Darkmans (35 page)

She snorted, dryly, strolled out on to the landing and returned – minutes later – armed with a laden plate and a steaming mug. She placed them both down on to the carpet, then dropped on to the sofa and began to unpick.

As her nimble fingers unlaced the string, she ran a speculative toe up and down Kane’s shin.

‘This day just keeps on getting better,’ Kane mused, to no one in particular, ‘first ambushed by my dad, then blandished on my own sofa by a Goth nymphomaniac.’

He returned to his paperback.

Geraldine snorted, enraged, and tried to knock the book from his hands with a well-aimed kick, but he was way too quick for her. He hurled the book on to the floor, grabbed her foot and began to tickle it. She unleashed a terrible squeak as she pulled the lace clear. ‘What you tryin’a do?’ she croaked (with all the fine vocal modulation of an eighty-year-old cockney fishwife), ‘tear my fuckin’
face
up?’

Kane held on to the foot and squinted, dispassionately, down the line of her leg. ‘Oh
dear
,’ he murmured, his voice full of sympathy, ‘how terribly
sad.
You appear to’ve mislaid your
pants.
’ She grinned at him, sliding down still lower and obligingly hitching her skirt up.

‘Did you ever consider the benefits,’ he wondered, casually inspecting her neatly shaven muff, ‘of applying a few well-placed stitches down there?’

She yanked her foot from his grasp, pulled herself straight and adjusted her skirt.

‘I’m guessing you didn’t get around to telling Gaffar, yet,’ Kane said, pulling his phone from his pocket and checking his texts.

‘
Fuck off!
’ she growled. ‘We only just
met.
What kind of a
moll
do you take me for?’

He drew on his cigarette, gazing over at her, blankly.

‘If you
must
know,’ she admitted (slightly rattled by his stare), ‘it weren’t all that. He just wanked me off with his hand and then – because he did such a good job of it, as a special
favour
, yeah? – I let him cum in between my baps…’

She propped up her breasts and then shoved them together, to illustrate.

‘Geraldine
Broad
,’ Kane chuckled wryly, ‘you incorrigible old
romantic
…’

‘Give me some score,’ she wheedled, ‘and you can do the same if you like.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he sighed.

She slid her hand on to his thigh. ‘Okay,’ she conceded, ‘
don’t
give me no score…’

He stared down, frowning slightly, at her ring-laden fingers. ‘So let me get this straight,’ he murmured, ‘you actually, honestly believe that it’s possible to just side-step the truth – or
any
kind of basic, moral decision, come to that – by the simple but painful expedient of sewing your mouth up?’

She didn’t react.

‘…I mean you seriously think a few, tiny
stitches
’ll get you off the hook?’

She glowered at him.

‘
Wow
,’ he shook his head, pityingly, ‘you’re really messed up.’

‘If you’re
that
worried,’ she sneered, snatching back her hand, ‘then why didn’t
you
say somethin’?’

‘What? And spoil all your fun?’

She ignored him, bending down to pick up her mug. He pushed his cigarette into the corner of his mouth and returned to his texting.

‘I shouldn’t even be givin’ you the time of day,’ she grumbled, ‘after the move you pulled on Lester.’

‘He owed me money,’ Kane shrugged.

‘He owes
everyone
money.’

‘D’you know anything about the job he’s on?’ Kane wondered.

She stared across at him, blankly. ‘Job? Why would I?’

‘He’s over in Cedar Wood,’ Kane tried to jog her memory, ‘he’s working for a German couple there.’

‘Alls I know,’ she informed him, ‘is that if Lester’s involved then it ain’t lookin’ good for ‘em.’

‘Although the woman – the wife – isn’t actually German,’ Kane corrected himself (his finger still jabbing at the phone), ‘she’s English. A chiropodist.’

Geraldine took a sip of her tea. ‘They got a kid?’ she asked.

‘A son. Yes.’

‘Well he
did
say somethin’ about a kid. Dunno if it’s on
that
job. But he loves this kid. He’s crazy about him. If the kid says jump he’s like, “Off which fuckin’ building?” Sounds like the kid’s a bit
simple
or somethin’…’ she rolled her eyes, ‘which means they gotta
whole
lot in common…’

Kane smiled, sympathetically.

Geraldine was encouraged. ‘Says they got this big
castle
on their dinin’-room table. Made out of all these tiny bits of wood.
Matches.
The kid built it. The kid spends all his time buildin’ it. Lester say’s the kid’s a real gem. Never stops goin’ on about it. Says the kid’s amazin’.’

‘What kind of castle?’ Kane asked. ‘Like some kind of religious buildin’. Like St Paul’s Cathedral, only foreign. An’ he’s built this kick-arse little city around it, Lester says. All tiny shops an’ pubs an’ shit.’

She took another sip of her tea, then clumsily adjusted her bra strap. ‘He’s been carryin’ around this old pickle jar. I asked him what it was for the other day. He says it’s for the kid. I’m like, “What’s the kid want with an empty pickle jar?” He’s like, “It ain’t empty.” I’m like, “What’s it full of then,
air
?” He’s like, “No you stupid, fuckin’ whore,
fleas…
”’

Kane glanced up.

‘Fleas?’

‘Yeah. Fleas. He’s collectin’ fleas for the kid. I’m like, “Well I don’t know why you’re sniffin’ around near
me.
I ain’t got no fleas, you
twat.
” Mum went fuckin’ spacko when I told her. She’s like, “I don’t care what you do at work, Lester, but I won’t have you bringin’ that dirty crap back into
this
house…”’

She smirked, readjusting her strap again.

‘Love your tits, by the way,’ Kane muttered, in passing.

“Course you do,’ she smiled, ‘everybody does.’

He smiled too, still tapping. ‘So how’s Kelly bearing up?’

‘Same as always. Broke her leg. Covered in spots. Hates your guts.’

‘Good.’

She took a large bite of her toast, a mouthful of tea, reached out a greedy hand and plucked the fag from his mouth.

‘Could you squeeze anything else in while you’re at it?’ he wondered.

‘Why?’

She gazed at him, archly, as she took a puff. ‘Whatcha got in mind?’

He glanced down at his watch. ‘It’s almost nine. Don’t you have a job to go to?’

‘Nope.’

‘What about the salon?’

She blew a smoke ring then stuck her finger through it. ‘They sacked me after they found out.’

He glanced up, frowning. ‘Can they do that?’

‘Whadd’ya mean, “can they?” They already
did
, thick-o.’

‘But that’s discrimination,’ he explained. ‘It isn’t legal.’

‘They said I could cut myself on the scissors or somethin’…’

‘That’s bullshit. It’s not right. I can look into it for you if you like…’

‘
Aw
,’ she mocked him, ‘my hero.’

‘I’m serious.’

“Course you are…’ She shrugged. ‘I was sick of it anyways. That bitch of a manageress was always on my arse. I was glad to go, quite frankly.’

‘Well don’t say I didn’t offer.’

‘I won’t, matey.’

She stubbed out his cigarette on the bottom of his trainer, placed the stub alongside the toast on her plate, then took another large bite.

‘You’ve put on some weight,’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ she spoke with her mouth full, ‘it’s all the drugs.’

‘But it looks kinda hot.’

‘I know it does.’

‘So did you get around to telling your dad yet?’

‘That’s none of your damn business,’ she snapped.

‘Fair enough.’ Kane shoved his phone away. ‘Finish your breakfast,’ he said, ‘then empty your pockets and clear off. I’ve got stuff I need to do this morning.’

He bent down and retrieved his book.

‘Not much to hang around
here
for, anyways,’ she grumbled, grabbing her mug of tea, taking a deep draught of it, then belching so loudly – by way of vengeance – that Kane’s lank fringe rocked.

A small but ruthlessly efficient band of chainsaw-wielding contractors were savagely laying waste to a tall line of trees on the edge of the forecourt. Beede was standing by the trolleys (next to the store entrance) and absolutely fuming as he watched their steady progress.

‘I mean what’s to be gained by that?’ he couldn’t stop himself from sniping at the kid who stacked the trolleys up.

The kid shrugged.

‘They were serving a
purpose
: acting as a block to the motorway – countering the pollution, reducing the
racket…
’

The kid shrugged again.

‘You’d be amazed at the level of bio-diversity which exists even in a superficially low-grade site like this,’ Beede informed him, ‘in the low bushes, the incidental scrub, the trees…I’ve actually seen several firecrests in that Scotch Pine over there.’

He paused. ‘And a wren.’

‘They’re plannin’ on expandin’ the place,’ the kid volunteered. ‘Expanding?’ Beede looked astonished. ‘There’s a brand-new store not half a mile away. How much more business can they possibly sustain here?’

‘They’re gonna extend the cafe, for starters. Move it upstairs, out the back…’

‘Why?’

The kid shrugged.

‘Move it
upstairs
?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Move it to the back and upstairs when the
vast
proportion of its customers are pensioners, or young mums with toddlers and prams?’

‘They’re puttin’ in a lift.’

‘A lift? But what on earth
for
?’

‘So the mums can get their prams up.’

‘That’s absolutely typical of these people,’ Beede grouched, ‘to
create
a problem and then pointlessly throw money at it.’

He gazed over at the contractors, balefully. ‘I mean where’s the harm in just
leaving
things as they are?’

The kid shrugged. He looked at his watch.

Pause

‘I’ll
tell
you what their reasoning is,’ Beede suddenly started up again. ‘They move the cafe out to the back so that anyone who wants a drink or a snack has to traipse all the way through the store. And naturally, on their way there – human nature being what it is – they’ll pick up a little something
extra.
It’s just a scam – in other words – a cheap trick to encourge people to spend more of the money they don’t have on more of the stuff they don’t
need
…’

‘I just work here, mate,’ the kid said, starting to move off. ‘Taking those trees down,’ Beede persisted, ‘will
significantly
impinge on your working environment. The air quality, for starters…’

‘Who cares?’ the kid sneered. ‘It’s just some crappy, old job anyway…’

‘Rubbish,’ Beede wouldn’t let him have it, ‘you’re serving an essential function here –
uh…
’ he inspected his name tag, ‘
Brian
, and don’t you let anyone dare tell you otherwise.’

‘I’m on my break now, mate,’ Brian smirked, ‘so they can tell me what the hell they
like
…’

‘But I’m
serious
,’ Beede maintained, ‘your so-called “crappy” job is absolutely critical to the smooth running of this supermarket. You’re a fundamental cog, a facilitator, a
lubricant…
’

The kid scowled.

‘You’re an essential component,’ Beede persisted. ‘If this store were a car you’d be something small but powerful: the
spark
plug, say. And you know as well as I do that without a spark plug this huge capitalist enterprise – this vast and impressive machine – simply couldn’t start up.’

The kid continued scowling. He was still struggling to get past Beede’s casual use of the word ‘lubricant’.

‘I mean look at it
this
way,’ Beede continued, ‘if an actress or a pop star or a footballer doesn’t turn up for work one day, then what d’you imagine the consequences are?’

The kid shrugged.

‘In real terms? There aren’t any. The bottom line is that they
don’t
facilitate. They simply entertain. If Capitalism was the ocean, all they’d be is the scum, riding on the crest of a wave.’

‘
Rich
scum,’ the kid muttered.

‘That’s a good point,’ Beede allowed, ‘and a fine pun. But the plain fact is that if
you
don’t turn up for work then people can’t shop. And if they can’t shop, they can’t
eat.
’

‘If I don’t turn up for work,’ Brian observed dourly, ‘then they get some other sucker in. Or they don’t get someone in and the customers just have to shift their fat arses over to one of the
other
collection points to pick their trolley up.’

‘But what if they’re disabled?’ Beede challenged him.

‘Then they can get their shoppin’ delivered on the internet.’

‘And how many people are needed to facilitate
that
?’

Brian shrugged.

‘Well let’s count them off, shall we? There’s the person at the computer – for starters – who
receives
the order, the person who goes out into the shop and
collects
the order, the person who
stores
it until delivery, the person whose job it is to
coordinate
the transport…’

‘Excuse me,’ a woman’s voice suddenly piped up from behind him, ‘but I can’t find a trolley. One of the
little
trolleys. The ones with the metal thingy on the front which has a
clip
that you can pin your shopping list on…’

Beede glanced over his shoulder, irritably. He started. It was
Laura.
Laura Monkeith.

‘Beede?’
she looked equivalently stunned.

‘Laura…’ Beede stuttered. ‘Good Lord.’

‘Are you waiting for a trolley too?’ she asked.

‘Waiting…?’

The kid took this as his cue to quietly slope off.

‘…Uh
no
…we were just…’

Beede winced. He put his hand to his neck.

‘They
never
have enough trolleys here,’ she grumbled (the kid still within earshot), ‘at least not the sort
I’m
always after…’