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, unconsciously – 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