Darkmans - Nicola Barker

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marginal).

      And everything (Elen quietly observed – although she didn’t – for her own good reasons – confide in Isidore) was now suddenly on-going (happening all-at-once, burgeoning uncontrollably…like a…how to express it? Like the frantic, shifting interior of one of those toy kaleidoscopes, or a hall of mirrors, or a…a –

      

       God help him

      – some kind of a disease, maybe).

      She tried to quell her increasing agitation by telling herself that Fleet’d seen development all around him (they were in a new-build property in a newly built area); the builder, the digger, the lorry, were all part of his locality; change was part of the milieu in which he lived and breathed and grew…

      But it didn’t work. It didn’t mesh. It didn’t entirely ring true.

      Space was increasingly at a premium (the inside mirroring the outside in an funny kind of way). Everything – Elen observed, with an encroaching sense of terror –

      

       Oh no…

       I’m…

       Can’t…

       Can’t breathe

      – was now thuddingly equal (Flat. Reduced. Like a beautiful, five-course meal, tossed into a large bowl and then devoured all in one go). Nothing took precedence. Nothing was ever rounded off (finished, honed). There was no sense of an end to it, of a neat conclusion. Of curtailment. Of release.

      Elen knew all about the brochure in the kitchen drawer. She’d found it, looking for a tea-towel, and had made the connection. Its placement, she presumed, indicated something – she wasn’t sure what – about Fleet’s unconscious desire to involve her (she was, after all, the only person in the house to do the drying up; Isidore, in general, preferred to wash).

      She’d kept it a secret. Isidore still firmly believed that ‘The Cathedral’ was just part of some magical ‘dream landscape’, that it was simply another perplexing facet of the boy’s highly developed – if distinctly wayward – imagination (he needed to believe this, and Elen responded, automatically – as any considerate partner would – to whatever his needs were).

      But she knew better. She’d been to the library and had looked up Sainte-Cecile in a Rough Guide travel book. She’d expanded her search on to the internet. There she’d seen a series of modern, photographic images of Albi, in all its glory (clinging to its hill, surrounded by water); then (with an increasing sense of claustrophobia) the Cathedral Basilica, the adjacent La Berbie Palace, the dramatic Dungeon Tower, the hooped colonnades of the St Salvy Cloister. Even the mill, sitting quietly downstream on the River Tarn.

      And the bridge.

      The link –

       Oh God –

       There it was

      She traced its familiar, looping grandeur on the glaring screen with her index finger –

      

       Yes

      But of course –

      Her wait was over. The worst had finally happened. This was the beginning.

      This was the crossing.

      They’d pushed the two boys together in class (what else to do?). They were both a little dippy. Steven Bradley had a Gameboy and a registered learning disability – dyspraxia; but very mild (words spilled out of his mouth in entirely the wrong order; he made regular trips to see the speech therapist in Canterbury). He could be clumsy –

       Bless him

      Came from a family of ten, so it was difficult, sometimes, for his parents (who were extremely well-meaning) to give him all the attention he so desperately required. He could be slow on the uptake, obdurate, even, but he was fundamentally a solid, sweet-natured boy.

      Fleet on the other hand…

      

       Hmmn

      Fleet had…

      What did Fleet have? Whatever it was, the parents wouldn’t deal with it (were uncooperative, wouldn’t face facts), which automatically rendered them a part of the problem. To care too much was a weakness all parents could quite reasonably be found guilty of, but to actively obstruct? To smother? To deny? Not only was it unhealthy, but in the voluminous wardrobe of parental misdemeanours, this was that fine-seeming, well-laundered garment hanging neatly alongside the foul and mouldering suit of abuse (contamination was always a real possibility when two items were hung so close).

      Fleet wasn’t a lost cause. Absolutely not. Because when all was finally said and done – with a modicum of support, a few one-to-one sessions, some firm guidance – they might actually be able to straighten the poor boy out (although he’d never be…not quite what you might call…well…vertical, exactly).

      It was nothing insurmountable, in other words. But it was something (a blip, a phase – rather hard to put your finger on, really, without the benefit of professional input).

      One thing was for certain: the boy was much smarter than he might initially appear. He was no Will o’ the Wisp. No charming, harmless Puck. He was evasive, sly, elusive. And –

      

       Why not let’s just call a spade a spade, eh?

      – you didn’t have to hunt very far to find out who he might’ve learned that particular mode of behaviour from.

      The mothers sat in Elen’s brand-new kitchen (pale ash units, double-sink, waste disposal, grey marble counter) and enjoyed a pot of tea together. Fleet’s father – the German, terribly handsome – Dory? Isidore? – had popped in to say ‘Hi’ (shook Mrs Bradley’s hand, very formally, before heading upstairs for a quick nap. He’d been out on a job, he informed her – with an apologetic yawn – since eleven o’clock the night before).

      Fleet (who didn’t initially seem entirely delighted by their arrival) took Steven up to his bedroom and guided him, nervously (the boy was just an accident waiting to happen) around his model of Albi (which currently took up a significant proportion of the floor-space in there).

      Steven (extremely polite, but essentially unmoved by the tour) listened, blankly, waited until it was all over (offering no comment), then perched himself on the edge of Fleet’s bed, took out his computer and instituted his own kind of play (his head at an angle, his mouth falling slack, his fingers convulsing).

      

       Okay

      Fleet squatted down, picked up a boxful of matches and shook them, meditatively. He appraised his work. He mused. He calculated.

      This arrangement suited them both perfectly (no pressures here, no expectations, no demands). Fleet worked away diligently on The Dragon Tower, leaving Steven entirely to his own devices.

      Everything was proceeding in the best possible manner, and then…

      

       Eh…?

      Fleet scowled. He suddenly found himself distracted by the computer’s tiny voice. A tune. So simple. So repetitive. It hung in the air around him like a busy hover-fly. It buzzed. It troubled his ear. It reminded him of something. A folk memory. He cocked his head quizzically and focussed in on it, fully –

       Zzzzzzzzzeeeee

       Click –

       Ah…

      He

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