silent dogs wait; stocky, muscular terriers with broad heads, exaggerated occipital muscles and frog-wide mouths. Each has a heavy chain wrapped around its neck. The chains build neck and upper-body strength.
The dogs greet him in excited silence. Henry has excised tissue from their vocal cords.
The dogs worship Henry as a capricious God, but they know it’s Patrick who feeds them – and that in the morning he often brings live bait; sometimes puppies or kittens advertised as ‘free to a good home’. Sometimes rabbits or rats caught in the park.
As he lifts the bag of rabbits, the dogs follow him with eager, idiot eyes.
Patrick upends the bag into a wire cage and watches the carnage that follows. The rabbits are smarter than the dogs, possessed of glinting intelligence and a self-evident desire to live.
He’s watching the dogs rip them to moist wet rags when the garage doors scrape across the concrete and Henry enters, looking baffled.
‘Emma won’t take her bottle,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
Patrick follows Henry into the house and upstairs.
He washes his hands in the sink, using liquid soap that makes them smell of oranges.
Then he goes through to the infant’s bedroom. Once again, he’s struck by her toad-like ugliness.
Once, Patrick found a tangle of baby rats. This was in the days when he was a young boy and sleeping in the soundproof basement. The rats were crammed between a loose chunk of plasterboard and Henry’s bodged soundproofing; blind and mewling pups, a pink fist of them plaited and knotted by their reptilian tails, tugging each other through all points of the compass.
Patrick had wailed in panic and hammered at the solid door with his little fists. He cried and cried, but of course nobody came. Henry didn’t come down until teatime. He had Patrick’s bowl of warm milk and a couple of slices of white bread.
Seeing the rat king, even sleek, rapacious Henry stepped back in horror.
Sometimes Patrick chuckles to remember how he and Henry had reacted, that far-off day. If Patrick were to find a rat king behind the baseboard these days, he’d consider himself fortunate. They’re a rare phenomenon.
He’d scoop it up with a shovel – still blindly mewling – and deposit it into a demijohn of alcohol. He’d keep it on a shelf in his bedroom.
Part of him feels hate for this angry helpless creature wriggling on a plastic mattress decorated with teddy bears. But he feels pity, too.
‘She’s coughing,’ Henry says.
‘Then take her to a doctor.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Have you tried feeding her?’
‘Of course I’ve tried feeding her,’ Henry says. ‘For fuck’s sake.’
‘Is the milk too hot?’
‘No.’
‘Too cold?’
‘No. She’s just – she seems weak. And she’s sleeping a lot. Do you think she’s sleeping too much?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘She should wake long enough to eat, shouldn’t she? Babies get hungry.’
‘Is she hot?’
Henry reaches into the cot, arranges Emma’s limbs so that he’s able to take the temperature under her armpit. Patrick is revolted by how lifeless and doll-like she seems.
‘Ninety-four,’ says Henry. ‘It’s low. Fuck.’
‘She seems really shaky.’
Henry has noticed Emma’s quivery chin and shaky hands. But now her entire body seems to be shivering.
‘A bottle isn’t the same,’ Henry says. ‘We need a wet nurse.’
There is a silence.
‘Could you do it?’ Patrick says.
‘Me?’
‘Please, Dad. Yeah.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because I’d be embarrassed.’
Henry’s not a big man but he’s well-groomed and vicious as a mink. ‘And how do you think it would look if I did it, eh? You chinless little spastic. How would that fucking look?’
‘Please,’ says Patrick.
Henry shushes him through his teeth, then shoves him onto the upstairs landing.
He gently shuts the bedroom door.
Then he grabs Patrick’s hair and rams Patrick’s head into the wall.
Patrick staggers around. He’s
The dogs greet him in excited silence. Henry has excised tissue from their vocal cords.
The dogs worship Henry as a capricious God, but they know it’s Patrick who feeds them – and that in the morning he often brings live bait; sometimes puppies or kittens advertised as ‘free to a good home’. Sometimes rabbits or rats caught in the park.
As he lifts the bag of rabbits, the dogs follow him with eager, idiot eyes.
Patrick upends the bag into a wire cage and watches the carnage that follows. The rabbits are smarter than the dogs, possessed of glinting intelligence and a self-evident desire to live.
He’s watching the dogs rip them to moist wet rags when the garage doors scrape across the concrete and Henry enters, looking baffled.
‘Emma won’t take her bottle,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
Patrick follows Henry into the house and upstairs.
He washes his hands in the sink, using liquid soap that makes them smell of oranges.
Then he goes through to the infant’s bedroom. Once again, he’s struck by her toad-like ugliness.
Once, Patrick found a tangle of baby rats. This was in the days when he was a young boy and sleeping in the soundproof basement. The rats were crammed between a loose chunk of plasterboard and Henry’s bodged soundproofing; blind and mewling pups, a pink fist of them plaited and knotted by their reptilian tails, tugging each other through all points of the compass.
Patrick had wailed in panic and hammered at the solid door with his little fists. He cried and cried, but of course nobody came. Henry didn’t come down until teatime. He had Patrick’s bowl of warm milk and a couple of slices of white bread.
Seeing the rat king, even sleek, rapacious Henry stepped back in horror.
Sometimes Patrick chuckles to remember how he and Henry had reacted, that far-off day. If Patrick were to find a rat king behind the baseboard these days, he’d consider himself fortunate. They’re a rare phenomenon.
He’d scoop it up with a shovel – still blindly mewling – and deposit it into a demijohn of alcohol. He’d keep it on a shelf in his bedroom.
Part of him feels hate for this angry helpless creature wriggling on a plastic mattress decorated with teddy bears. But he feels pity, too.
‘She’s coughing,’ Henry says.
‘Then take her to a doctor.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Have you tried feeding her?’
‘Of course I’ve tried feeding her,’ Henry says. ‘For fuck’s sake.’
‘Is the milk too hot?’
‘No.’
‘Too cold?’
‘No. She’s just – she seems weak. And she’s sleeping a lot. Do you think she’s sleeping too much?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘She should wake long enough to eat, shouldn’t she? Babies get hungry.’
‘Is she hot?’
Henry reaches into the cot, arranges Emma’s limbs so that he’s able to take the temperature under her armpit. Patrick is revolted by how lifeless and doll-like she seems.
‘Ninety-four,’ says Henry. ‘It’s low. Fuck.’
‘She seems really shaky.’
Henry has noticed Emma’s quivery chin and shaky hands. But now her entire body seems to be shivering.
‘A bottle isn’t the same,’ Henry says. ‘We need a wet nurse.’
There is a silence.
‘Could you do it?’ Patrick says.
‘Me?’
‘Please, Dad. Yeah.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because I’d be embarrassed.’
Henry’s not a big man but he’s well-groomed and vicious as a mink. ‘And how do you think it would look if I did it, eh? You chinless little spastic. How would that fucking look?’
‘Please,’ says Patrick.
Henry shushes him through his teeth, then shoves him onto the upstairs landing.
He gently shuts the bedroom door.
Then he grabs Patrick’s hair and rams Patrick’s head into the wall.
Patrick staggers around. He’s
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