Darkmans by Nicola Barker Page A

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