by Darren Shan
I ask Mrs. Reed to help me choose a dress, but she says Mr. Dowling has already picked one for me. I’m annoyed.
“Grooms aren’t supposed to see the dress before the wedding day,” I complain. “It’s not right. He probably went for something disgusting, red and heavy, adorned with guts.”
“Possibly,” Mrs. Reed concedes. “But he is very firm about having this day go exactly the way he wishes. It means a lot to him. He’s been planning this for years, ever since you were an infant.”
“Don’t you find that a bit… yeurgh?” I shiver.
She smiles. “Mr. Dowling has nothing untoward in mind. He was attracted to your personality, not your body.” She casts a critical eye over me. “Which is just as well as you’re a poor catch, physically speaking.”
“Yeah, well, you’re no oil painting yourself,” I huff, and we share a genuine laugh for one of the very few times in our relationship.
Kinslow is in charge of organizing the ceremony. He’s under stress, and fusses over the vows as if his life depends on getting the words right. Which it might.
“What about this?” he asks, handing me his umpteenth draft.
I have a quick read and grunt dismissively. “Too flowery. Keep it simple.”
Kinslow winces. “Do you think that’s what he wants?”
“I’m not sure. But it’s what I want.”
“I wish he’d never volunteered me for this,” the mutant moans. “Or that he’d given me clearer instructions. All he said was to jot down the vows and make them good. He’s paying close attention to everything else, so why did he brush this off as if it was no big thing, leaving it all to me?”
“I don’t think he knows what he wants to say,” I tell Kinslow. “From what I’ve seen of his mind, he’s dead set on marrying me because he thinks he loves me, but he has no idea what love actually is, or how he should express his feelings. He’s like a child in certain ways.”
“Yeah,” Kinslow grumbles, “but a child who can have my head impaled on a spear if I get it wrong.”
And off he staggers to work on another draft.
Mr. Dowling hasn’t set a date. He just said we’ll get married when everything is ready. He’s given an invitation to every mutant and baby, telling them of the good news and ordering them to be ready to attend at a moment’s notice. He signed each invite, though the style of his signature varies from card to card—if you didn’t know better, you’d think they’d been signed by hundreds of different people writing the same name.
I’m nervous now that the train has been set in motion. It seemed like a good idea when we were discussing our deal, a way to turn this wretched situation to my advantage. But the more time passes, the more I start to feel that it’s a massive mistake. I’m playing into the clown’s hands, doing what he wants. Maybe this is the first step down a slippery slope and, instead of me changing Mr. Dowling for the better, he’ll change me for the worse.
I study my reflection in a mirror, looking for hints of evil in my eyes, finding only the same blank expression I’ve worn since I returned to consciousness. Could this be the start of the end? A few months from now, will I have fallen under the clown’s spell? Will I be out on the streets with him, hacking people to pieces, leading the fight against Dr. Oystein? Am I poised to become the very thing I most despise?
“You’re crazy,” I tell myself. “Nothing good can come of this. You’re trying to control a madman who freely admits that even he has no control over himself. Get out now, girl. Kill yourself while you can, while you’re still partway human.”
But I can’t. Because if Mr. Dowling does uphold his end of the bargain, and if I can soften him up, it could signal a whole new chapter in this war of the undead. Dr. Oystein says that the clown is an agent of the Devil, but maybe I can turn him into an Angel.
I chuckle as I imagine the doc’s face if I come waltzing into County Hall, Mr. Dowling following me like a lamb, to hand over his vial of Schlesinger-10, leaving the flabbergasted doctor free to uncork his tube of Clements-13, wiping out all of the zombies in the space of a week or two. Of course, the three of us would die too, but myself and the doc are happy to sacrifice ourselves for the greater good. The question is, can I convince Mr. Dowling to do the same?
As I’m debating the dilemma, still trying to work out if this is the best or worst idea I’ve ever had, Mr. Dowling creeps up behind me. He’s by himself and carrying a few large boxes.
“My darling,” he coos inside my head. “Such a divine little creature.”
“Save it for your next girlfriend,” I snort. “I’m not buying it. I know what I look like. I’m rough as a pig’s arse.”
“You’re a diamond,” he insists. “And I will polish you up, to reveal your finest shine.”
He sets down the boxes and opens the largest, pulling out a white dress.
“Is this my wedding gown?” I ask, expecting an atrocity.
“Yes,” he says simply, passing it across. He takes a step back and strokes the flesh of his cheeks, studying me anxiously, awaiting my verdict.
The dress is a lot nicer than I’d anticipated. Simple but classy. Nothing too ornate. Exactly the sort of dress I’d have picked for myself if I’d had the option. There’s a veil too, that attaches to the nails hammered into my scalp, becoming an extension of my ever-present crown.
“This is damn nice,” I tell him, turning it round to examine the back.
“It screamed you to me as soon as I saw it,” he gushes.
“You’re a funny sod, aren’t you?” I laugh. “The softest mass murderer I’ve ever heard about.”
“Not a murderer for much longer,” he smiles, opening the other boxes to reveal a hat, shoes, blue underwear, a garter. “I borrowed the garter from Mrs. Reed. And the shoes came from a secondhand shop, so they’re old. I think that covers all of the traditional bases.”
“What was Mrs. Reed doing with a garter?” I frown.
“I didn’t dare ask,” he smirks.
I look round at all of the items and nod. “You did a good job, Albrecht.”
“I thought so,” he says. “But I couldn’t be sure. You’re happy with everything?”
“Yeah. It’ll be weird wearing something of Mrs. Reed’s, but I can live with the garter. Just don’t try pulling it off with your teeth. Remember what we said—no funny business.”
“You have my word,” he giggles, crossing his stomach instead of his heart by mistake. “In that case, don your robes immediately, Becky Smith.”
“So that you can see what they look like on me ahead of the big day, in case you need to alter them?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “You must put them on now because I’ve decided we’re going to hold the wedding this afternoon.”
“Wait!” I cry as he trots off to spread the word. “I need more time. You can’t spring it on me like this.”
But he’s not paying attention. He’s made his decision and that’s it, no room for discussion. I mutter something cutting, then eye the wedding dress nervously, shake my head and start pulling off my clothes.
EIGHTEEN
The wedding takes place in the complex’s largest chamber. It’s where the mutants usually gather for meals. Unlike zombies, they need to eat food as well as brains.
The tables and benches have been cleared, while fridges, freezers, ovens, microwaves and the rest have been moved to other rooms. The walls are adorned with paintings by Dalí, Picasso, Van Gogh. There are several pieces by Dürer, to keep the groom happy, while Seurat’s massive Bathers at Asnières, my favorite painting since I started to take an interest in such things, is suspended on the wall above the makeshift altar.
Mixed in with the paintings are human limbs, lengths of gut twisted into bizarre shapes, and dozens of newly scribbled pictures of myself and Mr. Dowling, all done in fresh blood. That’s a habit I’ll try to knock out of him once we’re Mr. and Mrs.
The mutants are standing in lines on both sides leading up to the altar, leavi
ng a gap in the middle for an aisle. The babies are ahead of them, gathered round the platform that has been installed for the happy occasion. Everyone looks immaculate in their new garb—well, the babies are wearing their regular white christening gowns, but every item has been freshly laundered.
Owl Man is standing inside the entrance to the room. I’m surprised to see him, but even more surprised to see Sakarias and Rage.
“What are you mugs doing here?” I snap.
“We were invited,” Owl Man says. “The only guests from the outside world. How could we refuse such an honor?”
“I can’t believe this,” Rage snickers, eyeing me in my dress, shaking his head incredulously. He’s wearing clean jeans and a smart leather jacket, with polished-up Doc Martens, toe bones sticking out of the holes that have been cut for them.
“What?” I huff. “Didn’t think I ever wore dresses?”
“Well, no, now that you mention it,” he laughs. “But I meant I can’t believe you’re marrying the so-called spawn of Satan, the enemy of the doctor you love so much, the man you’d dedicated yourself to annihilating.”
“It’s complicated,” I mutter. “I’ve convinced him to stop killing, but I had to marry him to seal the pact.”
“Ah,” Owl Man nods. “I wondered how he’d win you over.”
“If you dare say I told you so, I’ll go for your throat,” I growl.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He raises an eyebrow at Kinslow. “Have you been charged with the task of giving the bride away?”
“Not as such,” the mutant scowls. “I’ve just been told to get her here on time and make sure she goes through with it.”
“A pity your father didn’t survive a bit longer,” Owl Man says, offering me a sad smile. “I imagine you always dreamed of him walking you down the aisle.”
“Get real,” I snort. “I never planned to marry, but if I did I wouldn’t even have invited him to the wedding.”
“I doubt that,” Owl Man says. “You loved him despite his flaws. You must be upset that he cannot be here. Your mother too.”
“Well, I wasn’t until you brought it up,” I snarl, but of course that’s a lie. How could I not have considered them? Their absence has pierced my heart (or the shadow of it) every day since the riots at Battersea Power Station. I’ve been missing Vinyl too. But I’m determined to push those sad memories aside and not let anything cast a cloud over today’s big event.
And, regardless of everything, how I came to be here and the crazy creep I’m marrying, it is an event. I have butterflies in my stomach, or at least the memory of what that felt like. I’m nervous looking at the assembled guests. I want this to go well. It’s not the wedding I ever thought I’d be having, but now that I’m here, I’d like it to go off smoothly.
Owl Man studies me as I chew at my lower lip (carefully, so as not to rip it with my new teeth), then coughs politely. “Master Kinslow, if you don’t mind, I would like to offer my services, if Miss Smith judges me an adequate substitute.”
“What are you babbling about?” I frown.
He extends an arm. “If you have no objections, I’ll walk you to the altar. I think every bride should be given away by someone who is truly fond of them, and no matter what you might think of me, I do fit that description.”
I stare at the tall, potbellied man suspiciously, wondering if he’s mocking me. But there’s no sign in his expression that he’s trying to play a nasty trick. After a brief hesitation, I smile awkwardly and take the proffered arm.
“But don’t think this makes us friends,” I warn him. “I haven’t forgotten your partnership with Dan-Dan or the fact that you keep slaves and experiment on them.”
“I never assumed that you would,” he chuckles. “Let’s call this a temporary cease-fire. Our battle can resume later. For now, let us focus only on the joy that is inherent in a day as significant as this.”
“You’re as crazy as each other,” Rage mutters. “I think the pair of you should marry the clown. Two’s company, three’s a nuthouse.”
“Now, now, Michael,” Owl Man tuts. “Be nice or I’ll sic Sakarias on you.”
“Not a hope,” Rage says. “Me and the dog are tight. I think he likes me more than you.” He reaches out to pat the sheepdog’s head. Sakarias growls at him and pulls away. “See?” Rage grins. “Best of buddies.”
“You and Sakarias can wait here for us,” Owl Man says, then sets off down the aisle, measuring his steps as if he’s an expert.
“Have you done this before?” I whisper, matching my stride to his.
“No,” he says. “But I have enjoyed many marriages on television. I loved a good old-fashioned wedding back in the day.”
We glide along, everyone smiling at us, no dark glances now. Some of the mutants coo and murmur, “Isn’t she lovely?” I can’t blush, but I do smile impishly and lower my head. I’d think this was sickening if I was watching it from afar–I always thought people acted like saps on their wedding day–but, caught up in the middle, I can’t help but succumb to tradition. So it turns out I’m a corny romantic who wants to feel special when she weds. So sue me!
Mr. Dowling is waiting for me on the platform-cum-altar. It’s nothing fancy, just some crates with a few sheets draped across them. But he’s had his mutants rustle up a couple of thrones. By the look of them, I think perhaps they hail from the Tower of London or somewhere regal like that. The giant cannon that I spotted when I first came here has been dragged into the hall too—I wonder if he plans to shoot me out of it during the ceremony.
“The paintings are a nice touch,” I tell him as Owl Man and I step up onto the platform, “but we could have done without the thrones.”
“Nonsense,” he says, taking my hand as Owl Man releases me. “We’re worth it!”
“What about the cannon?” I ask, but he only winks in answer to that.
The clown is wearing a new costume. It doesn’t look that different to his everyday outfit, except he’s dispensed with the guts and body parts that he normally attaches to the arms and legs. There are no skulls at the end of his huge red shoes either. He’s stapled fresh clumps of hair to his head, added more soot to the area around his eyes and painted the v-shaped channels on his face an even brighter shade of pink than usual. And he’s attached an eye to the tip of his nose, something I haven’t seen him do in a while.
“Do you really need the eye, today of all days?” I groan.
“It’s my lucky eye,” he chuckles. “I like what you’ve done with your cheeks.”
“Thanks.” I added glitter to the slits in my cheeks, figuring I might as well highlight my disfiguring wounds rather than try to disguise them. I also polished my elf’s ears and coated my finger bones and toe bones with a thick layer of black, before adding some silver stars to the mix. Plus, at the last minute, I cut a hole in the dress around my left chest, to show off the gap where my heart was gouged out. For me, that’s as much a part of my signature look as my eyes or mouth. I didn’t feel comfortable covering it up.
“Shall we proceed?” Mr. Dowling asks as Owl Man steps back to stand among the babies.
“Why not?” I smile, and we take our place on the thrones.
NINETEEN
A petrified Kinslow stumbles forward and clears his throat. He’s trembling. He stares at the gathered mutants and babies, then glances back at Mr. Dowling. The clown waves at him to begin. My betrothed is smiling broadly, but I sense a flicker of impatience in the way he waves. Kinslow must sense it too, because he rushes into his speech.
“Ladies, gentlemen, babies, your presence is welcome on this most momentous of days. We’re glad you could make it and we hope you have a great time. As you know, we’re here to–”
“Kinslow,” I interrupt. He looks round with surprise. “Slow down and relax. Nobody’s going to attack you.”
“Thanks,” he says with a timid smile.
“Unless you balls it up,” I add with sadistic relish.
He scow
ls at me, but the dig has done him good. He overcomes his nerves and carries on at a more even pace.
“We’re here to celebrate the wedding of Mr. Dowling”–the clown stands and points to the big badge on his chest with his name on it–“to Becky Smith. Or B Smith, as she prefers to be known.”
“Nice one, Kinslow,” I murmur, and he nods smugly.
“Neither party is religious, and we can’t have a civil service because we killed all the civil servants.” There’s a huge cheer, deep guffaws and applause. “So I’m going to conduct the ceremony,” Kinslow adds when the crowd calms down. He’s grinning like a loon, thrilled at how well his joke went over.
Kinslow settles firmly into his groove. He tells some stories about me and Mr. Dowling, how I’m the mother of the babies–they start squealing, “mummy. mummy. we love you mummy.”–and how the clown fell in love with me on the day we first met, when he beheld the glittering jewel of my most mesmerizing mind. (Kinslow’s words, not mine.)
He goes on to briefly cover our years apart, how I grew to maturity while Mr. Dowling was busy building his army of mutants. He throws in a few more jokes, riffing on my rebellious streak and Mr. Dowling’s insanity. He describes the zombie uprising and downfall of humanity as if it was a plot device in a romantic novel, designed to bring the pair of star-crossed lovers back together. The mutants ooh and aah in all the right places. Who’d have thought that a cluster of cutthroat villains could be such a shower of sentimentalists?
Kinslow finally gets to the meat of the matter and turns to address Mr. Dowling and myself. “As B knows, I spent a lot of time trying to get this right,” he says. “I know how important these vows are to you.”