the bread from Arthur’s hood. Passed it to him.

Went back to rigorously swatting him again.

‘Couldn’t believe that thing about civets not being a part of the cat genus…’ he muttered.

‘Actually,’ Arthur suddenly intervened, stepping forward –and
downward –out of harm’s way, ‘I’ll take the coat off and do it myself, if you don’t mind.’

He thrust the food he was holding into Wesley’s hands, ‘Have this if you want it. I haven’t touched it.’

‘Are you serious?’

Wesley was delighted.

‘Yes.’

Arthur was embarrassed.

He yanked his jacket off. He couldn’t think straight. He felt… he felt, well,
ridiculous.
Must’ve stood up too suddenly, he told himself, knowing it was bogus as soon as he’d thought it.

Wesley took a few steps back, crouched down onto his haunches –one knee in front of the other, solid as a rock, like a Navaho –and began devouring the chicken.

‘I’ve been eating gull since Friday,’ he said. ‘
Loathe
all that plucking. My thumbs are still raw with it.’

Arthur flapped his hand –rather ineffectually –against the jacket. He said nothing. Couldn’t see any ants there. Couldn’t see anything.

‘But I’ve grown very adept at catching them lately. I’m in the gull-zone.’

‘Catching what?’ Arthur glanced over at him.

‘Seagulls. At the dump. The lorries all come thundering in around one-ish. That’s the best time to nab ‘em.’

‘I suppose…’ Arthur said –

Don’t let him draw you in, Arthur,

Don’t let him reel you in

– ‘I suppose they must taste rather like chicken.’

‘No. They taste like seabird. But this…’

Wesley brandished the drumstick, ‘this tastes rather like chicken.’

Arthur grimaced. Walked straight into that one.

Wesley indicated towards the heater with the chicken leg, then took another big bite of it, ‘That thing empty or what?’

Mouth crammed as he spoke.

‘It’s full. But the nozzle’s dented. It got knocked over.’

‘I can fix it for you. I’m good with nozzles.’

‘No. I’m… that’s fine. I’ll be fine.’

Wesley studiously ignored Arthur’s protestations. He stood up and went over to the canister. He circled his way around it a couple of times –as if stalking it –then stuck the chicken leg between his teeth, placed the bread and apple onto the ground, removed a knife from his trouser pocket and crouched down. After continuing to gaze at the canister for a while, he carefully inserted the knife and painstakingly dug around inside the mechanism.

Arthur slowly put his coat back on again.

Before he’d fastened the zip, the canister was hissing. Wesley turned it off, then on, then off.

‘There.’

‘Thanks.’

He put the knife away and delicately ripped the last strands of flesh from the chicken leg with his teeth. His eyes were unfocussed as he chewed on it. He was considering something. When he’d swallowed, he stood up and tossed the bone over the river. It hit the opposite bank. Disappeared inside the long grass there. He had an impressive arm.

‘Do you have any drinking water on board?’

Wesley wiped his hands on his trousers.

‘Yes.’

‘Great. I’m gonna show you something amazing. Just hold on a minute.’

He grabbed the bread and apple and headed off towards a nearby thicket. In twenty seconds he was back again, a large rucksack slung over one shoulder and a plastic bottle (its neck roughly severed) held firmly in his good hand.

He slung the pack onto the floor and offered Arthur the bottle, ‘Go inside and fill it.’ Arthur didn’t move. He didn’t appreciate Wesley’s
tone.
It was peremptory.

‘Almost to the top,’ he added.

Arthur took the bottle and carried it inside –

Why am I doing this?

– he filled it at the sink and then returned outside with it.

Wesley was kicking at the ridge on top of the embankment, then scuffling his trainer into the fine soil he’d loosened. After a while he kneeled down and began scooping gently at the soil with both hands.

Arthur drew closer, breathing heavily as he crested the slope again.

Ants.
Thousands of them.

He recoiled.

Wesley noticed, even from his kneeling position, ‘It’s only ants,’ he said, grabbing hold of the water bottle and quickly tipping several dark handfuls inside; some soil, but ants, mostly. The ants swam around in the liquid. Wesley shook off his hands expertly, then put his palm over the bottleneck and violently shook the whole.

‘In my rucksack, the side pocket, on the right, you’ll find a thermos. Bring it to me.’ Arthur went for the thermos. Side pocket. On the right. There it was. Red-topped. Tartan patterned. He pulled it out.
Wesley’s
thermos. Had one quite like it himself, actually. In green.

‘Okay,’ Wesley said, standing up –his bad hand still blocking the neck of the bottle –‘let’s move over here a-way, before the rest of these insects get their heads together and come after us for a revenge attack.’

They walked several yards along the bank, then Wesley sat down. ‘Take this,’ he proffered Arthur the bottle, ‘and try and keep it still so that the sediment can settle.’

Arthur took the bottle.

‘Sit down.’

Arthur didn’t want to sit down. But after five seconds he sat down anyway.

Wesley was digging around inside his pockets. From the right one he removed something small, wrapped up in tin foil. He unfurled the foil carefully and revealed some dehydrated-looking lemon slices. Next he unscrewed the plastic cup and lid from the top of his thermos, placed the lemon slices inside it, then delved back into his pocket again. This time he removed what Arthur could only characterise as a home-spun toy. Made from a big, hairy
pip
of some kind. Wire legged. Pearl eyed.

‘Mango-stone creature,’ Wesley calmly enlightened him, pulling an old handkerchief out of his pocket and a crumpled packet of Wimpy coffee sugar, then replacing the toy gently back inside again.

‘Bottle.’

Arthur passed him the bottle. Wesley neatly wrapped the handkerchief over the lip of it then slowly tipped it up and began pouring the ant-liquid, nicely sieved, from the first container, into his thermos.

When this was done, he tore open the sugar, poured it in, screwed the lid back onto the thermos and shook it for a while, smiling over at Arthur like a roguish barman preparing something incendiary.

After a minute or so he stopped shaking, opened it up, grabbed the plastic cup, poured a portion of this foul-seeming concoction into it and handed it across.

‘There you go.’

Arthur stared into the cup, worriedly. He was not a happy bunny.

‘Cheers,’ Wesley said. ‘You won’t regret it.’

Arthur took a sip. Wesley was wrong. He regretted it immediately. He squirmed and then swallowed, grimacing.

‘Ant lemonade. The stings give it
bite.
’

Arthur took a second sip out of sheer perversity, swallowed. It certainly had…
uh…
piquancy.

‘Clever, eh?’

Arthur half-nodded.

‘Can I try?’

Arthur passed the cup back again. Wesley took a sip himself.

‘Hmmmn,’ he sucked his teeth, ‘but is it sweet enough for a lady?’

Arthur scowled, ‘A lady?’

‘A librarian.’

‘Ah,’ Arthur’s lean face slipped effortlessly into a knowing smile. ‘Of course,’ he said, then he abruptly stopped smiling –
Can’t give anything away

Wesley gave him a straight look. He took another sip, squinting –distractedly –towards the houseboat.

‘Let me ask you a question…
uh…?
’

He stared at Arthur enquiringly. Arthur stared back at him, blankly.

‘Your
name?
’ Wesley asked.

Arthur continued to stare at Wesley, still blankly, but his mind was racing.

‘Art,’ he said finally. It was uninspired. But he’d suddenly remembered a boy at school with the same name as him, yet smarter than he was, and better liked. The other kids’d called him Art.

‘Art?’

‘Yes.’

‘The point is, Art, I want to use this address,’ Wesley indicated towards the boat. ‘In actual fact, if you’re cooperative, I’d quite like to use you, too.’

Arthur’s back straightened –perceptibly –with sheer hostility.

Wesley grinned, seeming either to notice or not to notice (it was impossible to tell), and offered Arthur his good hand. ‘My name is Wesley,’ he said, ‘and some time soon –if I’m not very much mistaken –a man will come calling at your houseboat to ask you some questions about me. When this happens I want you to negotiate a deal on my behalf. Tell him I asked you to. Tell him that you are my broker. If he questions your authority, tell him –and this’ll be the main thing –tell him,’ Wesley spoke with special emphasis, ‘that
I never speak to the people Following,
that you are the negotiator, the go-between. He’ll know what you mean.’

Arthur was confused. He felt almost… what was it?
Nauseous?
To be… to be
implicated
in this whole thing. And so quickly, so
readily.

‘But what…’ Arthur paused for a second, ‘what would I be negotiating exactly?’

Wesley shrugged. ‘That’s entirely up to you. All I know is that this man will come –trust me –and he’ll want to make a deal. I want you to broker it however you see fit…’ he paused. ‘I like you, Art,’ he continued, ‘you shared my lemonade with me. I fixed your canister. You gave me some chicken. We exchanged some thoughts on biodiversity. I think we have an understanding.’

Arthur was silent for a moment, then he said, ‘And what do I get out of it? What do I get out of this so-called, this
proposed
deal?’

Wesley grinned again. Heavy teeth. Gappy. Like a pony.

‘That’s for you to decide. You take exactly what you want. Take everything, if needs be. It’s entirely your…’ he considered what he wanted to say. ‘It’s your call.’

Arthur sat quietly, pondering what Wesley had asked of him, still confounded and yet curiously… curiously
affected
by this offer he’d been made –

Oh come on

This is his gift

This is how he ensnares them

Be strong

Be strong

‘Want any more, Art?’

Wesley offered Arthur the cup again. Arthur shook his head. Wesley poured the remaining liquid back into the thermos, sealed it, slowly gathered all his possessions together, stood up, grabbed his rucksack and stashed everything neatly into it.

Arthur watched him –observed the guitar neck protruding. No. Banjo. Wesley played a banjo.

‘You have a phone?’ Wesley asked, once he’d finished.

‘Inside the vessel? No.’

‘I mean a mobile.’

‘No,’ Arthur lied, then… then, ‘Yes. Yes I do, actually.’

‘So give me the number and I’ll phone you later. See how things are progressing.’