Behindlings (26 page)

‘D’you mean the Arabic gentleman?’ Arthur asked, placing his palm onto what remained of the handrail, tentatively.

The Hippie frowned at this description, ‘Arabic?’

‘Or Iranian. The Iranian gentleman. He just left here.’

‘An
Arabic
gentleman?’

‘Or Iranian.’

‘
Two
gentlemen?
Both
Middle Eastern?’

‘No. No, there was… No. There was only one person. Arabic.
Or
Iranian. Only one. They just this minute…’

‘I see.’

The Hippie nodded and then turned confidingly towards the blind man, as if in some doubt of his having heard the exchange between them, ‘He’s now saying that it was only
one
gentleman, Herbie, and that he just this minute left here.’

The blind man tossed his head –like a newly-harnessed pony –thereby implying that either he’d heard the conversation himself (and needed no interpreter –he was only
blind,
after all) or that he didn’t –for some unspecified reason –feel like Arthur’s testimony was entirely trustworthy.

Arthur frowned. He had the distinct feeling that the piss was being taken out of him. Either that or the Hippie was an absolute fool.

The Hippie paused –thinking deeply for a moment –then half-turned to consult the blind man again, ‘An
Arabic
gentleman, Herbie. Would you describe Wesley as looking –in any way –like a person of Arabic extraction?’

‘I’m
blind,
you damn Hippie imbecile…’

Arthur smirked to himself.

Exactly

‘And anyway,’ the blind man continued, ‘if somebody
had
just left this vessel, we almost certainly would’ve seen him…’

He lowered his voice slightly, ‘Bear in mind, Shoes, that the stranger may well be lying.’

‘I have no reason,’ Arthur sharply interrupted, ‘to lie about a man having just left this craft. He left along the bottom path. You mightn’t’ve seen him from where you were. It’s foggy…’

You’re blind

‘and it’s already getting dark out. I have no idea which direction he originally came from. It may well’ve been Canvey.’

‘Good point,’ the Hippie conceded, perhaps just a touch too easily (Shoes did not enjoy conflict. He was a hippie. It was more than a fashion. It was a philosophy). Arthur growled to himself, under his breath, then half-turned, as if intending to retreat into the cabin.

‘Just by-the-by,’ the Hippie stopped him, before he could escape them, ‘it might be helpful for you to know that Herbie here got slightly peed-off clambering down your embankment. He’s blind. It’s steep and very slippery. I had trouble with it myself, although obviously I’m…’ he smiled, humbly, ‘I’m lucky enough to be fully sighted.’

While he spoke, Arthur was staring –

Discreet

Be discreet

– at the Hippie’s bare toes, but once he’d gleaned the basic gist of what he was saying (and the casual censure implicit in it), he glanced back up at his heavy, pale face, deeply affronted.

‘It would certainly be rather
foolish
…’ he spoke, somewhat harshly (as was his way), ‘to somehow imagine that this particular piece of rural wilderness was now, or ever would be, in any way adapted to the special needs of the mentally or… or
vi… vi… visually
impaired.’

Jesus Christ what a swine I’m being.

Jesus Christ his feet must be freezing.

‘I think it would be fair to say that the man we are looking for is of
Caucasian
stock…’ the Hippie elucidated, preferring –under the circumstances –to show the cruel wit of Arthur Young a Christian cold-shoulder.

The blind man nudged the Hippie, ‘Ask the little turd how long he’s been staying here. Ask him if he knows who owns this craft.’

Arthur –stiffening visibly –heard the blind man’s comments first hand but even so, the Hippie took it upon himself to repeat them again, but slightly modified, for the sake of diplomacy. ‘I don’t know if you’ve been staying here long,’ he began tentatively, ‘or what your
connection
to this craft might be exactly, but the man we are looking for had a camp –or at least, he did do, yesterday –in that clutch of bushes, over there…’

The hippie pointed.

‘Yes,’ Arthur’s lofty gaze returned –irresistibly –to the hippie’s toes. The nails were so long that they were almost curly. And the width, the thickness, the
dirt.
Arthur didn’t consider himself to be –not at heart, anyway –a fastidious person, but even
he…

‘
Yes?
’ The Hippie looked slightly confused, ‘You
did
see him?’

Arthur nodded, composedly.

Hah

‘And when would that’ve been?’

‘Well…’ Arthur considered this question, at his leisure, ‘let me see… he started camping here on Wednesday, and I’ve seen him around just about every day since then. But today? I guess approximately half an hour ago –or an hour. I can’t be totally sure.’

The hippie turned to consult the blind man, ‘How long ago do
you
reckon it must’ve been, Herb?’

‘Half an hour, max,’ the blind man assured him. Then he crossed his arms –not a little aggressively –and fixed Arthur firmly with his fluttering white stare, ‘You weren’t here yesterday,’ he stated baldly.

Are you calling me a damn liar?

‘I suppose you must be a couple of those…’ Arthur chose his words disdainfully, ‘those
Following
types.’

‘Yes we are, mate,’ the blind man answered.

Mate?

‘And as it happens,’ Arthur continued, ‘I
was
here yesterday. This is my boat. I’ve had permanent tenure of it since January 1970.’

So screw you.

The blind man snorted. He was having none of it.

‘Let me see…’ Arthur pondered, provocatively, ‘
yesterday… uh…
Wesley was setting some traps. I believe he ate gull for lunch –caught at the dump. We had a rather interesting discussion about bio-diversity… and later…’ Arthur paused, haughtily, ‘I think he said that later today he would be…’ The Hippie seemed mesmerised. The blind man was still glaring (but foiled, disgruntled), ‘breaking up camp and meeting with a librarian. Drinking lemonade.
That
was it. We made lemonade, earlier.’

‘Lemon slices from The Hotel,’ the Hippie spoke excitedly to the blind man, ‘I
told
Hooch he was mucking about finding lemons in the trash back there.’

Arthur’s expression was briefly a picture –

The trash?

The blind man suddenly raised his right hand. He was holding a white stick in it. The stick was splattered with mud. The hippie ducked slightly to avoid being swiped by it.

‘Somebody’s coming.’

The blind man seemed certain.

Arthur glanced up behind the two of them and along the embankment. In the middle distance (wading through the fog like it was a palpable entity) he saw another man approaching. Another stranger. Tall. Suited. Holding a briefcase.

The Hippie twisted around to try and look himself, but because of the acuteness of his angle at the base of the embankment, he was obliged to wait a little longer to get a proper sighting. When the man finally came into focus, however, the Hippie appraised him but didn’t show –or not so far as Arthur could tell –any sign of recognition.

He turned back around to face the blind man. ‘
Suit,
’ he muttered disparagingly (Arthur saw the blind man baulk at this description. He was wearing a suit himself, and a heavy grey crombie).

‘Let’s get out of here,’ he added, ‘before Doc gets away from us completely.’

He took the blind man’s hand, turned him, then slowly began guiding him back up the bank again. They were whispering as they clambered. Sharing confidences. But Arthur wasn’t interested. He couldn’t hear them, anyway, and he wasn’t bothered. He was already distracted by the approach of the fourth stranger. The fourth arrival to this icy, darkening, godforsaken hole in under an hour.

‘Wesley
chose
him,’ the Hippie whispered, ‘for the negotiation. He lives here. A little frosty, admittedly. But definitely not a Follower. He doesn’t have the Following… the Following
odour…
’

‘You’ve got it all wrong, Shoes,’ Herbie shook his head, ‘he said he’d been here since 1970, yeah? Well that’s absolute rubbish for starters. And then there’s the computer…’

‘The computer?’

‘Didn’t you hear it bleeping?’

The Hippie gave this some thought, ‘I suppose I did. But what about it?’

‘There’s no bloody
electricity.
’ ‘Are you sure?’

‘Can you see any wires?’

‘
Uh?
’

‘Overhead. There aren’t any. I’d’ve heard them buzzing. I’m not hearing anything at the moment except the clink of the Power Station, and that’s still-a couple of miles away.’

The Hippie peered up into the sky.

‘If you want my opinion…’

‘I do,’ the Hippie interjected.

‘I think this guy’s a plant. He’s from the company, probably. Or a pressure group. Or the papers. Shall I tell you how I know, Shoes? Shall I tell you why?’

The hippie licked his lips, like an oversized cat, waiting fatly for a delicious portion of free cream. The blind man rarely disappointed him. The blind man was keen. The blind man was a blade –his sharpness was legendary.

‘You don’t mention this to Hooch, okay? You don’t mention this to Doc.’

‘I wouldn’t think of it,’ the Hippie sighed, ecstatically.

‘Okay,’ the blind man took a deep breath, in preparation, ‘that craft belonged to Wesley’s father. Has done for years. Since 1973, to be exact, when he was working for the petroleum industry. And if that skinny little
fuck
back there doesn’t know that, then he doesn’t know
squat.
’

‘Jesus
bollocks,
Herbs,’ the Hippie was blown away, ‘where the heck are you getting this from? It’s legendary. Is it police stuff? Is it inside information?’

‘Nope. Just basic detective work,’ the blind man smirked. ‘I went to the Town Hall and they turned up trumps, for once. Most obliging. I put my Temporary Careworker on the case this morning. Poor blighter’s fingers were bleeding by the time I’d finished with him.’

The blind man mimed someone struggling against the cruel advances of a copious filing system, chuckling to himself, gleefully. Then he poked the Hippie –twice –very sharply, very playfully, very
exactly
in the centre of his ribs. Perfectly certain, as he was, of their precise location.

Twenty

Katherine Turpin yanked her front door open and stared out at Wesley, her pale face – considering how late it was (inexcusably so), and
who
he was (more particularly) – set into a cool mask of quite commendable equanimity.

‘Congratulations,’ she told him, after an extravagantly lengthy span of keen-eyed scrutiny (during which time, Wesley supposed, she’d discovered virtually everything she needed to know about him: –

Handsome

Wounded

Infernal

Filthy)

‘You are three hours late.’

One hundred and eighty minutes. Fuck. That was forever.

‘Well,
hello
there,’ Wesley pushed straight past her and into the hallway. ‘Would you mind closing the door? Are you Katherine? Is Ted about? Did he wait for me?’

He spun around, as an afterthought, holding out his hand to her, ‘I’m Wesley, by the way.’

‘And any illusions you may’ve clung to…’ she calmly continued, closing the door (but not because he’d asked her to. She’d have closed the damn thing anyway. It was
her
door. It was
icy
out there), ‘about creating a favourable…’

She paused and then inspected the proffered hand more closely. It was the damaged one (just a thumb) and it was tremendously gory.

‘
Blood.
’

The enlivened tone of her husky voice denoted fascination (perhaps even
glee,
Wesley observed, delightedly) rather than any of the more customary emotions.

Katherine’s keen eyes glanced down further. ‘Oh
man,
’ she expostulated crossly (her frisky ebullience instantly terminating), ‘it’s dripping all over my clean floor.’

Clean
floor?

Wesley raised one quizzical eyebrow, but didn’t take this opportunity to inspect (or curtail) the mess he was generating. Instead he stuck his puggish snout high into the air, and sniffed around, like a hound. ‘This place still reeks of hamster,’ he informed her with just a hint of flirtation, ‘which is absolutely fine by me.’

(We need compromise, he was implying, on
both
sides, here.)

Katherine frowned over at him, bemusedly. He was quite a card, this Wesley. And unabashedly
chippy.

She readjusted her former evaluation of him accordingly:

Mongrel

Card

Chippy

Filthy

Yup. That was pretty much the sum of it.

Wesley stood straight and unblinking (if somewhat uncomfortably) throughout Katherine’s brief critical reassessment of him, his second arm – his
good
arm – tucked up inside his coat (the sleeve dangling limply, the tip shoved, Napoleonically, into the pocket). Something large, something bulky, was also concealed under there. These two factors weren’t liable – Katherine decided – to be entirely unconnected.

Wesley smiled cryptically at Katherine’s expression of quizzical perturbation, his cheeks still part-frozen from the cold outside, his two mucky eyes glowing sulphurically.

Odour – malodour – inodour; it suddenly didn’t matter. Of far greater significance (at that particular juncture) was how
bony
she looked; how proud, how loud, how delightfully faded; how fucked-up, how worn-out, how sexy – jaded – drained –
sculpted.