Dark Duets

by Christopher Golden

“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—d
eep 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 . . .