Behindlings. Nicola Barker

How could he? ‘But I’m afraid,’ his companion’s rich voice dropped, effortlessly, to almost a murmur, ‘that’s not quite what I’m anticipating.’

      ‘Why not?’ Arthur spoke normally, but the question reverberated on the quiet, tree-lined path with an almost unnatural clarity, sending up a blackbird from a low branch behind him. The bird chattered its fury.

      ‘Why not?’ His companion’s eyes followed the angry bird. ‘Because lately I’ve become the unwilling recipient of a certain amount of…’ he paused, ‘pressure. From colleagues who aren’t at all happy about how things have been panning out –with Wesley –with the Loiter. Perhaps they feel, in retrospect, that Wesley was a rather poor bet. These are people –as I’m sure you can imagine –who don’t at all value adverse publicity.’

      Arthur grimaced. He did not need to imagine. He knew these people. Their complacency. Their serenity. Their ease. He loathed them.

      ‘So I’ve come under a certain amount of pressure…’ as his companion spoke he left the shelter of his tree, drew slightly closer to Arthur, then closer still, ‘and naturally, after a while, it seemed expedient to diffuse this pressure by contacting a man who had a history with the company, a man who might reasonably be said to have had a history with Wesley, a man with a grudge, an unfit man. I resolved to contact this man in order to quietly suggest that he might conveniently decide to renew his interest.’

      ‘And if he doesn’t?’ Arthur’s voice sounded flimsy. This was not a good question. Even he could sense it.

      ‘If he doesn’t? Well, then I suppose I might be tempted to make certain discrepancies, certain inconsistencies in his very private life a matter of more public concern.’

      Arthur was scowling. But he said nothing.

      ‘Okay…’ his companion suddenly crouched down before him, his knees groaning and creaking like a brand new, high-polished leather saddle, ‘you don’t need to know everything, but what you do need to know is that Wesley was entrusted with something very valuable. For obvious reasons I cannot tell you what that thing was. And yes, while he did relate certain strategic points on the Loiter to a small group of us, and provided us with some basic outlines of his general intentions, he by no means told us everything.

      ‘The final clue, as you probably already know, was announced only three weeks ago, after a certain amount of procrastination. At first we’d considered cancelling the whole thing –as a tribute to the dead man, as an apology –but then the father became involved. The old boy. The scaffolder. You’ll have seen him in the papers.’

      Arthur nodded. Yes. He’d seen the old man.

      ‘So press attention at that point was obviously intense. It still is. But we were handling it. Unfortunately, Wesley then decided to raise the stakes. He broke off all communications with the company. He grew uncooperative. Three days ago he travelled to Canvey…’

      Arthur clucked, shrewdly, ‘Ah. Candy Island. Daniel Defoe. The first clue.’

      His companion shrugged this off boredly. ‘Of course. It’s a very famous linguistic corruption. But that’s not what concerns you. What concerns you is that I have recently developed some misgivings about Wesley’s intentions. His motivations. His reliability. In short, I have stopped trusting him.’

      Arthur sniffed, dismissively, then touched the cuff of his coat to the tip of his nose. A small droplet darkened its khaki. ‘If you suspect fraud you could have him arrested.’

      ‘Oh yes, before some poor, deluded fool went and killed himself, very possibly. But now it’s much too fucked up. It’s too complicated.’

      Arthur still seemed befuddled.

      ‘I need you to help me,’ his companion continued, ‘I need you to… to involve yourself in some way. I’m surrounding him. I’ll need information. You’ll have to be circumspect. My ultimate ambition is to defuse the situation. I need to understand it. I need to distract Wesley. To… to debilitate him.’

      He paused for a moment, then continued on again, silkily, ‘Naturally, you’re not the only person I’m involving. There will be others. They will know different things, but they won’t know everything. Overall, my intention, my need, is to distance the company from the drowned man, from the old boy, and, ultimately, from Wesley. To keep things clean.’

      Arthur was silent. But his mind was working.

      His companion watched him, benignly. ‘Here’s some advice for you,’ he whispered, ‘I know about the history. I also know that you’re screwing countless different sources for money. I know why. I understand. And if you help me I will ensure that nobody finds out. And I mean nobody. I will do things for you,’ he paused, ‘but if you go to the papers, if you act indiscreetly, there’s sufficient ill-feeling between you and Wesley for me to manipulate that and to use it against you. At this particular point we have no way of knowing what it is exactly that Wesley’s planning…’

      Arthur’s eyebrows rose. ‘Perhaps he’s not planning anything. Perhaps he’s just… just…’ he struggled, ‘just plain mooching. Have you even considered that possibility?’

      His companion nodded, unmoved by Arthur’s cynicism. ‘Of course we have. But it’s unlikely. This is Wesley, after all.’

      Out of the blue, he swung himself forward and moved his two lips right up close to Arthur’s ear. ‘The air around you,’ he whispered gently, ‘it smells of death. Hospitals. Disinfectant. Why? Who is responsible? Will you tell? Will you enlighten me?’

      Arthur stiffened. He struggled to stop his hands from trembling. It was just a misunderstanding, that was all. Eventually his companion pulled away again and the warmth of his breath –on Arthur’s cheek, his ear –transformed, gradually, into something quite different; a thing no less intimate, but cool now, and lingering.

      Arthur sat and watched quietly as he stood up, slowly, pushing his hands onto his knees for leverage. Those strangely vocal knees, Arthur thought, and listened to them protesting. Perhaps he had room to protest himself? But he did not.

      Instead, he remained mute, sucking his tongue and staring dumbly ahead of him, down the path, into the distance. He could not bring himself to speak again. It was simply not necessary. His mouth was so thick and full now with the taste of Wesley.

       Three

      ‘What you did back then was unforgivable. It was mean, it was selfish, it was thoughtless, it was just… it was just plain wrong.’

      The man who spoke these stem words –his name was Ted, and he was a fresh-faced but avuncular small town estate agent –did so without the slightest hint, the slightest note, the slightest tremble of disapproval in his voice. His absolute lack of ire was not merely striking; it teetered, it lurched, it practically tumbled head first into the realm of remarkable.

      Wesley, to whom this speech had been principally directed (but who didn’t appear to have digested a word of it), acknowledged as much –internally –as he swung himself from left to right on an ancient and creaking swivel chair in Ted’s Canvey High Street office. He was inspecting property details. He was considering renting.

      ‘Which bad thing in particular?’ he asked idly. There were so many bad things.

      ‘Which thing? The Canvey thing. In the book. The Katherine Turpin thing.’

      Wesley stopped swivelling and glanced up. ‘What? In the walks book? All the stuff about perimeters? That was years ago.’

      He liked this man. Ted. He liked his wide mouth, his charming effervescence, his loopy sincerity, his almost-silliness. Wesley appraised Ted’s thick lips as they vibrated, like two fat, pink molluscs performing a shifty rhumba.