The Marriage of the Living Dark

HOMECOMING

“Yes.”

“Then ...”

“Then whafi” He met her eyes, defiant now. “I cannot limit myself, Catherine.

Not the way she wanted me to limit myself.”

“And yet you cannot live without her.”

“No.”

“Then you must choose.”

He shook his head. “It isn’t that easy.”

“Only because you won’t make it so.”

“No!” He stood, real anger in his face. “It isn’t easy because I don’t have a choice! Can’t you see that, Catherine? This is how I am, how I was made! God help me, I wish it were otherwise, but it isn’t!” She stared at Ben, astonished. He was usually so controlled, so absolutely lacking in emotion. To see him otherwise was a real shock. And then she understood.

Meg. It’s Meg who channels that, and without her ... It was a revelation. She had always seen Meg as a mother-substitute - as cook and mender, elder sister and lover. But she was more than that Much more. But then she should have known, for when Ben used words he did not use them flippantly as others did. My soul, he’d said. And truly that was so. Without her he was an empty shell. A nothingness. No wonder he was half insane. “Where is she?”

“What?” Ben stared at her, half distracted it seemed.

“Meg. Where has she gone?”

He gave a little shrug. “I don’t...

“You don’t know?” Then, noting something odd in his manner, she understood. “You do know. You know precisely where she is, don’t you?”

DeVore stood at the sink, naked, washing the blood from his hands. Behind him, his head lolling forward, his arms hanging limp at his sides, the boy’s eyes stared out into the great nothingnessas he swung on the wire. His flesh was pallid, bloodless. Beneath him a drain was set into the tiled floor of the cell, the black metal grid almost blocked by congealed blood. In the far corner of the cell, in shadow now, rested the saddle, a duplicate of that which Shepherd now owned, its smooth black and white seat smeared in the blood and faeces of the boy.

DeVore pulled the towel down from the rack on the wall then turned. His penis was still hard, almost painfully erect, and for a moment he thought of cutting the boy down and playing the game again. But there was little enjoyment where there was no pain, no crying out for mercy.

He smiled and went across, taking the boy’s limp arm and pulling him round, then let go.

The body swung back and forth, imitating life.

He studied the boy a moment, as calmly and dispassionately as one might study the carcass of an animal, hanging in the window of a butcher’s shop, then he nodded to himself and walked across to get his gown from the peg. Stepping stones, they were, all of them. Bridges to be burned, like all the other bridges to his past For his element was the future. Soon now, he thought, renewing the promise to himself. Very soon and he would have done with all this. With men and their petty concerns. For this game was almost at an end. A new game called him. A bigger, better game, played with galaxies and whole new species of adversary.

Challenges. He needed challenges.

Yes, he thought, and I need to get rid of tins damn erection! He strode to the door and, pulling it open, gestured to one of the guards to go and clear up. Then, knowing he would not be able to settle to his work until he was purged of the sickness in his blood, he began to run. It was time he had the woman again. Time to give it to her up the arse.

Raeto stood as Daniel came into the room, dearly surprised. He had thought he would have to send his men to get Daniel - to drag him kicking and screaming to his fate.

HOMECOMING

“You wanted me?” Daniel said, looking to Raeto only, as if there were no others seated about that tiny cell.

Raeto looked past him. Boys crowded the corridor outside, looking on, but they were fas boys, Raeto’s boys. Daniel was alone, unarmed. Glancing at his chief enforcer, Raeto came across the room until he stood face to face with Daniel. He was smaller than Daniel, but much broader at the shoulder. And besides, size didn’t count much, so he’d discovered. It was all a matter of will.

The needle was prepared. It waited in the back room. When he was ready they would use it on Daniel, like Schutz wanted. But only when he was done with him. Raeto studied Daniel a moment, trying to see if there was anything there in his eyes he should be warned of, but Daniel seemed passive, utterly compliant Maybe they beat it out of Mm, Raeto thought, surprised that it had been this easy. They say they can destroy the very spirit of a man in there. “I had a good shit,” Raeto said, smiling up into Daniel’s face. “A nice messy one.”

There was unpleasant laughter within the room. Outside, in the corridor, a low murmur ran through the watching boys.

Daniel had his hands at his sides, palms open. He seemed relaxed. “You want to show me?”

There was a flicker of uncertainty in Raeto’s eyes, and then he smiled again.

This was his room. If Daniel tried anything, his boys would sort the fucker out. Unfastening the cord at his waist, he let his trousers fall, then turned. The stench of stale faeces wafted up at Daniel.

“You kept your promise, I see,” Daniel said, his eyes taking in the sight “Now let me keep mine ...”

The movement was too quick for the watching boys. One moment Raeto was standing, grinning broadly at the thought of his triumph, the next he was lying face down on the cell floor, dead.

There had been a resounding snap.Daniel was crouched now, facing the other boys, in the crane stance, his hands raised and tensed, ready to strike. There was a long, low noise of breaking wind from the corpse, but no one laughed. Slowly Daniel backed towards the door. And still no one moved. Now that Raeto was dead, they had no reason to fight Daniel. As Daniel stepped out into the corridor, the crowd gave way before him, letting him pass, boys touching his arms and back lightly, as if to win good fortune from the touch.

Daniel had seen to him. Daniel had killed the little bastard.

But Daniel himself felt nothing. Nothing but a sense of utter waste.

Catherine paused by the gate, pulling her cloak tighter about her. There was a cold wind blowing from the sea. The sky was grey and overcast So bleak a place, she thought, staring at the small clifftop cottage, and wondering why Meg should have chosen here of all places to run to. It was not even as if it was pretty - at least, not in the way Landscott was pretty. The grey slate roof was discoloured by orange lichen and the grey stone walls were bare, unpainted.

The wood of the gate was weather-worn and cracked, the stone path that led up to the front door covered in weeds that had poked up from beneath the earth. So desolate, it seemed. Unexpectedly so.

She looked up at the two small quarter-pane windows that sat above the door, to either side of it, but there was no sign of life. The curtains were drawn, as if the house slept.

For a moment she was tempted to leave it - to turn about and go home. Then, steeling herself, knowing that it was important, she pushed the gate aside and hurried up the path.

She lifted the old brass knocker and let it fall. The sound seemed hollow, the silence from inside the house profound.

What if she’s not here?

The wind whistled tunelessly through the porch, the sound of breaking waves just audible above it And over everything the call of gulls, their echoing cries sending a tiny shiver up her spine. Such a plaintive sound, she thought, turning to watch one climb the sky above the cliff, seeing how it struggled against the wind, its frail wings bending and turning in the changing air currents.

The sudden scent of woodsmoke broke into her reverie.

“Catherine?”

She had not heard the door open. Meg stood just inside the narrow hallway, in shadow. Beyond the hallway was a galley kitchen. Through its open door Catherine glimpsed a fire burning in a tiny grate.

“Meg...”

“You’d better come in.”

She stepped inside, then followed Meg through, into the tiny kitchen, taking the seat Meg offered her.

All was orderly, she noted. All spick and span and organised. Not like her own apartment. She looked up at Meg, noting how the other woman was watching her, and smiled. But Meg seemed hostile. Her face was set, unsmiling. “How did you find me?”