Replacing Max

Stuart MacBride and Allan Guthrie

“God, Wesley, you’re such a child.” Angelina thumps back into the passenger seat, arms folded across her chest. Bottom lip sticking out. Eleven years old, going on forty.

Wesley tightens his grip on the steering wheel, skin tightening across his bruised knuckles as he peers through the windshield into the darkness. “I’m not the one sulking.” Thick globs of snow swirl through the BMW’s headlights. The road twists and turns, skeleton trees guarding either side, jagged branches a canopy of claws as the big four-by-four’s tires bite through the snow. Would be good to know where the hell he’s going. Bloody road isn’t even on the sat nav. But then the thing’s been sod-all use since two hours north of Oban. “And when did you get your hair cut? I liked it when it was long.”

She runs a hand through the auburn pixie cut, then sticks on her headphones. “Supposed to be going out for pizza. Never think of anyone but yourself, do you?” She narrows her eyes: mean and green in the dashboard’s glow. Just like her mother’s. . . . “You know something? Hugh’s right, you’re—”

“Stop it!” Wesley pulls the nearest wire from her ear. “Will you please just . . . stop, Angelina? How many times do we have to do this?”

She leans forward, just enough to make slamming back into the seat look more dramatic. “It’s not even your weekend.”

He tries for a smile. Softens his voice. Tries to take out the gravel and knots. “Come on, you’re too young to stay by yourself. You know that.”

“Could have stayed at Susan’s house. She’s got a spare room.”

“Well, Angel, you’re with me.”

A road sign pokes out of the snow on the passenger side: Cladh Ciorag 5. Where the hell is Cladh Ciorag?

“Why didn’t Mum want me with her?”

Jesus Christ . . . “I don’t know. It was a last-minute thing. They didn’t tell me.”

“She could have told me.” Angelina clenches her mobile, the display screen haloing her lime-green fingernails. When did she start wearing nail polish? “It’s so unfair.”

“I’m not the bad guy here, okay?”

Silence.

She just crosses her arms again, jerks her chin up. “I need a piss.”

“A piss? Is that how we brought you up? A piss?”

“Gosh, Wesley, you’re right.” Her eyes go wide, one hand pressed against her cheek. “Swearing is horrible. Much worse than kidnapping someone.”

“Picking someone up from orchestra practice isn’t kidnapping. For God’s sake, Angel, you can be such a . . .” Wesley works his hands around the steering wheel. Flexing his fingers. Taking deep breaths. “Look, it’s late. We’re both tired. We just need—I don’t know—to find somewhere to stay. Get something to eat. Then we’ll have a fun couple of days together. You’ll like that, won’t you?”

“No. I hate you.”

“Come on, a trip up north, like we used to when you were little. Remember? You and me, a nice fire going, marshmallows, hot chocolate, and ghost stories?”

“Yeah, Wesley. Way to be desperate.” Her thumbs peck at the phone.

“Stop calling me Wesley.”

“Your name, isn’t it?” One more poke and the phone gives a two-tone chime. She holds the handset against her chest. “Anyway, Hugh lets me call him Hugh.”

“I don’t care what Bloody Hugh lets you call him: I’m your father!” Bloody Hugh. Good old bastarding, vicious, devious, little, shitty Bloody Hugh. Bloody Hugh who destroyed everything.

More silence.

“Look, I’m sorry. I . . . I’m just tired. Been a long day.”

A big wooden sign looms out of the gloom, fixed to the trunk of a crippled oak. The picture of an old-fashioned Scottish house, with a pond or something behind it, sits above the words LOINNREACH HOUSE B&B picked out in cheery letters. A rectangle of plastic hangs beneath it: VACANCIES

Angelina turns in her seat to watch it go past. “What are you doing? I told you I need to pee!”

The brake pedal judders beneath his foot as the BMW slithers to a halt.

Angelina stares at him. “Jesus, Dad!”

Dad, not Wesley. So that’s what it takes.

He sticks the car in reverse and backs toward the turn, brake lights painting the snow blood red between the shadows.

WESLEY REACHES BACK into the car and grabs Angelina’s bag. “Do you want your clarinet, too?” The words come out in a cloud of fog. The freezing air sandpapers his ears and cheeks. Every inward breath makes his fillings ache.

“Yeah, because I’m totally going to trust some slack-jawed banjo-picking tosser who runs an ancient B&B in the middle of nowhere not to steal it. Leave it locked in the car.” She hauls on a big woolly hat, tucks her hair in out of the way, sticks her hands in her pockets, and stomps toward the front door. “God, you’re such a loser.”

Bathed in the warm glow of half a dozen floodlights, Loinnreach House looks a lot grander than it did on the sign—a two-story slab of white with broad gable ends and a couple of dormer windows poking up from the white-covered roof: black eyes beneath startled eyebrows. The lights catch the falling snow, making it shine like flakes of gold. Over to one side, what looks like the edge of an agricultural building stretches away into the shadows, beyond the floodlights’ reach. No sign of the pond.

The house door opens just as Angelina’s reaching for the knocker, and a frumpy-looking elderly woman wearing a red-spotted white apron smiles at them. She wipes her hands on a tartan tea towel, leaving smears of white flour on the fabric. “You must be freezing.”

Angelina shrugs one shoulder. A mannered, too-cool-for-school gesture. Well, that’s what comes of private education. A very expensive private education, and who was paying for it? Bloody Hugh? Fat chance.

“Yeah, we’re thinking of staying. You got an inside toilet?”

“Angelina!” Wesley closes the car door and thumbs the remote. The locks clunk and the indicators flash, but he goes around and checks the handle on the boot anyway. Just in case. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long day. She didn’t mean to be rude.” Wesley hurries toward the house.

“Beautiful place you’ve got.”

Mrs. Apron’s smile grows wider, punching a couple of dimples into her cheeks. She squats down a couple of inches, until she’s eye to eye with Angelina. “We’ve got eight inside toilets, three bathrooms, a billiard room, six guest bedrooms, and broadband Wi-Fi. How does that sound, princess?”

Angelina shifts from foot to foot, knees together. “I really need a pee.”

“Down the hall, second door on the left.”

Angelina pushes past, into the house, disappearing from view.

Mrs. Apron turns, watching her go. “And don’t mind Buttons: he’s a big softy.” She faces Wesley again. Wrinkles pucker her lips. Loose skin puffs her eyes. She smells warm, though. Comforting, like fresh-baked bread. “Lovely girl. Pretty, too. You must be proud.”

“Yeah. I am . . . usually.”

“Honestly, don’t worry about it. Me and George have a teenager of our own. I know what they’re like.” She holds out a hand. “Jeanette Constable.”

He takes his glove off and grips her hand in his. The skin’s dry to the touch, dusty from the flour. “Wesley. Wesley . . . Smith.”

“Welcome to Loinnreach House, Wesley. And please, call me Jeanette.” She keeps hold of his hand, looking up at him. “I just know you’re going to be very happy here.”

THE FLOORBOARDS CREAK beneath the dusty purple carpet as Wesley and Angelina follow Jeanette’s broad back along a corridor lined with heavy oak doors, each one with a brass plaque bearing a name like TABBY, TORTOISESHELL, or SMOKE. Baby portraits in gold frames cover the walls, black-and-white, color, and a couple of sepia prints too. Not a single adult to be seen.

Wesley stops outside one of the rooms and runs his fingers across the metal rectangle screwed to the wood. “Mackerel? Cats and fish? Kind of a random naming system . . .”

Stomping up ahead, Angelina puffs out an exaggerated sigh and shakes her head from side to side, making the bobble on her hat wobble. “Don’t you know anything? They’re all kinds of cat markings.”

“Oh, you know your cats! I’m impressed.” Jeanette pulls out a long wooden fob and slips the attached key into the door at the end of the corridor. The one marked CLASSIC. She pushes the door open. “Angelina, you’re in here.” She steps back and ushers them into a small room with a single bed along one wall. A pine wardrobe in the corner. A small desk underneath a sash-and-case window. “We breed Maine Coons.”

“Like Buttons? He’s huge.”

“And that’s why he’s a grand champion.” She reaches an arm around Angelina’s shoulders and steers her to the window. “Look down there.”

Angelina presses her nose against the glass. “Are those cages?”

“Cat runs.”

Wesley dumps the bag on the bed and joins them. The room overlooks a courtyard lit by a row of spotlights. Snow covers the roof of a single-story building running perpendicular to the house. Clumps of ice cling in patches to the long floor-to-ceiling wire-meshed enclosure along the front of it. Inside, climbing frames and ramps cast shadows on the ground. Something that looks like a small lynx perches on a plank, looking up at the window. It stretches. Yawns.

“Wow. Can I go see them? Do you have any kittens?”

“Not just now. But . . .” Jeanette holds up a finger. “We’ve got two pregnant queens. One’s due in a couple of weeks. It’ll be her first litter. We’re very excited.”

Angelina’s eyes go wide. Like she’s six again and it’s Christmas morning. “Is Buttons the daddy?”

“No, he’s retired. Ah, but in his day . . .” A sigh. “We have three other boys now. I’ll get Ellie to give you a tour later if you like? Show you our little family?”

“Wait till I tell Mum.” Angelina bites her bottom lip, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. “She’ll be so jealous. We can’t have a cat because Hugh’s allergic.”

WESLEY SITS ON the edge of his room’s double bed. Dark-wood paneling on the walls, dark carpet on the floor, wine-red bedspread, curtains the color of dried blood. It’ll be like sleeping inside a tumor. Two deep breaths, then he stands again.

A handwritten note lies on the old oak dressing table: “Honesty Bar—help yourself to a dram or two, and let us know how many you’ve had when you check out!” It sits next to a bottle of Dalwhinnie and two crystal tumblers. Wesley pours himself a large one, the bottle skittering against the rim of the glass. Shaking.

He downs half of it in one, then pulls the curtain open an inch. The BMW’s outline is softening beneath a blanket of snow.

Bloody Hugh who never put his hand in his pocket. Bloody Hugh, stealing other people’s wives. Bloody Hugh, kicking and biting and swearing.

Wesley yanks the curtains shut again. Throws back the rest of his whisky.

Takes a deep breath. Checks his phone for messages.

Nothing. Good.

He rests his head against the curtain’s dry, musty fabric. No one’s looking for him. Yet.

The phone bleeps as he switches it off, then he slides it back into his pocket, checks his face in the mirror above the yawning fireplace, and heads downstairs. The stairwell’s lined with yet more photos of babies and children. All happy and smiling.

The door at the bottom is off the latch, faint voices on the other side. Sounds like Angelina and Jeanette and a third voice he doesn’t recognize. He opens the door and steps out into a blast of freezing air.

WHITE FLAKES DRIFT down, shining in the spotlights outside the row of cages. There’s a whiff of something sour: rotting onions and rough vinegar, with the creosotey undertone of industrial disinfectant.

Two huge cats prowl the concrete floor behind the wire mesh. One’s a silver-and-black-striped thing with tufty ears. The other’s peaches and cream, with a ridiculously fluffy tail almost as big as its body, waddling as its swollen belly swings from side to side. A third cat, massive and ginger, sits on one of the platforms, motionless, like an oversize owl, with a crinkly white ruff.

Wesley steps out into the snow.

A thin dusting sticks to Angelina’s woolly hat, giving her head a festive look that dies when it hits her scowling face. “You don’t even like cats, Wesley.”

Great: back to calling him Wesley again.

Don’t rise to it. Be an adult. No point kicking off a domestic in front of strangers.

Jeanette raises an eyebrow at a scruffy-looking teenage girl in a thick padded jacket and Wellington boots who’s carrying a mop and bucket. “I’m sure he just hasn’t met the right one yet, has he, Ellie?”

A pair of striking eyes—one blue, one green—stare out at him from underneath the hood of Ellie’s coat. There’s something . . . feline about the way they tilt up at the corners. She’s a head taller than Angelina. A heart-shaped face framed by straggles of long blond hair, a straight nose that’s a little too long. Not conventionally pretty, but she’ll probably be a heartbreaker in a couple of years.

She beams a set of perfect teeth at him. “I like your hair.” Her voice has that lilting west-coast Highlands-and-Islands warmth to it. “I wish I was a redhead, but Mum says I’m not allowed to dye it. Why don’t you like cats?”

He leans back against the door frame. “It’s not that I don’t like them, it’s just—”

“He hates them.” Angelina’s smile is wide and cold. Scoring points. “Says they’re cruel.” She pulls her phone from her pocket and pokes at the screen. “He’s so clueless.”

“Do you really think cats are cruel?”

“Well . . . I wouldn’t want to be a mouse around here.”

“Oh, don’t worry, our boys and girls wouldn’t hurt you. They get special Maine Coon cat food and fresh minced game. Can’t make pedigree kittens on a diet of mice and scraps, can you?” She wipes a hand across the tip of her pink nose, catching a drip. “I love them. They’re the best thing in the whole wide world.”

Angelina squats in front of the cage and holds her phone up, pointing the back of it at the waddling peaches-and-cream cat. Presses a button. An electronic shutter noise. Then she stands, smiling down at her phone. “She’s beautiful.”

“Ooh, let me see . . .” Ellie scurries over, Wellington boots flapping on the snowy concrete. She peers at the screen, then looks back at Wesley. “Her name’s Doctor Bugs. Mummy says I can have the pick of the litter.”

Jeanette raises a fleshy hand. “Late birthday present.”

“Angelina, you should have been here, it was an epic sweet sixteen and we had a barbecue and snowball fight and a great big cake in the shape of a cat!”

Sixteen? She sounds more like a twelve-year-old. Still, it’s nice she can still muster up some enthusiasm. Unlike some people.

Angelina fiddles with her phone some more. “Going to text it to Mum. She likes cats, even if Wesley doesn’t.”

Her new best friend puts her mop and bucket down and gives him another flash of those perfect teeth. “Would you like a tour too? We’ve just finished, but I’d be happy to show—”

“Leave the poor man alone, Ellie.” Jeanette points over her daughter’s shoulder, back toward the cages. “They’ve come a long way and they’ve not had their tea. Now you go finish cleaning out those runs. You can show the gentleman round later.”

A sigh. “Yes, Mum.”

Yeah . . . that was something to look forward to.

“Now, Wesley,” Jeanette said, as she takes his arm and steers him into the corridor. “I hope you like venison stew. It’s leftovers, but I made plenty. And it’s always nicer reheated, don’t you think?”

DOZENS OF PICTURES of cats line the kitchen walls. Big, furry, wild-looking cats. Most of them sit next to some sort of rosette or shiny trophy.

Wesley drains the last dregs of tea from his mug. There’s a stain on the tablecloth next to his knife and fork, a little drift of crumbs by the salt and pepper, a bottle of tomato ketchup with sticky fingerprints on it. “The stew smells lovely. I hope we’re not putting you out.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble.” Jeanette stirs a pot on the range, filling the room with the earthy scent of meat, wine, and garlic. It’s warm in here, condensation misting the windows. “We were going to call ourselves a ‘boutique hotel,’ but that seemed a little conceited. Didn’t it, George?”

George plonks a couple of dead pheasants beside the brace of rabbits on the work surface. His hair’s a thick shock of white, ending in a swath of pink neck that disappears into the fat collar of his checked shirt. His old man’s cardigan is full of baggy pockets with a button missing halfway up, the gray fabric stretched across his impressive stomach. “Don’t want to come off as conceited.”

“I mean, we’re not French, are we?” She shuffles toward the double Belfast sink—deep enough that if she stood in it she’d be up to her knees—and turns on the tap.

“God forbid.” George grabs a knife from the rack.

Jeanette rinses out an oversize teapot and jiggles it. “Anyone want another cuppa?”

A petite woman, pushing fifty, bustles in through the kitchen door. Closes it. Stamps her bright white sneakers a couple of times. She’s wearing a parka jacket, the fur-trimmed hood thrown back, presumably so it won’t interfere with the theatrically bouffant silver quiff that sticks out at a jaunty thirty-degree angle to her head. “It’s like a skating rink out there.” She peels off her parka, revealing a long red polka-dotted dress. A bit too formal to go with the sneakers. As if she’d gotten dressed up for a special occasion but thought she might need to make a quick getaway.

She cups her hands around her mouth and huffs a breath into them. “Ooh, Jeanette, is that tea? I’m frozen solid.”

Jeanette gathers up a couple mugs. “Grace, Mr. Smith and his daughter are staying with us tonight. Wesley, this is Grace Robertson, our midwife. We’re very proud of her. She’s terrific.”

The midwife sticks her tongue out at Jeanette. “Don’t you believe Jeanette, Wesley; I’m a holy terror when I get going.” She steps in close, showing Wesley the wide eyes of a keen listener or budding ax murderer—brown, like caramel, flecked with gold. “I’m in ‘Tabby’: didn’t fancy driving back home in a blizzard. It’s been kind of a long day.” She sticks out her hand. “Call me Grace.”

“Right, Grace.” He stands.

Her grip’s warm and she holds on tightly, gazing up at him with those big wide eyes. “I love your hair.” She turns. “Don’t you love his hair, Jeanette?”

Jeanette clunks the mugs down on the table. “Ellie was saying exactly the same thing.” She sticks her fists on her hips. “George Constable: you put that filthy thing away, right this minute. We’ve got guests. And they’re about to eat.”

A pipe sticks out of the side of George’s mouth. “Not lit.” He demonstrates, puffing on it, lips goldfishing, making sucking noises. “See?” He bunches a handful of gray fur in his fist and pulls, stripping it off the headless rabbit. Then he takes a cleaver from the knife block and slams it down on the rabbit’s ankles, cutting the feet off. The pelts slap onto the pile beside him.

“Tsk . . . Have you not finished those yet?” She dries her hands on a dish towel and frowns at the blood-smeared chopping board.

“Had to sort out Boo and Moppet: they keep picking on Ginger. You know what queens are like when they scent blood.”

Jeanette sniffs. “Well, he’s only got himself to blame.”

“Should be ashamed of themselves really. But any excuse for a fight.”

“Well, make sure you wash your hands afterward, and don’t leave the skins on the work surface this time.”

He raises an eyebrow, sucks on the stem of his pipe, then jabs an elbow in Wesley’s direction. A hole in the cardigan exposes a snatch of checked shirt. “Anyway, I’m sure Wesley doesn’t mind, do you, Wesley? Pipe’s a man’s habit.”

“I don’t smoke.”

Grace nods. “Filthy habit. But if we don’t let George have his little vices, he gets all frisky, doesn’t he, Jeanette? Quite the stud in his day.”

George roars out a laugh.

Jeanette sucks in her cheeks, pursing her lips. “Why is everyone determined to embarrass me in front of guests? Grace Robertson, Mr. Smith doesn’t want to hear your smutty talk.” She yanks open a drawer and pulls out a handful of cutlery. Slams down a knife and fork on either side of a pair of placemats. A dessert spoon across the top. Then sniffs and turns her back on the midwife. “Wesley, Angelina’s a lovely name.”

He pulls a chair out from the table and sinks into it. “It’s Italian. Means ‘messenger’ or ‘angel.’ ” Though most days it’s hard to believe. “Her mother and I met in Venice.” Two lifetimes ago.

Jeanette tilts her head to the side, eyelids closing slightly, like she’s waiting to be kissed for the first time. Then smiles. “Ah, right on cue.”

The kitchen door swings open and Ellie walks in. She’s abandoned the scruffy outdoors look for a pair of orange corduroy trousers and a gray Aran sweater, her long blond hair pulled back from her face in a ponytail. Angelina’s right behind her, carrying a huge fluffy gray-and-white cat in her arms, belly up like a well-fed infant—tufty white bib and collar, whiskers an arsenal of miniature knitting needles. She stops on the threshold, frowns at Wesley, then sticks her nose in the air.

Lovely. It’s going to be one of those meals.

Jeanette pulls on a set of oven mitts. “Buttons shouldn’t really be in here, Ellie.”

“Sorry, Mum. Angelina just wanted to hold him, and he likes her: look.”

Angelina hauls the mass of fur up in her arms, showing off a swath of belly hair that thrums and vibrates. “He’s gorgeous.” Buttons is making cooing sounds like a dove.

George pulls the pipe from his mouth—fingers covered in clots of blood and wisps of feathers—and pokes it at Wesley. “EU directive: Pets not allowed in the kitchen while food’s being prepared or served. Utter nonsense of course, but try telling that to our bureaucratic overlords in Brussels.”

“I better put him outside.” Ellie picks Buttons out of Angelina’s arms and lowers him to the floor. Where he stands, looking indignantly up at her.

Angelina’s shoulders droop slightly.

Wesley clears his throat. “The cat can stay in here if you like.” He looks at Angelina, gets a smile. “We won’t tell anyone.”

“Obliged, Wesley. Good man.” George puts the pipe back in his mouth.

Jeanette claps her hands together. “Angelina, you sit yourself over there next to your dad, and I’ll get the plates out of the warming oven. Hope you’re hungry.”

Angelina hesitates for a moment, then does what she’s told, pulling the woolly hat from her head as she shoogles the chair over a bit. Putting some distance between herself and her father.

George grins. “Well, I never. Look at that.” He’s pointing at Angelina’s hair. It shines like polished copper under the kitchen spotlights. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, eh? A redhead, just like your old man.”

“And my gran, grandad too. Runs in the family.” She gives him a jagged smile, then pulls the hat back on, hauling it down till it covers the tips of her ears.

Jeanette pops salt and pepper shakers on the table. “We call that ‘breeding true.’ It’s so nice when that happens, isn’t it, George?”

“Wesley, I think you deserve a wee nippie sweetie, don’t you?” George digs into a cupboard and comes out with a bottle of Talisker. “Ellie, glasses, please; there’s a good girl.”

***

THE VENISON STEW is so dark it’s almost black—chunks of sweet carrot and meltingly tender meat in a rich wine gravy. There’s something wrong with Wesley’s fork though: it keeps shaking in his hand. He grips it tighter. Keeps it still as he stabs up another chunk of deer. A blob of gravy slides down his chin. He grabs a napkin and dabs at it. The napkin trembles too.

Luckily, no one seems to notice. Angelina, Jeanette, Ellie, and Grace are all too busy listening to George banging on about how wonderful it is to live in the middle of nowhere.

“And luckily, the loch’s just a stone’s throw behind the house.” George points at the Welsh dresser in the corner with his pipe. “Good years, when we get a decent freeze, you can skate on it. Even go curling. You ever curled, Wesley?”

“I play squash. The bank I work for has a league.”

“Ah. Could never really see the point of squash myself. Too much running about and dropping dead of a heart attack. What about you, Angelina? Fancy skating on Loch Righ tomorrow if the weather clears?”

“Nah. I hate sports.” She pushes the carrots to one side of her plate, where they can’t contaminate the meat. “I play the clarinet.”

As if exercise and musical talent were mutually exclusive.

“Ooh, really?” Ellie sits up straight. “Have you got it with you?”

That too-cool-for-school shrug again. “It’s in the car.”

Ellie reaches across the table and holds Angelina’s hand. “You have to play for me! How great would that be?”

Grace cups a large crystal tumbler in her hands, swirling the contents in a slow circle, perfuming the air with its peaty tang. “Do you play anything, Wesley? Other than squash?”

“Bit of piano, guitar.”

Jeanette sighs. “You’re so lucky. I tried the piano once, but it didn’t agree with me. We all sing, though.”

“Ha!” George pops his pipe back in his mouth. “Some of us better than others.”

“Well, thank you very much, George Constable. That’s a lovely thing to say in front of our guests.”

“She sounds like one of our cats with its tail caught in the cage door.” He drops a hand beneath the table and slaps his wife on the backside, where it overhangs the seat. “I love her dearly, but Jeanette was off shopping when they were handing out the musical genes.”

Jeanette’s cheeks turn the same color as George’s neck. “People are watching . . .”

“You interested in genealogy, Wesley?”

“Can’t say I am, particularly.”

“Hmm . . . Just because you’ve got a common surname, it doesn’t mean there aren’t some pretty special branches on your family tree.”

Common surname . . . ? Smith—he’d checked them in as Wesley and Angelina Smith. Stupid mistake. People must register here under Smith all the time. Of course it sounds like a fake name. Should have picked something less obvious.

But George seems content to keep any suspicions to himself. “Great thing, genealogy: does a body good to know where he comes from.”

“Yes, well, we don’t really—”

“I do.” Angelina holds up her fork, a glistening lump of venison stuck to the end. “Hugh’s a Mormon: they have to trace their families way back to, like, caveman days, so they can get all their ancestors baptized and turn them into Mormons too. We did my side of the family this year, all the way back to 1760.”

Wesley scowls down at the contents of his plate. Bastard. Who the hell was Bloody Hugh to change the religion of Angelina’s relatives? Posthumously. Without even asking. Her grandmother and grandfather—Wesley’s mother and father. Filling her head with all this shit . . .

Grace coughs. “Wesley, are you all right?”

He keeps his mouth firmly shut, holding the knife and fork like daggers. Pressing them into the plate.

George scrapes out the bowl of his pipe with a little metal thing. “Who’s Hugh?”

A deep breath through gritted teeth. “He’s Angelina’s stepfather.”

“Ah . . . But you’re her . . . biological parent?”

“I’m her father, yes.” He stares at Angelina.

She stares back. “Yeah, and you’re doing such a good job, Wesley.” She turns to Ellie. “It must be so great living here. Having such lovely parents and all these beautiful cats.” She looks back over her shoulder at him again. “I wish I was that lucky.”

“Really?” Wesley’s voice trembles. Keep it calm. No domestics. Calm. “Because I seem to remember paying for music lessons, private schools, phones, computers, clothes, holidays.”

“That’s all that matters to you, isn’t it? Money. You can’t bribe your way out of what you did, Wesley.”

“It’s not bribery, it’s because I love—”

“If you loved us, you wouldn’t have cheated on Mum. The only thing you ever loved is your bloody bank!”

“That’s enough, Angelina.” He places his trembling cutlery down, getting gravy on the tablecloth. “These nice people don’t want to hear you acting like a spoiled child. Just eat your dinner and behave.”

“I’m spoiled?” She stands up, chair legs scraping the floor. Her face clenches like a toddler’s about to have a tantrum. “That’s rich coming from you, Dad.” She marches out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

Silence settles into the room, everyone looking at anything other than Wesley.

“Ahem. Right, better get on.” George gets to his feet. Heads over to the worktop, grabs the carcasses, and disappears out through the back door.

Jeanette sighs. “I suppose the washing up isn’t going to do itself.” She holds out a hand and Ellie passes her Angelina’s plate. “Thanks, love. You know, maybe you should go . . . have a word or something?”

Ellie nods, then gets to her feet and hurries out after Angelina.

Wesley picks up his knife and fork and places them in the middle of his plate, then pushes it away. Not really hungry anymore.

“Would you like anything else?” Jeanette looms at his shoulder. “I’ve got some trifle, or there’s syrup sponge and custard?”

“No, thank you. It was a lovely dinner.”

She carries the dirty dishes over to the sink and turns on the taps.

“I’m sorry.” He takes his napkin and dabs at the splots of gravy left behind. “She’s . . .” What? Poisonous? Vicious? Spiteful? Or just an eleven-year-old girl from a broken marriage, lashing out because he’s closest? Wesley clasps both hands around his whisky tumbler.

A warmth seeps through his sleeve and into his skin. Grace’s hand is on his arm.

He raises his glass. “To happy families.”

Grace clinks her tumbler against his. “She’ll come round. Teenagers’ brains are all over the place, and girls are the worst. I speak from personal experience.”

“She hates me.”

“At her age, they hate everyone. It’s a phase. You’ll see.”

“She doesn’t hate her mother. Or Bloody Hugh. Pair of them have been dripping poison in her ear since day one. I’m not the bad guy, Grace.”

She takes a sip of Talisker, rolls it around her mouth, then sits back in her chair, those big brown-and-gold eyes wide, like he’s the only thing worth looking at in the world. “Go on then: shock me. What did they tell her?”

It’s nice to be special for a change. To be interesting. To be wanted. “That I tried to persuade her mother to have an abortion.”

Grace runs a hand through her gray quiff, and when she’s finished, it’s leaning in the other direction. She places the whisky tumbler down on the tabletop between them. “Wow. That’s quite an accusation.” Her eyes grow even wider, pinning him to the chair. “Did you?”

Heat rises up the back of his neck and he looks away. “Point is, it’s not something you tell an eleven-year-old.”

WESLEY PAUSES ON the landing, one hand on the carved wooden railing. The hall light glows pale gold, casting shining reflections on the sea of framed baby pictures. Downstairs, from the kitchen, Grace’s and Jeanette’s muffled voices are accompanied by the clink and clatter of dishes being washed in the sink.

He takes a breath and marches down the corridor toward Angelina’s room.

The door creaks open when he’s a dozen paces from it and Ellie slips out. She closes the door behind her, then turns, and her eyes go wide. She jumps. Makes a little squeaking sound. Then clamps a hand over her chest. “Pfffff . . .” A smile makes her face shine. “Sorry, you frightened the life out of me.”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Silence.

“Right, well, I’d better . . .” She points along the corridor toward the stairs, a flush blooming across her cheeks.

“Yes.”

He flattens himself against the wallpaper as she inches by. And as soon as she’s past him, she runs off, thumping down the stairs. Teenagers—completely incomprehensible.

Wesley straightens his shirt, then knocks on Angelina’s door. There’s no reply, so he does it again. “Angel? Are you okay?”

Her voice is small, barely audible through the wood. “Go away.”

“Please?” He tries the handle. It isn’t locked. He opens the door a couple of inches.

She’s sitting on the bedspread, knees together, feet pointing in toward each other. Buttons is curled next to her, making droning whirring noises as she strokes the long gray fur on his back. She doesn’t look up as Wesley slips into the room and clicks the door shut behind him.

“I know you’re confused, and you think you hate me, but—”

“Why do you have to ruin everything?”

Wonderful. “It might look like that, but I’m only doing all this because I love you. It really is for your own good . . . And I know grown-ups say that all the time, but this time it’s true.”

She keeps her eyes on Buttons’s back, fingers moving through the ash-colored fur. “Hugh says—”

“Hugh’s a cock.” Shit. Wesley pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingertips. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” Yes, he did. And more. “He’s not what you think he is, Angel: believe me, I know. Your mother . . .” Deep breath. “Your mother loves you very much, but Bloody Hugh is . . .” He sinks down onto the bed beside her. “Before she started seeing me, they were going out together. She came back from his place this one time all bruised and limping. Told everyone she’d slipped and fallen down the stairs, but it was him.”

That gets him a shrug.

“I would never do that.” He reaches out and caresses the hair at the nape of her neck. Always liked that when she was little. “I’d never do anything to hurt you, Angel.”

A chime sounds in the small room, something electronic, and she pulls out her phone. Buttons stretches his front legs, paws spread wide, yawns, then settles down again as Angelina squints at the screen. “Ellie says I should cut you some slack.”

“Well . . . Ellie’s obviously a smart cookie.”

“She says you don’t mean to be a dick.”

Lovely. “Look, how would you feel about coming to stay with me for a bit? Not just until your mum and Bloody Hugh get back, but for a couple of weeks, maybe? I miss you, Angel.” He licks his lips, then brings out the big guns. “We could get a cat?”

Her head comes up at that, her eyes wide and greedy. “Can we get one of Ellie’s kittens when they come? Maine Coon cats are just the best.”

Buttons raises his head, that broad white chin trembling as he purrs. Sometimes you have to make sacrifices for the people you love . . .

THE RADIATOR UNDER the window pings and gurgles in time to the rattling pipes. Wesley sweeps his hand through the water pounding into the big enamel bathtub: not quite scalding, but close to it. Good. Nothing like a hot bath after a bad day, and by Christ, today couldn’t have been much worse.

Still, look on the bright side—at least now Angelina wants to come stay with him.

He turns off the tap and gives the water another swirl. Perfect.

Okay, so it was going to cost him a pedigree cat—and there was no way something like that was going to come cheap—but it was worth it just to see her smile at him like she used to when she was a kid. Before Bloody Hugh reappeared on the scene . . .

He steps out through the door of his en suite bathroom and back into his bedroom, then gets undressed, laying his clothes neatly on the chair by the wardrobe.

But that’s all behind them now. They’re going to be friends again. Daddy and his little girl, without anyone screwing it up. Poisoning her against him. Ruining everything . . .

Wesley’s reflection frowns at him from the dark window. Pasty naked skin, sagging under the weight of forty-three years of disappointment. Two failed marriages. And today.

A slab of bruises spread midnight-blue and violet stains around his ribs; bite marks carve ragged circles across his forearm.

He pulls on the fuzzy white dressing gown hanging in the wardrobe, wraps it around himself, and ties the cord in a knot at the front. Should really close the curtains, too. Not that there’s a risk of anyone seeing him—not unless they’re up one of the trees in front of the house with a pair of binoculars. Still. Habits, like so many other things, die hard.

A sharp draft knifes in under the bottom edge of the sash window. Thing isn’t shut properly.

He slips a finger through each of the two hooks set into the white-painted wood and stops.

It’s not snowing anymore. The night is perfectly still, the landscape blanketed under a smothering of cottony blue as the moon cuts through a break in the clouds. Moonlight shimmers on the surface of Loch Righ, revealing what looks like a boathouse with a small jetty. Must be lovely in summer—take a rowboat out onto the calm water, fish for your dinner.

Have to take Angelina back here next year, when everything’s settled down. She’ll like that . . .

A familiar voice drifts up from below, muffled by the window, and there she is, skipping through the snow, her breath steaming out behind her. “Come on, then.”

Ellie follows her out, stops a dozen feet from the front of the house, and hunches her shoulders. Cups her hands to her face. Then a flickering yellow light illuminates her features. The smoke of a sly fag billows out into the cold night air.

Ellie holds the cigarette out to Angelina. “Want a puff?”

So Jeanette’s perfect family isn’t so perfect after all. They’re normal people, a little screwed up, white lies and secrets, just like everyone else.

Instead of forcing the window shut, Wesley tugs it open and cold air slumps into the room, wrapping itself around him, making the hair on his arms stand up. He fills his lungs, ready to shout down that she better bloody not . . . then closes his mouth. It’s going so well—finally, after all this time—why spoil it?

Angelina shakes her head.

“You sure? They’re Turkish!”

“Tried one of my stepdad’s once. Nicked it from his study while they were throwing this swanky party for his latest book launch. Threw up all over my party frock.” She reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out something small and dark. “Besides, smoking and woodwind instruments totally don’t go together.”

Good girl.

She points the thing in her hand at the BMW and the indicators flash.

No, don’t go in there!

She pulls open the back door and reaches inside.

Oh thank God . . . The air rushes out of his lungs, taking all the strength in his knees with it. He rests his arms against the sash window’s frame.

“Of course, I’m not very good.” She reappears with a rectangular leather case, pops the catches, and opens it. It’s the case for her clarinet. She lifts the pieces out and slots the instrument together.

“I’m sure you’re brilliant.” Ellie takes a long draw on her cigarette, then throws her arms wide. “Play something sad.”

“Not today. Today’s the best day ever.” She raises the clarinet to her lips and the adagio from Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto floats out across the moonlight. All that expensive tuition’s worth it after all. Her embouchure, tone, and expression are all perfect.

Something swells in his throat. How can a tube made of wood, reed, and metal in a factory in Worthing produce something so beautiful?

Ellie raises her arms, laughter sparkling in counterpoint to the clarinet’s soaring notes. She moves her feet through the drifts of white, turning and weaving in slow motion, tracing the melody—trailing ribbons of smoke from the cigarette in her hand—as Angelina sways from side to side. Eyes closed. Lost in Mozart.

It’s been so long since he’s heard her play. It’s the most wonderful . . . And then the music stops.

Angelina pulls the clarinet from her mouth and looks back into the car. “Can you hear that?”

Ellie slithers to a halt. “Don’t stop, that was great.”

“No, shhh; listen!”

The warbling strains of Whitney Houston ruining “I Will Always Love You” leak out from somewhere inside the BMW.

A bitter taste fills his mouth. “Angel? That’s enough. Come inside, okay?”

She takes a step toward the car. “Hugh?”

Oh God, it’s Bloody Hugh’s phone. Bastard always did have rotten taste in music. Of all the stupid things to miss.

Icy sweat prickles across Wesley’s forehead. “It’s too cold out there. You’ll catch your death.”

Angelina looks over her shoulder at him, frowning, mouth slightly open. Then turns back to the BMW.

The ice seeps into his skin, leaches into his veins, spreads into his chest, suffocating him. Make her stop. “ANGELINA, YOU COME INSIDE RIGHT NOW!” Holding on to the window frame, bellowing loud enough to make his throat raw. “DO WHAT I TELL YOU!”

“Hugh?” She’s at the back of the car.

Another plip from the car keys and the boot hinges up on its own, the courtesy light casting a soft golden glow inside.

Angelina reaches inside.

No, not now. Not like this. Please . . .

Ellie turns to face him, hiding the cigarette behind her back. “We weren’t doing anything wrong. I just wanted to hear her play.”

Angelina staggers back from the car, one hand up to her mouth. The clarinet falls, swallowed by the blanket of white. She stares up at him, face pale as the snow. “Oh God, Dad. What did you do?”

HIS BARE FEET hit the snow as he stumbles out of the house, the cold drilling up through his soles and into the bones. Angelina looks at him, eyes half closed, mouth slack and open, like she’s barely awake. He steps toward her. She turns her head away and her shoulders tremble, then shake, arms wrapped around her stomach—as if she’s been punched. He moves toward her . . . but a scream stops him.

Ellie.

She’s hunched over by the BMW, hands up at her face, fingers splayed like claws. She screams again. Keeps screaming. The noise pulses in his teeth.

Drag her away from there, close the boot.

Feet numb, he staggers through the snow to the car, breath spuming out in ragged clouds, forehead burning. He grabs her. She tries to pull away, hands pushing against his chest. Convulses with hard sobs that wrench out of her and ping back like stretched elastic.

He doesn’t let go.

Over her shoulder, in the boot, a corner of the blanket’s folded back. Hugh stares up at them, waxy eyes in his lopsided face, temple bruised and blood caked. Lying on his side. A bare foot pokes out by his chin, the skin like silk, the toenails painted a rich burgundy. A dark line cuts across his cheek, shirt stippled with bloody fingerprints, his pink tie a grotesque tongue.

“What’s going on?” George stands in the doorway, shotgun in his hands.

Wesley lets go of Ellie. She steps away; his body grows colder.

Too late . . .

Angelina’s mouth moves but nothing comes out. She raises a shaking finger and points at the boot of the BMW.

Snow scrunches under George’s slippers as he picks his way over to the boot, the shotgun pointing at Wesley’s chest. Then he leans over. . . . His mouth sags open. He takes a handful of the blanket and pulls it out. Lets it fall to the ground. Stands there in silence.

Natalie’s curled up in the hollow of Hugh’s body. The oversize man’s shirt she’s wearing rides up on one side, showing a slice of hip and a bare leg. But it’s her face that makes Wesley’s chest clench. It’s swollen and dark, those stunning green eyes bugging and bloodshot. Mouth open slightly, teeth stained with blood. Her neck’s a patchwork of purple, blue, and red—pale stripes marking the path of the belt she was strangled with.

Angelina makes a choking sound. Then a sob.

Wesley clears his throat. “Natalie was . . . she was dead when I got there. Bloody Hugh . . . He was dragging her into the boot of his car. Her face was all . . .” Wesley swallows something sharp. “He had a shovel. He went for me. I . . . I didn’t have any choice. He killed her . . .”

George lowers the blanket again. “Ellie, get in the house.”

“But—”

“It wasn’t my fault. What if he’d gone after Angelina?”

“Ellie!” Jeanette’s voice booms across the driveway. “You heard your father. Inside, now. And take Angelina with you.”

George raises the gun, points it at Wesley.

Ellie hurries over to Angelina, high-stepping through the snow. “Come on, we’ve got to go.”

Wesley stands there, an ice statue, as Ellie wraps her arms around his daughter, makes little cooing noises, steers her toward the house.

George’s gaze doesn’t flinch from Wesley. “Jeanette, you see they’re safe inside.”

A nod. “Come on girls, we’ll get you some nice hot sweet tea.”

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.

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 perform 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 lowers 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.

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 anymore, 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.”

There has to be something he can use as a weapon. Something he can turn against the bastards. Anything.

Jeanette presses a handkerchief underneath her husband’s nose, then turns and glares at Wesley. “You hateful, ungrateful animal.”

Weapon. What the hell is he going to use?

Jeanette reaches for the shotgun.

“Mummy, please: Weasley didn’t mean it! Please don’t hurt him.”

Jeanette slips off the safety catch. Click. “Get away from him, Ellie. Do what your mother tells you.”

Weapon.

Wesley yanks on the end of the cord holding his dressing gown shut. The simple knot unravels and the whole thing slips out of the loops holding it in place.

Weapon.

He jerks backward—so Ellie is slightly in front of him—and wraps the cord around her throat. Pulls it tight. She makes a gagging noise and her hands come up, pulling at the ligature, but he just hauls it tighter.

“Drop the gun!”

Jeanette’s mouth sets in a firm line, her eyes like stab wounds in her pale face. “You’re in no position—”

“Drop the fucking gun or I’ll choke the life out of her!”

“Don’t you hurt our—”

“I mean it!” He tugs on the cord, jerking her head back against his chest.

Ellie makes a noise that could almost be his name, one hand slapping at his fists where they’re wrapped around the cord.

And then Angelina’s voice shrieks out across the courtyard. “Dad? What the hell are you . . . ?”

He looks up and there she is, standing next to Grace, one hand up to her mouth—just like when she found her mother and Bloody Hugh.

“Angel, I need you to—”

“Oh God, what are you doing?”

Shit . . . He’s half naked, strangling a little girl who’s dressed like a prostitute. “It’s not what it looks like; they . . .”

Jeanette shifts her grip on the gun.

Wesley pulls tighter on the cord. “Drop the bloody gun or she’s dead!”

Spittle flecks the back of Ellie’s head. She’s not struggling as much as she was.

A hiss escapes from Jeanette’s thin lips, then she lowers the shotgun to the ground.

“Dad, you’re hurting her!”

“Pick up the gun, Angel.”

Angelina does what she’s told, for once, holding it like a live snake. “Where are your clothes?”

“They tried to make me sleep with her, make her pregnant, it’s—”

“Leave her alone! Why do you have to take everything away from me?”

“The whole family are insane: ask the women in the cages. Ask the little boy. Go on, ask them!”

Ellie’s hands stop scrabbling at the cord and fall into her lap.

Angelina turns to stare at the empty cages. There’s no sign of Moppet, Ginger, Boo, or Spooks.

“They must’ve gone inside, it’s—”

“You’re sick!” She spins around, mouth hanging open, eyes wide beneath furrowed brows. “You’re a sick, filthy, murdering rapist. Hugh was right about you, wasn’t he?”

“Open the cages and let them out—they’ll tell you I’m right. The keys are in George’s—”

She brings the shotgun up to point right at him. “Get away from my friend!”

“You don’t understand, it’s not—”

“Get away from her!”

“Okay, okay . . .” He lets go of the dressing gown cord, and Ellie falls facedown into the snow. She isn’t moving.

Oh God, not again . . .

“Angel, it’ll be okay. Grace can fix this, she’s a nurse. We just need to get Ellie some—”

“All that shit about going to the house and Hugh strangling Mum.” The gun shakes in her hands. “I almost believed you. But it was you, wasn’t it? You killed her. You killed them both!”

Wesley raises his hands. “No, Angel, it was an accident, I didn’t—”

“I’m glad this happened. Glad I can finally see you as you really are.” Tears glisten on her cheeks. Her face is flushed, her whole body trembling. “Well, do you know what, Dad?”

She pulls the trigger.

WESLEY BLINKS. COLD. Numb. Tired.

His arms and legs are made of concrete, his head of broken glass. And when he breathes it sounds wet and crackly, bubbles frothing deep in his lungs. He’s lying on his back, staring up at a sea of white.

A melody is blowing on the wind: the adagio from Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto, played with a raw beauty that makes his teeth ache.

Wet.

He’s lying in an inch of water. He tries to sit up. Grunts. Gasps. Reaches for the plank of wood above his head, hauls himself up to his knees, and the music stops.

Fog rises from the surface of the loch, swirling in thick eddies that curl as the rowboat drifts farther out onto the dark water. Flakes of snow sink through the frigid air, clinging to the wooden hull where they hit.

Something warm drips onto his hand. He looks down and there’s a splatch of dark red on porcelain skin. Farther down and there’s a gurgling hole in his chest.

The music starts again, picking up where it left off.

For a moment, the fog thins, and there’s the edge of the loch—the boathouse with its small jetty. Four figures stand close together: one, small and thin, leaning heavily on the unmistakable rounded silhouette of Jeanette. That must be Ellie. She survived. He didn’t kill her.

A smile breaks across his face. That’s something.

A fifth figure stands a little way off from the others, swaying in time to the music, playing for her father.

It’s beautiful.

The water’s getting deeper.

If he sits up, he’ll have a better view. He’ll hear the music better. Can tell Angelina that he loves her, no matter what. That it isn’t her fault.

He pulls at the plank, but he’s stuck. There’s a chain around his waist, attached to something in the bottom of the boat. He feels his way along the ice-cold links, until he gets to the curling stone padlocked to the end.

Ah . . .

He slumps back against the hull, rests his head against the damp wood, and lets the music wash over him as the boat slowly sinks.