Angelina stops, looks back over her shoulder. “What about . . . him?”
Something breaks in Wesley’s throat; she can’t even bring herself to say his name?
“I’ll take care of it.” George gives her a smile. “Don’t you worry.”
Angelina glances at Wesley, then starts moving again, letting Ellie lead her across the drive and into the doorway where Jeanette gives her a hug and a peck on the forehead. She ushers the girls into the house and closes the door, leaving Wesley alone with George, the shotgun, and two dead bodies.
George jerks the barrel of his gun toward the side of the house. “Move.”
Wesley has his hands in the air. No idea when he stuck them up. Must look pretty stupid, standing there in nothing but his bathrobe, hands up like it’s a bank robbery. But now probably isn’t the time to lower them. He swings his left leg out . . . as soon as his foot hits the ground all the bones in his leg are going to snap like breadsticks, sending him sprawling. But no: he stays on his feet. Manages another step without keeling over. “I didn’t have any choice.”
“Not for me to judge.” George pokes him in the back with the shotgun, nods toward a path that leads around the side of the house.
Wesley shuffles his broken-breadstick legs through the snow.
A tall metal gate. George presses a button and a buzzer sounds, then the gate clicks open. “Almost there.”
Wesley pushes the gate wide and walks through to a small courtyard with trees and a handful of small stone outbuildings on two sides, and a blank wall of dark gray on the other.
“I was going to find somewhere safe to hide Angelina. Somewhere I could leave her while I . . . while I buried the bodies. She’d never have to know . . .” He wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his dressing gown. Bites his lip. Sniffs. Forces the tears back. “Too late now. She thinks I killed them, doesn’t she?”
George is silent for a moment, then he nods. “I don’t know if it helps, but I believe you.”
“You do?”
“Had a good feeling about you right from the start. And I’m never wrong.”
“Thanks, George.” It’s enough to start him crying again. He doesn’t deserve anyone’s sympathy. But it helps. He wipes his eyes and forces a smile. Mummy’s brave little soldier. “You don’t need to worry. I won’t run away. And I’m not going to hurt anyone.”
The gate buzzes again and Jeanette appears, her apron dappled with shadows. She scuffs through the snow toward them. “Angelina’s distraught. Poor thing.”
Wesley clears his throat. But his voice still cracks. “Can I see her?”
“Actually . . .” Jeanette tilts her head to one side. “Maybe best not. She’s fine with Grace and Ellie. Don’t expect she’d want to talk to you right now anyway. And you can’t really blame her, can you?”
Angelina was right—he’s ruined everything. A shudder runs up his body, ice crystals rippling through his core. Feet so cold they’re throbbing. He lowers his hands and wraps his arms around himself. “I need my clothes.”
“You’ll get your clothes. If you behave.”
“If I behave?” Maybe he deserves to be treated like a teenager. “Seriously: I’m freezing. Let’s just go inside and you can call the police.” Put an end to it.
“Oh, Wesley.” Jeanette pats him on the shoulder. “What makes you think we’re going to call the police?” She walks toward the outhouse, triggering a row of security lights—a line of six steel shutters appears from the gloom, running the length of the building. “Come and see.”
She flicks a row of switches and the shutters clang and rattle upward.
He limps through the snow, getting closer, the smell of bleach and creosote stronger with every step, George right behind him, gun pointed at his back.
The shutters stop with a clank. Then Jeanette flicks another row of switches and low-energy bulbs flicker on. . . . Wesley stares, mouth hanging open. Instead of cat runs, six barred cages make up this side of the building.
“Hello, sweetie, how’s my good little girl today?” Jeanette smiles into the first cage. A wooden nameplate sits in the middle of the upper bars, the name SPOOKS painted in cheery pink letters. She turns to Wesley. “Spooks is a timid wee soul, not very good with people . . .” She points into the cage. “See?”
He hobbles closer. The cage is about the size of a modest bathroom. Toilet in one corner. Shower attachment snaking from the cinder-block wall at the back above a drain set into the concrete floor. A clear plastic corrugated roof, heaped with snow. The back wall is made of cinder blocks, with a cubbyhole-sized hatch at knee height. Wooden kickboards cover the side walls from the floor to a third of the way up.
A skinny young woman in a black sweatshirt and gray jogging bottoms is tucked into the narrow space between the toilet and the kickboards, rocking to and fro, hands clutched around her knees. She looks at him, hunches her shoulders, and looks away.
Jeanette pats a hand against her own stomach. “She’s just beginning to show. Can you tell?”
Jesus Christ.
“Next up”—Jeanette sidles along to the next cage—“we have Ginger.”
Ginger’s a chubby little boy, maybe five or six years old, with curly copper hair, and a bottle-green sweatshirt: I HATE MONDAYS. As soon as they pause in front of his cage, he scrabbles forward, clinging on to the bars, snot glistening on his top lip, eyes pink and swollen, tears streaking the dirt on his cheeks. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Mummy, I’ll be good, I promise.” He clasps his hands in front of his chest, as if he’s praying. “Please can I come back in the house? Please . . . ?”
Jeanette moves on. “Here’s our pride and joy: Boo. Isn’t she precious?”
The boy lets out a strangled little wail and hurries along the bars. “Please! I’ll be good, I promise! Mummy, I’ll be good!”
She stops, raises a hand. “George, flick the switch, there’s a dear.”
“NO! I’ll be good! I’ll be—” There’s a faint hum, a red LED comes on above Ginger’s cage, then he squeals, flinching back from the bars, tucking his hands into his armpits. His face contorts into a scowl, and jagged sobs build into a howl of pain and betrayal.
The LED blinks off, and on, and off, and on, marking time with his wails.
“Anyway . . .” Jeanette beckons Wesley over. “You have to meet Boo.”
The girl who waddles toward them, supporting her bloated stomach with both hands, can’t be much more than sixteen, her face still round with baby fat, cheeks flushed and shiny. Glowing.
Wesley’s mouth goes dry. “What the hell is this?”
“Isn’t she gorgeous? It’s twins. And she’s just a year older than Ellie, too!”
Boo looks him up and down with her sapphire-blue eyes, then pokes a hand through the bars. Touches his dressing gown, rubs the fuzzy cloth between her fingers. Her T-shirt has a picture of a laughing cat on it, beneath the words SERIOUSLY, I’M JUST KITTEN.
He reaches down to take Boo’s hand, but she snatches it away. Turns her back on him. He stands there, blinking, as she waddles away, kneels, then squeezes herself through the hatch in the back of her cell.
Next door, the little boy’s cries have subsided into a gurgling snivel. “I’m sorry, Mummy, I’m sorry . . .”
Wesley backs away from Jeanette.
The next cage contains a woman wearing gray sweatpants and a black sweater emblazoned with the slogan FAT CAT. Her hair’s incredibly short, as if she’s recently shaved her head. Or had it shaved for her.
Jeanette keeps her distance from the bars. “This is our queen bee. Moppet’s produced a litter practically every eleven months for the past ten years. And we’ve only lost two. Still got a few good years left in her. Very feisty.”
Wesley stares at the woman behind the bars. She looks back at him, and something curdles in his gut. Something that makes him step away from the bars too. Out of reach. “Why are they—”
But Jeanette has already moved on to the next cage. “Shame about
this one.” The nameplate on the next cage has GOLDILOCKS printed on it, but the enclosure is empty. “Just wasn’t up to scratch. Had to let her go.
“And here’s our resident stud: Max.”
Max is a weedy guy with a mane of gray-flecked hair, and eyes that dart from side to side. He’s dressed the same as the girls, his T-shirt emblazoned with THE CAT’S BOLLOCKS in big yellow letters. “Got to give me one more shot. I can do it, Mummy, you know I can. I can do it right now, if you want?” The smile he pulls on skitters from side to side, as if it’s uncomfortable about being dragged into the light. “Let me try?”
“Of course, Max. Why don’t we take you inside for a nice warm bath, see if that helps? Get you all nice and clean and ready for Moppet?”
He grins. Performs a little bow.
The word “Bastard” comes from a couple of cages along, sounding as if it’s being spat out between bared teeth.
“Now, now, Moppet. You know what happens to bad girls.” Jeanette takes a clutch of keys from one of the pockets of George’s cardigan. Unlocks Max’s cage and pushes the door open, then slaps a hand against her thigh. “Come on, Max. Come on, there’s a good boy.”
He steps forward, moves out into the path, picking his way through the snow, toes turned in toward each other like a crow’s, as if he’s not used to walking. Elbows in against his ribs, hands curled in front of his chest. He stops in front of Jeanette, shuffling from foot to foot.
George waves the shotgun at Wesley. “Right: dressing gown off.”
“What? But . . . I’m not wearing anything under—”
“If you don’t do what you’re told, George will shoot you in the knee. He won’t miss.” Jeanette takes a bag of Mint Imperials from her apron and digs one out for Max. “There you go, sweetie. Who’s a good boy?”
Max snatches the mint from her open palm and jams it into his mouth. Crunching and sucking on it with his eyes closed.
Wesley frowns at George for a second. “I don’t—”
“Better do as she says. Shotgun to the knee won’t kill you, but by Christ it’ll hurt.” He lowers the barrel till it’s pointing at Wesley’s groin. “Five. Four . . .”
“You’re all mad. I’m not taking my bloody—”
“Three. Two . . .”
“Be reasonable, this is—”
“One.” George brings the stock up to his shoulder and aims.
“I’m doing it! I’m doing it!” Wesley fingers scrabble at the tie-cord. He rips open the dressing gown, lets it fall onto the ground. Wraps one arm around himself. Pulls his knees together and hunches over, cups his other hand over his shriveled cock.
Jeanette smiles. “Ooh look, a proper redhead.” The smile vanishes. “Now get in the cage.”
“Look, I have money. I work for a bank, I can—”
“The lady said get in the cage, Wesley. Don’t make her ask you again.”
Wesley goes inside, his feet dragging like dead animals. Trembling. Teeth rattling against each other. It’s warmer in the cage, and dry—some sort of heater mounted to the wooden roof, its glowing red bars blazing heat down on his naked shoulders.
Jeanette closes the door and locks it. “There we go. All safe and sound.” Then she turns and takes out another Mint Imperial for Max. “Come on, sweetie.”
Max shuffles over to her and takes the mint. She places her hand on his cheek and he leans into her palm, eyes shut as he savors it. A smile forms on his lips and his chin comes up.
“Who likes his mint? You do, don’t you? Yes, you do.”
“Ooh, yes, Mummy . . .”
“Good boy.” She sticks her free hand into her apron pocket, plucks out a stocky lump hammer, and batters it off the side of his head.
He reels sideways, staggers back again, and drops to his knees, eyes rolling up, lids flickering, blood pulsing from the torn scalp. He moans and Jeanette slams the hammer down again, smashing into his right temple. Again. Teeth gritted, scraps of bone and chunks of flesh spattering out onto the snow. Again and again, his body twitching with every blow, until his face is crumpled and flattened, barely recognizable as human.
“Hit him again!” Moppet is on her feet, grabbing the bars of her cage, spittle running down her chin. “DIE, YOU FUCKING BASTARD!”
“Shhhh.” Jeanette staggers back a couple of steps, breathing hard, steam rising off her shoulders in the cold air. Looks down at the gore-smeared hammer in her hand. Tufts of hair stick to the metal surface. Blood drips onto the ground, dark scarlet ribbons that turn pink as they hit the snow.
The smell of raw meat reaches the cages and Wesley’s stomach lurches, bile burning in his throat.
She steps over Max’s body and walks up to Moppet, pudgy face stretched in a wide grin. “Did you say something?”
Moppet bites her bottom lip. Her shoulders tremble, and a sob rips its way out of her.
“Let it out. You’ll feel better.” Jeanette’s forehead glistens. She wipes her sleeve across it, leaving a smear of blood behind. Then she marches over to George. Kisses his cheek. Then on the mouth. And again. Long and slow. Moaning. Tongues writhing. One hand buried in the white hair at the back of his head, pulling him in. She drops the hammer, slides her fingers down the front of his trousers, and squeezes.
She finally pulls away, breathless and beaming. “Let’s go upstairs. We can clean this mess up later.”
“TA-DA . . .” THE security light blooms into life and Jeanette appears again in front of the cage, with her arms out to one side, waving her fingers like she’s introducing a magic trick.
Ellie shuffles into view. She’s got on a fluffy gray dressing gown clasped around the middle, her blond hair swept back and blow-dried. She’s wearing dark eye shadow and pink lipstick, too much blush, dangly scarlet earrings. She plucks at the dressing gown with violent-magenta fingernails. She licks her top lip, then breaks into a grin. “Hi, Wesley.” She drags his name out, “Wessssssss-ley,” as if she’s rolling it around her mouth, tasting it. “How cool is this?”
Cool? Can’t she see Max lying there, pinned in the security light’s glare? Flat on his back, head smashed in and misshapen, oozing scarlet and gray into the snow. Can’t she smell him?
Wesley wipes a hand across his eyes. “Ellie, go call the police. This . . . you can’t.” He pushes himself farther into the corner and draws his knees up against his chest. The cinder-block wall is cold against his back, the concrete floor rough against his buttocks. “Please. They killed him!”
“Now”—Jeanette pats her little girl on the cheek—“I want you to be good. You’re a queen now. You’re special. You’ll make lovely babies.”
“I know, right!” Ellie bounces up and down on the tips of her black stiletto heels, then unties the cord on her dressing gown and lets the whole thing fall to the ground. She’s wearing a red-and-black basque with stockings, garters, and a thong. Her pale skin fluoresces under the spotlights, arms goose-pimpling, all the hair standing up as if she’s glowing. Red dots of acne speckle her sunken chest. Dressing her up like a ’70s porn star doesn’t make her any more mature. She’s still just a sixteen-year-old kid. Barbie does Dallas.
It’s so absurd it has to be a joke.
Ellie wobbles forward on her high heels and twists her fingers through the bars of his cage. “Don’t worry, Mum and Dad didn’t want to rush things. Said I had to wait till I’m sixteen before they had me covered.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “You’re my first.”
Oh God. He wraps his arms around himself, trembling. “Ellie, listen to me: you have to call the police . . .”
“I’m so glad it’s you and not Max. You’ve got much nicer hair.” She looks over her shoulder at her smiling mother. “Do I get to name him?”
“Of course you do, dear. What about . . . oh, I don’t know . . . something fiery? Something red?”
Ellie nods. “Scarlet.”
“They killed a man!”
“You can’t call him ‘Scarlet,’ darling. Scarlet’s a girl�
�s name.”
“Oh . . .”
“You have to give him a boy’s name.”
“Listen to me: they killed him. They dragged him out and battered his head in with a hammer!”
“Then I’ll call him . . . Weasley! Like Ron. He’s got red hair too.”
“THEY FUCKING KILLED A MAN!” Wesley jabs a finger at what’s left of Max. “He’s right there. LOOK AT HIM!”
Jeanette sniffs, bringing her chin up. “I don’t think you’re in any position to complain about something like that, Weasley, do you?”
“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?”
She takes a key from her pocket and unlocks the door to the cage. “I’m not the one with two dead bodies in the boot of my car, now am I?”
Wesley takes a step toward her . . . then stops.
George walks out of the shadows, shaking his head, the shotgun in his hands.
Wesley retreats to the corner of his cage again.
Ellie totters in, giggling. “How many positions do you want to do? I’ve been looking it up on the Internet: there’s loads.” She claps her hands as her mother locks the cage behind her. Then stands there and stares at him. “Well?”
Maybe he didn’t kill Bloody Hugh after all. Maybe Hugh got the better of him, and right now Wesley’s lying on the floor of Natalie’s house, bleeding out, and this is all a death-rattle hallucination.
The cage blurs, and he scrubs a hand across his eyes. It comes away wet.
Ellie points at the waist-high hatch in the back wall of the cage. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“I can’t . . .”
She smiles down at him, then adjusts the back strap of her thong. Her voice is soft and soothing. “It’s okay, Weasley, it’ll be fine. Trust me.” She slides the hatch open, then reaches for his hand.
“They killed him . . .”
“Max wasn’t a pet, Weasley. He was a breeding stud. If he can’t get the queens pregnant anymore, what are they supposed to do?”
Wesley blinks at her. “What?”
“Come on, come inside with me. We don’t want anything to happen to you, do we?” Then she bends over and squeezes through the hatch.
Dark Duets Page 11
