tracks. Grey smoke rose from Gribbs’s soot-stained aluminium chimney and the curtains had been pulled back. As we passed in front of the small house, I tried to look through the dusty, cracked glass. But all I saw was my own reflection: an intense face beneath tangled brown hair, eyes the colour of deep ice, an expression drawn and serious. It was a face I barely recognised, as if a sudden strangeness had come to it. I quickly looked away.
In the air hung the smell of woodsmoke and burnt garbage. The afternoon sun was losing its heat, and the shadows seemed confused and uncertain, as if with the fleeing warmth all meaning, all sense of purpose, had fled as well.
The small winding driveway took us away from the Yacht Club and brought us to the lower right-hand corner of the ‘U’ road. We walked up the narrow asphalt street, stepping around the puddled potholes. The road climbed the hill; from the summit we could see, and hear, the highway. Beyond it was the school.
‘Jennifer’s got big tits,’ Lynk said to me. ‘Maybe she’ll show them to us.’
‘You wish,’ I said.
‘How the fuck would you know, Owen?’ Lynk demanded. ‘You don’t know Jennifer. You don’t know anybody.’
I thought of the face looking back at me in the window pane, and for some reason I thought of the animals sleeping inside their mound of sticks. ‘Soon,’ I said to Lynk.
IV
The cellar, long, dark and low, smelled of madness. Fisk hesitated at the top of the stairs, staring down at his own shadow running the length of the worn steps – it ended at the shoulders, the shadow of his head lost in the cellar’s own gloom.
His hands twisted around the cattle prod’s shaft. He sucked a breath in between his teeth, then reached up and flicked on the light. Skittering sounds – claws and metal – came from below. A dance? A dance for me? ‘I’m coming, don’t be impatient now.’ His words felt thick in his mouth.
He’d bought the cattle prod years ago, for no special reason. It was too messy for killing mink, and besides, its electrical charge burned the fur. Sometimes he carried it around like a baton. Sometimes he called it his own, special maypole.
But now, with the selection of his four pets, the prod had found a new function, one more suited to its original purpose – excitement tightened his throat at the thought. He paused at the foot of the stairs and let his gaze travel down the cellar’s length. To the right ran a long workbench, cluttered with mason jars and rusting garden tools. Along the left wall, on a second workbench, waited four cages. He’d named his new friends: Moon, Rat, Gold and Bruise.
‘Hello, kids,’ Fisk said as he stepped forward. At his words the panicked skittering from the cages stopped. The only sound left was Fisk’s own raspy breath, which began to quicken. ‘Yeah, it’s me. Just me.’
He walked up to the first cage, where Bruise crouched against the back wall. Fisk peered inside. ‘Well, you’ve stopped dancing. Shame. Your friends look up to you, you know.’ He ran one hand down the length of the cattle prod until he found the switch. ‘The least you can do is sing for me.’ He set the switch, pushed the prod through the wire, taking care not to touch it with the charged tip. ‘Here we go, Bruise.’ Fisk stabbed the prod into the mink, pinning it against the wall.
The animal’s scream was shrill. In the dim light Fisk saw Bruise’s mouth stretch wide open. Then it leapt high, rebounding off the cage’s ceiling. It stilled, lying huddled along one wall – stilled, he saw, except for the twitching, the jumping limbs, the snapping jaws.
The convulsions lasted for a few minutes, after which Bruise crawled away from the piss and shit it had spilled.
Fisk let out a long breath. ‘Not dead. Good.’ He withdrew the cattle prod. ‘Now you know, don’t you, Bruise. No one mocks me. Tell that to your friends.’
He climbed the steps; at the top he turned off the light and
In the air hung the smell of woodsmoke and burnt garbage. The afternoon sun was losing its heat, and the shadows seemed confused and uncertain, as if with the fleeing warmth all meaning, all sense of purpose, had fled as well.
The small winding driveway took us away from the Yacht Club and brought us to the lower right-hand corner of the ‘U’ road. We walked up the narrow asphalt street, stepping around the puddled potholes. The road climbed the hill; from the summit we could see, and hear, the highway. Beyond it was the school.
‘Jennifer’s got big tits,’ Lynk said to me. ‘Maybe she’ll show them to us.’
‘You wish,’ I said.
‘How the fuck would you know, Owen?’ Lynk demanded. ‘You don’t know Jennifer. You don’t know anybody.’
I thought of the face looking back at me in the window pane, and for some reason I thought of the animals sleeping inside their mound of sticks. ‘Soon,’ I said to Lynk.
IV
The cellar, long, dark and low, smelled of madness. Fisk hesitated at the top of the stairs, staring down at his own shadow running the length of the worn steps – it ended at the shoulders, the shadow of his head lost in the cellar’s own gloom.
His hands twisted around the cattle prod’s shaft. He sucked a breath in between his teeth, then reached up and flicked on the light. Skittering sounds – claws and metal – came from below. A dance? A dance for me? ‘I’m coming, don’t be impatient now.’ His words felt thick in his mouth.
He’d bought the cattle prod years ago, for no special reason. It was too messy for killing mink, and besides, its electrical charge burned the fur. Sometimes he carried it around like a baton. Sometimes he called it his own, special maypole.
But now, with the selection of his four pets, the prod had found a new function, one more suited to its original purpose – excitement tightened his throat at the thought. He paused at the foot of the stairs and let his gaze travel down the cellar’s length. To the right ran a long workbench, cluttered with mason jars and rusting garden tools. Along the left wall, on a second workbench, waited four cages. He’d named his new friends: Moon, Rat, Gold and Bruise.
‘Hello, kids,’ Fisk said as he stepped forward. At his words the panicked skittering from the cages stopped. The only sound left was Fisk’s own raspy breath, which began to quicken. ‘Yeah, it’s me. Just me.’
He walked up to the first cage, where Bruise crouched against the back wall. Fisk peered inside. ‘Well, you’ve stopped dancing. Shame. Your friends look up to you, you know.’ He ran one hand down the length of the cattle prod until he found the switch. ‘The least you can do is sing for me.’ He set the switch, pushed the prod through the wire, taking care not to touch it with the charged tip. ‘Here we go, Bruise.’ Fisk stabbed the prod into the mink, pinning it against the wall.
The animal’s scream was shrill. In the dim light Fisk saw Bruise’s mouth stretch wide open. Then it leapt high, rebounding off the cage’s ceiling. It stilled, lying huddled along one wall – stilled, he saw, except for the twitching, the jumping limbs, the snapping jaws.
The convulsions lasted for a few minutes, after which Bruise crawled away from the piss and shit it had spilled.
Fisk let out a long breath. ‘Not dead. Good.’ He withdrew the cattle prod. ‘Now you know, don’t you, Bruise. No one mocks me. Tell that to your friends.’
He climbed the steps; at the top he turned off the light and
Similar Books
