Behindlings. Nicola Barker

there,’ he said, ‘approximately.’

      ‘Where?’

      Ted crouched down. ‘About…’ he pointed, ‘although the industrial headland actually forms a slightly more exaggerated…’

      He looked up. Wesley was no longer paying him any attention. He was peering around the room, absorbedly.

      It was a large room; hot, yet airy. There was a bay window to the front swathed in heavy nets, but what remained of the watery Canvey sun still glimmered through in fine, silvery trickles. The room was crammed with stuff in industrial quantities. Every available surface was covered in practical detritus: glue, wire, beads, bags of sand…

      Behind a huge, ancient, tiger-skin draped sofa (the big cat with its whole head still intact, eyes, teeth, everything) stood a workbench covered in a large mound of yellow-white, fibrous objects. Wesley moved towards them, ‘What are these?’

      Ted clambered to his feet again.

      ‘Stones.’

      Wesley picked one up. It was the approximate size and weight of a large mouse after a steam-rollering accident.

      ‘From a mango,’ Ted expanded, ‘the furry stone from the middle of a mango.’

      ‘Mango stones. Ah.’

      Wesley stared at the stone closely.

      ‘She gets them in bulk. I believe she has some kind of deal with a juice manufacturer in Kent…’

      Ted was still speaking as the doorbell sounded. He jumped, guiltily, turning automatically towards the hallway.

      ‘Hang on a minute,’ Wesley moved over to the window and peered out from between the nets. After a couple of seconds he grunted, swatted a dismissive hand through the air and returned to the workbench. ‘Relax,’ he muttered, ‘it’s nothing.’

      ‘Why? Who is it?’

      Wesley picked up another mango stone. ‘Nobody, just some kid who follows me.’

      The doorbell rang again, rather more insistently.

      This time Ted went to the window and peered out.

      ‘If he sees you looking he’ll come over,’ Wesley warned him, putting the mango stone up to his nose, inhaling. It smelled of old hay. Of wheat. Of corn dollies.

      ‘Damn,’ Ted quickly withdrew, ‘I think he did see me…’

      Sure enough, after a few seconds, the window was darkened by a small shadow, then a nose –pushed up hard against the glass –with two inquisitive hands pressed either side of it.

      ‘Gracious,’ Ted murmured, backing off still further, ‘you weren’t kidding.’

      ‘Just ignore him,’ Wesley counselled boredly, ‘he’ll go away eventually.’

      ‘Who is he?’ Ted was mesmerised.

      ‘I already told you. Some kid.’

      The right shadow-hand suddenly peeled itself away from the glass, formed itself into a tight fist, and began knocking. ‘How do you know him?’ Ted whispered.

      ‘I don’t,’ Wesley shrugged, ‘he just follows me around.

      ’ ‘What’s his name?’

      ‘Pete. Patty. I can’t remember.’

      The knocking continued. It was loud and persistent yet maddeningly unrhythmical. After thirty seconds it grew mildly irritating, by fifty it was unbearable.

      ‘I think he might be stepping on Katherine’s hydrangea,’ Ted stuttered.

      ‘Then go out and yell at him.’

      ‘Should I?’ Ted looked appalled at the thought. ‘Will he become aggressive?’

      Wesley chuckled, ‘No. He’ll love it. He’ll lap it up. He’ll interrogate you. He’ll molest you. He’ll bend your ear. That’s all.’

      Ted didn’t move. ‘For some reason,’ he said, ‘that banging’s really… it’s making me… I think it’s just the… I think it’s the irregularity or something.’

      ‘Calm down. He’ll tire soon enough.’

      As if on cue, the knocking abated.

      ‘Thank God,’ Ted shuddered, yanking his tie askew, his professional veneer denting like the tender skin of a ripe nectarine.

      ‘Come over here for a minute,’ Wesley commanded (the very image of icy unperturbedness), ‘and fill me in properly on these mango things.’

      Ted joined Wesley at the workbench. Wesley idly noticed that his forehead was glistening. He was sweating.

      ‘She makes these strange little creatures out of them…’ Ted said, fishing around inside his jacket pocket for a handkerchief, pulling one out and patting his brow with it.

      He glanced around him, ‘Here…’

      He moved to a set of shelves behind the TV and picked something up, but before he could bring it back over, a loud discussion commenced next to the window, where the small, intrusive boy had now been joined by a second, much larger figure.

      Ted froze. Wesley observed his reaction but said nothing, simply shrugged and then silently pushed his index finger into a soft heap of sand on the workbench. He made gentle, circular patterns with it, watching raptly as the fine granules flattened and dispersed. Ted remained glued to his spot by the bookshelves, anxiously rubbing his right palm onto his opposite elbow, listening apprehensively.

      What are you doing? the larger figure demanded.

      Who are you? the smaller figure responded.

      Who are you? the larger figure countered. And what are you doing in Katherine’s garden?

      Katherine? Who’s she? the smaller figure asked.

       This is her house. Does she have any idea that you’re here?

      I rang the bell, the smaller figure explained, but nobody answered.

       Well if nobody answered then she isn’t around, is she! Use your common sense. You’re treading on her hydrangea. You’re damaging it.

      So who the fuck is Katherine when she’s at home? the smaller figure enquired as the larger began firmly steering him away.

       How old are you? Shouldn’t you be at school or something?

      Christmas holidays, thank you very much, the smaller figure explained cordially.

      Their voices faded.

      ‘Welsh,’ Wesley noted, glancing up from the finely-granulated patterns he was forming, ‘is he local?’

      Ted nodded. ‘It’s Dewi,’ he spoke softly, ‘he owns the property opposite. He puts down wooden flooring. He did mine, actually. He’s very good at it.’

      ‘Why are you still whispering, Ted?’

      ‘Was I?’ Ted spoke louder again.

      ‘Yes.’

      He was just preparing to respond when Wesley noticed the object he was holding. ‘Fuck,’ he butted in, ‘pass it over.’

      Ted returned to the workbench and gave Wesley a small, plain, wire-legged, pearl-eyed, mango stone creature. Wesley took it and carefully balanced it onto the flattened palm of his fingerless hand. ‘Holy Moly,’ he murmured.

      ‘I think it’s a lion,’ Ted explained. ‘See the way she’s brushed up the natural strings and fibres on one end of the stone so that it resembles a mane?’

      As he spoke, Ted concentrated