Darkmans. Nicola Barker
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if you drew me a picture. Do you have a pencil?’
Kane was twenty-six years old and magnificently quiescent. He was a floater; as buoyant and slippery as a dinghy set adrift on a choppy sea. He was loose and unapologetically light-weight (being light-weight was the only thing he ever really took seriously). He was so light-weight, in fact, that sometimes (when the wind gusted his way) he might fly into total indolence and do nothing for three whole days but read sci-fi, devour fried onion rings and drink tequilla in front of a muted-out backdrop of MTV.
Kane knew what he liked (knowing what you liked was, he felt, one of the most important characteristics of a modern life well lived). He knew what he wanted and, better yet, what he needed. He was easy as a greased nipple (and pretty much as moral). He was tall (6' 3", on a good day), a mousy blond, rubber-faced, blue-eyed, with a full, cruel mouth. Almost handsome. He dressed without any particular kind of distinction. Slightly scruffy. Tending towards plumpness, but still too young for the fat to have taken any kind of permanent hold on him. He had a slight American accent. As a kid he’d lived for seven years with his mother in the Arizona desert and had opted to keep the vocal cadences of that region as a souvenir.
‘Come to think of it, I believe I may actually…’
Kane busily inspected his own trouser pockets, then swore under his breath, sat up and glanced around him. A waitress was carrying a tray of clean glasses from somewhere to somewhere else. ‘Excuse me…’ Kane waved at her, ‘would you happen to have a pencil on you?’
The waitress walked over. She was young and pretty with a mass of short, unruly blonde hair pinned back from her neat forehead by a series of precarious-looking, brightly coloured kirby grips. ‘I might have one in my…uh…’
She slid the tray of glasses on to the table. Kane helpfully rearranged his large Pepsi and his cherry danish (currently untouched) to make room for it. Maude (the strangely old-fashioned name was emblazoned on her badge) smiled her thanks and slid her hand into the pocket of her apron. She removed a tiny pencil stub.
‘It’s very small,’ she said.
Kane took the pencil and inspected it. It was minuscule.
‘It’s an HB,’ he said, carefully reading its chewed tip, then glancing over at Beede. ‘Is an HB okay? Is it soft enough?’
Beede did not look up.
Kane turned back to the waitress, who was just preparing to grapple with the tray of glasses again.
‘Before you pick that up, Maude,’ Kane said, balancing his cigarette on the edge of his plate, ‘you wouldn’t happen to have a piece of paper somewhere, would you?’
‘Uh…’
The waitress pushed her hand back into her apron and removed her notepad. She bit her lip. ‘I have a pad but I’m not really…’
Kane put out his hand and took the pad from her. He flipped though it.
‘The paper’s kind of thin,’ he said. ‘What I’m actually looking for is some sort of…’
He mused for a moment. ‘Like an artist’s pad. Like a Daler pad. I don’t know if you’ve heard of that brand name before? It’s like an art brand…’
The waitress shook her head. A kirby grip flew off. She quickly bent down and grabbed it.
‘Oh. Well that’s a shame…’
The waitress straightened up again, clutching the grip.
Kane grinned at her. It was an appealing grin. Her cheeks reddened. ‘Here…’ Kane said, ‘let me…’
He leaned forward, removed the kirby grip from her grasp, popped it expertly open, beckoned her to lean down towards him, then applied it, carefully, to a loose section of her fringe.
‘There…’
He drew back and casually appraised his handiwork. ‘Good as new.’
‘Thanks.’ She slowly straightened up again. She looked befuddled. Kane took a quick drag on his cigarette. The waitress – observing this breach – laced her fingers together and frowned slightly (as if sternly reacquainting her girlish self with all the basic rules of restaurant etiquette). ‘Um…I’m afraid you’re not really…’ she muttered, peeking nervously over her shoulder.
‘What?’
Kane gazed at her. His blue eyes held hers, boldly. ‘What?’
She winced. ‘Smoke…you’re not really meant to…not in the restaurant.’
‘Oh…yeah,’ Kane nodded emphatically, ‘I know that.’
She nodded herself, in automatic response, then grew uncertain again. He passed her the pad. She took it and slid it into her apron. ‘Can I hold on to this pencil?’ Kane asked, suspending it, in its entirety, between his first finger and his thumb. ‘As a keepsake?’
The waitress shot an anxious, side-long glance towards Beede (still reading). ‘Of course,’ she said.
She grabbed her tray again.
‘Thank you,’ Kane murmured, ‘that’s very generous. You’ve been really…’ he paused, weighing her up, appreciatively ‘…sweet.’ The waitress – plainly disconcerted by Kane’s intense scrutiny – took a rapid step away from him, managing, in the process, to incline her tray slightly. The glasses slid around a little. She paused, with a gasp, and clumsily readjusted her grip.
‘Bye then,’ Kane said (not even a suggestion of laughter in his voice). She glanced up, thoroughly flustered. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘of course. Thank you. Bye…’
Then she ducked her head down, grimacing, and fled.
Beede continued reading. It was as if the entire episode with the waitress had completely eluded him.
Kane gently placed the pencil next to Beede’s coffee cup, then picked up his danish and took a large bite of it. He winced as his tooth hit down hard on a stray cherry stone.
‘Shit.’
He spat the offending mouthful into a napkin – silently denouncing all foodstuffs of a natural origin – then carefully explored the afflicted tooth with his tongue. While he did so, he gazed idly over towards the large picture window to his right, and out into the half-empty car park beyond.
‘Expecting someone?’ Beede asked, quick as a shot.
Kane took a second (rather more cautious) bite of the danish. ‘Yup,’ he said, unabashedly, ‘Anthony Shilling.’
‘What?!’
Beede glanced up as he processed this name, a series of conflicting expressions hurtling across his face.
‘I thought you knew,’ Kane said (eyebrows slightly raised), still chewing.
‘How would I know?’ Beede snapped, slapping down his book.
‘Because you’re here,’ Kane said, ‘and why else would you be? It’s miles away from anywhere you’d ever normally go, and it’s a shithole.’
‘I come here often,’ Beede countered. ‘I like it. It’s convenient for work.’
‘That’s just a silly lie,’ Kane sighed, evincing zero tolerance for Beede’s dissembling.
‘Strange as this may seem,’ Beede hissed, ‘I’m actually in no particular hurry to get caught up in some sordid little situation between you and one of my senior work colleagues…’
‘Well that’s a shame,’ Kane said, casually picking up his cigarette again, ‘because that’s exactly what’s about to happen.’
Beede leaned down and grabbed a hold of his small, khaki workbag – as though intending to make