Darkmans. Nicola Barker
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everything crumbled – 22 January 2003. A vicious gang-fight on Green Lanes. A massacre. The accidental death of an innocent bystander. An armed swoop on a Haringey cafe. A police officer attacked with a kebab skewer. Illegal gambling. Nine arrests. Operation codename NARITA. Commanding officer Steve James and a friendly – a very friendly – interpreter. (Oh that friendly interpreter! The dire threats she’d made! And the bewildering promises!)
Her name was Marta. She was sixty-three years old, half-Cypriot and a widow, with a mixed degree in psychology and philosophy from Trent University –
Marta
She’d reached out her hand to him, and Gaffar had taken hold of it (it was a soft hand, smelled of hazelnut nougat and –
Mmmm
– Indian rose-water).
Marta, it soon transpired, was to be Gaffar’s Jonah (although the whale was not a tent this time, but the claustrophobic courtroom in which he’d calmly turned state’s evidence).
Gaffar – like his father before him – had niftily slipped the border. And on the other side?
Ash-ford?
What a clumsy word
So this was where his journey ended. This was where he’d sunk his anchor. This was his port, his haven, his harbour. This was where he disembarked: a crummy job, an old shirt, his faithful Thermos (a leaving present from a favourite aunt). Two weeks rent paid up in advance…
This –
Ah yes
– was his Brand New Start.
But only so long as he did Absolutely Nothing Wrong, Mate – D’ya hear?
Someone had to take custody of the two dogs, so Kane (having first glanced around him for any other likely candidates – bugger. Not a one) reluctantly agreed to shoulder the responsibility.
Once the ambulance had pulled off, he ushered them both inside. The big one was a little snappy, but they trotted into the narrow corridor gamely enough, turning at the foot of the stairs (leading up into Kane’s first-floor section of the flat) and gazing over at him, expectantly, as if awaiting further instructions.
Kane tried to move past them and the larger one growled –
Oh, really?
He tried again. This time it snarled, and the smaller one –
The little shit
– backed him up.
Right
Kane considered his options –
The pound?
Pest control?
The butcher?
Ten seconds later, there was a knock at the door. He answered, still musing. It was Gaffar. He was holding a large, brown envelope (which he’d discovered over by the wall) and a small, silver trainer. ‘This her,’ he said, proffering the trainer politely, like a down-at-heel Buttons in Cinderella.
‘Pardon?’
Kane really was quite exhausted.
‘These two items belong to your skinny whore,’ Gaffar reiterated.
‘Oh…yeah,’ Kane said, recognising Kelly’s distinctive footwear, and then (much to his horror) the brown envelope she’d mentioned previously. ‘Shit. This must be for Beede. Thanks…’
He took the two objects, tucked them under his arm, and was about to close the door (a symphony of growling promptly resuming behind him) when his conscience briefly pricked him and he paused. ‘So d’you get a roasting?’ he asked abruptly. ‘From your boss?’ ‘Eh?’
Kane mimed the throwing of the Thermos and then pointed to the chipped window.
‘Ahhh,’ Gaffar just shrugged, resignedly.
‘The chop?’
Kane made a chopping gesture.
No response.
He thought for a moment. ‘The axe?’
He made a dramatic slicing motion across his neck.
Gaffar’s eyebrows rose for a second, then he nodded. ‘Yeah, I’m screwed, but so what? I’m beyond caring, man. He thinks I’m a live-wire, huh? A troublemaker? Well he can stick his stupid opinions up his own arse. The bottom line is, I’ve had enough. I’m through. And that’s my decision. I’m master of my own destiny, see? I don’t care what he tells the damn authorities. He treats me like a slave, yeah? He pays like a…a cunt…yeah? I told him I could earn a better living out on the streets. I did that in Diyarbakir for an entire year. Lived like an animal, off my wits.’ Gaffar tapped the side of his head, meaningfully. ‘He’s a fool. An imbecile. I could devour his brains in one sitting and still feel ravenous.’ He paused for a moment, breathing heavily. ‘You’re right,’ he continued, vaingloriously, ‘I should slaughter his entire family. Steal his money. Steal his car. Get the hell out of here…’
As he spoke, Gaffar made a series of rather fetching little stabbing motions with an imaginary blade. On the final one, he symbolically disembowelled a toddler, then snatched some keys, which the toddler (rather mysteriously) appeared to be clutching.
Kane was scowling now, struggling to keep up with him. Gaffar observed his confusion (let it ride for a few seconds), and then, ‘I’m just joking,’ he exploded, with a loud cackle, slapping Kane jovially on the shoulder, ‘you big, fat, ugly American twat.’
He continued to grin at Kane. Kane smiled brightly back. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ he said, ‘but I believe “American twat”,’ he drew a neat pair of speech marks in the air, ‘is actually part of an international vocabulary – a universal language – which we all share.’
Gaffar mused this over for a second, apparently unmoved. ‘Wow-wee,’ he finally murmured, dryly.
Kane sniggered (the man had balls, there was no getting round it).
‘You’re funny,’ he said eventually, ‘and you can take care of yourself. I respect that. Come on in. I’ll dig you out a spare shirt. We can smoke some ganja. Some weed, huh? Then I must get some fucking zeds or I’ll expire.’
‘Okay.’
Kane pulled the door wider. Gaffar slipped smoothly past him to a muted vibrato of snarling.
‘Just watch out for the…’ Kane glanced over his shoulder, worriedly. ‘Uh…’
Beede never locked the door which separated his and Kane’s living areas. To do so would’ve shown a complete lack of faith in his son (and, by default, in his own parenting abilities). This decision ‘not to lock’ was primarily self-serving (Kane’s feelings – or probable lack of them – barely entered into the equation). Beede’s