round the stitches, and I could feel blood sticking my hand to Justin's towelling shirt. Eva took her hands away from her face and stumbled out the room and down the hall. If she wanted the bathroom she was going the wrong way.
Francis, defeated and embarrassed, picked up the scissors and comb from the floor, and started straightening the room. He bent down at the foot of the bed and picked up the kaleidoscope. He tipped it upright. Shards of brightly coloured plastic fell onto the carpet. 'Shit,' he said. We must have made a picture, driving back from the school. Eva's nose wouldn't stop bleeding, which meant she couldn't drive. Not unless she wanted to be snorting and spitting blood out the window the whole way: hardly her style. My hand was so stiff and sore, meanwhile, I had to slow to a 10mph crawl and steady the wheel with my forearm whenever I made a sharp turn.
The driveway was a particular challenge.
'For God's sake watch what you're doing,' Eva cried, as the gatepost loomed up out of the darkness towards her window.
I braked hard, to be spiteful. 'Is your nose better?'
'Yes.'
'Then you bloody do it.'
'I will.'
'Oh don't bother,' I grumbled, yanking into Reverse.
'Let me out first,' Eva said.
'I can do this, goddamnit.'
'I just want to go inside.'
I watched her to the door. She let herself in and switched on the hall light. Her round-shouldered, mincing turn as she swung the front door shut reminded me, in a way her words could not, how much damage she was taking.
I put the car into first gear, with the little button they give you for that purpose, and slid the wheel around. This time I got the angle.
I pushed the car into Park, got out and walked round the front of the car, rummaging through my trouser pockets for the garage keys. Standing there, knowing that the Xedos, at the flick of a button, could roll down and emboss me on the garage door, gave me the usual cheap thrill. I unlocked the door and swung it up on its weights.
The stench of dog shit assaulted me immediately. My first thought was, I must have locked Boots inside. But there was no sound. The door trundled and clanged to a stop. I stood aside, removing my shadow, letting the car's headlamps light up the interior.
It took me a moment to make sense of it.
Boots was nailed to the wall.
10.
They had crucified him St Andrew-style. His legs, splayed and stretched, made a rough X. His chest was impossibly expanded, the two halves stretched apart by the unnatural extension of his forepaws. The skin over the ribs was tight like a drum. The belly, its contents drawn up under the ribcage, was tiny and concave, like the pictures I had seen of starvation victims.
The left eye was tight shut, the eye muscles puckered and creased. The lip on that side was drawn up in a snarl so extreme, it looked as though his cheek had been cut away. Flecks of blood on the teeth sparkled in the headlights.
The top two bolts were driven between the bones of Boots's forelegs, just below the paws. The paws hung limp, at right angles; it looked, comically, as though Boots was waving. Congealed blood hid the bolt heads.
His back legs had been more difficult to fix. The bolts were only part-way into the wall, and the tissue through which they'd been shot was broken and shapeless.
I got back in the car. I shifted into neutral and feathered the brake, edging into the garage. Once I was parked I engaged the handbrake, turned off the headlights, and pressed the lever that unlocked the bonnet. I left the engine idling, so the exhaust would cover the smell. I had left a crawl-space of a couple of feet between the front bumper and the rear wall, where Boots was fastened. I edged along it and felt under the bonnet for the bonnet release. I got the bonnet up and manoeuvred the rod into place to hold it upright.
I kept a tool chest in the corner of the garage. I emptied it out one-handed and found the tire-iron absurdly small, it was more like a tin-opener - fishing about in
Francis, defeated and embarrassed, picked up the scissors and comb from the floor, and started straightening the room. He bent down at the foot of the bed and picked up the kaleidoscope. He tipped it upright. Shards of brightly coloured plastic fell onto the carpet. 'Shit,' he said. We must have made a picture, driving back from the school. Eva's nose wouldn't stop bleeding, which meant she couldn't drive. Not unless she wanted to be snorting and spitting blood out the window the whole way: hardly her style. My hand was so stiff and sore, meanwhile, I had to slow to a 10mph crawl and steady the wheel with my forearm whenever I made a sharp turn.
The driveway was a particular challenge.
'For God's sake watch what you're doing,' Eva cried, as the gatepost loomed up out of the darkness towards her window.
I braked hard, to be spiteful. 'Is your nose better?'
'Yes.'
'Then you bloody do it.'
'I will.'
'Oh don't bother,' I grumbled, yanking into Reverse.
'Let me out first,' Eva said.
'I can do this, goddamnit.'
'I just want to go inside.'
I watched her to the door. She let herself in and switched on the hall light. Her round-shouldered, mincing turn as she swung the front door shut reminded me, in a way her words could not, how much damage she was taking.
I put the car into first gear, with the little button they give you for that purpose, and slid the wheel around. This time I got the angle.
I pushed the car into Park, got out and walked round the front of the car, rummaging through my trouser pockets for the garage keys. Standing there, knowing that the Xedos, at the flick of a button, could roll down and emboss me on the garage door, gave me the usual cheap thrill. I unlocked the door and swung it up on its weights.
The stench of dog shit assaulted me immediately. My first thought was, I must have locked Boots inside. But there was no sound. The door trundled and clanged to a stop. I stood aside, removing my shadow, letting the car's headlamps light up the interior.
It took me a moment to make sense of it.
Boots was nailed to the wall.
10.
They had crucified him St Andrew-style. His legs, splayed and stretched, made a rough X. His chest was impossibly expanded, the two halves stretched apart by the unnatural extension of his forepaws. The skin over the ribs was tight like a drum. The belly, its contents drawn up under the ribcage, was tiny and concave, like the pictures I had seen of starvation victims.
The left eye was tight shut, the eye muscles puckered and creased. The lip on that side was drawn up in a snarl so extreme, it looked as though his cheek had been cut away. Flecks of blood on the teeth sparkled in the headlights.
The top two bolts were driven between the bones of Boots's forelegs, just below the paws. The paws hung limp, at right angles; it looked, comically, as though Boots was waving. Congealed blood hid the bolt heads.
His back legs had been more difficult to fix. The bolts were only part-way into the wall, and the tissue through which they'd been shot was broken and shapeless.
I got back in the car. I shifted into neutral and feathered the brake, edging into the garage. Once I was parked I engaged the handbrake, turned off the headlights, and pressed the lever that unlocked the bonnet. I left the engine idling, so the exhaust would cover the smell. I had left a crawl-space of a couple of feet between the front bumper and the rear wall, where Boots was fastened. I edged along it and felt under the bonnet for the bonnet release. I got the bonnet up and manoeuvred the rod into place to hold it upright.
I kept a tool chest in the corner of the garage. I emptied it out one-handed and found the tire-iron absurdly small, it was more like a tin-opener - fishing about in
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