Darkmans (51 page)

Must leave

Must keep steering

– and the car kept on turning. Until…

Chicken shed –

Old garage door –

Rusting pile of antique bicycles –

Dirt track –

Nothing.

‘Albi,’ he found himself muttering, nonsensically, as he drove back on to Barnfield, Ox Lane, Silver Hill…Then, ‘
No.
’ He shook his head, violently. He was still shaking.

Al-
i-
bi.

The Latin

Remember?

I. Am. Not. Here…

His unconscious mind began tapping out a series of incomprehensible morse-code messages to him.

Eh?

He struggled to decipher them –

I. Am. Elsewhere…

It said.

‘How strange,’ he murmured, just resolving to go with it, to flow with it (like Winnie had always taught him) –

Relax, now

Don’t panic…

How
strange
, though…

Almost as if his thoughts were a war drum (or a tom-tom or a bongo) being deftly played by a mysterious hand on the other side of a very distant, very stark and yet beautiful snow-capped mountain.

‘So Beede’
– she read, scowling,
‘There’s a whole series of these things (one for each of the various monarchs’ funny-men, although I didn’t get a chance to look at any of the others). Apparently there was quite a vogue for them in the 1600s (and for several hundred years after that – I saw at least two editions of this one – the earlier called
Scoggin’s Jests
by an Andrew Boord – 1626 – and this one, in which the spelling’s more familiar from 1796 – that’s a 170-year gap!), indicating how popular these guys actually were (plus: note the celebrity publisher…)’

Kelly returned to the front page again:

‘Printed for W. Thackeray at the Angel in Duck Lane, near Weft-Smithfield, and J. Deason at the Angel in Gilt-Spur-Street.’

She grimaced.

Eh?

‘The information enclosed isn’t considered especially reliable, though…’
she quickly read on. ‘
This book was written years after John Scogin’s death. Much of it will be based on either legend or hearsay (would’ve been considered “tabloid”, even at the time of its publication).

‘
The actual story of his life (and a critique of Andrew Broad, this book’s compiler…’

Kelly’s eye flipped back…

‘The actual story of his life (and a critique of Andrew Board, this book’s compiler…’

Her eye flipped back…

‘…and a critique of Andrew Board, this book’s compiler…’
She quickly turned to the front page of the document:

‘Gathered by Andrew Board, Doctor of Phyfick.’

Phyfick?

She re-read it: ‘
Gathered by Andrew Board…
’ then slowly shook her head and returned to the letter. ‘
The actual story of his life (and a critique of Andrew Broad, this book’s compiler…’
she grimaced
‘…who seems like a rather dodgy character…’

She grimaced again ‘“…
physician to Henry VIII
”,
apparently…
)’

Her eyes widened ‘…
features in R.H. Hill’s
Tales of the Jesters,
1934 (and I wouldn’t have a clue what his sources were), but – believe it or not – the text was registered unavailable (read as “some miserable bastard stole it.”).
’

Kelly threw down the photocopied sheets on to her bedspread. She picked up her phone and began texting a message.

GFFR MADE A PASS, THE FCKER!
it said,
I ND 2 C U! PRONTO! K. XX

Then she went back and deleted the
XX.

Then she went back and deleted the
I ND 2 C U! PRONTO! K.

Then she went back and deleted
THE FCKER!

She re-read the message:
GFFR MADE A PASS
and grunted her satisfaction. She sent the message.

She grabbed the photocopied sheets again.

‘
The librarian in the Antiquarian Books Section
,’ she read, one brow slightly raised now, ‘
(who was actually quite chatty) sent me to go and see some journalist called Tom Benson who happened to be in the library on that day and in possession of an associated text called
A Nest of Ninnies
by Robert Armin (He’s writing a book about comedy and “is very interested in jesters”, she said).

‘
I tracked him down to the Music Section. He was a little hostile at first (you know how territorial these people can be), but after a brief conversation he admitted that he actually had his very own copy of
Tales of the Jesters
at home which he’d “found” in a second-hand bookshop in Rye (this might’ve just been sheer bravura on his part – that whole “journalists v academics” hornets’ nest. Or maybe not).
’

The last section (in brackets), Kelly observed, had been hurriedly crossed out.

‘Anyhow,’

She continued reading:

‘I asked if I might borrow it some time (or even just make a copy of the relevant chapters) but he got a little prickly at this point and said he was still in the middle of using it, but that he would definitely call me when he was done ( I gave him my number, although I won’t be
holding my breath). Then he told me some stuff over coffee (I bought the Madeira cake – it was a little dry) which you might find interesting. Will inform you in person.

‘The quality of the copy is poor (at best). This is because it was reproduced from a microfile. But I think you’ll get the basic gist…W.

‘
W?
W for
Whore
,’ Kelly muttered, thickly.

She glanced up –

Kane

There he stood, large as life, at the foot of her bed.

‘Fuck-a-duck,’ she said, tossing down the booklet, ‘that was quick.’

‘How’s the leg?’ he asked.

‘D’you get my text?’

‘So the rash didn’t actually reach your face?’ he said.

She pulled down the neckline of her nightie to reveal her thick swathe of fading hives.

‘Ow,’ he murmured.

‘I’m
allergic
,’ she said. ‘
See?
’

She glared up at him, vengefully. He seemed unaffected by her look.

He appeared pale, distracted.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked, releasing the fabric.

‘Fine,’ he said. But he didn’t look fine. He looked odd. Dishevelled. And he…

Urgh

– she sniffed the air, bemusedly.

‘You stink…’ she muttered, ‘like a bomfire or something.’

‘
Bon
fire,’ he corrected her, with a smile.

‘That’s what I just said.’

‘No. You said bo
m
fire.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Bom-fire. B-o-m. It’s bo
n
fire.’

His neck and his shoulder suddenly convulsed as he spoke. He put a hand to his head.

‘Are you all right?’ she repeated.

‘I was looking for my dad,’ he said, peering around him, vaguely, as if Beede might be anywhere. ‘He wasn’t at home and he’s gone from the laundry…’

‘Why?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Why are you lookin’ for him?’

‘Why…?’

His eyes alighted on the photocopied sheets. ‘What’s that you’re reading?’

‘What’s what?’

She quickly flipped back her counterpane to try and obscure them.

‘That,’ he pointed, undeterred. ‘How’d you get a hold of it?’

‘Uh…’

‘Did Beede give it you?’

‘Beede?’

‘Yeah.’

He put his hand to his head again.

‘D’you wanna sit down for a minute?’

She pointed to a chair. He went and sat down on it. As he moved she noticed that he was limping slightly.

‘Did you hurt your foot?’

‘My foot? No. It’s just my trainers…’

‘Oh. So you got my text, then?’

‘Your text?’ he murmured. ‘Sure. Sure I did.’

‘
And?
’ she persisted.

‘And what?’

‘Ain’t ya pissed?’

‘Pissed? Why?’

‘
Why?!
Because that stunted Turkish
prick
made a
pass
,’ she paused.

‘
And
he trashed my fuckin’ salad…’

‘Right…’

Kane grimaced, then he nodded, then he reached a distracted hand to his phone as it vibrated in his pocket. Kelly gazed at him with a look of burgeoning incredulity. It took several seconds for him to even register her disquiet.

‘What kind of a pass?’ he finally asked.

‘That must be some high-calibre fuckin’
zong
you’re on,’ she observed, tightly.

He ignored her. ‘What kind of a pass?’ he repeated.

‘Duh!’
she threw up her arms. ‘He
snogged
me.’

‘Ah…’

Kane’s eyes wandered aimlessly around the ward.

‘On the
mouth.
’

She pointed to her mouth (it was a sweet, little mouth).

‘Here…’

‘I see…’

He idly noticed how a nearby window had been propped permanently open with the aid of a balled-up surgical glove. He shivered, involuntarily.

‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’ she asked, hurt.

His eyes slowly returned to her. ‘How d’you mean?’

‘Is that the best you can
muster
?’

Muster?!

His brows rose a fraction. ‘So you think I could do better?’ he smiled, finally engaging with her.

‘Yeah, actually.’

‘How?’

‘Ditch him.’

‘What?’ He abruptly stopped smiling.

‘Sack him.’

‘Seriously?!’

‘One hundred per cent.’

‘Just for a kiss…?’ Kane slowly shook his head. ‘…
Nah.
’

‘Why not?’ she demanded. ‘You ditched me in a flash, an’ we dated eight, solid
months
, so why not ditch him?’

‘Because.’

‘Because?!
’

‘Because it’s
different
, Kelly.’

He sounded bored, like this was tired, old territory.

‘
Different?
You don’t know him from fuckin’
Adam
, mate. He could be anyone. He’s takin’ the damn
piss…
’

He rolled his eyes.

‘And it ain’t only me as thinks so, neither,’ she continued hotly, ‘he’s been givin’ my poor old mum the runaround…’

‘Your
poor old mum
?!’ he grinned.

‘Yeah.
Playin’ with her feet. Walkin’ the dogs. She even took him out
shoppin’…
’

Kane chuckled, delightedly.

‘He’s been schmoozing my
mum
, Kane,’ Kelly exclaimed, riled by his hilarity.

‘So where’s the harm in that?’

‘Where’s the
harm
? It’s
sick
, for one thing. An’ she ain’t got the
money
to support no Toy Boy, for another…’

‘
Sick?
Sick of your poor old mum to have a bit of fun?’

‘
Fun?
He’s been leadin’ the poor cow
on.
’

Kane suddenly stopped grinning. ‘Maybe he actually fancies her,’ he said, in all apparent seriousness.

‘Fuck
off
!’

‘Jeez,’
Kane slowly shook his head, ‘the arrogance of the young…’

His eyes returned, almost inexorably, to the propped-up window.

‘Well he can’t fancy her
that
much,’ she sniffed, ‘if he went an’ porked Gerry behind her back.’

‘He didn’t shag her,’ Kane said.

‘The ignorant
fuck
,’ she scowled.

‘He didn’t shag her,’ Kane repeated.

‘All he needs now,’ she ignored him, ‘is to make the moves on my sister an’ he’ll have the full bloomin’
complement…
’

‘God, no,’ Kane muttered, ‘surely even Gaffar couldn’t stoop
that
low?’

Kelly stared at him, open-mouthed.

‘And what about your aunt? Doesn’t she count?’

Kelly flared out her nostrils and sucked on her tongue.

‘Anyway,’ Kane maintained, ‘he didn’t shag Gerry. He just came between her tits.’

‘What?’

‘She told me. She said he came between her tits. They didn’t shag.’

‘Oh. My.
God.
’

‘Her tits
are
amazing,’ Kane added, almost as an afterthought.

Silence

‘I honestly don’t believe you just said that.’

Kelly’s back was straight as a ramrod.

‘Said what? That her tits are great? Whyever not? Her tits
are
great.

It’s an objective
fact.
’

‘That ain’t the point, Kane.’

‘That’s
exactly
the point…’

‘No.’

She seemed cut to the quick.

‘Of
course
it’s the point,’ he maintained (pretending not to notice), then, ‘Those bastards fired her from her job at the salon, did she tell you?’

‘He’s a thief,’ she interrupted him, coldly.

‘Who is?’

‘Gaffar.’

‘
Gaffar
again? Are you
obsessed
with the poor man? What did he steal?’

She pointed to the photocopied sheets.

Kane looked bemused. ‘But why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why would Gaffar steal those?’

She shrugged, scratching at her nose. ‘I dunno…’

‘Maybe because you
asked
him to?’ Kane speculated.

She glared at him, wordlessly.

‘Jesus
H
, Kell.’

He slowly shook his head.

‘You thought I stole those drugs an’ you sacked
me
,’ she whined, rapidly back-pedalling, ‘but I
never
stole them…’

‘Fine.’

Kane shrugged.

‘Whaddya mean, “fine”?’

‘I believe you. I believe you didn’t steal them. I apologise for accusing you. I was wrong.’

‘It was
Beede
what stole them,’ she blurted out, unable to contain herself.

He stared at her, blankly.

‘Beede,’ she repeated, almost guiltily.

‘He
told
you that, did he?’

‘No.’ She shook her head, plainly surprised by the casualness of his reaction. ‘I worked it out.’

‘How?’

‘I dunno. He stole them to pay back the bitch who killed Paul. Your
ex.
Seems like those two’ve been gettin’ pretty
cosy
…’