by Darren Shan
“I’ve always been fascinated by spiders,” I lie. “I’d love to work here and learn more about them. Cheers, Kinslow. This was one of your better ideas.”
“Not mine,” he sniffs. “Mr. Dowling’s, like I told you.”
Kinslow continues to show me round, tells me the names of some of the more exotic creatures, explains their needs, how we feed them, what we have to watch out for. He might claim to be a reluctant zookeeper, but he seems more content here than anywhere else I’ve seen him. For the first time I see the human that he once might have been showing through.
“Can you tell me something?” I ask him as he replaces the top on a tank full of beetles.
He squints suspiciously, guessing from my tone that I don’t want to know more about the bugs. “Depends what it is,” he says.
“Why do you do this?” I ask, prompted by memories of my conversation with Mrs. Reed. “What drew you to Mr. Dowling? Why did you let him change you? Why do you follow him?”
Kinslow studies me in silence, debating whether or not to answer. When he sees that I’m truly curious, not searching for something to criticize him for, he says in a low voice, “I was married once.”
“Oh yeah?” I try to sound happy for him.
“I murdered my wife.”
If I could blink, I would.
“The judge decided it wasn’t my fault,” he continues. “I was declared mentally unhinged. I agreed with the verdict. I hadn’t been myself for a long time. I’d been imagining things. I was hearing voices. I wasn’t in control.
“They sent me to an institution and doped me up. I was happy, free to hide from the world and what I’d done. I couldn’t hurt anyone again. I thought that was it for me. Spend a few decades kicking around the rooms of my prison, then die a lonely, forgettable death.
“Mr. Dowling had other ideas. He broke into the asylum. Went through the records and drew his own conclusions. Gathered a selection of inmates and took us with him. I was furious. I wanted to go back but he wouldn’t let me. He weaned me off the drugs and taught me to embrace my dark side. He showed me that I’d spiraled out of control because I hadn’t understood my true character.
“I was born bad. People often argue about whether we’re born evil or have it bred into us. In my experience, it’s a bit of both in most cases. But for me it was all natural. I came into this world with my fingers twitching, a destructive spirit from the get-go.
“If I’d embraced my true nature, I could have controlled myself the way I do now, lashed out against those who meant nothing to me, been careful and loving around those who mattered. But, because I tried to be a normal person, I fought my natural instincts and lost. By trying to suppress my violent streak, I ended up killing the woman I loved instead of some random piece of scum.”
“Who are you to decide who’s scum and who isn’t?” I challenge him.
“Oh, I’m perfectly positioned to make that call,” he grins bleakly. “After all, I’m scum myself.” He laughs at my confused expression. “We are what we are. Some of us are good, some bad, most somewhere in the middle. Mr. Dowling thinks we should all live the way we were meant to.”
“So he’s happy for killers to parade about freely?” I huff.
“If it’s their time,” Kinslow nods. “It wasn’t when I was growing up. If I’d been open about my urges, I would have been identified and dealt with before I could have done any real damage. I fit in now because this is a time for killers. The meek and the good have fallen. I don’t know what lies ahead, but right now the world’s a cauldron of violent madness, ripe for the likes of me and Mr. Dowling.
“He taught me that there’s a time and a place for all of us. That’s why nature bred so many varieties of human beings, the bad and the crazy as well as the good and the sane. If the world doesn’t require us, it gets rid of us. If Mother Nature feels like we deserve a play in the pen, she’ll pass over the reins of power for a while.”
I scratch my head, staring at the mutant, trying to process what he’s telling me.
“Don’t sweat it,” he smirks. “Our time will be short-lived. Order will restore itself. So we should squeeze the most out of the experience while we can, before the good times are ripped away and the boring, decent people rise to the top again. Mr. Dowling is only maximizing his use of the brief, chaotic period that the world has granted us. That’s why he has my vote.”
“Wait.” I stop Kinslow as he turns to link up with the mutants outside and lead me back. “You keep saying our, us, we. I’m not one of you. I’m different. I belong with the good guys.”
“Maybe.” Kinslow winks. “Or maybe that’s just what you want to believe. Ask yourself this—does Mr. Dowling love you because you’re pure? Or does he see a mirror image in you of his own vile, twisted self?
“Sweet thoughts, cupcake,” he chuckles, saying nothing more as I’m led back to my room in thoughtful, worried silence.
SIXTEEN
Mr. Dowling comes to me again a few days after my chat with Kinslow. He doesn’t provide me with an explanation for his absence and I don’t ask. I’ve been enjoying life without him–well, as much as a slave can enjoy life–going each day with Kinslow and the other mutants to work in the zoo. The creepy-crawlies have turned out to be more interesting than I imagined. I wouldn’t fancy looking after them indefinitely, but in the short term they’ve been a welcome distraction.
The clown does his electrocution trick without even saying hello, and leads me through more of the deranged labyrinth of his mind. I don’t know how many levels there are, and he doesn’t tell me when I ask, but he does say that I’ve already crawled farther through the mental maze than anyone else has. He’s shared more with me than he has with even his closest confidants like Kinslow and the scientists he works with.
I should be honored, but I can’t see him as a liberating hero. I’ve started to consider him in a different light since my discussions with Mrs. Reed and Kinslow, but ultimately he’s still a terrorizing maniac in my book.
As the clown treats me to deeper insights and nuggets from his past, I summon an image of him and ask the question that is foremost in my thoughts. “What are your plans for the world?”
His projection is dressed in a pink suit today. He raises an eyebrow and smiles. “I want to marry you and raise our babies.”
“But for the world in general,” I press. “Mrs. Reed hopes that the babies will correct humanity’s mistakes. Kinslow wants this to be a place where evil people can run wild. What do you want?”
The shape in front of me shimmers and Mr. Dowling reappears in his clown’s outfit. His eyes don’t revolve the way they do in the real world, his flesh doesn’t ripple and there are no body parts sewn onto the material of his costume, but this is the closest he’s come to replicating his usual look inside our mental realm.
“I want to break free,” he sings, doing a lousy Freddie Mercury impression.
“I’m serious,” I huff.
“I don’t want to be,” he counters. “A serious world is a dull world.”
“Come on,” I groan. “I don’t ask for much. This is important if you want me to get to know and love the real you.”
He stares at me solemnly, thrown by my suggestion that I might be capable of developing feelings for him. Then he says, “Albrecht.”
“What?” I frown.
“My first name is Albrecht. My parents named me after the painter, Albrecht Dürer. He was their favorite artist.”
“Well, that’s insightful,” I mutter sarcastically. “But it hardly–”
“One of his most famous engravings was Knight, Death and the Devil,” Mr. Dowling continues. “My father told me that it was inspired by Psalm 23—‘Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.’”
Images of recent atrocities flicker through my mind, zombies cutting loose, ripping into people, chewing on brains.
“This world has become an immense valley of death,” Mr. Dowling says sof
tly. “The knight in Dürer’s painting had faith to keep him strong, to protect him from the forces of darkness stacked against him, but I lost my faith many years ago. The only way I can bring myself to fear no evil is to become evil. After all, what has a man to fear when he is the personification of fear itself?”
“That’s… interesting,” I mutter uncertainly.
“You asked me what I want,” he says. “Here is my honest answer. I want to cruise through the valley and feel no fear. To do that, I must continue as I am. I’m confident that our babies will take over this world–it will be our gift to them–but not during my lifetime. I need humanity. I need zombies. I need soldiers and racists. In their chaotic clashes, I find solace. In war, I find joy. As long as this is a world of evil, I have a home in it and I have nothing to fear.”
“Then you’re not looking to wipe out humanity?” I whisper.
“Of course not. If pushed, I would. I feel no attachment to humans, any more than I feel attached to the undead. But ideally I want to keep them all in the game. The world is a far more amusing place with a variety of players.”
I think about that for a while. “So you want us to carry on as we are, humans against zombies, stirring up trouble with your mutants wherever you can?”
“Yes,” he beams.
“And you want me to be part of your team, to help keep things from bubbling over?”
“Yes!” he exclaims, then sighs. “The knight in the engraving rode alone, but I struggle with loneliness. Life is no fun if you have to face it by yourself. It’s much easier and more enjoyable with someone beside you.”
“Then I’ll do a deal with you,” I tell him, having already considered this before I started the conversation. “If you help Dr. Oystein destroy the zombies, I’ll be your partner.”
“But I need them,” he says.
“No you don’t. The zombies are what made this a world of evil. If you take them out of it, you won’t have anything to fear.”
He shakes his head. “The living are far more wicked than the undead. We cannot heal the world by removing the zombies. We would simply hand power back to Justin Bazini and those like him, and I would have even more to fear. No deal.”
I curse, though I never thought it would be that easy.
“However…” Mr. Dowling murmurs and my ears (so to speak) prick up.
“Go on,” I encourage him when he stalls.
“I have asked a lot of you without offering much in return,” he muses aloud. “I thought I had to turn you to my way of thinking. I saw our relationship as a war in which I must bend your will to mine and conquer you completely. But if you’re open to the idea of a deal… to compromise…”
“I might be,” I nod. “It depends on what you’re offering.”
“I won’t wipe out the zombies,” Mr. Dowling says. “They’re an integral part of this world’s scintillating mix. But what if I killed some of my followers for you? I could start with Kinslow, murder another hundred or however many you require. How does that sound?”
“Like a good start,” I chuckle, wishing that Kinslow was privy to this grisly exchange, so that I could relish the look on his face. “But that’s not what I’m after, not unless you’re willing to kill them all and either surrender to Dr. Oystein or retreat to a cave where you can do no harm.”
“That’s asking too much,” he tuts.
“What if you returned your sample of Schlesinger-10 to the doc?” I try instead.
Mr. Dowling’s eyes bulge. “Never!” he croaks more vehemently than I expected. “Are you even madder than me? He will never get his hands on that!”
“Okay, calm down, don’t have a cow. I’m just tossing ideas out.”
“I could kill the rest of the racists for you,” he says after a minute of thought. “If you became my wife, we could hunt them down together.”
“That’s a definite possibility,” I grunt. “We could certainly make that part of the deal. But I’d need more. How about you declare a truce with Dr. Oystein and his Angels, swear never to attack them again?”
He frowns. “But I have not attacked them previously.”
“Apart from when you tried to kill the doc,” I remind him.
“That was a long time ago,” he smiles. “Water under the bridge. If they come after me, I will defend myself, but I have no interest in assaulting them. I want them to continue as they are. The world needs their kind.”
He seems to have forgotten about when he sent Billy Burke after the doc in County Hall. I almost remind him, but I feel like we might be close to something big and I don’t want to lose the momentum.
“What if you stopped killing people?” I try.
“But murder is so much fun,” he protests.
“I’m sure it is,” I growl, “but it isn’t right. I could never give my heart to a man who butchered freely. That’s a deal breaker as far as I’m concerned.”
Mr. Dowling strokes his chin thoughtfully. “I see from your memories that you had a talk with Kinslow recently. So you know my opinion of killers. This is a time for assassins, and I don’t believe that people should hide their true colors. It would be hypocritical of me to tell Kinslow and those like him that they should stop slaughtering.”
“Then there’s no point in us taking this any further,” I sigh.
“I’m not so sure of that,” he says hesitantly. “There might be room for a few degrees of negotiation. I enjoy killing, but for me it’s a sport, not an obsession. I believe that I could stop if I wished.”
The clown thinks about it some more, then nods. “If you become my wife, I’ll attempt to put my murderous ways behind me. I won’t try to persuade my followers to stop killing, but I will serve as an example. When they see that I have stayed my hand, some of them might stop too. If I find that I can’t stay on the straight and narrow, and feel compelled to kill again, the marriage will be declared null and void and I will free you to go your own way. How does that sound?”
It’s not as much as I want, but way more than I expected. I mull it over, considering the angles and my options.
“What would I have to do as your wife?” I ask.
“Be my right arm,” he answers promptly. “Support me. Help raise our babies. Offer me a shoulder to cry on.”
“No funny business?” I press.
“I’m a clown,” he grins. “All of my business is funny.”
I roll my eyes, unimpressed. “You know what I mean.”
He crosses his heart. “I will do nothing to you without your permission.”
I think it over some more. Maybe his madness has started to rub off on me, but this seems like a good idea. As his wife, I’d be able to exert a positive influence over him. If he stops killing, it will be a massive step forward. Maybe, over time, I could convince him to stop the mutants from killing too.
I bat the options back and forth, wondering what Dr. Oystein would think. I recall Owl Man’s prediction that Mr. Dowling would win me over in the end. That makes me consider rejecting him, purely on principle. But it would be childish to turn down the deal just to spite Owl Man.
Finally, throwing up my hands, I snap, “Okay. I’ll settle for those terms.”
“Becky!” he cries, sweeping me up in his arms and whirling me round. “You’ve made me the happiest man in the world!”
Our minds start to disconnect and we return to our bodies. The clown has picked me up off the floor and is dancing with me in this realm too, his delighted laughter echoing through the corridors of my brain.
Kinslow is lounging by the vat of blood, running his fingers through the liquid, observing the ripples, a dreamy look on his face.
“Kinslow!” Mr. Dowling snaps at his assistant, copying me in on his mental commands. “Stop dawdling. We need a dress. Shoes. A fresh suit for me. The babies must be told and prepared. Letters will have to be written and passed around. So much to think about and do. It would be enough to drive me mad, if I wasn’t already.”
“Master?”
Kinslow frowns, not sure what’s going on.
Mr. Dowling beams, his eyes jitterbugging about even more than usual, leaping from foot to foot as if on hot coals. “She! She! She!” he gibbers. Then he gets himself under control for a moment, jabs a bony finger in my direction and cries victoriously, “Here comes the bride!”
SEVENTEEN
Mr. Dowling prepares for our big day as if it was a royal wedding. He zips round the caverns in a blur, tossing instructions left, right and center, spurring his mutants into action. Everything has to be redecorated… we need more lights… the walls require a fresh lick of excrement and blood… it has to look festive.
He sends teams scouting for paintings and statues. Just as I’ve been learning about his mind, he’s been learning about mine, and he sees how I’ve recently become interested in art. He has them pick pieces that he thinks I’ll like, eager to impress me. They come back laden with some of the finest works that London has to offer, many from the National Gallery, and set about putting them in place.
Everyone’s instructed to look their best. When the mutants have finished ransacking the galleries, they raid department stores and return with stacks of new dresses and suits, more shoes than any woman ever dreamed of, scarves and ties and heaven knows what else.
The babies can’t understand why people are so excited. They don’t know what a wedding is. As far as they’re concerned, we’re their mummy and daddy, and that’s all there is to it. Ceremonies mean nothing to them. Still, they sense Mr. Dowling’s glee and respond to it, squealing dutifully whenever they see one of us.
Lots of the mutants eye me suspiciously when I pass. I can tell what they’re thinking—she doesn’t really want to marry him, it’s a scam, we can’t trust her. The odd thing is, they’re wrong. I’m not ecstatic about this, but I’m more pleased than I thought I’d be. And, while I won’t rule out plotting against my horrendous hubby in the future, for now I’m happy with his promise to change his murderous ways. I see this as getting a foot in the door, and for the time being I’m satisfied with that.