by Frank Almond
She turned towards me and pulled a stray swatch of hair from her mouth. Her eyes were flooded and looked a little pink.
Suddenly, I felt stung. I hadn’t meant to go so far. I hadn’t meant to hurt her. I suppose I was just having some revenge. But this was too much. I felt such a rat. But I never let that stop me.
“Don’t cry for me, I’m not worth it,” I said. “I never could bear to see you cry. I—I’ve had a good life—I’ve lived and loved—but then again—too few to mention—but now the chips are down I’m going to see it through and do it my—do it with a bit of style. What I’m trying to say is, I want to go out with a bang, Em.”
“Oh!” she sobbed, fresh tears overflowing from her beautiful eyes.
“Er, no, I didn’t mean that—um—what I meant was: I’ll probably just get wounded, knowing me,” I said, trying to wipe a teardrop from the end of her nose, but another one formed and took its place. I wiped that one away, but another one formed and took its place.
“I told Travis you weren’t worth it,” she sniffed. “I told him you were from a lower class.”
“Yeah. I know. Thanks for that,” I said.
“I said you were beneath him.”
“Yeah, all right, Em,” I said. “You tried.”
“He comes from such a high class family, you see,” she said, with a big sniff.
“Well, I am a baronet,” I said.
“Please apologize to Travis, Steve. And then he can call the whole thing off.”
“He could withdraw if he wanted to,” I said.
“No, he can’t,” said Emma, shaking her head. “That’s just it. It’s a matter of honour for him, don’t you see?”
I stared at her. Dumbfounded. I wasn’t pretending anymore. I felt insulted that she thought she could ask me to back down, but not her precious Frenchman.
“What about my honour?” I said.
She dabbed at her eyes with the corner of the pillowcase. “Your honour?” she said, the corners of her mouth betraying a faint smile.
I stood up and studied her for a few moments.
She sat up and made attempts to straighten her clothes and hair.
“I thought you really cared about me,” I said.
She wiped her eyes. “I do,” she sniffed.
“No you don’t—you just can’t bear the thought of my blood on his hands, because you love him, not me…”
She didn’t deny it.
“You came here for him—not me! Didn’t you?” I cried. “I think you’d better go now, Emma.”
“I can’t leave you like this,” she said.
“Just walk away, Em,” I said. “Just go. Please.”
She slid her legs off the bed and stood up. And tried to embrace me. I dodged away from her.
“You shouldn’t have come,” I said.
“It wasn’t my idea!”
“No, your snobby boyfriend sent you.”
“It was your father’s idea, if you must know!” she said. “I wish I hadn’t listened to him now.”
“Are you trying to tell me the Duck wanted me to back down? I don’t believe you,” I said.
“Well, why don’t you ask him yourself?” she said, bustling to the door.
“He wouldn’t have said that—you’re lying!” I said.
“Oh, believe what you like!”
And with those words, she flew out the door and slammed it behind her.
I tried to understand why the Duck would want me to pull out of the duel. It didn’t make any sense—he’d spent all his time talking me into it. What was he up to? Reverse psychology? I shuddered to think. What I needed was a stiff drink. That reminded me of my fingernail. That made me remember the Madeira. That reminded me of my fingernail. That made me dismiss the Madeira. That made me remember the Duck’s offer of a cold beer. That made me think of the bowling alley.
I went out into the long candlelit hall and looked up and down. How did I get up there? I walked all the way to the west wing—about half a block away—before I found a flight of stone stairs, spiralling up into the darkness. A red rope attached to brass cleats fixed to the wall—like the ones in stately homes, across the places where they don’t want the general public to go, cordoned them off. There was a little sign hanging off it, which read: NO ADMITTANCE. I removed a lit candle from the wall holder, stepped over the token barrier, and started to ascend.
As I reached the first corner, a sudden draught made my flame wave about precariously. I stalled, shielded it with my hand and carried on up. I rounded a second corner, and saw a faint light above me. I reached a small landing, where there was a round window, letting a little starlight in. I was standing before a big oak door, with a sign painted on it, saying: PRIVATE—KEEP OUT. It was locked. I gave it a couple of firm nudges with my shoulder, but it wouldn’t budge, so I went all the way back down to my room, lay on the bed, and rang the service bell.
Presently, there was a light knock on the door.
“Come!” I called.
Bentley the butler, looking rather theatrical in his scarlet and gold livery and white, powdered wig, entered, took a few paces into the room, and halted. He started to open his mouth.
“Yes, I rang!” I said, before he could get the words out.
There wasn’t a flicker from him.
“May I be of some assistance, sir?” he asked, not looking anywhere in particular.
“Do you have a key to the attic?”
“The attic door, sir?”
“Yes.”
“No, sir. The attic is off limits to all staff, sir,” he replied.
“But you do have a master key?”
“A master key, sir? Yes.”
“May I see it?”
“Certainly, sir.” He pulled on a long chain, attached to his belt, and fished a bunch of keys out of his trouser pocket, counted through them and held one up. “This is a master key, sir.”
“Let me see that.”
He came closer and brandished the key.
“Take it off the chain,” I said.
“Off the chain, sir? Certainly, sir.” He fiddled with the ring and finally got it off. He held it up.
“Give it to me,” I said.
He advanced and handed it to me. I got off the bed.
“Will this open the attic door?”
“I have never tried, sir.”
“Now, Bentley,” I said. “I want you to take off your shoes, climb in this bed, and pretend to be me.”
“Pretend to be you, sir? Certainly, sir,” he said. And without a moment’s hesitation, he slipped his shoes off and started to get on the bed.
“No. Under the covers, Bentley.” I said.
“Under the covers, sir? Certainly, sir.”
I tucked him in and headed for the door. “Goodnight, Bentley,” I said, blowing out the candles on my way out.
“Goodnight, sir.”
* * *
I made my way back up to the attic door, inserted the master key in the lock, and turned it. It opened.
All this for a cold beer, I was thinking, as I threw a row of light switches I felt on the wall, just inside the door. Fluorescent lights bonged and flickered on throughout the length and breadth of the enormous attic. I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the unaccustomed brightness. I was expecting to find a full-size bowling alley, but what I found turned my legs to jelly and made my jaw drop open.
I was staring at a huge glass tank of greenish-yellow water, an enormous aquarium with a strange light dappling through it from the surface.
I tried to say something back to Jemmons, who was immersed in the tank and chained to a sort of cage thing, resting on the bottom. There were two clear tubes fitted to a mask on his face and columns of bubbles were streaming from his nose, but he could see me and was trying to communicate. Unfortunately, my eyes were quickly distracted by another pair of eyes, also staring out at me from under the luminous green water. Every hair on my body was crawling. It was a giant squid. Two of its tentacles su
ddenly moved and their suckers attached to the glass, like horrible toothless mouths. I cringed. I moved just my eyes back to the terrified Jemmons and now noticed several round weals all over the exposed parts of his body. I shook my head slightly. Jemmons’s eyes widened in horror as I began stepping backwards, away from the tank. I swivelled my eyeballs slowly back to the squid as I retreated and attempted a smile, but it must have looked more like a grimace, because I could hardly control my jaw. The creature’s mouth flared open malevolently and it showed me its fearsome beak. That was too much for me. I screamed and turned tail and ran, straight into the arms of my father, who was just coming to the top of the steps.
“Squid thing!” I blurted. “It’s got Jemmons!”
“Calm down, I can explain everything,” said the Duck, calmly switching off all the lights and relocking the door.
“He’s in there!” I cried. “You can’t leave him in there with that thing!”
“That wasn’t Roger,” laughed the Duck, patting me on the back and guiding me back down the steps. “What do you take me for? That was a replicant—one of Roger’s alternative time-flux clones—a fully developed one I keep for emergencies.”
“This is an emergency—Roger’s being eaten alive!”
“I told you—that wasn’t the real Jemmons,” said the Duck.
“Well, he looked real enough to me!” I said. “He was crying!”
“Don’t be daft—how can you tell if someone’s crying if they’re underwater?”
“He was crying I tell you! His face was like this.” I pulled a wailing baby face. “And his body was covered in wounds where that thing had been at him. It was horrible! A bowling alley you told me—that thing could stand all the pins up in one go! What the hell is it?”
“Don’t upset yourself. Let’s just get you back to bed, you’ve got a busy day tomorrow,” said the Duck.
“Busy day? I could be dead by breakfast time!” I pulled up as we reached the first corner and turned back. “I’m going back up there to get Roger.”
The Duck gripped my arm. “No you’re not. How many times do I have to tell you? That was not Roger. Roger is being held prisoner in the Castle.”
“Well, I want to talk to that one up there. Just to put my mind at rest.”
“He’s a replicant—replicants can’t hold proper conversations, they just copy what you do and mimic what you say,” said the Duck. “That’s probably what it was doing—it saw you were upset, so it copied you.”
“Upset? I was bloody petrified!”
“Well, there you go then.”
I swallowed hard and stared up at the door. Believe me, I didn’t need much persuading not to go back up into that attic, Roger or no Roger.
“All right. What’s that squid doing up there anyway?” I said.
We carried on down the steps.
“It’s a pet,” smiled the Duck.
“A pet? You expect me to believe that thing is a pet? It’s a monster!”
“Its Latin name is Architeuthis clarkei, and you’re quite right, Stephen, it is a big squid,” said the Duck. “But that’s only a baby one. They—”
“—A baby one!” I exclaimed.
“An adult Architeuthis clarkei can grow up to two hundred feet long,” said the Duck.
“Well, what the hell have you put it up there for? It should be swimming around in a bigger tank—like the North Atlantic!”
“Brunswick was born in captivity—he’d be lost out there in the ocean.”
“Lost? He’d only have to stick out one of his tentacles and he could feel Canada!”
We stepped over the red rope.
“You’ve had a shock,” the Duck said. “But it is only an aquarium. Lots of people keep exotic pets—boa constrictors, tarantulas, vampire bats—”
“—Yeah, but even Dr Frankenstein wouldn’t give that thing house room!”
“Brunswick is not a monster!” he insisted. “You are just being squidist, Stephen, and I won’t have it! Architeuthis clarkei is a very intelligent lifeform—I mean, animal.”
“All right, but why did you lie to me about the bowling alley then?” I said. “Ah, you can’t answer that one, can you?”
“The bowling alley is on the other side of the aquarium,” blinked the Duck. “I thought the tank made a nice backdrop to the lanes.”
“Backdrop? I wouldn’t fancy turning my back on that thing—how far can those tentacles reach?”
“Brunswick is not a thing,” said the Duck. “His feeding tentacles are about thirty feet long.”
“Feeding tentacles? How many has he got?”
“Five pairs.”
“Yeah, and a beak the size of a skip.”
“Did you know that of all the living creatures on the planet the one with the biggest eyes is a fully grown Architeuthis clarkei?” said the Duck.
“All the better to see you with in the darkei,” I said.
We came to my bedroom door.
“By the way,” said the Duck, “I’ll have that master key back.”
I handed it over, with a shaking hand.
“See you in the morning,” said the Duck. “Bright and early. You can get some shooting practice on the terrace.”
“Better late than never,” I said. “I hope you know what you’re doing, because I don’t.”
“No worries.” He tapped his big nose. “Leave everything to me. We’ll show that flash French fop what the Duckworths are made of.”
“Just the exterior parts I hope.”
“I’ll bid thee goodnight,” said the Duck.
“And the same to you,” I said. “Oh, I almost forgot—we’ll have to call the duel off—I’ve damaged my trigger finger.” I showed him my broken nail.
“Hm, nasty. I’ll get you something for that in the morning. Sleep tight.”
“You expect me to sleep?”
He looked back. “I left you a little nightcap on your nightstand.”
“Does it come with a matching bullet-proof vest?”
“Not that sort of nightcap. Don’t worry—everything’s in hand. Just leave it all to me.”
I watched him waddle off down the hall. He stopped and waved to me, and then turned right down the master staircase. I let myself in and lay on my bed, fully clothed. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in the dark. I drank my nightcap and closed my eyes.
“Goodnight, sir,” said a voice.
“Goodnight, Bentley.”
* * *
And I slept the sleep of the damned, knowing that just the other side of the scallop-patterned rococo ceiling there was another giant member of the mollusc family. I kept expecting a tentacle to crash through the plaster mouldings and grab me up into that tank. I promised never to eat shellfish again, if I survived the night. But then I remembered that if I did survive the night I might die in my duel with De Quipp. What, I got to thinking, if his pistol did backfire, as the Duck assured me it would, and then I fired and missed, and De Quipp, meanwhile, recovered and reloaded and got a shot in? He would only need one. I decided on a back-up plan. If the chain of events I just described did happen, I was going to run like hell.
Chapter 3
Something was tickling my nose. I tried to brush it away, but it came back. I swiped at it again. And then I remembered that tentacle.
“Aaaagh!” I screamed, jumping off the bed. I ended up on the floor, face to face with the Duck. He was clutching a large wooden box to his chest.
“Get off me,” he said, clambering to his feet. He brushed himself down and opened the box to check the contents. “You could have damaged ’em, you idiot.”
“Don’t creep around,” I warned him, jabbing my finger in his face.
He produced a long barrelled gun from the case.
I leapt away from him. “What the hell’s that?”
“A genuine Wogdon duelling pistol. Here, stick this plaster over your nail and you can get a feel.”
I wrapped the modern plaster round my finger, w
ithout taking my eyes off the beautiful long-barrelled pistol.
“There, what do you think?” he said, passing it to me, handle first. “Try that for weight.”
I grabbed it and got the feel of it, pretended to shoot things around the room.
“Don’t wave it about,” said the Duck.
“Is it loaded?”
“Oh, yeah,” said the Duck sarcastically.
I pulled the trigger and the big hammer thing sprang down on the other bit with a dull clunk.
“Watch it!” exclaimed the Duck, ducking out of the way. “Here, give me that!”
He tried to snatch it out of my hand. I hung on to it and we wrestled.
“Naff off!” I said.
“Give me that bloody gun!” he quacked.
We struggled some more and then I let him have it.
The Duck cleaned it off on the gold embroidered sleeve of his black silk frock coat and carefully replaced it in its box.
“That’s an antique,” he grumbled. “Worth a lot of money.”
“Put a bullet in it for me then—you said I needed a bit of practice,” I said, quite fancying a go.
“It’s a muzzle-loader,” he said. “You don’t use bullets, you use a ball. You ignoramus.”
“I just want to make sure it works,” I said. “I don’t trust you.”
“It’ll work. He’s the one with the problem,” nodded the Duck.
“So, what do I do when his blows up in his face then?” I said, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull my boots on.
“Let him have it,” said the Duck, making his hand into a gun and miming what I should do. “Make my day.”
“Seems a bit unfair,” I said.
“Unfair? It’s him or you, mate!” cried the Duck. “Blow that sucker away!”
“Yeah, I know, but, all the same, it’s a bit one-sided,” I said. “I mean, I might, you know, hurt him badly without really meaning to.”
“You mean kill him,” said the Duck.
“Well. We’re not playing tiddlywinks.”
“Don’t worry—you won’t hit him—you’ll be fifty feet away. You couldn’t hit the side of a bus with one of these things from that range,” said the Duck.
“I might.”
“No way,” said the Duck. “No. All you do when he goes down is raise your pistol in the air, like this, say: no contest, Monsieur, and empty the barrel in the sky.”