Dark Duets

by Christopher Golden

  Inside the cabin, he curls up on his side, wrapped in his damp dressing gown, and cries himself to sleep.

  He’s wading through knee-high drifts toward Angelina. She places the mouthpiece to her lips. “Abide with Me” pours out in rich, fluid tones, as drops of blood squeeze from the bell of the clarinet onto her bare white toes, the nails lime-green against the snow.

  “WAKEY-WAKEY, BOYS AND girls!”

  He grinds the heels of his hands into his gritty eyes. Dry-washes his face. Crawls over the mattress and drops onto the floor. Then peeks out of the hatch.

  Thick snow coats the ground. The sun sits like a scorch mark in the clear morning sky, but it’s still cold enough to make his breath billow out in sour-smelling clouds. Perhaps if he behaves, they’ll give him a toothbrush?

  Jeanette’s outside Spooks’s pen, smears of flour and egg on the front of her apron, with a service trolley. “Room service!” She opens a flap, like a letterbox, set into the front bars of Spooks’s cage and slides a heaped plate through.

  She trundles the trolley along the concrete path to Ginger.

  The little boy keeps his eyes on the concrete beneath his feet as she passes his food through to him. “I promise I’ll be good, Mummy. I’m sorry I was naughty . . .”

  Wesley unfastens his dressing gown, shrugs it off, and tosses it onto the bed. If they don’t know he’s got it, they can’t confiscate it. He climbs out of the hatch and waits by the gate.

  When she gets over to him, she’s all smiles. “Good morning, Weasley. Did you sleep well?” She reaches up and flicks a switch. The flashing LED above Wesley’s cage goes out and stays that way.

  A plate of sausage, eggs, beans, black pudding, mushrooms, potato scones, and toast slides through on a tray. Plastic cutlery.

  Boo gorging on the rat. The fox tearing chunks off Max’s face . . . Wesley swallows. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Nonsense. Got to keep your strength up.” She takes a thermos from the lower shelf of her trolley and fills a polystyrene cup with tea. “We had a lovely funeral service, up by the loch. We sang hymns, and Angelina played her clarinet. She’s so gifted, isn’t she? I was really quite moved by her ‘Abide with Me.’ And just between you and me, that doesn’t happen too often.”

  “What did you do with the bodies?”

  “Left them in the car, of course. George said a few words as it sank.” She puts the polystyrene cup on the ground, just within reach of the bars. “Very touching.”

  Natalie and Bloody Hugh, locked away forever at the bottom of the loch. It’s what he wanted, isn’t it? Get rid of the evidence? They’re gone; he’s safe now . . . safe in a cage, with a pair of psychotic B&B cat breeders in charge.

  Jeanette clasps her hands together. “I think you’d have enjoyed it.”

  “You’re a fucking nutjob. You know that, don’t you?”

  Her eyes narrow, wrinkling like crushed paper bags. For a second, it looks as if she’s about to drag out that blood-smeared hammer again. But she looks away, toward the house, cocks her head. “Ah . . . They’re here.”

  The purr of a car engine comes from somewhere around the front of the house. Someone’s pulling up the driveway.

  Jeanette reaches one foot out and knocks over the cup of tea. “When our visitors are gone, I think we might have to work on your attitude, Weasley.”

  Visitors? Of course: visitors. He hauls in a lungful of cold air, cups his hands around his mouth like a megaphone. “HELP! HELLO? HELP! CALL THE POLICE!”

  Jeanette shakes her head. “You’ll hurt your throat, crying out like that.”

  “WE’RE ROUND HERE! HELP!”

  She sighs, then walks away, wheeling the trolley in front of her.

  He’s still shouting five minutes later, when a middle-aged man waddles into view: thickset and bearded, dressed for a polar expedition. A woman wearing a matching outfit picks her way through the snow beside him, bleached blond hair held back with a fur-lined headband, knee-high boots slipping on the icy surface.

  “OVER HERE! HELP! WE’RE OVER HERE!” Wesley bangs on the bars of the empty cage next to his. Moppet’s the only one not in her cabin, eating her breakfast in the relative warmth. “Help me, for Christ’s sake!”

  She looks at him in silence, then turns and slips through her hatch, taking her tray with her.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you? They can help us get out of here!”

  The couple get closer, and Jeanette appears around the corner of the building, moving fast, panting with the effort, closing the gap.

  “WATCH OUT: THERE’S A CRAZY WOMAN BEHIND YOU! CALL THE POLICE, FOR GOD’S SAKE! PLEASE!”

  Then Jeanette catches up with them . . . and they start talking. Smiling at one another.

  Shit. They know each other . . .

  Wesley’s neck aches, as if someone’s just dropped onto his shoulders. He slumps there, breath catching in his throat as they walk toward him. He cups his hands over his groin.

  Jeanette leans in toward the woman. “I know you weren’t too keen on Max, but I think you’ll like this one.”

  The woman purses her lips, looks Wesley over. Up close she’s more cougar than snow bunny. “Well proportioned. Good bone structure. Athletic. Handsome. Great hair. Mmm. What do you think, Charles?”

  The man rubs his gloved hands together, claps them. “Whatever you think, Petal.”

  “I’m asking your opinion.”

  “If you like him, I like him.” A cough. “You do like him, don’t you?”

  She turns to Jeanette. “You were right—he was worth tromping up here at this ungodly hour on a Sunday. Ellie’s eyes and his coloring . . .” She takes the man’s arm. “We’ll pay the deposit now.”

  “Excellent.” Jeanette beams. “I knew you’d love him soon as you saw him. That’s why I gave you first refusal. Erm . . . will you be planning on breeding from the child?”

  She looks at Charles, who shrugs back at her. “To be honest, that’s not something we’ve really thought about. I suppose so. Why?”

  “It’s quite a bit more expensive.” Jeanette moves around behind them, her arms out, taking them under her wings, guiding them back toward the house. “Let’s go inside and do the admin where it’s nice and warm. I’ll give you a leaflet to take away explaining the various prices, payment structures, terms and conditions, the sterilization program . . .”

  Wesley drops to his knees.

  TINY GRITTY SNOWFLAKES hiss against the corrugated roof of his cage. There’s no sign that Max’s body was ever there—even the bloodstains have been buried.

  Wesley sits sideways on the toilet lid, beneath the glowing heater. Dressing gown wrapped around him, arms wrapped around it. Feet sideways on the concrete floor—the soles pressing against each other. Breathing fog as the snow falls.

  All the other cages are empty. He’s the only one daft enough to be out here in the cold. Everyone else is in their cabins, hiding from the weather. He could go inside, but what’s the point? Sit on a secondhand mattress with no blanket, waiting for George and Jeanette to haul open the curtains whenever they feel like? No thanks.

  Spooks’s voice breaks into the stillness. She’s singing again.

  Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,

  That saved a wretch like me.

  He leans his head back against the cinder-block wall. “You do requests?”

  I once was lost, but now I’m found,

  Was blind, but now I see . . .

  “How about a bit of Rolling Stones? Or Coldplay?”

  ’Twas Grace that taught my heart to fear,

  And Grace, my fears relieved

  “Change the bloody record, Spooks.”

  How precious did that Grace appear,

  The hour I first believed . . .

  Silence.

  “Spooks?” He stands, looking down the row of cages. There’s a figure tromping through the snow toward him, her thick padded jacket dusted with white, gray quiff leaning to the right today.
>
  “Grace!” He picks himself off the toilet lid and hobbles toward the cage door. “Over here!”

  She hurries over, stops in front of his cage, leaving a trail of footprints behind her that slowly soften. Soon they’ll be gone, just like Max. Her face is creased, eyebrows furrowed, those wide brown eyes bathing him in their warming glow. “Are you okay?”

  “You’ve got to get me out of here.” He keeps his voice low. “They’re all mad. They want me to sleep with their daughter!”

  “Oh, Wesley . . .” She bites her bottom lip. “What can I do to help?”

  “Thank God . . .” The world blurs and he blinks away the tears, face stretched into a grin. “Call the police. Get George’s keys. Please.” He grabs her hand through the bars. “Get me out of here!”

  Grace’s shoulders drop a little and she pulls on a small smile. “But you’re replacing Max. You can’t have a breeding operation without a stud, can you?”

  He lets go of her hand. “What?”

  “Isn’t this every man’s dream? A harem of women, your every whim catered for, somewhere cozy to sleep, three square meals a day? You should be grateful.”

  “No, no, no, no . . .”

  She reaches into her pocket and comes out with a little blister pack of blue pills. “George tells me you’ve got problems performing. Do you have a history of erectile dysfunction? High blood pressure? Heart disease? Because that’s important to know.”

  “Ellie’s sixteen!”

  “Exactly.” Grace pokes the sheet of pills through the bars. “Take one.”

  He backs away. “I’m not doing it.”

  “Seriously, Wesley, you need to take it at least thirty minutes before you have to perform, otherwise—”

  “I am not going to fuck Ellie!”

  Grace drops the packet and it clacks against the floor. “Just think about it. Okay?” Then she turns and works her way down the cages, running her fingertips across the bars. Thunk, thunk, thunk . . . She stops outside the cage at the end of the row, leans forward, and clasps her knees with her hands. “Spooks? Spoooo-oooks? Mummy’s got something for you.”

  Mummy?

  “Come on, Spooks, there’s a good girl . . .”

  Wesley shuffles over to the side of his cage.

  Five sets of bars away Spooks is inching toward Grace. Her gray jogging bottoms are stained up one side, her hair all flattened on the left, as if she’s been sleeping on it.

  Grace holds out a Mars Bar. Spooks shifts from side to side, then edges over to the bars and takes it. Unwrapping it with filthy fingers.

  “There’s a good girl.”

  “Is she really your daughter?”

  Those big brown eyes swing around. “Isn’t she pretty?”

  “You let these nutjobs keep her in a cage?”

  “Mummy’s special girl’s a bit . . . fragile. Aren’t you, Spooks?”

  But Spooks isn’t listening, she’s nibbling the chocolate from the top of her Mars Bar.

  “And I know I probably shouldn’t have put her to Max. Let’s face it, what with her . . . difficulties, none of the other breeders would touch her. But Jeanette’s family. What are big sisters for?” Grace reaches through the bar and strokes Spooks’s matted hair. “And I really, really want a grandchild.”

  Wesley just stares at her.

  “Anyway, I suppose I’d better get going.” She walks back up the row of cages, until she’s standing outside his cage again. “Some friendly advice: Take the Viagra. Close your eyes and pretend you’re screwing your dead wife. Or your mistress. Or your boyfriend. Do whatever it takes to get Ellie pregnant.”

  His knees wobble. “I can’t . . .”

  “Then you’ll end up like Max, won’t you?”

  WESLEY SITS ON the edge of the mattress. It creaks underneath him as Ellie wriggles her way out of bed. He doesn’t watch her get dressed; he’s too busy trying to haul a breath in between the sobs.

  She places a hand on his shoulder, the warmth of her skin like a branding iron. Marking him. She smells of strawberries and apples. “Shhh . . . It’s okay.”

  He hangs his head, wipes a hand across his eyes. “I’m . . . I’m so . . . so sorry . . .”

  Ellie settles down on the bed beside him, wraps her arms around him, and gives him a hug. “Don’t worry about Angelina. We had a big long talk last night, and I was on your side and everything, and she doesn’t think you strangled her mum anymore. I told her you only killed Hugh to protect her. You’re a hero, really.” A shrug. “She’s angry now, but it’ll get better.”

  “I tried . . . I . . . I really did . . .”

  “I know you did, Weasley, I know.” She strokes the back of his neck. “Shhh . . .”

  Something clangs and rattles through in the cage outside, then George’s voice rips through the echoes. “ELLIE, GET YOUR BACKSIDE OUT HERE, NOW!”

  She sighs, pulls his chin up. Looks at him with those mismatched feline eyes. “Oh dear. Sorry, Weasley; we would have had such beautiful babies.” She kisses him on the cheek. “I’ll miss you.” Then she slips her stilettos on and totters out through the hatch.

  “NOW YOU, YOU SLACK-COCKED USELESS GINGER WASTE OF SKIN!”

  Could just stay in here. Hide . . . Where? Under the bed? The curtain’s open—a video recorder on a tripod trained on the bed, the red light blinking. Jeanette sitting sour faced on a folding chair, scowling at him. It wouldn’t exactly take them long to figure out where he was, would it?

  “DON’T MAKE ME COME IN THERE!”

  Die in here, or die out there? At least out there he’d get to see the sky one last time.

  Wesley reaches down the side of the bed and pulls out his tatty dressing gown. Slips it on—warm and fuzzy against his skin. Time to go.

  He ducks through the hatch.

  Snow drifts down from a battleship sky, muffling the landscape. The women and Ginger are out in their runs, watching. Waiting for the new guy to get his brains bashed in.

  George stands at the door to the cage, the shotgun in his hands. His face is like an angry bull, the skin flushed and trembling. Spittle flecks the corners of his mouth. “I gave you one simple job to do. That’s it, just the one, and you couldn’t even do that properly, could you?”

  Something cool settles in Wesley’s chest. Not cold. Not fear. Not panic. Acceptance. “Go on then, Fat Boy, get it over with.”

  “Fat . . .” For a moment it looks as if George’s head is going to explode. Then he raises a trembling finger. “You, useless, impotent piece of shit. You do not speak to me like that!”

  “Come on, Lardy, I haven’t got all day.”

  “How dare you!”

  Yeah, good plan—goad him into a heart attack.

  Spooks’s thin wobbly voice rises into the air.

  Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,

  And mortal life shall cease . . .

  “Out. Here. Now.”

  I shall possess, within the veil,

  A life of joy and peace.

  Wesley shrugs. Why not? What difference does it make? His bare feet don’t even feel the cold anymore.

  George glowers at him. “I had high hopes for you, Weasley. You’re a disappointment.”

  “Daddy!” Ellie holds her hand up, as if she’s asking a question in school. “You don’t have to put him down: we could go for artificial insemination. We could, couldn’t we? All he’d have to do is . . . you know, into a cup and Aunty Grace could squirt it in. He’d be good at that, I’m sure he would!”

  The world shall soon dissolve like snow,

  The sun refuse to shine . . .

  “Your mother would never agree to that. It’s not natural.”

  Wesley sweeps his arms up, like he’s about to be crucified: palms front, fingers spread.

  But God, who called me here below

  George turns on Spooks. “WILL YOU SHUT UP WITH THAT INFERNAL RACKET!”

  And everything goes into slow motion. The shotgun isn’t pointing at Wesley a
nymore, it’s pointing at the empty cage.

  His knees bend then throw him forward, arms swinging, fists balling, toes digging into the snow. Brushing through the falling flakes—paused in midair. Moving like he’s running in treacle.

  And then BANG—the world’s at full speed again. He slams into George’s side and the big man topples, the shotgun spinning off to clatter against the empty cage. They both hit the ground in a flurry of snow and ice, arms and legs flailing.

  He lands a punch on George’s cheek, then another. One more—right on the nose, sending blood spattering across the spotless white.

  Then something crashes into Wesley’s ribs. Then another. Fire lances up through his groin, radiating out through his stomach like it’s full of scorching petrol.

  A sharp voice slashes through the grunts and thuds. “You leave my George alone!”

  His head snaps to the side, making bells ring in the distance, then another blow brings black specks with it, swimming and whirling through his vision. He groans and blinks. And pain bursts across his stomach.

  He blinks up at the gray sky, and Jeanette draws back her foot and slams it into his belly again.

  Wesley bounces off the snow-covered concrete, slithering to a halt, curled up in a ball, hands over his head.

  “Oh, George, what has the horrible man done to you? Shh . . . Shh . . .”

  “Get off me, woman. It’s only a bloody nose.”

  A small warm hand rests on Wesley’s head. “Weasley, are you okay?” Ellie’s face is blurry, flickering in and out. “Come on, let’s get you up.”

  She helps him to his knees. He wobbles. She catches him. Everything aches, a taste of hot copper pennies filling his mouth. He spits out a glob of scarlet.

  George is sitting on his backside in the snow, blood streaming down his chin, Jeanette fussing over him.

  “Tilt your head . . . no, not like that. Pinch the bridge of your nose. Here, have a hanky . . .”

  The shotgun. Get the shotgun.

  But it’s lying in the snow by the empty cage, and George and Jeanette are between him and it.

  “Oh, Weasley, your poor face is all bleeding.” Ellie kisses him on the cheek. “You shouldn’t fight with Mummy, she’s too strong.”