Behindlings Read online

  Ted’s eyes widened. ‘A drunk?’ he asked, horrified, honestly mis-hearing, ‘do I really think you’re a drunk?’

  ‘Read my lips, Ted. Do you really think I-am-a-cunt? Do you honestly think I-am-a-whore?’

  Ted stared at Katherine, open-mouthed. ‘A cunt?’

  He whispered the word, plainly appalled by it. ‘I don’t think I… I don’t…’

  Katherine’s pale eyes tightened. She grew thoughtful for a moment.

  ‘No. No it’s not really you, is it? It’s not Ted. The cunt thing. It’s not a Ted thing. You’re right. So it was somebody else? Then who was it? Who was in my house? Who did you take there? Was it the journalist? Was it him again? Was it the tennis champion? Has he been bugging you? Has he been threatening you? Did he force you to take him over? Has he been up to his mischief in my house? Did he stroke Mr Angry Tiger? Was it him?’

  ‘Uh’, Ted didn’t quite know which question to answer first. They all seemed equally unappealing. Katherine scowled at his silence. She had no time for silences. She growled at him.

  ‘You’re confusing me,’ Ted whimpered plaintively, ‘with all these… these questions. The point is…’

  ‘Tell me the point.’

  Katherine took a swig of schnapps, then stamped her foot like a small, short-tempered white pony as she swallowed.

  ‘Yargh.’

  Too strong.

  ‘I thought you’d given up drinking.’

  ‘And I thought you were my friend, Teddy. But you stole my mango creature. And you think I’m a cunt. Although in point of fact cunt isn’t really your thing, is it? Cushion covers are your thing. And property details. And suits. And bits of… bits of lint, and no fucking sex and Deep Heat…’ She shrugged, resignedly, ‘… so be it.’

  ‘You have a new tenant,’ Ted interrupted her, ‘I got someone in for you. But not… but not… It’s just… well they got… they… they looked around this morning.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ Katherine flipped Ted’s tie out from under his waistcoat and blew a boozy raspberry at the cat on it. She didn’t like cats. Sylvester particularly.

  ‘No. I’m serious. I got you a lodger. But the problem is…’

  ‘Who is she?’

  Katherine yanked at the tie, pulling Ted forward slightly. Ted put up a hand to straighten the tie. Katherine slapped it away. ‘That’s partly…’ he started.

  ‘I need a fag. Hold this.’

  Katherine passed Ted the schnapps bottle, stuck the tail between her teeth and felt around inside her jacket pocket.

  ‘The problem is, it isn’t…’

  Ted watched her, anxiously. Her mouth was full. That had to be a good thing.

  ‘It was Wesley. It was him. Wesley. It was all a little con… confusing.’

  ‘Who?’ Katherine spoke through the tail, not concentrating properly, her teeth showing prettily. ‘Who’s Wesley?’

  Ted swallowed, nervously, ‘The one who wrote… the one with…’

  ‘Wesley?’ Katherine looked up, sharply, her spectral eyebrows rising dramatically. She stopped fiddling. She removed the tail from her mouth. ‘You jest, surely?’

  ‘Uh. No. No, I’m not joking. I wouldn’t… uh…’

  ‘Shit.’

  Katherine frowned. She sounded nonplussed. Her eyes slid furtively down the High Street. She glanced at the people as if she’d only just…

  There were plenty of them. People she knew, mostly, doing their shopping. Coming out of the chippy. The Wimpy. The Post Office. The Wine Bar. The pub. Some she didn’t know.

  She glanced at the traffic, on the road. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She straightened her hat and her silky cardigans. Then she looked up at Ted again, noticed the schnapps bottle still clutched between his fingers, grabbed it back from him, cleaned the lip with her palm, fastidiously (as if he’d been drinking from it, surreptitiously), took a quick swig, then stuck her thumb inside like a fleshy cork and held the bottle dangling loosely from her hand that way.

  Ted watched on, anxiously. She swallowed and swung her hand a little. The bottle swung too. He thought she might drop it –make a mess on the pavement, outside the agency –or disconnect her thumb at the joint with the sheer weight of the bottle, maybe; pull it out of its socket.

  Sure enough –four seconds later –the thumb came loose with a familiar clicking. Ted cringed. Urgh. He hated the way she did that. Her strange double-jointedness. It was just so…

  ‘When do I meet up with him?’ she asked.

  ‘Well he said he’d come to the house at around three, but I told him I’d have to…’

  ‘Yeeeach.’ She flapped her hand at him –cutting him dead –turned on her heel and walked off. Five steps later, however, she paused, spun around, pointed the tail at him, ‘And you…’ she told him ominously, before snatching the tail back and marching off at top speed, that sour half-sentence still hanging in the cold midday air, still ringing in his head like a small pebble in a milk bottle, rolling and bouncing down a steep, cobbled hill.

  Ted gently expelled a modest, acid-based burp as he tucked in his tie again and stared helplessly after her, his face a detailed study in forlorn disquietude.

  One thing at least, he thought, was absolutely for certain: nobody could exit better than Miss Katherine Turpin.

  Thirteen

  It was a fourteen mile round trip, all told; a slog, a solid four hours’ worth, if he was lucky. And the weather was shitty (the sky sheeted up and promising, if not snow, then sleet), and his waterproof mac was in his back-pack, and his back-pack was hidden inside the small thicket where he’d been sleeping – a cramped, hollow, shallow indentation, but dry, and trimmed with spiky blackthorn, the lower branches still drooping (inexplicably, for so late in the season) with hard, slightly-shrunken, damson-coloured berries.

  Sloes

  Their fierce juice had stained his hands, his elbows, the nylon fabric of his sleeping bag. It’d seeped practically everywhere. He’d scrubbed it off, at dawn, in the river, stopping himself from gasping by cursing until his tongue was cut, finally, by his gappy teeth chattering –

  Cold

  Wesley glanced behind him.

  In actual fact he was pretty keen to investigate the blackthorn’s holistic and nutritional potential. The sloes were edible but disgusting (he knew they flavoured gin –and wonderfully –but this didn’t say much about their dietary capabilities). He needed to consult a good herbal dictionary (in the library, perhaps –next time, maybe). He made a quick mental note of it. Slotted it away.

  Fourteen miles. A solid four hours. But he still didn’t start immediately. At first he simply meandered awhile; planned ahead a little; strolled part-way down the High Street, past the Post Office, the estate agency (no one of note inside except for a short, squat, ruddy-faced creature who was sitting squarely at a desk and devouring the contents of a large jar of stuffed green olives with his stubby white fingers while appearing not in the least bit discomforted by the awful fact of having some kind of foul, ginger-skinned rodent clambering across his bleary-seeming but greed-enlivened physiognomy. This miserable creature –Wesley deduced –was none other than the fabulously bewhiskered Pathfinder).

  He wandered on further, past the haberdasher’s and the grocer’s, the chip shop and the Wimpy until he stood –just fleetingly –outside Saks; a small, unpretentious, slightly dilapidated wine bar.

  Inside Wesley was able to discern only two people, in total (two men, more precisely, sitting on stools in the gloom by the counter, sharing a quiet yet amicable beer together), both of whom –he stared even harder –were wearing customised shirts and caps, so probably worked there.

  But he appreciated the look of this place –its scruffy, subterranean, almost saloon-like aura –and on a blackboard outside, in badly-formed lettering, he read a list of attractions including pool and darts and satellite and pub grub and music.

  Wesley paused, weighed up these enticements, looked for a lunch board (couldn’t see
one), carefully considered their refuse disposal procedure, frowned, cracked his knuckles, then slowly walked on again.

  He instinctively strolled seawards (it was a knack he had. His Dad had been a marine. The sea was in his blood –in his bones –in his spleen. He had a salt water compass concealed deep inside of him), heading back up the Furtherwick, past Mango-stone Katherine’s, past the pale-green bungalow with the ungainly verandah (no one about currently, no man-moose, his nose glued to the shutters, no perceptible stirrings inside whatsoever).

  Wesley paused for a second. What did it mean, this curiously huge verandah? What did it say? Was this a practical individual? Was this an exceptionally public person? Or a private man living –uneasily, perhaps –in the public arena?

  Or was the verandah symptomatic of some kind of internal burden: whacked up, thrown together, externalised, to some degree? A carbuncle? A weight? A trial? A problem?

  Was it something additional? Something tacked on?

  Hmmn

  Did it represent a man with an overriding, an inflated, a disproportionate interest in some particular issue? Some particular person, maybe? A sad man? A silly man? A nosy man? Ah screw it anyway.

  Wesley strolled on past a brand new hotel; a conversion, but smart looking. [Fancy. Things had certainly started looking up in this Godforsaken armpit of a town lately. Although when the Great Floods came, it’d be the first damn place to go under –sea defences or no sea defences –fuck the whole sodding lot of them.)

  Other houses, in plenty (Not enough trees though, not nearly enough proper trees. Oh God he missed the trees. He missed them. The sky so fucking huge –like an empty, grey soup-bowl –a vast china meat platter. Horrible) then past the car showroom and onwards.

  Hang on. Hang on. Wesley stopped abruptly –Yukka

  – in a pot, across the road, in the entrance to a small house with a stone clad frontage; just to the right of the driveway.

  He immediately crossed over. Two yukkas. Even better. A big one –planted directly into the soil next to the neat, gravel driveway (suffering from a little frost damage by the look of it; these plants demanded sheltered conditions, a greenhouse or a length of fleece - at the very least –during this time of year), and a smaller one –a cutting of the bigger, presumably –just behind it, in a large, dark-green, ornamental pot.

  Right. Wesley glanced around –

  Damn

  – the bloody dog. Where did he come from, all of a sudden? Had he trailed him, unseen, all the way from the library? (God knows, he was slipping. Was he losing it completely? Was he going blind or was it only hunger? Had to eat something. This was getting crazy… )

  But… ah, yes. Yes. That was good, actually. The dog was… he was handy. Grand as a diversion. If only he could just…

  Uh…

  Wesley called Dennis over. Dennis did his bidding, quite obligingly - he admired Wesley enormously. Wesley possessed all those attributes –in abundance –which terriers found irresistible: low standards of personal hygiene, high self-esteem, a flagrant disregard for social niceties…

  ‘Sit, Dennis. Right there. Sit. Now stay.’

  Dennis sat.

  Okey-dokey

  Quick as he could, and partially obscured by the dog, Wesley pulled a sharp hunting knife from his trouser pocket, unsheathed it, squatted, cut two long, pointed leaves from the smaller yukka, tossed them down next to him, turned to the larger plant, delved into the soil at its base, found a root, took his knife, applied it with force to the thickest part, cut, yanked it free, then pressed the soil carefully back into place again.

  He glanced around him as he shook the soil from his hands, grabbed the spines, the root, slid his knife away and hot-footed it (but not running. Never running; anything beyond a lope was an admission of guilt).

  Okay

  He strode onwards (dog still sitting, waiting patiently for the release word) –Bollocks to the dog

  Let the Old Man release him

  – towards a seductively wide expanse of green up ahead.

  Open plan. Parky. But just grass. No shrubs or trees (the fucking trees, where were they?). Muddy underfoot. Clumpy. Used for parking, chiefly, or for travelling fairs in the summer, or circuses, or car-booters…

  Up ahead, the sea wall (a huge, concrete bastard, like something from Alcatraz or Colditz), and balanced on top of that, or virtually, a large, slightly perplexing, art deco cafeteria (newly refurbished) with LABWORTH CAFE written in large, black lettering around its circular perimeter.

  He squinted at this awhile, struggling to remember it from his last visit to Canvey –Space craft Oil drum Water tower…

  Yeah

  – he remembered. It’d been virtually derelict then, but he remembered.

  Wesley rapidly orbited the children’s play park –nobody there: too bloody cold –still foggy out to sea (and the wind howling and screaming the other side of that wall like a nine-month-old baby in the midst of some kind of chronic teething catastrophe).

  Wesley glanced behind him.

  Balls

  Hooch. Way off in the distance, casually inspecting the price tag on a large, metallic blue-green Volvo Estate (Hooch drove a beat up white Escort van. Wesley knew it intimately: the tyre tread, the number plate, the small indentation on the door –passenger side. Knew that damn van like the back of his hand. Cursed that damn van with ludicrous regularity).

  Doc was just behind him. Then the rest of them. Shoes. The girl, walking with the kid. They were talking. The girl made him uneasy. He was almost certain she was working for the Company. She was sneaky. But she had a marvellously open face for a snitch, and that bare-arsed cheek, that gall, that quisling-like quality appealed to him tremendously. Fraudulence of such magnitude –so neatly packaged – was always admirable.

  Why shouldn’t it be?

  Wesley turned and quickened his pace. To his left: The Carousel; a huge, crouching, plastic construction. Shed-like. Orange-brown. Bricked. Cheap. Open in the summer for gaming, for bingo, for indoor bowling, possibly.

  Left of that, over a small road: The Majestic. A large hotel. Art deco. So must’ve withstood the floods back in ‘53 –in some shape or form –still to be here today. And so resolutely. Although –come to think of it –the sea wall was actually breached –

  Uh…

  Where?

  – to the East a way? By the jetty? The marshes? The very direction, in fact, that he was currently heading –

  But not…

  Wesley jinked left –

  Not quite yet

  He upped his pace; around the hotel’s voluptuous curvings, then slinked quickly –seamlessly –through an unobtrusive side-passage –Ah

  Rubbish

  Black refuse bags a-plenty. He kicked a couple, squatted down, carefully placed his yukka stash next to him on the floor, then pulled one open and delved inside…

  Tin foil, used napkins –

  Ouch

  – cocktail stick.

  Back in again –

  Yes…?

  Yes!

  Lemons. Exactly what he was looking for –God he was hot today –and a cherry or two (he tossed the cherries into his mouth, chewed, swallowed ravenously, kept the lemons –six slices –still plump –fantastic. Ripped off a bit of the tin foil, wrapped them up in it, shoved this package firmly into his jacket pocket).

  Bag of peanuts –

  Waaah!

  – just past their sell-by. Amazing. Stuck them into his pocket, alongside the lemon.

  Another packet –

  Bingo!

  – opened, though. He removed a stray match from inside the lip and tossed it over his shoulder then emptied the contents onto his tongue in one go, chewed with prodigious enjoyment, swallowed.

  Anything else? Nope. Old tissues. Crushed cans. Cigarette butts –

  Oooh

  – half-smoked cigarette –pink-lipstick-tipped. He tapped out the used and blackened tobacco until the weed grew browner, then sealed the
open end, neatly, and pushed it, carefully, inside the left cuff of his jumper.

  Right. That was that. He tied the bag up again, grabbed the yukka, stood up, glanced around him, furtively. No rear exit –

  Bugger

  – back out the way he came in, then.

  He headed grimly for the street –the soup-plate sky –the wind

  – those painfully familiar shapes on the horizon…

  Oh Lord

  Oh bloody, bloody Jesus Christ

  – sometimes he longed so hard for that lonely feeling that his stomach contracted and his temples began throbbing –Fucking Hell

  STOP all this GRIPING

  Sharp left. Over the road. Sea wall –concrete –lowering above him. Twelve short steps to climb it. No chance –no damn time –for pointless bellyaching –

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four…

  – up to the top –

  Yaaargh!

  The foul cold air hit him, without relenting –

  Fr-fr-fr-fucking-fr-fr-freezing!

  – wind slicing into his cheek-flesh like a razor-fish –making his ears hum, his eyes water, his teeth tingle…

  But he turned straight into it, his lips smeared into a grin, his hair flying back (a thousand tiny hands, a million lost souls, wailing, pushing, pummelling against him). He threw himself –recklessly, belligerently –into the skin-chapping blare of oceanic pandemonium. (Okay. The English Channel. But still mean as fuck for all of that.)

  Wesley smiled to himself, derisively, pulling the collar up on his jacket.

  One foot, then the other

  One foot, then the other

  And so –in this trifling way, and in this violence –began The Walking proper.

  Fourteen

  No electricity. That couldn’t be just a coincidence. And no phone line, either –

  Ditto

  Had to try not to get paranoid, but sometimes the people who… the people…

  Damn!

  Arthur was struggling to get the Calor Gas heater going. He’d already checked the weight of it. Heavy. Full of butane. But something wasn’t quite right with the nozzle. He’d found it on its side, kicked over –by the intruder, presumably. (The Intruder? Or was it something a little less informal, a little more… hmmn… choreographed, maybe?)