Darkmans (9 page)

As if to underline this fact, categorically, he journeyed north, to Irbil, and became a denizen of the legendary Sheikhallah Bazaar, where he hired himself out as muscle in the trade of drugs, fake passports and illegal arms. He moved to Turkey on the back of his successes, changed his name (stole ‘Celik’ from a local mayor), converted to Islam and married Gaffar’s mother.

He’d wanted (he claimed) to leave his former life behind. He even said he’d seen Jonah (Yunus) in a vision, where the whale was not a sea creature, but an enormous tent (a living thing, somehow, with ribs and teeth and organs), and it was crammed – full-to-bursting – with people he’d known in the past (his old friends, his enemies, his compatriots), and they were all slowly suffocating. But his own chest was full of air (like
he
was the whale, or the lungs, or something), and Jonah, on observing this fact, reached out his hand to him, and they walked clear – clear of the tent, of the bazaar – into a world beyond, into a promised land.

An epiphany.

Or this was the mythology. The truth was much simpler. Things didn’t actually change all that much in Turkey (I mean the Kurds were persecuted everywhere, weren’t they?). The fabric of his life remained
virtually identical. He’d simply crossed over (or turned inside out, like a polythene bag). He was on the other side, now, but the leap he’d made wasn’t gargantuan (like Jonah’s whale), and it wasn’t so much moral (or spiritual) as geographical.

He remained a soldier (but now paid by the state). The Guard were universally loathed. They were cruel and merciless. Some were just desperate, others, crass opportunists. Gaffar’s father was ruthless, but not actively sadistic. He dispatched his duties efficiently. He took the occasional back-hander. He still thought like a traitor. And when he died (suddenly, on a landmine) his reputation was a distinguished one. He’d been fearless and brave and single-minded. He’d conformed. He’d fitted in. He was remembered by his compadres as an honourable man.

Gaffar sometimes wondered where his soul had gone (I mean which of the deities he’d served was the more forgiving, the more powerful?). It was a telling thought: but weren’t all true nomads at their happiest in limbo?

Was God actually aware of that fact?

As he grew older it became increasingly apparent that Gaffar had fighting in his genes (in his
bones
, which he broke, then re-set, then broke again). It wasn’t that he was angry (quite the opposite). His strength was rooted in his curious implacability.

From the tender age of twelve he fought for money. He was a gambler. He could win or take a beating – he didn’t care which, particularly – so long as he was paid for it. He loved his family but he despised their life of grinding penury. He wasn’t political (and in Diyarbakir it was difficult not to be) and he did not actively support the PKK (let’s face it: when Ocalan was arrested, things actually got
better
: schools were opened, they could speak in their own tongue again…Ocalan was certainly a hero, but he was also a spitfire; didn’t really care where his stray bullets landed, just so long as he satisfied his overall agenda.
He was single-minded – heroes often were – and matched the Turkish armed forces, blow for blow, in his ceaseless promulgation of violence and terror).

Politics were all well and good, Gaffar reasoned – ideals and such – but money was the language of progress. Money actually got you out of there; into the colourful world which flickered on the screens of the cable tvs in local cafes. Into freedom. Into Eden.

Gaffar was a bare-knuckle boxer, all over the region (developed quite a reputation, as he grew older, although eventually, inevitably, this began to work against him). The trick was in his stature. He was small, looked wiry. But underneath he was impregnable. His will was the iron rod in his spine which kept him standing (or told him the precise moment at which to fall). His will was indomitable. He was the God of his own insides.

But the whole world (alas) didn’t start and end upon his skin’s smooth surfaces. There was an outside (he could smell it, he could taste it. Sometimes it kicked or bit or bruised him). Outside all was chaos. And this chaotic outside – if it really wanted to – could suck you in.

There was no point resisting.

He got caught up (the hook went straight through his cheek) aged fourteen, fifteen, in the opposing currents of politics and corruption (dragged back and forth, aimlessly, between them). He hadn’t tried, it’d simply happened; he’d attracted attention, had become almost a
talisman.

He hung around in the backwash for a while (rejected by family, embraced by the local mafia, imprisoned for a year), then finally – out of sheer desperation – he struck a deal (it was the gambler in him). He risked everything (made promises to God, crossed his fingers, held his breath, you name it). And it
worked.

Six long hours in customs and he was spat out, with due ceremony, into the United Kingdom (thirty neat little bags of heroin killing time inside his colon).

King-dom?

They had a queen, they spoke English, they ate beefburgers and drank beer.

London.
North
London. Wood Green (no woods, not much greenery,
but who cared? He was
here.
This was his big chance. His break for freedom…).

Hmmn

It’d looked better on the telly. And there was dubbing, too, in Turkey (or subtitles;
hell
, he wasn’t fussy).

When people spoke it sounded utterly foreign. He couldn’t react. He couldn’t respond. He was rendered dumb. It terrified him.

Language (not just violence, or poverty) was now his determinator. The people he needed to get away from were the only people he could communicate with (everybody important spoke Kurdish here).

It was a different world – he could certainly vouch for that – but it was still run by the same rules (the sky the same colour, the ground just as hard, his belly just as hungry, the same battles for territory). So he chugged on. Became a
Bombacilar
– a henchman for a gang in the Green Lanes area. Shelved his dreams of a boxing career. Supported Turkey in the football. Developed a taste for American lager.

Until everything crumbled – 22 January 2003. A vicious gang-fight on Green Lanes. A
massacre.
The accidental death of an innocent bystander. An armed swoop on a Haringey cafe. A police officer attacked with a kebab skewer. Illegal gambling. Nine arrests. Operation codename NARITA. Commanding officer Steve James and a friendly – a
very
friendly – interpreter. (
Oh that friendly interpreter! The dire threats she’d made! And the bewildering promises!
)

Her name was Marta. She was sixty-three years old, half-Cypriot and a widow, with a mixed degree in psychology and philosophy from Trent University –

Marta

She’d reached out her hand to him, and Gaffar had taken hold of it (it was a soft hand, smelled of hazelnut nougat and –

Mmmm

– Indian rose-water).

Marta, it soon transpired, was to be Gaffar’s Jonah (although the
whale was not a tent this time, but the claustrophobic courtroom in which he’d calmly turned state’s evidence).

Gaffar – like his father before him – had niftily slipped the border. And on the other side?

Ash-ford?

What a clumsy word

So this was where his journey ended. This was where he’d sunk his anchor. This was his port, his haven, his harbour. This was where he disembarked: a crummy job, an old shirt, his faithful Thermos (a leaving present from a favourite aunt). Two weeks rent paid up in advance…

This –

Ah yes

– was his Brand New Start.

But only so long as he did
Absolutely Nothing Wrong, Mate – D’ya hear?

Someone had to take custody of the two dogs, so Kane (having first glanced around him for any other likely candidates –
bugger.
Not a one) reluctantly agreed to shoulder the responsibility.

Once the ambulance had pulled off, he ushered them both inside. The big one was a little snappy, but they trotted into the narrow corridor gamely enough, turning at the foot of the stairs (leading up into Kane’s first-floor section of the flat) and gazing over at him, expectantly, as if awaiting further instructions.

Kane tried to move past them and the larger one growled –

Oh, really
?

He tried again. This time it snarled, and the smaller one –

The little shit

– backed him up.

Right

Kane considered his options –

The pound?

Pest control?

The butcher?

Ten seconds later, there was a knock at the door. He answered, still musing. It was Gaffar. He was holding a large, brown envelope (which he’d discovered over by the wall) and a small, silver trainer. ‘This
her
,’ he said, proffering the trainer politely, like a down-at-heel Buttons in
Cinderella.

‘Pardon?’

Kane really was quite exhausted.

‘These two items belong to your skinny
whore,’ Gaffar reiterated.

‘Oh…
yeah,
’ Kane said, recognising Kelly’s distinctive footwear, and then (much to his horror) the brown envelope she’d mentioned previously. ‘
Shit.
This must be for Beede. Thanks…’

He took the two objects, tucked them under his arm, and was about to close the door (a symphony of growling promptly resuming behind him) when his conscience briefly pricked him and he paused. ‘So d’you get a roasting?’ he asked abruptly. ‘From your boss?’ ‘
Eh?
’

Kane mimed the throwing of the Thermos and then pointed to the chipped window.

‘
Ahhh,
’ Gaffar just shrugged, resignedly.

‘The chop?’

Kane made a chopping gesture.

No response.

He thought for a moment. ‘The
axe?
’

He made a dramatic slicing motion across his neck.

Gaffar’s eyebrows rose for a second, then he nodded.
‘Yeah, I’m
screwed,
but so what? I’m beyond caring,
man.
He thinks I’m a live-wire,
huh
?
A troublemaker? Well he can stick his stupid opinions up his own arse. The bottom line is, I’ve had enough. I’m through. And that’s my decision. I’m master of my own destiny,
see?
I don’t care what he tells the damn authorities. He treats me like a slave,
yeah?
He pays like a
…
a
cunt…yeah?
I told him I could earn a better living out on the streets. I did that in Diyarbakir for an entire year. Lived like an animal, off my wits.’
Gaffar tapped the side of his head, meaningfully.
‘He’s a fool. An imbecile. I could devour his brains in one sitting and still feel ravenous.’
He paused for a moment, breathing heavily.
‘You’re right,
’ he continued, vaingloriously,
‘I should slaughter his entire family. Steal his money. Steal his car. Get the hell out of here
…’

As he spoke, Gaffar made a series of rather fetching little stabbing motions with an imaginary blade. On the final one, he symbolically disembowelled a toddler, then snatched some keys, which the toddler (rather mysteriously) appeared to be clutching.

Kane was scowling now, struggling to keep up with him. Gaffar observed his confusion (let it ride for a few seconds), and then,
‘I’m just joking,’
he exploded, with a loud cackle, slapping Kane jovially on the shoulder,
‘you big, fat, ugly
American
twat.
’

He continued to grin at Kane. Kane smiled brightly back. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ he said, ‘but I believe “American twat”,’ he drew a neat pair of speech marks in the air, ‘is actually part of an
international
vocabulary – a
universal
language – which we all share.’

Gaffar mused this over for a second, apparently unmoved. ‘
Wow-wee
,’ he finally murmured, dryly.

Kane sniggered (the man had
balls
, there was no getting round it).

‘You’re funny,’ he said eventually, ‘and you can take care of yourself. I respect that. Come on in. I’ll dig you out a spare shirt. We can smoke some ganja. Some
weed
, huh? Then I
must
get some fucking zeds or I’ll expire.’

‘Okay.’

Kane pulled the door wider. Gaffar slipped smoothly past him to a muted
vibrato
of snarling.

‘Just watch out for the…’ Kane glanced over his shoulder, worriedly. ‘
Uh…
’

Beede never locked the door which separated his and Kane’s living areas. To do so would’ve shown a complete lack of faith in his son (and, by default, in his own parenting abilities). This decision ‘not to lock’ was primarily self-serving (Kane’s feelings – or probable
lack
of them – barely entered into the equation). Beede’s need to project himself as always open and accessible (a touching combination, say, of the old-fashioned Corner Shop – with their lofty code of personal service – and the modern, ruthless, all-nite Cash & Carry) was fundamental to his inalienable sense of the kind of father he wanted to be (or to
appear
to be, since in his mind these two notions were virtually interchangeable).

To boil it all down (which might take a while – there was plenty of old meat, hard lessons and human frailty in this particular broth), Beede was wildly cynical about the functions of paternity.

Was it Freud or Sophocles (Beede sometimes wondered) who first came up with the theory that all any little boy ever
really
wanted was to kill the father (strictly in the symbolic sense, of course)? Whoever ultimately took the credit for it (
Ah
, he could see them both now, queuing up at the Paradisical Counter of Philosophical Legitimacy: Sophocles slightly forward, a picture of genial equanimity; Freud, further back, but still scaring the living shit out of everybody), Beede definitely thought that they were on to something.

Although in Kane’s particular case, his sheer indifference to his father (wasn’t indifference a kind of murder, anyway? A death of care? Of
interest
?) was so strong, so marked, that to raise his hand against him – even figuratively – would’ve demanded just a tad too much energy. For Kane to actually get
angry
with Beede? Seriously? To take him on? To lose his
rag
?! You might as well ask a tropical fish to murder a robin (it simply wasn’t feasible. It couldn’t happen).

In bald truth, Beede’s studious attempts to present himself as unfailingly approachable to his son were all just so much baloney. He actively avoided him – consciously,
un
consciously – at almost every available
opportunity. But by being so unremittingly
there
for him (in the formal sense, at least) he cleverly
thwacked
the leaden ball of familial responsibility squarely back into Kane’s court again (Kane was still young. He could take the burden. And it might actually be
good
for him to feel like something was wrong – or lacking – or missing – like he’d unintentionally fucked up in some way).

When it came to his door (its locking or otherwise), Beede honestly felt like he had nothing to hide. He almost believed himself transparent (like one of those minuscule but fascinating single-cell creatures which loves to hang around in pools of stagnant water), so certain was he of his own moral probity.

Of course everybody has
something
a little private about them (and Beede was no exception), but his firm apprehension was that once you started hiding things – once you got all sneaky and furtive – you automatically gave potential intruders the impetus to start hunting seriously. And that, he felt, would be a most unwelcome eventuality.

Visitors were rare, anyway. Kane was usually working (or partying) or crashed out. He didn’t deal from home (oh come
on
). And nobody who knew Beede properly would ever consider turning up uninvited (he was a busy man. An ‘impromptu’ impulse was pretty much on a par – in his eyes – with spitting or extreme flatulence).

Even Kane kept his distance. Beede had the only kitchen in the property (open-plan – the wall had come down in 1971; his last ever concession to what he liked to call ‘the modern malaise of interior renovation’), but Kane didn’t cook, so that wasn’t a problem (he had a kettle and a microwave gathering dust on his landing). Beede had a shower and a toilet (so spartan in aspect that they resembled something dreamed up by an over-zealous BBC props department for a gruelling drama about a Japanese prisoner of war camp) while Kane had a bath (which he absolutely
luxuriated
in), a toilet and a bidet. If they ever met or spoke, it was usually in the hallway, or at an appointed hour, at a preferred table, in a nearby cafe.

Imagine Beede’s surprise, then, on returning home (after his protracted interlude with Isidore), to discover two recalcitrant curs snarling on the stairway, Kane – fast asleep – on his sofa (a saucer containing several cigarette stubs balanced precariously on the arm; Beede quickly removed it, with a
tut
), and a shirtless Kurd (with a blood-stained hanky tied clumsily around the fleshy area just below his elbow) sitting quietly upon an adjacent chair.

The washing machine was half-way through its cycle. The Kurd was peacefully occupied in playing some kind of dice game on Beede’s reading table (all of his books now piled up, neatly, on the floor nearby). He was throwing two dice from a Tupperware beaker (the beaker into which Beede liked to drain off excess meat-fat from his roasting dish. It had a lid, usually, to keep the contents airtight. Beede had no idea where that lid had got to. The beaker had served him faithfully in this lone capacity since 1983. It must’ve been in a state of severe trauma).

‘Good afternoon,’ Beede said, quickly disposing of the tarnished saucer and then dumping his bag down on the kitchen counter. The Kurd nodded briskly, picked up a pencil (Beede’s pencil) and scribbled some figures on to a piece of paper (the back of Beede’s water bill). Beede scowled. While he knew that it was unfair of him to blame the Kurd for Kane’s apparent breach, he immediately took against him. ‘I’m Daniel Beede,’ he said curtly, ‘and this is my home.’

‘Gaffar Celik,’ the Kurd muttered, barely even glancing up,
‘and this is not my
home;
a fact I’m sure you’ll soon be only too keen to acquaint me with,
eh?’

‘I speak a small Turkish,’
Beede answered, nonchalantly, taking off his jacket and hanging it up on the hook behind the door,
‘from my time of the navy. You offend my pride with this words.’

Gaffar winced, pantomimically, at his accent.
‘Ever considered taking evening classes?’

‘Yes,’ Beede back-handed,
‘that is why we are conversation.
So what’s
your
excuse, Mr Celik?’

‘
Yip!
’ Gaffar exclaimed, making as if to duck a punch, then rapidly drawing both fists to his chin (in readiness for some kind of counter-attack).

‘Watch out,’ Beede smiled, drawing up his own fists in a similar fashion, ‘I was South-East Kent Boys Boxing Champion, 1956–1961.’

‘
Wha?!
You’re a fighter, old man?’

Gaffar was visibly moved by this information.

‘Yes. I used to be.
In very far-back distance.
And less of the old, thank you very much.’

‘I boxer,’ Gaffar announced proudly,
‘and trust me, I would’ve severely pulped your spotty, teenage arse back in ‘61.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Yes.
In my country I’m a celebrity
–
famous
, eh? –
for my amazing talents as a featherweight.’

Beede appeared to take this bold personal declaration in his stride. ‘Unfortunately the time-space continuum prevents us from categorically establishing the better man between us,’ he murmured dryly,
‘but I take you at you speak, eh?’

‘Let’s roll for it, Greybeard,’
Gaffar was smiling,
‘I’ll even give you a head start, as a mark of your seniority.
’

He removed a pound coin from his pocket and slammed it down, flamboyantly, on to the table.

Beede had no intention of playing dice. He hated all games (developed this deep antipathy during his long years in the navy). To Beede, game-playing was like aimlessly treading water in the fast-running Stream of Mortality; far better – he felt – to swim hard against the current, or to drown – spent and exhausted – in the attempt.

‘Did that Tupperware pot have a lid when you found it?’ he enquired. ‘
Huh?
’

‘Lid,’ Beede pointed and then performed a small mime.

‘
Ah,
’ Gaffar finally understood him and shook his head. ‘Uh-uh.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘No problem,’ Gaffar shrugged,
‘we don’t need one to play Par. Or Pachen, if you prefer.’

‘I suppose not…’ Beede was mournful. He peered balefully over the back of the sofa at Kane (as if hoping to find the lid protruding from one of his pockets; perhaps jutting out neatly from between his buttocks) then glanced up again. ‘So have you been here long, Gaffar?’

‘Twenty-eight months.’

‘No, I mean
in this rooms.’

Gaffar inspected his watchless wrist. ‘One hour.’

‘I see.’

Gaffar vigorously rubbed his hand up and down on the goose-bumping flesh of his uninjured arm.
‘Your friend’s purple-haired whore broke her leg,’
he explained, amiably.
‘She fell off the wall outside. I was helping her – I have a special genius for massage…’

He pummelled the air, theatrically.

‘Good
God…
’ Beede was naturally alarmed by this news. ‘She fell off the wall? Outside? Was it a bad break?’

Gaffar calmly ignored his questions.
‘Then he
–
uh
…
Kane,
’ he continued, nodding angrily towards the offending individual,
‘suddenly turned up from out of nowhere and threw hot coffee all over me. Smashed my
Thermos.
Ruined my shirt. Got me the sack. And the
girl – whose leg was in a pretty bad way
…
uh
…’ he paused, ruminatively, ‘Kelly. That her name…
she went off in an ambulance. Which was when,’
he continued,
‘he kindly invited me inside and let the dogs maul me
…’

He pointed at the handkerchief on his arm.

‘
Ah…
’ Beede suddenly caught on. He smirked. ‘So would that be Pachen with
bluffs
you’re playing there?’

Gaffar stared at him, blankly.

‘No bluff,’ he finally murmured, hurt.

While Beede wasn’t entirely convinced by the accuracy of this stranger’s report, he was impressed, nonetheless, by his good bearing and air of self-containment.

‘I’m afraid Kane is my
son,
’ he mused quietly, almost regretfully. Gaffar’s dark brows rose, but he didn’t respond.

‘I am his
father,
yes?’ Beede persisted (like a rookie attending his first AA meeting; determined to confess everything).

The penny suddenly dropped.

‘What?’
Gaffar pointed accusingly towards the oblivious Kane.
‘This big, fat, useless
Yank
is
your seed?’

Beede nodded.
‘Cruel,
isn’t it?’

Gaffar cackled,
‘Well your arrival home was timely. I was just planning to fleece him.’

‘Then you would’ve fleeced
me
,’ Beede declared, almost without rancour, ‘because this is my flat. Kane lives upstairs.’

He pointed towards the ceiling.

As he spoke the washing machine clicked quietly on to its spin cycle.

Gaffar grinned, slammed down the Tupperware beaker (in brazen challenge), pulled a nearby stool closer and patted its seat, enticingly.
‘Then let’s settle this the traditional way, Old Champion,’
he wheedled. ‘
Come.
Come
and join me. Let’s play.’

Kane slept for three hours. When he finally awoke he found himself in his father’s flat, curled up on the sofa (covered in a blanket: Beede’s clean but ancient MacIntosh tartan, which had been so neatly and regularly darned over the years that the restoration work constituted more than a third of its total thread content).

The air was moist and scented (Gaffar had partaken of a shower – eschewing Beede’s carbolic soap in favour of Ecover camomile and marigold washing-up liquid). There was some kind of tangy, tomato-based concoction bubbling away on the stove.

Kane blinked, dopily, as Gaffar emerged from the bathroom in an expensive – if slightly over-sized – Yves Saint Laurent suit.

He struggled to remember the exact course of events which had led him here –

Three Percodan

Seven joints

Half bottle Tequila…

His mouth was dry –

Dry

His stomach hurt. He shook his head. He cleared his throat. He inspected Gaffar more closely (his hands flailing around to locate his cigarette packet). Who
was
this man, again?

‘Ah, you’re awake. I just lifted £200 off your father,’
the Kurd informed him, chirpily. ‘
Father,
’ he quickly repeated. ‘
Beede
, eh?’

Kane sat up, alarmed. ‘Is Beede here?’

The Kurd nodded.
‘Now there’s an intelligent individual. Very generous. Very hospitable
…’ Gaffar expectorated, then swallowed, then blinked and swallowed again.
‘But a miserable gambler
…’ He shook his finger at Kane, warningly.
‘Never, ever let the old man gamble with me again,
eh?’

‘The bathroom?’ Kane rapidly threw off the blanket, still panicked. ‘Is he in the bathroom?’

‘No,’ Gaffar shook his head as he strolled into the kitchen. ‘He –
uh
–
work.
He go. From…’ he shrugged, ‘half-hour.’

‘
Jesus.
’

Kane closed his eyes for a moment, in relief. ‘Thank
fuck.
’

Gaffar frowned, then abruptly stopped frowning as he peered into the bubbling pan on the stove.

‘So did you explain about the dogs?’

Kane’s eyes were open again.

‘
Huh?
’ Gaffar tested the edible medley (a large tin of Heinz baked beans with chipolatas). He winced –

Hot

– then sucked his teeth –

Too salty

How the English loved their salt.

‘The dogs? The…uh…
Woof!
On the stair,’ Kane valiantly continued, observing a cigarette-packet-shaped object in Gaffar’s suit pocket. ‘Did he see? Did you explain about Kelly?’

Gaffar half-smiled as he returned to the living area. ‘Yes I do,’ he said, with exactly the level of conviction most calculated to fill Kane with doubt. And then, ‘
Woof!
’ he mimicked, satirically (with a huge grin), in a way that (Kane presumed) might be considered ‘cute’ in whichever godforsaken part of the planet he originally hailed from –