strode into the hallway. A dead garden, pressed between the leaves … He shut the door behind him.
As the sounds of Fisk trailed away, the mink in the third cage scampered forward and resumed gnawing at the wires of the latch. Its mouth was bloody. More blood stained the wires. The animal worked frenetically, unceasingly.
* * *
The living room had gone grey. Fisk checked the lamps to make sure that no bulbs had blown. Frowning, he shook his head, walked over to the sofa and lay down.
He felt hot and itchy. The beat of his heart was loud in his head. ‘Christ,’ he muttered. He had an erection. He’d felt its beginnings down in the cellar, though at first he couldn’t believe it was happening. After all, it’d been eleven years.
But there it was, a pressure both familiar and alien. In his mind Fisk resurrected the image of Dorry’s face, decades stripped from it, eyes bright and young, soft lips slightly parted, her halo of blonde hair touched by the sun.
The erection died. ‘Goddamn,’ Fisk moaned, rolling over on to his stomach. He stared down at the carpet: dingy green, worn down to the stiff weave in places. Slowly, almost lazily, his eyes travelled up the leg of the low, long table, and came to rest on the cattle prod.
Replaying the events of the cellar in his mind, he felt once again the mounting pressure in his loins. With it came a savage excitement, fraught with perversion and sin, which only seemed to make it more pleasurable, more visceral.
‘Bloody goddamn,’ he whispered.
V
Jennifer lit a cigarette once her mother had cleared the dinner dishes from the table. She felt her father’s bleary eyes on her as she flicked ash into the ashtray. She took a deep drag, slowly exhaled, then swung a sweet smile on her father.
Sten said nothing. His hands were wrapped tightly around a coffee cup; his blotchy face held an unreadable expression. She smelled the alcohol exuding from him, and wondered at the cold absence of feeling within her. Of course, he’d been drinking for years. Even disgust goes numb sooner or later. She remembered once, when she’d been seven, seeing her father come stumbling into the house, reeling against the wall before making his way into the kitchen. He re-emerged, holding a slice of white bread, then disappeared into the basement. It was her first memory of seeing him drunk.
She never understood what had happened, what had caused it all. Questions like that weren’t asked. He’d been injured on the job, an industrial accident, they called it, so he didn’t have to work, ever again. But she didn’t know what was wrong with him. He didn’t limp, wasn’t blind, had both his hands. Injured, industrial accident. Who the fuck cares any more? He drank before the accident; he drank more after it, was probably drunk when it happened and that’s why it happened.
There wasn’t any point thinking about it any more. Better if he’d died.
She blew smoke rings across the table, watched them whirl up then dissipate.
Her mother returned from the kitchen with the coffee pot. ‘More coffee, Sten?’ she asked quietly.
He nodded without looking up, pushed his cup to the centre of the table.
Elouise refilled it, then sat down. Sighing, she placed the pot down then rubbed her eyes. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that, Jennifer,’ she said wearily.
‘Do what?’
‘Smoke.’
‘I do what I want,’ Jennifer snapped. ‘Nobody can stop me.’
‘I know,’ her mother replied.
‘Right. Daddy smokes, doesn’t he.’
Sten looked up at the sarcastic Daddy, then shook his head. ‘Shouldn’t take after me,’ he said, his gaze falling to his hands and staying there.
Jennifer laughed harshly. ‘You can count on that, Daddy.’ She stood, the movement abrupt enough to startle both her parents. ‘I’m going out tonight.’
Her father said, ‘Don’t be too late.’
‘Sure thing. I wouldn’t want to miss the fights, would I?’ She took down her faded jean jacket
As the sounds of Fisk trailed away, the mink in the third cage scampered forward and resumed gnawing at the wires of the latch. Its mouth was bloody. More blood stained the wires. The animal worked frenetically, unceasingly.
* * *
The living room had gone grey. Fisk checked the lamps to make sure that no bulbs had blown. Frowning, he shook his head, walked over to the sofa and lay down.
He felt hot and itchy. The beat of his heart was loud in his head. ‘Christ,’ he muttered. He had an erection. He’d felt its beginnings down in the cellar, though at first he couldn’t believe it was happening. After all, it’d been eleven years.
But there it was, a pressure both familiar and alien. In his mind Fisk resurrected the image of Dorry’s face, decades stripped from it, eyes bright and young, soft lips slightly parted, her halo of blonde hair touched by the sun.
The erection died. ‘Goddamn,’ Fisk moaned, rolling over on to his stomach. He stared down at the carpet: dingy green, worn down to the stiff weave in places. Slowly, almost lazily, his eyes travelled up the leg of the low, long table, and came to rest on the cattle prod.
Replaying the events of the cellar in his mind, he felt once again the mounting pressure in his loins. With it came a savage excitement, fraught with perversion and sin, which only seemed to make it more pleasurable, more visceral.
‘Bloody goddamn,’ he whispered.
V
Jennifer lit a cigarette once her mother had cleared the dinner dishes from the table. She felt her father’s bleary eyes on her as she flicked ash into the ashtray. She took a deep drag, slowly exhaled, then swung a sweet smile on her father.
Sten said nothing. His hands were wrapped tightly around a coffee cup; his blotchy face held an unreadable expression. She smelled the alcohol exuding from him, and wondered at the cold absence of feeling within her. Of course, he’d been drinking for years. Even disgust goes numb sooner or later. She remembered once, when she’d been seven, seeing her father come stumbling into the house, reeling against the wall before making his way into the kitchen. He re-emerged, holding a slice of white bread, then disappeared into the basement. It was her first memory of seeing him drunk.
She never understood what had happened, what had caused it all. Questions like that weren’t asked. He’d been injured on the job, an industrial accident, they called it, so he didn’t have to work, ever again. But she didn’t know what was wrong with him. He didn’t limp, wasn’t blind, had both his hands. Injured, industrial accident. Who the fuck cares any more? He drank before the accident; he drank more after it, was probably drunk when it happened and that’s why it happened.
There wasn’t any point thinking about it any more. Better if he’d died.
She blew smoke rings across the table, watched them whirl up then dissipate.
Her mother returned from the kitchen with the coffee pot. ‘More coffee, Sten?’ she asked quietly.
He nodded without looking up, pushed his cup to the centre of the table.
Elouise refilled it, then sat down. Sighing, she placed the pot down then rubbed her eyes. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that, Jennifer,’ she said wearily.
‘Do what?’
‘Smoke.’
‘I do what I want,’ Jennifer snapped. ‘Nobody can stop me.’
‘I know,’ her mother replied.
‘Right. Daddy smokes, doesn’t he.’
Sten looked up at the sarcastic Daddy, then shook his head. ‘Shouldn’t take after me,’ he said, his gaze falling to his hands and staying there.
Jennifer laughed harshly. ‘You can count on that, Daddy.’ She stood, the movement abrupt enough to startle both her parents. ‘I’m going out tonight.’
Her father said, ‘Don’t be too late.’
‘Sure thing. I wouldn’t want to miss the fights, would I?’ She took down her faded jean jacket
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