Darkmans - Nicola Barker

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his book and placed it down – with a small sigh – on to his lap. ‘Whatever happened to that girl?’ he asked mechanically (having immediately apprehended the fatuous nature of Kane’s literary enquiry). Kane frowned –

      

       Wow…

      To answer a question with a question –

       Masterly.

      ‘Girl?’ Kane stared back at him, blankly. ‘Which girl? The waitress?’

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Beede snapped. ‘The little girl. The skinny one. I haven’t seen her around in a while…’

      ‘Skinny?’

      Kane adopted a look of cheerful bewilderment.

      ‘The redhead,’ Beede persisted (thoroughly immune to Kane’s humbug). ‘Too skinny. Red hair. Bright red hair…’

      ‘Red hair?’

      ‘Yes. Red hair. Purple-red…’

      ‘Purple?’

      ‘Yes…’ (Beede yanked on his trusty, old pair of mental crampons and kicked them, grimly, into the vertical rockface of his self-control).

      ‘Yes. Purple.’

      Kane didn’t seem to notice.

      ‘Purple?’ he repeated, taking some time out to savour the feel of this word on his tongue –

       Purple

       Purrrrr-pull

      – then glancing up –

      

       Ooops

      – and relenting. ‘You probably mean Kelly,’ he vouchsafed, almost lasciviously. ‘Little Kelly Broad. Lovely, filthy, skinny, little Kelly…’

      ‘Kelly Broad. Of course,’ Beede echoed curtly. ‘So are the two of you still an item?’

      An item? Kane smirked at this quaint formulation. ‘Hell, no…’ he took a long swig of his Pepsi, ‘that’s all…’ he burped, ‘excuse me…totally fucked now.’

      Beede waited, patiently, for any further elucidation. None was forthcoming.

      ‘Well that’s a pity,’ he finally murmured.

      ‘Why?’ Kane wondered.

      Beede shrugged, as if the answer was simply obvious.

      ‘Why?’ Kane asked again (employing exactly the same maddening vocal emphasis as before).

      ‘Because she was a decent enough girl,’ Beede observed stolidly, ‘and I liked her.’

      Kane snorted. Beede glanced up at him, wounded. He took a quick sip of his coffee (in the hope of masking any further emotional leakage), then – urgh – winced, involuntarily.

      ‘Tasty?’ Kane enquired, with an arch lift of his brow. Beede placed the cup back down, very gently, on to its saucer. Kane idly struck at his lighter again –

      

       Nothing.

      ‘So you think I had a problem with her?’ Beede wondered, out loud, after a brief interval.

      ‘Pardon?’ Kane was already thoroughly bored by the subject.

      ‘A problem? You mean with Kelly? Uh…’ He gave this a moment’s thought. ‘Yes. Yes. I suppose I think you did.’

      Beede looked shocked.

      Kane chuckled. ‘Oh come on…’

      ‘What?’

      ‘You oozed disapproval.’

      ‘Did I?’

      ‘Through every conceivable orifice.’

      Beede’s nostrils flared at this cruel defamation, but he drew a long, deep breath and swallowed down his ire.

      ‘Okay. Okay…’ he murmured tightly. ‘So what do you think I “disapproved” of exactly?’

      Kane threw up his hands. ‘Where to begin?’

      Beede folded his arms. Kane duly noted the folding. ‘All right then,’ he volunteered, ‘you thought she was a tart.’

      Beede blinked –

      

       Tart?

      ‘You know…’ Kane’s voice adopted the tender but world-weary tone of an adult describing something simple yet fundamental to a wayward toddler – like how to eat, how to walk (‘So you put one foot…that’s it, one foot, very slowly, in front of the other…’)‘…a tart; a harlot, a strumpet, a whore…’

      Beede opened his mouth to respond, but Kane barrelled on, ‘Although you shouldn’t actually feel bad about it. I was fine with it. In fact – if anything – it was an incentive of sorts…I mean romantically.’

      He paused for a second, musing. ‘Isn’t it odd how the disapproval of others can often contribute so profoundly to one’s enjoyment of a thing?’

      Beede opened his mouth to answer.

      ‘Tarts especially,’ Kane interrupted him.

      ‘Well she certainly dressed quite provocatively…’ Beede ruminated.

      Kane waved this objection aside. ‘Nah. It was all just an act. Smoke and mirrors. A total fabrication. She was a sweetheart, an innocent. Her bad reputation was down to nothing more than a couple of stupid choices and some bad PR.’

      ‘But you still broke up with her,’ Beede needled.

      Kane shrugged.

      ‘Indicating that perhaps – at some level – it did actually bother you?’

      ‘No,’ Kane shook his head. ‘It wasn’t ever a question of virtue with Kelly. It was simply an issue of trust.’

      ‘Ah-ha…’ Beede pounced on this idea, greedily. ‘But isn’t that the same issue?’

      ‘Absolutely not.’

      Kane smiled at his father, almost fondly, as if touched – even flattered – by the unexpectedly intrusive line of his questioning. ‘She wasn’t a tart. Not at all. But she was a thief, which is a quality I find marginally less endearing.’

      Beede seemed taken aback by this piece of information.

      ‘She stole? What did she steal?’

      ‘Huh?’

      Kane’s attention was momentarily diverted by a sudden commotion outside in the car park.

      ‘I said what did she steal?’

      Kane struck his lighter again –

      

       Nothing

      ‘You really want to know?’ he murmured.

      ‘I just asked, didn’t I?’

      ‘Yes. Yes you did…’ He sighed. ‘She stole tranquillisers, mainly; Benzodiazepines…’

      

      Kane struck his lighter for a final time and on this occasion a flame actually emerged and it was a full 5 inches high (he always set his lighters at maximum flare, even if his fringe paid the ultimate price for his profligacy).

      ‘…Some Xanax. Some

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