Darkmans. Nicola Barker

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      Beede shrugged, as if the answer was simply obvious.

      ‘Why?’ Kane asked again (employing exactly the same maddening vocal emphasis as before).

      ‘Because she was a decent enough girl,’ Beede observed stolidly, ‘and I liked her.’

      Kane snorted. Beede glanced up at him, wounded. He took a quick sip of his coffee (in the hope of masking any further emotional leakage), then – urgh – winced, involuntarily.

      ‘Tasty?’ Kane enquired, with an arch lift of his brow. Beede placed the cup back down, very gently, on to its saucer. Kane idly struck at his lighter again –

      

       Nothing.

      ‘So you think I had a problem with her?’ Beede wondered, out loud, after a brief interval.

      ‘Pardon?’ Kane was already thoroughly bored by the subject.

      ‘A problem? You mean with Kelly? Uh…’ He gave this a moment’s thought. ‘Yes. Yes. I suppose I think you did.’

      Beede looked shocked.

      Kane chuckled. ‘Oh come on…’

      ‘What?’

      ‘You oozed disapproval.’

      ‘Did I?’

      ‘Through every conceivable orifice.’

      Beede’s nostrils flared at this cruel defamation, but he drew a long, deep breath and swallowed down his ire.

      ‘Okay. Okay…’ he murmured tightly. ‘So what do you think I “disapproved” of exactly?’

      Kane threw up his hands. ‘Where to begin?’

      Beede folded his arms. Kane duly noted the folding. ‘All right then,’ he volunteered, ‘you thought she was a tart.’

      Beede blinked –

      

       Tart?

      ‘You know…’ Kane’s voice adopted the tender but world-weary tone of an adult describing something simple yet fundamental to a wayward toddler – like how to eat, how to walk (‘So you put one foot…that’s it, one foot, very slowly, in front of the other…’)‘…a tart; a harlot, a strumpet, a whore…’

      Beede opened his mouth to respond, but Kane barrelled on, ‘Although you shouldn’t actually feel bad about it. I was fine with it. In fact – if anything – it was an incentive of sorts…I mean romantically.’

      He paused for a second, musing. ‘Isn’t it odd how the disapproval of others can often contribute so profoundly to one’s enjoyment of a thing?’

      Beede opened his mouth to answer.

      ‘Tarts especially,’ Kane interrupted him.

      ‘Well she certainly dressed quite provocatively…’ Beede ruminated.

      Kane waved this objection aside. ‘Nah. It was all just an act. Smoke and mirrors. A total fabrication. She was a sweetheart, an innocent. Her bad reputation was down to nothing more than a couple of stupid choices and some bad PR.’

      ‘But you still broke up with her,’ Beede needled.

      Kane shrugged.

      ‘Indicating that perhaps – at some level – it did actually bother you?’

      ‘No,’ Kane shook his head. ‘It wasn’t ever a question of virtue with Kelly. It was simply an issue of trust.’

      ‘Ah-ha…’ Beede pounced on this idea, greedily. ‘But isn’t that the same issue?’

      ‘Absolutely not.’

      Kane smiled at his father, almost fondly, as if touched – even flattered – by the unexpectedly intrusive line of his questioning. ‘She wasn’t a tart. Not at all. But she was a thief, which is a quality I find marginally less endearing.’

      Beede seemed taken aback by this piece of information.

      ‘She stole? What did she steal?’

      ‘Huh?’

      Kane’s attention was momentarily diverted by a sudden commotion outside in the car park.

      ‘I said what did she steal?’

      Kane struck his lighter again –

      

       Nothing

      ‘You really want to know?’ he murmured.

      ‘I just asked, didn’t I?’

      ‘Yes. Yes you did…’ He sighed. ‘She stole tranquillisers, mainly; Benzodiazepines…’

      

      Kane struck his lighter for a final time and on this occasion a flame actually emerged and it was a full 5 inches high (he always set his lighters at maximum flare, even if his fringe paid the ultimate price for his profligacy).

      ‘…Some Xanax. Some Valium. Some…’

      He paused, abruptly, mid-enumeration –

      ‘Holy shit!’

      The flame cut out.

      A man.

      There was a man.

      There was a man at the window, gazing in at them. And he was perched on a horse; an old, piebald mare (the horse wore no saddle, no reins, but he sat astride her – holding on to her mane – with absolute confidence). He was a strange man; had a long, lean, pale-looking face underpinned by a considerable jaw, grey with stubble; a mean mouth, sharp, dark eyes, thick, brown brows but no other hair to speak of. His head was cleanly shaven. He was handsome – vital, even – but with a distinctly delinquent air. He was wearing something strangely unfeasible in a bright yellow (a colour of such phenomenal intensity it’d cheerfully take the shine off a prize canary).

      The window was horse-high, only; its torso banged against the glass, steaming it over – so the man leaned down low to peek in, as if peering into the tank of an aquarium (or a display cabinet in a museum). Kane couldn’t tell – at first – what exactly it was that he was looking for, but he seemed absolutely enthralled by what he saw (seemed to take delight in things – like a child – quite readily). He was smiling (although not in an entirely child-like way), and when his eyes alighted upon Kane, the smile expanded, exponentially (small, neat, yellowed teeth, a touch of tongue). He reached out a hand and beckoned towards him –

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