by Stephen Laws
“So what now?” asked Drew.
“Like I said.” Tully shifted position again, grimacing. “We wait.”
“So you’re alone here?” Pasco asked. Without waiting for an answer, he slid from the chair again and moved to the telephone on the table by the door. Pausing for a quick swallow of whisky, he lifted the receiver. “Hello? Hello—room service? What kind of hotel is this, anyway? Service is useless. Just been ‘serve yourself’ so far. You get it, Crip? ‘Self service’? Okay—room service? Tell you what you do. You send up some sandwiches, please. Nice ones, eh Crip? With the edges cut off.” Pasco slammed the receiver back down, drank again and moved back to his chair. “She was right. The line’s dead.”
Outside in the storm, something cracked and splintered.
Pasco paused, listening—exchanging glances with the others. Then he slumped back into his chair.
“Crip?”
“Yeah?”
“Get yourself into that kitchen. See if there’s anything to eat.”
Crip quickly did as he was told.
Pasco drank again. “So what are you then?”
“You talking to me?” Drew asked.
“Well, I’m looking at you, aren’t I?”
“I’m a farmer.”
“Right. A farmer. You don’t look like a farmer. And what about you, sweetheart?”
“Nothing,” Cath said.
“Nothing?” Pasco laughed. “You’re a ‘nothing’? Hear that, Crip? She’s a nothing.”
“Yeah,” laughed Crip, opening the refrigerator door. “There’s chicken in here, Pasco.”
“That’ll do it. Find a plate. Load it up.”
“There’s them little red tomatoes and stuff.”
“Load it all up. Bring me a plate. So, Mr. Farmer—what’s she like in bed, then? She go down on you?” Drew tensed, saw Tully shift on the sofa—and the look that he gave to Pasco was instantly registered by him.
“Okay, okay!” laughed Pasco, holding his hands up in mock surrender. He drank again. “You want something to eat, Tully? Keep your strength up?”
“I couldn’t keep anything down.”
Crip brought the plate over to Pasco, chewing on a chicken leg. Pasco took it, began stuffing it into his face. “Looks good, tastes good. Could have been presented a little better on the plate, I believe.”
Drew and Cath watched him eat in silence. Crip sat cross-legged on the floor again, next to the suitcases; chewing on the chicken leg. When Pasco had finished, he dropped the plate on the floor and wiped his hands on his front.
“Should check the house out, huh?”
Tully nodded.
“Okay, I’ll check upstairs. Crip, there’s a door over there in the kitchen. Looks like it leads down into a cellar or something. You check that out.”
Drew exchanged a look with Cath. What would happen when they discovered what was in the cage down there? In the intensity of their predicament, should he—or would he—tell Cath of the fact that the Big Cat was suddenly not dead, and of the strange and confounding appearance of the cub in the cage? Drew decided to keep his mouth shut and see what happened.
Pasco sprinted quickly up the stairs and was gone from sight. Drew and Cath watched Crip move to the kitchen. He paused in the cellar doorway, looking down into the darkness, as if unsure about venturing down there.
“There must be a light switch,” Tully said. “Find a light switch.”
Crip groped in the dark and found the switch. Grinning back at Tully, he turned and clumped down the cellar stairs. Cath felt Drew’s grip tighten on his arm. When he looked across the room, he could see that Tully had been watching them and had noticed their tense body language.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing much,” Drew said. “Just three guys holding us hostage.”
“And one holding a gun on us,” said Cath.
“Life gets shitty sometimes, doesn’t it?”
“I’m not a doctor,” Drew continued. “Like I said—I’m a farmer. But I know enough about animal injuries to see that leg of yours is in a very bad way.”
“You going to give me a lecture about the hospital, like her?”
“No. Probably too late for that.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re bleeding pretty badly. Every time you loosen that belt.”
Tully realised that he hadn’t been loosening and tightening the belt as Cath had suggested back in the car. He put a hand down by this thigh. When he lifted it, the hand was covered in blood, as was the sofa where he was sitting. Convulsively, he tightened the belt again—grimacing in pain. “Get me some fucking towels, then!”
“Where?” Cath asked Drew.
“On the bench. Just there.”
Cath moved quickly, snatched up tea towels from the bench—opened a kitchen drawer and found more; now holding them out to Tully with cold anger in her eyes. Cursing, he snatched them from her; threw them down next to him, grabbed a fistful and jammed them up against his leg. It stained instantly.
“You’ll bleed to death by morning,” Drew said.
“You better hope I don’t. I’m the only thing that’ll stop Pasco carving you up and raping your girlfriend.” There was a clattering on the stairs as Pasco descended. He was grinning again.
“Nice big bed up there. All mussed up. Wonder what that means?” He was still swigging from the whisky bottle, which was now almost empty. “Where’s Crip?”
“Still downstairs in the cellar,” Tully replied, looking at the tea towel to see that it was stained bright crimson. The grin vanished from Pasco’s face. He stared, and drank again. Tully took another handful of towels and pressed them to his leg. Pasco walked past, fascinated by the sight of all that red, into the kitchen and to the top of the stairs. Cath realised that she had seen something like that look before, on the faces of people passing by some horrific car accident with morbid curiosity. But there was also something else in Pasco’s expression. He was enjoying it. At the top of the cellar stairs, still staring back at Tully, he called:
“Crip? Anything down there?”
Cath had returned to sit on the edge of Drew’s chair. Drew waited, stiff and tense, for Crip’s discovery of the cage and what was—or was not—inside. They both had the same thought. What might they be likely to do?
“Crip? You still alive or not?”
“Yeah.” Crip suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs, right next to Pasco.
“Christ!” Still staring at Tully, Pasco had been unaware of his presence and flinched away at the voice right next to his face. “What you trying to do? Scare me to death.”
“I scare you then, Pasco?” laughed the child-man. “Did I really give you a scare?”
Ruffled, Pasco slapped him flat-handed on the chest. The blow didn’t move him. Crip stood there, solid and grinning.
“Find anything down there?” Pasco asked.
Drew and Cath waited.
And then Crip said: “No. Just stuff. Benches and shelves and stuff.”
Cath looked back at Drew, brow creased. Drew returned the puzzlement.
Pasco nodded, lazily sauntering back to his chair—staring again as Tully loosened and retightened the belt. Crip returned to the fridge, found a carton of orange juice, ripped the top off and guzzled.
Back in his chair, drinking again, Pasco said: “So you’re a farmer who doesn’t look like a farmer. She’s a ‘nothing.’ What do we look like, then?”
“You really want me to answer that?” Drew said.
Pasco laughed. “You’re good. You’re funny. But go on—tell me what you think we look like?”
“You look like someone who likes to make people suffer,” Cath said.
In mock outrage, Pasco replied: “Me? No! I’m a lover—not a fighter.”
Drew fingered the weal on his brow and forehead. “Yeah, I’ve had some experience of that.”
“You’re very good, you are. Very funny. But you’ve got me wrong. I’
d rather love than fight any day.” Pasco rubbed his crotch, grinning at Cath. “Know what I mean, darling?”
Cath deliberately held his grin with a blank stare.
“Now those suitcases there,” continued Pasco. “They’re going to buy me a lot of loving.” He paused, looking across to Tully—whose eyes were closed. Had he fallen unconscious with the pain? Was he sleeping? Being careful, he corrected himself: “Sorry I mean us—not just me. Us! You wanna know what’s in ’em?”
“No,” Drew said.
In mock disappointment again, Pasco asked: “Why not?”
“Because we don’t want to know,” said Cath. “We just want you out of here and gone.”
“You’re no fun.” Checking out Tully again, Pasco leaned behind him and grabbed the drawstring of the shoulder bag that he had slid under the writing table, dragging it out and swinging it up to his lap. He held it there in his lap, grinning again, and keeping a watchful eye on Tully—whose head was now down so that his chin was resting on his chest. The gun was still tightly held in his lap, barrel pointing out. Had he really passed out? Cath and Drew’s attention was riveted on Pasco. Was he going to make a move? Maybe try to take the gun away from the injured man?
“Crip?” Pasco said at last, still keeping his eyes on Tully.
“Yeah . . .” answered the child-man through a mouthful of cold chicken.
“Anything else to drink over there?”
Pasco was still fiddling with the drawstrings on the bag as Crip returned to the drinks cabinet and found another bottle. “Yeah.” He spat chicken skin on the floor. “Tek . . . tek . . . something.”
“Tequila,” Drew said.
“Exotic,” exclaimed Pasco. “You a Mexican farmer, then? Bring it here, Crip.”
Dutifully, the child-man brought the bottle as Pasco finished the last mouthful of whisky and exchanged the empty bottle for the new one. Crip moved the empty bottle from hand to hand, unsure what to do with it.
Drew watched Pasco, still keeping a careful eye on Tully, whose head remained still. The towels by his legs were soaked in red. He watched Crip puzzling over the empty bottle, exchanged a glance with Cath—whose face was white and drawn with anxiety—but was unable to communicate what was going on in his head.
What the hell had happened down there in the cellar? Why hadn’t Crip said anything about the cage, the Big Cat and its cub? He slavishly did everything he was told, so why hadn’t he said anything when Pasco had asked if there was anything in the cellar?
Just stuff, he had said. Benches and shelves and stuff.
And a ferocious black panther in a cage, thought Drew. With a Big Cat cub that just can’t possibly be in there!
Drew watched Pasco watching Tully—watched Pasco drink and then wince at the taste. “Fucking lighter fuel!” exclaimed Pasco, and drank again.
So what were the options? Perhaps Crip had literally not seen the cage? Impossible. It was hidden by the turn at the bottom of the stairs, but it was in clear view when you’d reached the bottom—or were heading back to the stairs to ascend. Did he see the animals then, but it just hadn’t registered? Clearly, he was mentally challenged, but even an adult with the mind of a child—albeit a violent if not psychotic mind—would react to the sight of those wild and exotic creatures. By rights, Crip should have come thundering up the stairs in excitement, telling the others what he had discovered. Or was it possible—and now Drew could not get the thought out of his mind—that Crip had seen the cage, but . . . ?
No, that’s not possible!
But he really hadn’t seen what was inside the cage.
Could it be that he had seen an empty cage?
Some inner logic was telling him that perhaps the cage door was unlocked; perhaps the cats had escaped the cage. Perhaps they had escaped out into the storm-driven night again, through the cellar storm doors—which had finally blown open? Perhaps he really didn’t see them, and that this was the logical answer. Crip didn’t see them because they weren’t there. But, no—Drew could hear those doors, still rattling and banging as the wind raged around the house. Perhaps the beasts were loose from the cage and hiding in the cellar when Crip had gone down there?
No, thought Drew. That cage door is still locked. I know—because I made that bolt and hasp myself, I fitted it myself. And when we left that Big Cat in the cage, I slid the bolt on that cage and I made sure it was in the hasp. Nothing could get in and out of there. . .
Except, impossibly, a Big Cat cub?
It must have followed us back. It must have got in through the open front door. It must have found its parent in the cellar—and squeezed through those bars to get into the cage.
Have you seen how narrow those bars are? Even if it did follow us back, how on earth did it get back in there?
He became aware that Cath was looking at him again, trying to read his mind.
The cage door is locked. Those cats are in there.
Cath could see that there was something in his eyes; something he was trying to convey to her, but could not.
They’re in the cage—but Crip couldn’t see them. He just couldn’t see them!
When Drew had gone down there himself, when he had discovered the cub in the cage, the Big Cat had responded with threat. It had roared, it had snarled guttural fury. But since the arrival of these intruders, when Crip had gone to the cellar, they had remained completely silent. Not one snarl, not one hiss, not one rumbling roar to reveal their presence. Even the sounds of the storm, of the rushing wind and the crashing night, wouldn’t have covered up the sounds that animal and its cub made.
That’s because they’re not there, said the inner voice. They can’t be there.
They’re there, thought Drew with utter certainty.
He remembered what he’d told Cath when she’d first arrived on the scene, before they had ventured into the cats’ cave lair—something that until now, in the rush of excitement and terror and love and the whirlwind storm of emotion that had followed their capture of the Big Cat—he had forgotten until this moment.
“I told you that I came face to face with a Big Cat on my farm?” Drew had told her. “But I didn’t tell you everything that I felt, everything that I experienced back then. I was so close to this damned thing that it could have torn me apart. Why it didn’t, I’ll never know. And crazy though this might sound—there was something about this thing. Something different.
“Don’t know if I can explain it properly, and I know that when—when you’re in danger. . . in terror. . . things can happen to your mind. You maybe see things—not as they are. Do you know what I mean ?”
“Yes, I do, Drew,” Cath had said.
“But it wasn’t like that when I came face to face with this thing. I knew—just knew that there was something different about this Big Cat. Not a panther, not a puma—not even a hybrid. Just something else . . .”
And then:
“It may well be some kind of crossbreed that no one’s come across before. I’ve laid traps, set up cameras, everything. But these cats—well, they’ve got an uncanny ability to evade detection and sometimes—just sometimes—a ferocity unequalled by any other Big Cat I’ve learned about.”
Cath had said: “So actually what you’re saying here is—well, that the press and media have got it right. That we’re dealing with something that is like The Hound of the Baskervilles?”
“Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know. I just know that there’s nothing supernatural about it. They’re just—different.”
The storm rattled and whistled at the kitchen window, banged and rattled at the storm doors in the cellar. Pasco looked up. For a moment, Drew wondered if he would send Crip down there again to check out the sound—and that maybe this time, Crip would descend and then see what he had missed the first time. But Pasco returned to the tequila bottle and his slow watch of Tully, who remained in the same position. Had he died? Drew could not see his chest rising and falling as he breathed.
And Drew remembered:
“When I turned, there it was—in the bracken, watching me. Obscured, so I couldn’t see all of it. But it was . . .” He had struggled to find the words. “I always keep the tranquiliser gun in the back, just in case. I slowly walked back to the Land Rover and—well, after everything that’s happened, I was convinced that by the time l got it out, primed it—the animal would be gone. It wasn’t. It was still there. It had moved, was still obscured and—Christ, I think it was stalking me. But this is the thing. You can see the bushes and bracken on that side of the hill aren’t that dense. Enough to provide cover for birds or smaller mammals. But not enough to provide cover for an animal that size. This Big Cat—puma, panther, whatever—is black. I should have been able to see it at that range—maybe twenty-five yards—in such sparse cover. But I couldn’t, Cath. I couldn’t see it properly as it moved.”
He remembered now the excitement of that moment.
“There’s something—I don’t know what—but there was something going on. Some kind of camouflage effect that I just couldn’t work out. I couldn’t see it properly, Cath!”
And Crip hadn’t seen it at all in the cage!
How was that possible? Could this somehow be the same thing? Drew’s mind was spinning with the crazy implications, the bizarre aspects of what he hadn’t seen out there in the bracken—and what Crip had now so obviously failed to see in the cage.
“So you’re trying to tell me,” Cath had said, “that we are dealing with The Hound of the Baskervilles? Except that—it’s a cat?”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Pasco said, and Drew was startled out of his spinning thoughts to realise that he had been watching him for some time. “I know just exactly what you’re thinking.”
Drew did not answer, knowing anything he might say would just be used and fed into whatever sick fantasy Pasco might have in mind. He gritted his teeth, feeling the tension in Cath beside him.
“How do we get out of this?” Pasco continued. “That’s what you were thinking. How will we get through the night in one piece?” Pasco looked carefully again at Tully. “Well—I’ve got an idea. But I don’t want to feel as if I’m making anyone do anything against their will. Know what I mean?” He drank again and belched. “Pardon me. Awful thing—house guests without manners. Where was I? Oh yeah—how to get through the night. What do you think, Crip?”