Darkmans. Nicola Barker

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ he focussed in on his foot. A small verruca, hidden underneath the arch (which he’d possessed – almost without noticing – for seven years? Eight?) had actually been niggling him for several weeks now (new trainers – he reasoned – with slightly higher insoles. A different distribution of pressure, of body weight…That’d set it off. Those tiny, jabbing sensations. Those sharp bouts of ferocious itching –

      

      Urgh).

      He flexed his toes and stood up. His phone vibrated inside his pocket. He took it out and inspected it, stepping back. As he stepped, he kicked into a tray of damp cat litter. The grey granules peppered the surrounding carpet.

      ‘Shit,’ he looked down, scowling, lifting his feet, gingerly.

       Now what?

      He shoved his phone away, squatted down and scooped a few of the granules on to his hand, wincing, fastidiously, as he dropped them back into the tray again. As they fell he noticed that the base of the tray had been lined with –

      

       Not newspaper, but…

      – a letter…Handwritten. He tipped the tray up slightly to enable him to read it more easily. At the top of the page was the heading: Ryan Monkeith Road Crossing Initiative.

      Ryan Monkeith? The name rang a bell, for some reason. He frowned for a moment, struggling to remember…

      

       Ah…Yes!

       But of course!

       Ryan Monkeith – son of Laura – Laura with the dodgy tranquilliser habit – Blonde Laura – Scatty Laura…

      It’d been all over the local news the previous year –

      

       But Laura never…

      – after he’d been killed crossing a road close to one of the new developments – a pedestrian blackspot…

      

       The A292?

       The Hythe Road?

       The A251?

      They were trying to build a bridge or install a crossing or something –

      

       Weren’t they?

       In his honour?

      – to be funded by his grandad or uncle or godfather. Some powerful local contractor…

      Kane inspected the letter. It was the second page.

      ‘…people like yourself,’ it said, in a feminine hand, ‘with your background in local politics, fundraising skills and the confidence of the local community…’

      Kane snorted, dryly. The next section was smudged. But further down…

      ‘…different sides of the fence, but after a tragedy of this magnitude we hope a certain amount of…’ more smudging ‘…and that’s why we feel your involvement would be especially…’

      

       Blah blah

      His eye was caught, briefly, by something at the bottom of the page –

      ‘Isidore has been amazing – you’ll be more than familiar with his energy and enthusiasm. He recommended you very highly…’

      Gaffar popped his head around the door.

      ‘Is fix,’ he announced, smiling broadly.

      ‘What? You fixed it already?’ Kane slammed down the tray. ‘You fixed the rug? Seriously?’

      Gaffar threw out his arms in a shrug of pseudo-modest self-aggrandisement.

      Kane followed him back through to the living-room. He located the precise spot where the burn had been (just next to the sidetable), squatted down and tried to find any sign of it. Nothing. Not a damn thing.

      ‘Jesus,’ he muttered, ‘you’ve even…the burn went right through to the rough fibre underneath. How’d you get rid of that?’

      ‘I just turned it around, you imbecile,’ Gaffar explained, smiling, ‘and hid the burn under the sofa.’

      Kane glanced up. ‘So you’re from Turkey? You really know about this stuff, huh?’

      Gaffar nodded. ‘Turk.’

      Then he paused. ‘Kurd,’ he modified.

      ‘Did you train in this kind of shit?’

      ‘Are you kidding me?’ Gaffar snorted, haughtily. ‘Do I look like one of those rough-thumbed, short-sighted, carpet-weaving cunts?’

      Kane peered down again, feeling the spot with his hands. He was in love with the job Gaffar had done.

      ‘You’re a genius, man,’ he murmured, gazing up through his lank fringe again. ‘What’s your name? Gaffar? I owe you big-time, Gaffar. You are an unbelievable fucking God-send. You’ve saved my fucking life here.’

      Gaffar tipped his head, bashfully (although he found himself a perfectly fitting receptacle for Kane’s panegyric). ‘Uh…an’ look…’ he clumsily stuttered, in his make-shift English, pushing his hand into his suit pocket and deftly withdrawing a small, neat disc of semi-transparent plastic ‘…Under sofa, lid, eh?’

      Mrs Dina Broad had a wonderful facility for getting total strangers to do exactly as she wanted. It was something to do with her size, the tone of her voice (at once wheedling yet strident), her filthy tongue, and the considerable force of what a quality horse-breeder might call ‘her character’.

      Dina’s manipulative genius was a happy coincidence, because she simply adored to be waited upon (to be bolstered and escorted, indulged and cosseted). In fact she absolutely demanded it. The cornerstone of her ideology was: if you don’t fuckin’ ask, you don’t fuckin’ get – a maxim which she used so often when her kids were young that – during a fit of high-spiritedness while working Saturdays in a print shop – her eldest son had designed her a t-shirt with this, her favourite slogan, emblazoned across the chest.

      If Dina’s life was a carousel (which it was anything but), then there was only enough room on the rotating podium (midst the high-painted roses, the mirror-tiles, the lovely organ) for a single pony; and Dina’s was it (there was her name, in exquisite calligraphy, on a beautifully embossed tag around the neck…And just look at the mane: real silk. And see how straight the brow! How flared the nostril! How СКАЧАТЬ