Living Death

by Graham Masterton

  Eoin switched on his bedside lamp, threw back the patchwork quilt, and swung himself out of bed. He went over to the window, opened the curtains, and peered out into the darkness. The window was speckled with raindrops, and all he could see was the wall lights on the end of the two rows of kennels, and their reflection in the wet tarmac yard. His first thought had been that there was a fire, but he couldn’t see any smoke, or smell any, either.

  He opened the window so that he could hear the dogs more clearly and there was no doubt that they were hysterical. He recognised at least two of them: Bullet, the young Welsh terrier, whose high-pitched yapping was always distinctive, and the throaty barking of Trippet, the Labrador.

  ‘What time are we?’ he asked Cleona, crossing over to the chair where his jeans and his brown cable-knit sweater were hanging.

  ‘Twenty past four,’ said Cleona. ‘What do you think’s wrong with them?’

  ‘That’s what I’m going down to find out.’

  ‘Well, for the love of God be careful. You can never be sure who’s prowling around these days. Hold on a moment and I’ll come down with you.’

  ‘No, pet, you stay here. I’ll call out for you if I need you.’

  Eoin struggled into his jeans, grabbing the side of the wardrobe to keep his balance, and then pulled on his sweater, so that his black curly hair stuck up. His eyes were puffy from lack of sleep and his head was thumping. It had been his thirty-eighth birthday yesterday, and since his birthday was on 31 October, he had celebrated as usual with a monster Hallowe’en party at Hurley’s.

  He switched on the landing light so that he could see his way down the steep, narrow stairs, but he didn’t switch on the light downstairs in the hallway. He doubted if the dogs had been disturbed by anybody more threatening than a petty pilferer – some Knacker looking to see if there were any tools or bicycles lying around. At this time of the morning it was even more likely to be a red fox, rummaging through their dustbins. If it was a prowler, though, he wanted to catch him by surprise, and he didn’t want to open the front door and appear as a backlit target. Sceolan Boarding Kennels was very isolated, with the next house nearly a kilometre away, and the village of Ballinspittle more than four, and Eoin was always cautious about security.

  Before he opened the front door, he looked out through the semi-circular window in it, but he could still see nothing but darkness, and rain, and the two lights at the end of the kennels. He pushed his bare feet into his wellington boots, picked up the ashwood hurley stick that he kept in the umbrella stand, and stepped outside. The wind was cold and blustery, and even though the gutters were gurgling, the rain seemed to be easing off a little. The dogs were still barking, though, and as he crossed the yard, he thought that they sounded even more frantic. Marcus, a pedigree Labrador, was giving out a long convoluted howl like the Hound of the Baskervilles.

  When he reached the two parallel lines of kennels, he began to see why the dogs were so distressed. At least six or seven of the doors at the far end of the left-hand line were wide open. He broke into a run, gripping his hurley even tighter. The kennel doors were all fitted with alarms, which he religiously switched on at night, but clearly somebody had found a way to short-circuit them.

  As he reached the first of the open doors, he saw who the intruders were. Just out of sight of the house, a silver Range Rover and a large black Transit van were parked in the driveway that led down to the road. Two men were pulling a reluctant German Shepherd called Caesar into the side door of the van, while three more were walking back towards the kennels.

  Eoin stopped running, and stood where he was, holding up the hurley in both hands. ‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘What in the name of Jesus do you think you’re doing?’

  The three men said nothing at first, but kept on walking towards him until they were only five metres away. Two of them were wearing black windcheaters, and had scarves wrapped around the lower half of their faces, like jihadis, so that Eoin could see only their eyes. The third man was wearing a long grey raincoat, tightly buckled at the waist. He had swept-back grey hair and the ruined good looks of an ageing actor. A cigarette was glowing between his lips, and it waggled up and down when he spoke, as if to accentuate what he was saying. He spoke very softly, with a slurred Sligo accent, so Eoin found it difficult to hear him over the cacophony of barking.

  ‘Sorry if we’ve disturbed you, sir! As you can see, we’re only after taking a few of your liabilities off of your hands, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, you mean you’ve come here to pikey my dogs?’

  The man’s forehead furrowed into a distinctive V. ‘Ah stop! That’s not a very friendly thing to say, now is it? If I was a pikey, like, I’d be pure offended by that. As it is, I’ll let it pass. How about we say nothing, all right, in case something’s said. But I suggest that you go back indoors and let us get on with our business.’

  The other two men had slammed shut the Transit’s door by now, and come over to join them. Apart from the man in the grey raincoat, none of them spoke, but they didn’t have to. With their hands thrust into the pockets of their windcheaters and their legs braced apart and their heads tilted slightly back, they were making it quite clear to Eoin that if he tried to stop them they would beat him senseless and dance on his face.

  It sounded as if the dogs could sense the increasing tension in the air. Their barking not only continued relentlessly, but it grew sharper and harder, echoing from one side of the kennels to the other. Eoin felt as helpless as they obviously did. What could one man do against five, even if he was armed with a seven-hundred-gram hurley? For all he knew, they could be carrying knives, or even guns.

  In a cabinet in the dining-room he kept an under-and-over shotgun. Why hadn’t he had the sense to bring it out with him? Hadn’t his father told him time and again: ‘Always be ready for the worst that life can throw at you, boy, because it fecking will’? His father had died of lung cancer at the age of fifty-one.

  ‘All right,’ said Eoin. He was trying to sound calm but he felt as if his insides had turned into cold water. ‘It doesn’t look as if I have much choice, does it? But all I ask is, treat these dogs with respect, and take good care of them.’

  The man in the grey raincoat gave him a sideways-sloping smile. ‘You don’t seriously think I’m going to let you go back inside on your own, do you? As if you won’t be ringing the shades as soon as you walk through the door. No – a couple of my pals here will go along with you while the others finish up here, taking what we came for. Oh – and you can drop that camán. Don’t want you taking a swing at them, do we?’

  Eoin hesitated for a moment and then tossed the hurley so that it clattered on to the ground. One of the men stepped forward and picked it up, sloping it over his shoulder as if it were a rifle.

  ‘What are you going to do with them – the dogs?’ Eoin asked the man in the grey raincoat. ‘You’re not going to have them fighting, are you?’

  ‘Oh, will you come round to yourself,’ the man replied. ‘These are fine dogs these are, best quality. They’ll all of them be going to pampered homes, believe me. They’ll probably be eating better munch and sleeping in more comfortable scratchers than you or me ever will.’

  Eoin was tempted to say something like, ‘You won’t get away with this,’ but he knew how futile that would sound, and the reality was that they probably would get away with it. The Garda were tied up with enough serious crime without chasing after dognappers.

  He walked back to the house, with two of the men uncomfortably close beside him, including the man who was carrying his hurley. They followed him inside, and with his voice muffled behind his scarf, one of them said, ‘Just park your arse in the parlour, okay, sham, and don’t be trying anything stupid.’

  Eoin went into the living-room and switched on the lights. He could still hear the dogs barking and he prayed that Cleona hadn’t heard him come back into the house; that she wouldn’t decide to come looking for him.

  He sat on the end
of the white leatherette sofa while one of the men sat in the armchair by the fireplace. The man with the hurley remained standing, directly behind him, as if he were just waiting for him to make a wrong move so that he could give him a cheeser across the back of the head.

  ‘So what are you going to do with our dogs?’ asked Eoin.

  Neither of the men spoke, although the man sitting in the armchair gave a loud catarrhal sniff, and then another. Even so, he didn’t lower the scarf that covered all of his face except his eyes.

  ‘If you’re not going to be fighting them, what? Breeding them? Racing with them? Selling them on, pretending they’re yours? They’ve all been chipped and registered, but then I’d guess you know that.’

  Still the men said nothing. They both smelled strongly of stale cigarette smoke and the man who was standing behind Eoin was wearing some strong cheap body spray like Lynx.

  ‘You’re not taking them out lamping, are you?’ said Eoin. ‘You could just get some old mongrel for that. These are all pedigree. They’d catch their death of cold in the woods.’

  ‘Shut your face, will you?’ said the man behind him.

  ‘I’m only thinking of the dogs,’ said Eoin.

  ‘Well, for feck’s sake think about something else, will you? You’re wrecking my head.’

  At that moment, Eoin heard a creak from the main bedroom, which was directly overhead. The men heard it, too, because they looked up at the ceiling and the man in the armchair sniffed and said, ‘Who’s that? Is that your wife up there?’

  ‘You leave her out of this,’ said Eoin.

  ‘So long as she doesn’t start causing bother,’ the man told him.

  But then they heard Cleona call out, ‘Eoin? Eoin, what are you doing downstairs? The dogs are still going mad out there! What’s going on?’

  ‘Tell her everything’s grand and to go back to bed,’ said the man behind him.

  Eoin hesitated, so the man prodded his shoulder with the toe of the hurley and said, ‘Tell her, will you?’

  Eoin cleared his throat and shouted, ‘It’s all right, Cleona! It was only a fox sniffing around, that’s all! They’ll settle themselves down in a while!’

  There was a long pause, and then Cleona called, ‘So what are you doing downstairs? Aren’t you coming up?’

  ‘In a minute! There’s a couple of things I have to do first!’

  Another pause, not so long this time. Then, ‘What things? At this rate it’ll be time for you to get up before you’ve come back to bed.’

  ‘Like I said, Clee! I’ll be up in a minute!’

  They heard another creak as Cleona walked back across the bedroom. A lengthy silence followed, interrupted only by the man in the armchair sniffing.

  After five minutes had gone by, though, they heard the creak again. This time Cleona didn’t call out, but started to come down the stairs.

  ‘Clee, don’t come down!’ Eoin called out, and his voice was croaky with stress. ‘I won’t be much longer, I promise you! Go back to bed, sweetheart! Please!’

  But now Cleona appeared in the living-room doorway, her blonde hair tousled, wearing nothing but her short rose-patterned nightdress. She blinked at the two men on either side of Eoin and said, ‘What’s going on? Who are these two fellers? Eoin? What’s going on?’

  ‘You just come in here and sit yourself down, pet,’ said the man with the hurley. ‘We won’t be staying long. All you have to do is sit still, like, and keep your bake shut.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Cleona demanded. ‘How dare you talk to me like that? Eoin – what are they doing here?’

  ‘Are you deaf, missus, or what?’ the man retorted.

  ‘I’m ringing the guards,’ said Cleona.

  She turned around and headed for the stairs, but the man in the chair by the fireplace bounded out of his seat and went after her. Before she was even halfway up, he had mounted the stairs after her, reached out and grabbed her right ankle. She lost her footing and tumbled back down into the hallway, hitting her elbow against the newel post and banging her head hard against the wall beside the front door.

  The man bent down, caught her under her arms, and lifted her up. She tried to struggle herself free, but he gripped the neck of her nightdress and twisted it in his fist, and then he slapped her across the face.

  She cried out, ‘Aaahhhh!’ more in rage than in pain, and attempted to hit him back, but he slapped her again, harder this time, and started to drag her back into the living-room.

  ‘Leave go of me!’ she screamed. ‘Leave go of me, you bastard!’

  Eoin stood up and shouted, ‘Take your hands off her!’

  He lunged towards the man who was jostling Cleona across the room, but the other man stalked stiff-legged around the end of the sofa with his hurley uplifted and cracked him hard across the back of his head. He fell heavily into a small side-table, knocking off a lamp and a small clock and half-a-dozen framed photographs of himself and Cleona with their prize dogs.

  Cleona screamed, hysterical now, but the man who was holding her clamped one hand over her mouth and gripped her hair by the roots with the other. Underneath his scarf, he blurted, ‘Shut the feck up, will you, or I’ll tear your fecking head off!’

  Eoin was still lying on the floor, concussed. The man with the hurley was standing over him, ready to hit him again, but he didn’t move.

  ‘Did you see that?’ the man said, triumphantly. ‘I should of played for the Barrs, me!’

  The other man slung Cleona on to the sofa. She had stopped screaming now but she was sobbing in deep, honking sobs, and she was almost blinded with tears. Her nightie had been pulled up on one side, exposing her hip. The man reached down and tugged up the other side. She tried to cross her legs and tug the hem down to cover herself, but he slapped her again, twice this time, and very hard. Both of her cheeks were swollen now, and fiery red, and his signet ring had left a pattern of tiny purple bruises on the left side of her face.

  ‘Don’t you fecking try to fight with me, doll, because you’ll only end up the worse for it, I can tell you!’

  With that, he wrenched her nightie up higher, and then he took hold of the hem in both hands and ripped it open, all the way to the neck, although he wasn’t able to tear apart the stitching around the collar. Cleona attempted twice to get up from the sofa, but he shoved her back down, holding her by the throat and raising his left hand to show her that he was quite prepared to slap her again.

  Still holding her by the throat, he unzipped his windcheater one-handed, and then he unfastened his belt-buckle and twisted open the buttons of his jeans.

  The man holding the hurley leaned against the fireplace, watching him. Cleona was whining for breath now, but she was no longer struggling or making any attempt to cover herself. She was staring up at the ceiling as if she were trying to imagine that she was somewhere else altogether, and that none of this was happening.

  ‘Well now, will you look at these!’ the man exclaimed, and sniffed. ‘It’s a fierce fine pair of diddies you have here, darling!’ He let go of her throat and squeezed her large white breasts with both hands, kneading his fingers deep into them and then pinching her nipples between finger and thumb, stretching them out as far as he could. ‘If I was your old man, I swear to God, I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep all night for playing breast-ket-ball!’ Then he looked down and said, ‘Not sure about the flange, though! Doesn’t fecking match! The lights are on upstairs all right, but it’s pitch dark in the cellar!’

  ‘Come on, Keeno, beggars can’t be choosers,’ said his companion. ‘Are you going to give her the McWhinney’s or what? Michael and the lads will be finished loading up all them dogs in a minute.’

  The man delved inside his jeans and prised his stiffened penis out of his shorts. It was short, but his dark purple glans had baroque curves to it, like a helmet drawn by Leonardo da Vinci. He forced Cleona’s thighs wide open and then with his blackened fingernails he pulled the lips of her vulva wide apart.

  �
�State of this la!’ he snorted, underneath his scarf. ‘Did you ever before see a woman so soggy? She must be ga-a-asping for it!’

  He climbed awkwardly on top of her and forced himself into her, all the way in, right up to his jeans. As he penetrated her, she let out an extraordinary whinny, more like a young horse than a woman, and her arms and legs convulsed, and then flopped. After that, though, she lay on the sofa silent and motionless while the man pushed at her and pushed at her, grunting and sniffing and cursing under his breath.

  The dogs had stopped barking now, and so the only other sound was the squeaking of the sofa and the persistent squelching of attempted intercourse. The man’s companion had tucked the hurley under his arm and was frowning intently at his mobile phone. Cleona had her eyes closed. Her breasts wobbled with every thrust and occasionally she let out the softest of gasps, but apart from that she might just as well have been dead.

  After a few minutes the man holding the hurley said, ‘Ah come on, Keeno. That’s enough shagging. Michael and the lads are all set to go.’

  The other man stopped humping up and down on top of Cleona but stayed inside her, staring down at her.

  ‘You’re not going to open your eyes and look at me, are you, darling? Well, that’s a terrible pity, because I think you and me could have let off some fireworks together, if you’d only been a little more obligating, do you know what I mean, like?’

  ‘Will you beat on, Keeno, for feck’s sake,’ said his companion.

  But the man was still lying on top of Cleona when Eoin suddenly stirred, and sat up. Eoin looked around him, holding his head with one hand and blinking, as if he couldn’t understand where he was. Then, though, he turned towards the sofa and saw the man climbing off Cleona and bending his half-erect penis back into his jeans.

  ‘Holy Jesus! What are you doing?’ Eoin cried out, and he was almost screeching. He reached out for the armchair to pull himself up on to his feet, but he was still giddy from being hit so hard on the head, and he dropped to his knees on the shaggy green hearth-rug.