Oh, that’s just brilliant. That’s just spec-fucking-tacular. They battered Max’s head in with a hammer because he couldn’t get it up anymore. The back of Wesley’s skull makes a dull thunking noise as he bangs it against the cinder-block wall. They’re going to kill him.
“Weeeeeeeasley . . .” Ellie’s hand emerges from the hatchway, index finger beckoning. “I’m waiting for you.”
They’re going to drag him out into the snow and bash his brains in.
Unless he can get out of here.
He stands. Glances back over his shoulder at the courtyard. But Jeanette’s gone. The only one left is Max, lying flat on his back in the snow. Click—the security light dies, plunging Max’s corpse into darkness. The only sound is the soft patter of snowflakes on the cage’s plastic roof.
Wesley takes a deep breath, ducks down, and crawls through the hatchway.
Inside is a crudely finished room just big enough for a double bed, a small wooden cabinet with a lamp on it, and a small stack of Stephen King paperbacks—the spines cracked and broken. Rough wood lines three of the walls, but the fourth is covered in floor-to-ceiling blue velvet curtains. A low-energy bulb swings from the end of a short length of cord. Heat sears out of an electric heater, mounted high above the open hatch.
The air reeks of mildew and stale sex and desperation.
Ellie’s kneeling on the bed, her legs tucked under her, smiling. “Oh, Weasley, we’re going to make such beautiful babies!” She pats the bedspread. “You want to make out a bit first? I’m a really good kisser.”
Wesley slides across to her. “You have to help me get out of here.”
She runs a fingertip along the top edge of her basque. “I saw this one porno where the man does it with, like, three women at once. Do you think you could do that? I bet you could.”
He grabs her wrist. “Will you listen to me? Your mother and father are sick. They need help.”
She shuffles closer. “I bet you could satisfy a hundred women.”
“I have to get out of here!”
“I bet you could go all—”
“Stop it! They’re not well; they’re . . . I don’t know, psychotic or something.”
A little wrinkle appears between Ellie’s eyebrows. Her bottom lip pokes out. “It’s me, isn’t it? You don’t think I’m sexy.”
“Get me the key. You can do that, can’t you? The key in your father’s cardigan?”
“I can be sexier! I can! I know stuff off the Internet. Like blow jobs.” She grabs for his shrunken penis.
“No!” He jerks one leg in front of the other, hiding it, then shoves her away. “Get off me!”
She scrambles back onto her knees again and stares at him, lips pressed tightly together, odd-colored eyes flaring. “They’ll kill you.” She bares her teeth. “They’ll cut you open and skin you like a rabbit.”
Silence. Then a clunk and the blue velvet curtains judder open.
Instead of wood, or cinder block, the wall’s made of thick wire mesh—like the partitions of the cages—with a corridor on the other side. On the far side, rows of cat pens. One big dirty-colored beast with huge brown paws and a matching lion’s mane sits on a wooden platform, smirking at him. On the near side, George and Jeanette are seated in a pair of folding chairs. Staring into the room. At the naked man and their daughter.
George tamps the tobacco down in his pipe. “Is there a problem?”
Ellie glowers at Wesley. “He won’t cover me. Says I’m not sexy enough for him!”
Jeanette wags a finger at him. “Honestly, Weasley, that’s not very nice, is it? Say you’re sorry.”
“You’re out of your minds, the lot of you!”
“Nonsense, it’s perfectly sensible. Ellie’s heterochromia’s genetic—that’s why we paid so much for her. Your babies will have lovely red hair, with one gorgeous blue eye and a beautiful green one. Oh, they’re going to win so many prizes.”
“There aren’t going to be any babies!”
“Now, now . . .” George stands. “It’s just first night nerves. I was the same with Jeanette.”
He scuffs down the corridor, out of sight, then back again—wheeling a trolley with an old-fashioned portable television on it. The kind with a built-in video recorder. “Sometimes a gentleman just needs a little something to kick-start his motor.”
“I demand you call the police. Right now.”
“This was one of Max’s favorites.” George unwinds the TV cord and plugs it into the wall opposite the cage. Then he fiddles with the remote control until a crackling picture fills the screen. The colors are washed out, flickering with static from multiple viewings: it’s Max, rutting on top of a woman with curly golden-blond hair. He’s hammering away, but it’s like she’s dead. No movement, just rocking back and forward in time to his thrusts. Blank eyes staring at the camera. It’s been shot from the corridor—the wire mesh clearly visible in the picture. The only sound track is Max’s grunts and the squeak of the bed.
She’s not one of the women in the cages outside.
A cold lump settles into Wesley’s stomach. Spreads its tendrils down through his bowels and legs. Shriveling everything.
George sits down again, patting through the pockets of his cardigan until a box of matches turns up. He lights his pipe, suckling on it until his head is wreathed in smoke. “In your own time.”
“No. This is . . . it’s ridiculous. I can’t. She’s too young.”
“Nonsense, Wesley my boy, she’s perfect. Trust me, they’re like rabbits at that age.”
Jeanette jabs him with her elbow. “Don’t be crude. And his stable name’s Weasley.”
“Really?” A shrug. “Takes all sorts.”
Wesley tears his eyes away from the screen. “This isn’t happening . . .” He’s at Natalie’s house, bleeding out on the garage floor. Or he’s crashed the car getting away from the burning house. Or he’s having a stroke. A brain tumor. Anything other than this. He backs away from the bed. “It’s a joke. A wind-up. Right?”
George charges out of his seat and slams a fist against the wire mesh, hard enough to make the whole thing rattle. “Get on with it!” His face is flushed, eyes dark.
Wesley flinches. “Don’t you get it? I’m not going to sleep with your daughter.”
“Daddy . . . ?” Ellie shuffles forward on the bed. “Maybe it’d help if you and Mummy weren’t watching? Maybe Weasley gets nervous?”
“You know how this works.” George’s nostrils flare. “If we can’t see him, we can’t tell if he’s doing the business.” Then he crashes his palm into the mesh again, glaring at Wesley. “Now get your backside in that bed and do your bloody duty!”
Jeanette tugs at his sleeve. “Maybe he’s impotent.”
“Impotent?” George’s face darkens. “Then he’s no bloody good to us, is he?”
Ellie clutches her hands together, like she’s praying. “You’ve got to give him a chance! Pleeeeeeeease? I know he can do it. It’s just, you know, been a long day and the dead bodies in the boot and Angelina shouting at him and what happened to Max . . . We could try again tomorrow morning! I know I can get him all excited if you give him another chance.” She pouts. “Pretty please?”
George doesn’t move.
His wife walks over and strokes him on the shoulder. “Patience, George. Patience.”
He takes a few deep breaths, then steps back from the mesh and nods. “I see. Right. Yes. We’ll call it a night then. Try again in the morning.” He reaches out and switches off the portable TV. “And if he still can’t get it up, we’ll just have to get ourselves another stud.”
Another stud . . . Max taking a Mint Imperial from Jeanette’s hand. Nuzzling her palm. Lying in the snow with his head bashed in. Replaced.
Wesley shudders.
“Right, Ellie: out of there. And take the blanket with you. Weasley doesn’t deserve bedding.” He folds up his chair and tucks it under his arm, then scowls at Wesley. “You’d bloody well better perfo
rm next time.”
LIGHT FLOODS IN through the open hatch.
Wesley sits up, blinks. . . . Must have fallen asleep, though God knows how.
He crawls toward the hatch, pins and needles jarring through his feet like he’s stamping on a hairbrush. He looks out through the pen and into the glare of the security lights, gouging his eyes. He holds up a hand, blotting it out. Squinting till his eyes can adjust.
It’s snowing again, flakes floating down like broken gossamer threads under the lights.
Outside the cage, a fox slinks along the path toward him, mouth open, chocolate-brown socks digging into the snow. It stops. Stares at him.
A few seconds . . . then darkness as the security lights click off again.
Wesley waits, looking out into the night. There’s not a single sound. Then a little muffled squeak breaks the silence. Then it’s quiet again.
The heater mounted to the roof is cold and dark. Either someone’s switched it off to punish him, or it’s on a timer.
He’s about to duck back inside, where it’s at least a little warmer, when the lights come on again.
The fox stands with two paws on Max’s chest, head tilted to one side. It sniffs him. Licks what’s left of his face. Then bares its teeth and grabs hold of something. Starts tugging.
A shudder ripples across Wesley’s back . . . He swallows and looks away.
He’s not the only one woken by the security light—Boo’s up too. Jeanette’s pride and joy is just visible through the bars, crouched on top of her toilet seat. She lifts something to her lips and bites down. Rips her head from side to side. Chews. Whatever she’s eating, it’s bigger than her fist—a long, pink tail dangling from her bloodstained hands. Twitching. His stomach lurches.
He looks back at the fox. Its scarlet-flecked snout jerks sideways as it gnaws away at his predecessor.
Oh God . . . Wesley makes it to the toilet just in time, flinging up the lid and heaving venison casserole into the bowl. Each retch is a punch in the stomach, filling his nose with the bitter stench of stomach acid. And then the gagging fades. Stops. One last lurch . . . Then he rests his head against the seat, spittle dripping from his open mouth. He breathes. Spits. Fumbles for the flush and washes it all away. Cups his hand in the stream of water gushing out of the rim, using it to wash his mouth out.
The water’s sweet and cold.
The lid goes back down with a clank. Wesley wipes his eyes on his wet palm. Then frowns out at the patch of snow outside his cage.
There’s a mound in the snow, a few feet from the fox. Like a deflated body . . . There’s writing on it, just visible through the layer of white. He moves forward, one lumbering step at a time, squinting. What does it say? The letters LOI stand out in bold black lettering, but the rest of the word’s hidden. A few more letters: OUSE. And what looks like 8&8. Shit: LOINNREACH HOUSE B&B. It’s his dressing gown. Still lying where he dropped it.
He grabs hold of the bars. A ball of needles explode in his fists, in his wrists, slamming straight up his arms and into his shoulders. “Jesus!” He jerks his hands away from the metal, curls his arms against his chest, rounding his back as the ache fades.
A little red LED blinks on and off above his cage; the bars are electrified. Of course they are.
Should have looked first. Bloody idiot.
Wesley gets down on his knees. Eases his hand through the space between two of the bars. Don’t touch anything. . . . Don’t set it off again. . . . His fingers twitch and claw at the snow. . . . The dressing gown remains stubbornly out of reach. Damn.
The fox looks at him. Bares its teeth like he’s going to steal its supper. A high-pitched yowl rips from its throat—outraged, urgent, and insistent, like a roomful of hungry babies.
Wesley’s heart kicks against his ribs. His temples buzz. He lies down, the rough concrete freezing his stomach and chest. Stretches his arm out, groping for the dressing gown as the fox screams. His arm bumps against one of the bars. Explosions in his bicep, in his shoulder, snapping his hand up. But he forces it back down and keeps fumbling for the dressing gown. . . . There! He snags a pinch of cloth between his fingertips, teases it toward the pen. Inches it closer.
He sits up, hauling his dressing gown toward him. Another jolt tears up through his arms as it comes in contact with the bars, strong enough to shove him backward. But the robe’s in the cage now. Success. Suck on that, George. Wesley shakes the snow off it. Checks it over to see how wet it is. Only part of the back seems to be soaked through. He bunches it up, squeezes. Forces a thin trickle out. It’ll have to do.
The fox’s chilling wail trails off into silence and it goes back to its meal.
He stands and slips his arms through the sleeves. The material is cold and wet and clings to his skin. He pulls it tight around him. Ties the cord. Takes one last glance at the fox, then heads back through the hatch.
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see
Spooks has been singing to herself for a while now, her timid, girlish voice disappearing off into the darkness. It’s a pleasant enough sound, but she sings the same song over and over, as if someone’s set her on repeat And it’s really beginning to grate. He came out into the pen to tell her to be quiet, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. No one else is complaining. It’s probably some sort of ritual for Spooks, a coping mechanism, and who is he to make her give it up?
Bloody annoying, though.
No idea what time it is either. The world’s disappearing beneath a thick shroud of gray, swirls of fresh snow speckling down from the inky sky. He hugs the dressing gown tighter around his body. Well worth a couple of electric shocks.
Spooks takes a deep breath, ready to start the same damn song all over again, when the security lights slam on, glaring back from the pristine white landscape, making Wesley flinch like he’s been punched.
He covers his eyes. Blinks.
The sound of a car engine gets louder. And then the back of the BMW comes into view, reversing toward the cages, running lights glowing baleful red. Turning the falling snow into spatters of blood.
Moppet’s head pokes out of her cabin hatch, two cages down. She frowns at him.
The BMW stops just shy of Max’s body and George gets out. He doesn’t even look at Wesley, just pops the boot, bends down, and wrestles Max’s mauled corpse in on top of Hugh and Natalie. A threesome of pale flesh and dried blood. It doesn’t seem to bother him that the fox hasn’t left much of Max’s face behind.
George closes the boot, gets back in the car, and drives away.
The taillights dwindle to two small red points, then they’re gone and it’s silent. A minute later, the spotlights go click, returning the courtyard to darkness. And Spooks begins again:
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound
Moppet knocks on the bars of her cage. “Was that your car?”
How come she didn’t get an electric shock? He scans the roofs of the other cages. His is the only one with a winking red light.
“Bastards . . .” He tightens the cord on his dressing gown.
“Was that your car?”
He raises his voice a notch. “Yes. It’s mine.”
“There were bodies in the boot.”
Beyond the cages, wind sighs in the trees.
Wesley clears his throat. “Have you really been here ten years?”
“Came up on holiday. Our first as a family: me, Beth, and . . . Doug.” She pronounces the name as if it’s venomous, as if she needs to spit to get rid of the taste. “I went to sleep the first night and woke up in here.”
“Doug and Beth. Did they—”
“Doug’s dead.”
Of course he is.
“I’m sorry.” Wesley moves closer to the bars separating his cage from the empty one next door. Raises a tentative finger and taps it against the metal . . . No shock. Must just be the front set that’s electrified.
“They said he wasn’t breeding material.” She lowe
rs her head, twists the gold band on her ring finger. “Our daughter, Beth, was seven at the time. The Constables told her we’d abandoned her, that we’d run off in the middle of the night, and left her here for them to raise. And when she turned sixteen, they locked her up in here too.”
She pauses. Then sniffs, shakes her head. “Did you kill them? The people in your boot?”
“What happened to her after that? What happened to Beth?”
“She’s called Boo now.”
Boo? The rat-eating heavily pregnant one? Holy shit. “So Max . . . ?”
Her smile is colder than the snow. “Got his head caved in so you could have his job.”
Jesus. Wesley pulls his chin back into his neck. “So what, he just . . . How could you let him do that? To you, to her?”
“Goldilocks.” She looks away. “There was another male stud for a while: Rum Tum. Just a boy, really. But he was moved on three years ago. Leaving good old Max to shoulder the weight all on his own.” There’s enough acid in her voice to eat through the bars.
Wesley fidgets with the cord on his dressing gown again. “What’s your name?”
“Moppet.”
“No, your real name.”
She pauses. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
He presses himself against the bars, lowers his voice to a hard whisper. “How do we get out of here? Ten years: you’ve got an escape plan, right?”
She just stares back at him. “There’s only one way to escape. The way Max did it.”
“No. There’s got to be a—”
“You’ve seen what they’re like! And you think getting your head bashed in is the worst they can do to you? This cage here, the empty one, that’s where Goldilocks was. She got out when they were putting her to Max one night. Made it as far as the loch before they caught her.” Moppet turns her back. “George cut off her hands and feet. Jeanette hacked out her tongue. Goldilocks didn’t last long after that.”
Wesley closes his eyes. He’s going to die here. “Oh God . . .”
“Try to sleep, Wesley.” Then she ducks down and slips back through her hatch.
He stands there until he starts to shiver, looking through the bars at Goldilocks’s empty cage. He’s going to die here. And no one’s ever going to know.
Dark Duets Page 12
