Behindlings (57 page)

She laughed out loud at this. An anxious laugh. He was too close for comfort. He was too close by half.

‘You must be
very
proud,’ he said, ‘to have made that difficult transition from local ride to local saviour.’

Jo gazed over his shoulder, her face hardening. ‘I’m meant to be meeting Doc,’ she muttered.

‘There’s something
clever
about you,’ Hooch whispered back, ‘and that’s precisely why I want you out of here.’

Her eyeline shifted.

‘I want you gone,’ he said (in case she remained in any doubt about what he’d meant the first time).

She shook her head, confusedly. ‘I really must be missing something,’ she murmured, ‘are you actually threatening me, Hooch? Or are you threatened
by
me? D’you think I’ve got too close to Wesley or to the big
prize
money? D’you think I might try and steal them both away?’

Hooch adjusted his glasses on his long, wide nose. They slid down again, immediately. ‘The Loiter isn’t an issue,’ he announced calmly, ‘the Loiter’s old news. It’s a done deal already.’

‘How?’

He shrugged.

She stared at him; his long face, his dolorous expression, his unbelievable aura of insufferable complacency. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘You can believe what you like,’ he grimaced, ‘I don’t
care
what you believe.’

‘Then why haven’t you claimed it, yet?’ she persisted. ‘Why hasn’t there been any fuss?’

‘There are some things,’ he placed his hat back onto his head then calmly reached out his hand and took one of the coffees from her, gently prising the lid open with his thumb, ‘far more
important
than prizes, Bean. That’s something you don’t yet seem to have grasped about this whole situation. We were Following long before this competition ever began, and we’ll be Following for a long time after. It’s a long-term
investment.
We’re in this for the long haul.’

Jo wasn’t entirely satisfied with his answer, but before she could puzzle it out, he’d suddenly turned the tables on her.

‘Tell me,’ he asked (taking a careful sip of his coffee, his glasses partially steaming up), ‘what kind of person d’you think you are?’

Jo was unimpressed by this question. It was plainly pure verbiage. Bored she fired it straight back at him.

‘What kind of person do
you
think I am, Hooch?’

‘I think,’ Hooch leaned back against the opposite wall, unmoved by her hostility, ‘I think you’re a fundamentally decent girl. And responsible. You obviously commit to things. You’re cunning. You don’t give up easily…’

He paused, took another sip of his coffee, pointedly ignoring her look of astonishment. ‘I definitely think you’re the kind of person,’ he continued, ‘who doesn’t like the idea of somebody else taking the rap for her.’

‘Why would you think that?’ Jo’s lips suddenly twisted, ‘since – according to you – I famously
did
once let somebody else take the rap for me?’

‘I think that,’ he replied calmly, ‘because of what happened in the bar yesterday.’

‘Pardon?’ Jo was having none of it. ‘My
excruciatingly embarrassing
display, if I recall your words correctly.’

She automatically placed her free hand onto the arm of her coat – underneath which the four stinging cuts lay – as if somehow hoping to defend her wounds from his cruel accusations of insincerity.

Hooch watched this movement. It was thoroughly instinctive. It reminded him of the way Wesley moved. The way he touched his cheek sometimes, or brought his good hand across his belly to caress his fingerless stump.

‘I’m pretty certain that the Turpin girl won’t thank you for sticking your oar in around here again,’ he said, moving on swiftly, ‘whatever your motivations are. Because the more fuss you cause – the more attention you draw to yourself – the more likely you are to stir up all those old…’ he paused, ruminatively, ‘those old
complications.

‘And let’s face it,’ he continued, ‘that kind of scandal never really dies away in this kind of place, does it? The graffiti’s still there, still fresh, after all this time, which means that
somebody
in this town is still heartily committed to the whole affair.’

‘I have a right to try and make things better,’ Jo muttered – almost
sulkily. ‘Wesley had no
business
interfering in matters he didn’t understand.’

‘But that’s
Wesley,
’ Hooch sneered, ‘that’s his
knack.
’

Jo looked down at her coffee cup for a while, dug her neat thumb-nail into the paper. She looked up again. ‘So Doc already knows the answer to the Loiter, then? And Shoes? And the rest of them?’

Hooch wouldn’t be drawn on this. ‘The Blind Man,’ he said, tipping the dregs of his coffee onto the floor, pushing the toe of his boot into this brown pool he’d created, ‘now there’s a
real
live wire for you. Almost a local. Ex-copper. Then there’s the
journalist
boy. Your letter’d certainly provide a juicy little exclusive for a man like him, eh?’

Jo shook her head firmly, ‘My father happens to run the biggest local Salvage Centre on the
Charfleets.
He offers regular financial support to all local good causes, including the local paper. He funded that nasty, talentless little geek’s entire
tennis
career. Bo has nothing to gain from making fools of my family.’

Hooch shrugged, ‘But there’s always someone, somewhere, who’ll gain something from making a monkey out of you, Bean. And now Wesley’s involved the stakes are that much higher…’

‘I don’t care about myself,’ Jo said, ‘but I do care about Katherine…’

‘And Katherine still cares for her father,’ Hooch interrupted, ‘or she wouldn’t be happy to continue taking the brunt of all this stuff on his behalf, would she?’

Jo was forced to concede his point. She did it ungracefully, though, with a scowl and a half-shrug. But this was good enough for Hooch. He crumpled up the coffee carton and tossed it towards one of the bins at the far end of the passageway.

‘What you need to understand, Bean,’ he said gently, ‘is that I’m not personally threatened by you in any way. I don’t care about what you’ve done or what you intend to do. I don’t even care about whoever – or whichever interest – you happen to represent…’

‘Then what’s the problem?’

‘Doc.’

Jo blinked.

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s my concerns over Doc –
for
Doc – that oblige me to warn
you off. The way I see it, so long as you’re hanging around here you’re posing a threat to him. To his general wellbeing. To the structure of the group. To the Behindlings. The Behindlings are his
life…
’

Jo was already shaking her head. But Hooch kept on talking. ‘I don’t feel the need to offer any explanation to you, Bean. I won’t justify what I’m saying or simplify it. I merely want Doc left in peace. He’s in a vulnerable position. People tend to predate on him. They take advantage – sometimes without even realising…’

Jo looked uncomfortable, briefly. Hooch noticed. ‘He lost his
boy,
’ he continued, ‘he lost some of his anonymity. And he’s a little bit excitable – susceptible, even. He’s confused. People have been saying that he’s all washed-up. That he’s losing it. The truth is that he’s
exhausted.
He just needs to Follow, to be quiet, to muddle along at his own pace…’

‘I’m sorry,’ Jo suddenly wasn’t having any of it, ‘that’s just rubbish. I’ve
seen
you around Doc, Hooch. I’ve seen the way you constantly undermine him, the way you criticise him behind his back, the way you clearly resent his status among the others…’

‘You’re interfering with things – with situations – that you don’t understand,’ Hooch spoke slowly and calmly, ‘and these are bad situations. Painful situations. Doc and I have a complicated relationship – I’ll make no bones about it – but it’s a relationship which someone from outside of the group couldn’t
possibly
be expected to understand. And I don’t
want
you to understand it. What I do want you to register – and it’s very simple – is that you need to get out of here. To go. Today. Immediately. Because if you don’t, you’re going to end up hurting him – unintentionally, maybe, but hurting him nonetheless – the same way you hurt Katherine, Katherine’s family, all the rest of them.’

Jo stared at him, blankly.

‘I’ll leave first,’ Hooch murmured, touching the brim of his hat in a show of unexpected civility, then turning and moving off – rapidly – back down the alleyway, ‘just give it a few minutes before you come on out after me…’ he paused, peeked over his shoulder, winked at her, ‘for the sake of propriety, eh?’

Forty-two

His instincts led him anti-clockwise, and the wind – on this occasion – conveniently caught the back of him, prodded him forward, actively encouraged him. So he took a sharp right and just kept on going –

No reason

No need
to justify anything

– until he hit the sea wall and scaled it without thinking.

Still dark. All too soon it was snowing.

He glanced behind him.

He’d been walking for almost forty minutes and this was the first time he’d looked back –

Not a soul

He shuddered, closed his eyes, put his hand to his cheek, rubbed at it gently for a while and then progressed (an almost imperceptible crossover) into slapping at it, ruminatively – the way you’d slap the arse of a newly delivered baby – as if the cheek had grown numb and he was fighting to bring back some feeling into it.

He wobbled. His eyes flew open. He threw out his arms (like a professional unicyclist), regained his balance, then dropped them, briskly, to his sides again.

He peered down to his right, where the sea wall fell deeply – ten feet, fifteen, maybe – onto a concrete pathway (just above what was now marshland – he was headed inland – and a tidal tributary). His eyes suddenly glimmered with a vague sense of recognition.

He continued walking, but now much more purposefully, scanning ahead of him as though hoping for some kind of quick access onto the lower causeway.

He soon found it; a glorified ladder; metal, virtually free-standing; two fireman’s poles with skinny rungs slung between them – bolted into the wall, the bolts all rusting.

He swung himself down, nimbly (the flesh of his palms almost sticking to the metal, it was so icy) reached the bottom, kept on walking – still in the same direction – but slower now, and as he walked he closely scrutinised the dark wall above him. Three minutes – possibly four – passed in this way. Then he stopped, squinted, stepped back, read something:

Katherine Turpin
(in a luminous spray – ‘whore’ scribbled over the top of her name in a different colour)
aborted her own father’s bastard

He stepped forward and touched his hand to it, smiled, then kept his hand on the wall – its rough concrete – as he continued walking, trailing it behind him like a child running a stick against metal railings.

He stopped for a second time when he felt the quality of the concrete changing. He drew close to the wall and found himself analysing another, shorter line of graffiti (much smaller, this time), hacked into the concrete with a knife or a flint or a broken bottle. He stuck out his lower lip – such was the light and the level of concentration required – and struggled to read it (painstakingly tracing his fingers through each letter for further confirmation)

I

am

the

fucking…

He tried to find a noun at the end of the sentence (he imagined; I am the fucking
king;
I am the fucking
end;
I am the fucking
champion;
I am the fucking
best fuck in the whole fucking WORLD so FUCK YOU)
but there was nothing.

He frowned.

‘I am the fucking…’ he murmured. Leaving space for expansion
– an opening, a question mark, even…

Then, ‘I am the…’

He began chuckling (the path between his nose and his lips so frozen he thought it might be in imminent danger of splitting).

‘I am the
fucking,
’ he proclaimed proudly, finally making sense of it, turning back into the wind, throwing his chin into the air (his eyes instantly pummelled by snowflakes, his lashes gently clogged and weighed down by them).

I AM THE FUCKING

Without thinking he shoved his fingertips into his mouth, sucked on them and realised that they were bleeding.

He began walking again. He kept walking –

I am the
fucking

– past the putting green –

I
am
the…

– left onto the roadway –

I
am…

– just beyond the bridge… the –

Calvin

– No–

Culvin

– No–

Colvin

Hah!

He punched the air, victoriously, then clutched at his stomach –

Sharp pain

The snow was falling faster. He paused for a moment and saw – as if the whole tragic spectacle had been specifically timed for him, or
caused
by him (his spectral presence standing there on the edge of that tarmac) – a slow-moving jeep hitting a fast-moving fox.

The jeep honked, braked, made a sudden, thudding contact, but did not stop. Wesley walked forward. The fox lay on its side in the heart of the road; panting, eyes blueing up with shock; a vixen.

One of her back legs was hanging loose, broken, and there was an inconceivably huge gash on her stomach. He saw that her teats were red and still swollen from feeding. He put his hand into his pocket for his knife –

Nothing

– he cursed, walked to the side of the road, saw a dilapidated road sign –