Darkmans. Nicola Barker
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to look for, you can see how the injury – the trauma – has taken its toll, subsequently, on his entire body-posture…’
‘Yes,’ Beede nodded, ‘he did mention it. I mean the fear. He knew almost immediately that he disliked horses, that he was afraid of them. It was actually one of the very first things he seemed absolutely certain of.’
‘Good.’ Elen seemed bolstered by this.
‘Although the horse was standing right next to us at the time…’
Beede shrugged.
Elen continued to cradle her mug between her hands. Her hair fell across her face. She peered up at him, through it. ‘So it wasn’t just an accident?’
‘What?’ Beede scowled. ‘That he was there? Where we were? No,’ he shook his head, firmly, ‘definitely not.’
‘Oh.’
This obviously wasn’t the answer Elen had been hoping for. ‘But if you think about it…’ she mused, ‘I mean the actual geography of that area…’
‘No.’ Beede wouldn’t concede the point, even to mollify her. ‘If we were to calculate the odds – and I mean quite coldly, quite brutally – then I’d have to say that it was at least…’ he ruminated, briefly, ‘at least three-to-one on that he knew – strong odds, in other words.’
Elen frowned. Odds weren’t really her forte.
‘He must’ve known,’ Beede pressed his point home, ‘at some level.’ She shook her head, slowly, as if still determined to resist his negative prognosis. ‘But it wasn’t very far…’ she persisted, ‘he was working in South Willesborough. I came to the restaurant on foot, but he may’ve seen your old Douglas in the car park. It’s very distinctive, after all. It could’ve generated some kind of…of spark.’
Beede’s ears suddenly pricked up. ‘But how did you know that?’ he demanded.
‘What?’
‘About South Willesborough?’
She seemed bemused by this question. ‘Because he rang. He phoned me. Just before I left home.’
‘Ah…’ Beede nodded, then smiled (somewhat self-consciously). ‘But of course. Of course. How silly of me.’
They were both quiet for a while. Beede fiddled idly with the teaspoon. It was a nice, sturdy piece of old-fashioned hospital issue with a reassuringly deep bowl and a broad, flattened tip. Age and over-use had given its original silver finish a slightly greenish hue.
‘So did he let anything slip?’ Elen asked.
Beede shook his head. ‘Not a sausage.’
He glanced up as he spoke (she seemed mildly amused by his colloquial turn of phrase) and then, almost without thinking, he reached out his hand and tucked her hair, gently, behind her ear. The hair was so soft – so shiny – that it immediately slipped free again.
As soon as he’d touched her, Beede stiffened and then blushed (That was Danny! It was him!). Elen appeared completely unabashed. She casually pulled a hairband from around her wrist and tied back her hair into a ponytail with it.
‘There,’ she smiled, ‘that’s better.’
Her birthmark was now fully visible. It was about half an inch across – at its widest point – and just less than an inch long. It was in the approximate shape of Africa (although the southern tip was slightly flatter) and hung like a dark continent between her eyes, which, while also brown, were at least two shades lighter.
‘He did mention that he’d been in South Willesborough immediately before,’ Beede reverted – with an element of bluster – to his former train of thought, ‘and we eventually found his car on the roundabout, close to the new exit. He’d left the door open. It was causing quite an obstruction. The police had just pulled up.’
‘God. You should’ve phoned.’
Elen seemed about as close – in that instant – as she ever was to being fully engaged.
‘I know, but he expressly asked me not to, and I just felt…’ He shrugged, grimacing.
‘Compromised,’ she nodded, understanding completely, ‘of course you did.’
She reached out her hand and covered his hand with it.
He automatically pulled his hand away – she didn’t appear to take this amiss – and then he smiled at her; a small, almost apologetic smile. She flattened her palm on to the desk and slowly pulled her arm back in towards her body again. Beede watched her lovely fingers (they were lovely) running smoothly over the coarse grain of the wood. He felt a sudden wave of excitement, then an equally sudden pang of recrimination. His eye settled, glumly, on the neat, gold band encircling her wedding finger.
‘And it’s all my fault,’ she murmured, a finger and thumb from the offending hand now fiddling, nervously, with one of the buttons on her shirt, ‘I know that…’
He was still watching the hand as it moved slightly higher and strummed the single-string-harp of her collar bone.
‘I feel terrible about it,’ she added, ‘if that helps in any way.’
‘Pardon?’ He finally made eye contact with her. He hadn’t heard a word.
‘I said I’m sorry,’ she reiterated (her cheeks flushing). ‘This is all my fault. I should never have involved you…’
She paused, briefly – as if hoping for some kind of reassurance – but then rushed on, denying him the opportunity (had he taken it) to respond. ‘Although if it’s any kind of compensation, it’s made such an amazing difference, simply sharing the burden with someone. It’s been such a relief… And I’m just so…so embarrassingly…so absurdly grateful to you.’
She laughed on ‘absurdly’ – slightly hollowly – and then swallowed, involuntarily, on ‘grateful’ (so that it emerged in a half-gulp). Beede rapidly gathered his wits together (he’d been remiss before). ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Elen…’
He’d hoped to make this sound tender, but failed abysmally (his tender parts were as creaky, ill-used and rusty as the hinge of an ancient door).
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘I mean…’ she shook her head ‘…No. You’re right. I should just…’
Her hand flew, briefly, to her mouth. She cleared her throat. Her hand dropped. She seemed quite composed again, but her lips were just a fraction too straight. He stared at her mouth, fascinated by this straightness. Then, before he knew it, she’d collapsed forward, buried her face in her hands and was sobbing. No sound. Just her shoulders – her fragile shoulders – jerking, rhythmically, up and down.
Beede was completely overwhelmed. He pushed back his chair (it screeched, maddeningly), glanced anxiously through the window, tensed his legs (as if about to stand up), but then stayed exactly where he was. Five seconds passed. Finally, he reached over for a tissue – it was a long reach – and then fell to his knees, proffering it to her. ‘Please stop,’ he murmured, ‘crying won’t help anyone.’
He processed these words internally and then promptly tore them into a thousand pieces –
You clumsy, heartless old fool!
He felt like an earthworm in the midday heat, trapped on an endless-seeming expanse of tarmac – crispening up, frightened. He longed for a moist, damp crack to crawl into; for the soil, the dank, the dark.
It took a mammoth effort, but he reached up his arm and cupped his large hand over the back of her small head (like a father might, with his son, or a priest, to a grieving widower). Elen responded to his touch. She drew