Chapter 2

“What month is it?” I said, as my father’s old butler vigorously brushed down the mourning suit I had been loaned. It was a snazzy little black velvet number.

“March. St Paddy’s Day, as it happens. Why?” said the Duck.

“I always wondered what month I’d die in. I mean, it’s strange to think, innit? Every year we pass over the exact day, the exact hour—moment of our death, and we don’t even know it. It’s just waiting there for us. Waiting for the right year. I wonder if it gives us a sign. You know, a shiver up the spine or a sudden flash of light. I wonder if there’ll be something to mark my death day…”

“Yeah, a tombstone—the way you’re going on. Shape up—you’re a Duckworth!”

“I don’t wanna die. I’m not ready.”

“You’re not gonna die. Stand up straight. Be a man.”

“I could be a corpse by tomorrow morning. This could be the suit they lay me out in.”

“Steady, Bentley,” said the Duck, “that frock coat set me back three guineas.”

The butler dug a little less deeply into the nap.

“I don’t see why I have to wear it anyway,” I said, but rather admiring myself in it, in the full-length mirror.

“As I’ve already told you,” sighed my father, who was sitting on a Hepplewhite chair, looking me up and down with a critical eye. “It’s in the Duelling Code of Honour: the challenger and challenged shall wear similar apparel and be equipped with matching pistols, so that neither shall gain unfair advantage. And don’t get any holes in it.”

I shot him a sour look. “This is bloody stupid,” I said. “I don’t know how to shoot a pistol. I’ve got no chance.”

“Leave us, please, would you, Bentley,” said the Duck, looking rather ruffled.

Bentley gave my back one last stroke with the hog bristles and bowed out.

The Duck stood up, tugged his waistcoat tightly down over the top of his breeches, from where it had ridden up, and started strutting. I watched him in the cheval mirror. I hated it when he strutted, with his hands stuck behind his back, flicking his tails up as he talked, like a duck preening its feathers.

“Stephen, I make no secret of the fact that you are not the son I had hoped for—” he began, in a grave tone.

“And you’re not the father I’d hoped for,” I said, fiddling with my silk cravat. “I thought you’d be taller.”

“You will hear me out, sir!” he quacked. “I will brook no defeatist talk in front of the servants.”

“Oh, shut up, Shorty.”

“Sir, I will not stand for your damn impertinence!” he insisted.

“Siddown then,” I said.

“Remember,” he said, puffing out his chest, sticking out his chin and gazing off into his own little dream world, “you are a Duckworth, sir. Need I remind you, the family honour rests on your shoulders in this matter?” And then his voice became almost Churchillian: “And never, nay, never, forget the Duckworth family motto: ego amo adversa.”

“Yeah, well, let’s hope I don’t run out of ammo. How many bullets do I get?”

“Ammo? Bullets? I’m talking about honour, sir. We Duckworths thrive on adversity,” said the Duck.

“You might, mate. I just want to thrive on,” I said.

“It’s in our blood,” said the Duck, drifting off into that dream realm of honour and noblesse oblige again.

“Just as long as I don’t get any lead in mine, I’ll be happy,” I said.

“Do your duty, sir—that is all I ask,” said the Duck.

“I’ll do a runner if you don’t put a sock in it,” I said. “And how come I’m always the one who has to defend the family honour? Why don’t you get stuck in for a change?”

“She’s your bird!” he cried. “You’re the one he challenged!”

“You could have warned me he was the Clint-bloody-Eastwood of Versailles!”

“I tried! You wouldn’t listen!”

“Yeah. Right. You’re loving every minute of this. If I should die in a corner of some farmer’s field, think only this of me: it’s all your bloody fault!” I said.

“How the hell is it my fault?”

“It’s always your fault.”

“Not this time, mate—you got yourself into this one—don’t go blaming me.”

“Who brought us here then? Who drugged me and stole three weeks of my life?”

“I never told you to insult a bloody French aristocrat, did I?”

“Who invited him here?”

“He invited himself! I told you—he needs my help.”

“He must be desperate if he needs your help! What are you up to this time—treason?”

Suddenly there was a rap on the door.

We both stopped arguing and looked at the door and then back at each other. There was another sharp knock. I nodded towards the door and the Duck marched across to answer it.

It was De Quipp’s second, a fat French army lower rank, sporting a huge walrus moustache, who had mysteriously appeared at Duckworth Hall that very afternoon, in full Napoleonic uniform, completely out of the blue. He reminded me of someone, but I could not for the life of me think who it was.

I heard the gruff-voiced Frenchman whispering and then the Duck whispering something back. And then the Duck exclaimed:

“Vous plaisantez! You have got to be kidding! Il est un aristocrate!”

More urgent whispers ensued and then their business seemed to be concluded with a curt bow apiece. The French soldier shot me a cursory glance, clicked his heels, and disappeared. The Duck slammed the door.

“Bloody cheek!”

“What?” I said.

“He was only going to call it off!”

“Was?” I said. “You mean you called it on again?”

“What choice did I have?”

“You re-challenged me?”

“I had to! Do you know why he wanted to call it off?”

“Never mind that. Let me get this straight. This guy was going to blow my brains out and then he changed his mind, and then you changed it back again? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“You don’t understand—”

“I don’t understand? Pretty soon I won’t be able to breathe, walk, talk, pump blood around my body, or change my socks. What did I miss?”

“Listen. He said De Quipp said he couldn’t take to the field of honour with you, because after talking to Emma he realized you were not his social equal.”

“Yeah. So?”

“That’s an insult. He’s thinks you’re not good enough to shoot.”

“Yeah. So?”

“He’s calling you his social inferior.”

“Yeah. And?”

“And you’re not.”

“Yes I am.”

“No you’re not. You’re my son.”

“Don’t remind me. Look. I don’t mind being called his social inferior—I like being his social inferior! Now, go and call Captain Walrus back and tell him I accept De Quipp’s withdrawal.”

“That will not be necessary,” blinked the Duck.

I could see he was about to make some startling new revelation. He tugged the lapels of his frock coat straight.

“Oh, I see,” I said. “You’ve volunteered to fight him.”

The Duck closed his eyes and shook his head, patiently.

“Just tell me what you’ve done,” I said.

“You, my son, are his social superior,” he announced.

“I work in advertising. I make up jingles for breakfast cereals and haiku about cars. I was brought up in a semi in suburbia. How am I superior to a senior officer in Napoleon’s Imperial Army?”

“Because I bought you a baronetcy for your eighteenth birthday—that’s how! You even outrank me, mate!”

I was dumbfounded. Now, I would be lying if I said a certain warm wave of good old-fashioned snobbery didn’t wash over me in that first instant of my investiture. I believe my spine actually straightened a few notches.

“I’m a baron?” I said.

“Net,” corrected my father. “A baronet: lower than a baron, higher than a knight.”

“You bought me a title? But—why?”

“Is that all you’ve got to say, Sir? And that’s sir with a capital ‘S,’ by the way,” blinked the Duck, with what I thought I detected as a hint of deference.

My hands automatically clasped together, in a rather Prince Charlesesque manner, as I struggled to find the appropriate words and tried to look humble. “Well, of course, one is always terribly, terribly humbled on these occasions. One doesn’t know what to say. One means, one is overwhelmed by one’s generosity—but it’s not going to do one much good if one is six feet under by tomorrow morning, is it!”

The Duck spread his hands out like a film director, interpreting a scene for his cameraman. “Imagine the gravestone: ‘Sir Stephen Gilmour Sloane of Duckworth, Bart.’”

“It might as well say ‘fart’—I’ll be dead, you moron!”

“You are not going to lose this duel. Trust me.”

“Me—trust you?” I laughed. “Satan will be doing the school run in a troika first.”

“Listen to me. No way would I let that Parisian peacock take you down.”

“Yeah, right. Anyway, I thought I was supposed to be immortal,” I said.

“Only if you don’t die,” said the Duck.

“Duh.”

“No, what I mean is: you’re not Superman—the bullets won’t bounce off your chest—but the gene string I implanted in your foetus will prevent you from ageing beyond normal adulthood. You’ll be ever young. Just like me.”

“A beautiful corpse, you mean.” I gripped my father’s arm, suddenly seized by mortal fear. “Don’t let me die, Dad.”

“You’re not going to die. I’ll sort it.”

“Oh God, I just had a premonition of the cold earth closing over me.” I shivered. “The darkness…oh, the darkness…the never-ending nothingness—I can’t face it—I’m not ready. I’ve got a kid on the way I’ll never even see. I can’t go through with this! Everything’s black, black, black—”

The Duck prised my fingers off his arm. “You’re sounding like a Morrissey lyric! Snap out of it. Let’s roll one and chill.”

“Don’t say that word!”

“What—Morrissey?”

“No—chill.” I grabbed his arm again. “I just felt Death’s icy hand feeling my collar!”

He shrugged me off. “Get off! It was just a draught from the door.”

“What was that?”

“What?”

“Every noise appals me. I thought I heard something.” I raised my eyes to the ceiling. “Up there.”

“It’s just the wind in the chimney.”

“It came from… the attic.”

“Er, there’s nothing up there, mate.”

“How do you know? Something could be lurking in the shadows, something evil…”

“Because I turned it into a bowling alley. Now, pull yourself together.”

“A bowling alley?”

“Yeah, it’s all sound-proofed. I’ve got the lot up there—jukebox, beer cooler, automatic set-up and return—”

“You built a bowling alley in your attic?”

“Fancy a couple of Buds and a few strikes?”

“You expect me to go bowling, when all I can think about is death?”

“Have a little faith,” sighed the Duck. “De Quipp has agreed to use my boxed set of genuine Robert Wogdon duelling pistols—Robbo let me have ’em cheap—they’re a really lovely brace, muzzle-loaders, walnut grips, brown octagonal barrelling—”

“I do not want to hear this!”

“Listen, I’m going to nobble his gun, so it blows up in his face.”

“Okay. Let’s go bowling,” I said.

“Hey?”

“Bowling, a few beers, you said.”

“Is that all you’ve got to say?”

“Don’t get the guns mixed up,” I said.

“Don’t you even want to know how I’m going to do it?”

“No. Less I know, the better. Then I can act surprised. Come on, let’s go.”

“You’ve perked up.”

“I prefer bowling to death.”

“Oh, um, I forgot the pin set-up gear’s playing up. Gotta get it fixed. I use a blacksmith in the village—he thinks it’s a top secret cannonball loading machine I invented.”

“So, we can’t go bowling? You promised me bowling. Have a little faith, you said. How can I trust you to fix De Quipp’s gun, if you’re the kind of father who promises his son bowling and then reneges?”

“Look, I’ll get it fixed. I’m still staunch, mate. We can go bowling another time.”

“That’s what all fathers say,” I said. “Don’t promise your kid things you can’t deliver.”

“Yeah, all right. Point taken,” said the Duck. “We could do something else.”

“Like what?”

“Um, shooting—er, no, not that. Um. Happy Families? No, maybe not. I know, let’s do some drawing—”

Suddenly, there was another knock at the door.

My skin goosebumped. The Duck and I looked at each other and both shrugged. There was another knock. Only this time, it was louder.

“Are you expecting anyone?” whispered the Duck.

“Yeah, a hooded guy in a long black cloak, carrying a scythe,” I said. “Tell him I already gave.”

I scrambled under my bed, while the Duck went to answer the door. I held my breath. I think I actually managed to stop my heart from beating. And then I thought I might give myself brain damage, so I allowed myself a few shallow breaths. I heard Emma’s voice and then the Duck’s inviting her in. I squeezed myself right under the bed, meaning to come out the other side and pretend I was tying up my shoelace or something. But I got stuck midway.

“Steve? Steve?” I heard Emma calling, close by.

I craned my neck round and saw the bottom of her pretty blue and white floral print dress, and the Duck’s yellow-stockinged legs and black patent leather house shoes.

“He’s not here,” said Emma.

“Well, he was,” said the Duck. “Stephen? Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

I knew the Duck knew where I was, and that he knew I knew he knew. But there was nothing I could do.

“Where is he?” said Emma.

“He’s a bit spooked,” said the Duck.

I could have throttled him. I saw her dress sweep away.

“Steve? Steve? Where are you?”

I felt hands grip my ankles and yank me free. The Duck hauled me out and gave me a hand up.

“Duckworths do not hide under beds,” he said.

“Why did you have to tell her I was spooked?” I said.

“Steve—there you are!” cried Emma, turning round to see me holding hands with the Duck. “My, you two really are close. Where were you hiding?”

I snatched my hands away from the Duck’s. “Hiding? I wasn’t hiding—I thought I heard something under the bed.”

“Was it a bogeyman?” smirked the Duck.

“No, I think it was a Death Watch Beetle.”

“He’ll be watching your death if you don’t grow a spine,” said the Duck, from the corner of his mouth.

“Oh,” said Emma, and looked down at her hands.

“Er, would you mind leaving us, Duck,” I said.

The Duck remained, grinning at Emma.

“I’d like a word with Emma, Father—alone,” I said, giving him a kick in the ankle.

He kicked me back.

“Will you get lost!” I hissed, in his ear.

“You want me to leave you alone with her?” he whispered. “She might be armed.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—get out!”

“It’s rude to whisper, gentlemen,” said Emma.

“Yeah, I know, sorry, Em—my father was just leaving.” I gave the Duck a shove towards the door.

At last he took the hint, but as he left us he couldn’t resist a parting shot at Emma.

“I hope you have not come to mock my son, Miss Gummer,” he said.

“Of course not!” exclaimed Emma. “You know I haven’t!”

“What is your problem?” I said.

“Or question his honour—a Duckworth never backs down,” he added. “We Duckworths never waver from the path of honour—our ancestors had more garters than Cheltenham Ladies’ College—and they hung onto ’em, too, which is more than can be said for some of those so-called ladies at Cheltenham Ladies’—”

“—Just go,” I said. “I’m really sorry about this, Em.”

“I’ll call back before I turn in, Stephen,” said the Duck. “To make sure you’re settled.”

“Don’t bother,” I said. “I mean, don’t trouble yourself, Father.”

The door closed behind him.

“Is that kid really your father?” said Emma.

The door opened and the Duck’s head popped back in, before I could answer.

“It’s no bother, Son,” he said. “I’ll just drop by and tuck you in.”

“Don’t be so bloody stu-pendously considerate, Father,” I smiled.

“Are you sure? It’s no trouble, Son.”

“Oh, but it will be, Father. Believe me, it’s going to be a lot of trouble to you.”

“Very well, dear.” The door closed once more, with the Duck on the other side.

“It must be very strange, having a teenager for a father,” said Emma.

“It’s a nightmare,” I said. “I keep hoping I’m going to wake up and find I imagined him, but every time I do, he’s always there.” I touched her hair. “You’re real though, aren’t you, Em?”

“I’m afraid so…” she smiled.

“Don’t apologize, Em,” I moved my hand round to brush her cheek. “I’m glad you’re here…”

“Stephen, I—”

The door opened and the Duck interrupted:

“I’ll bring you some extra candles—I know how scared you are of the dark,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.

I could have murdered him.

“Thank you, Father,” I said. “I know just where you can stick them.”

“Don’t mention it, Stephen—it’s my pleasure.”

“Yes, I can see it is,” I said.

“See you later, Daddy’s little soldier.” He closed the door.

“He’s just trying to wind me up,” I said.

“Why does he do it? It’s so childish.”

“Exactly. He has to have his little joke,” I said.

“Doesn’t he realize how nervous you must be feeling about tomorrow?”

I was glad she’d brought that little matter up. I was up for a bit of self-dramatization and false modesty.

“Oh that,” I said. “Drink?”

I sauntered over to the writing bureau where I had seen the Duck take out the decanter of fine Madeira and the two glasses. My back was to her, but I could feel her sorrowful eyes following me.

“No thanks. You don’t sound too concerned, Steve. This is serious.”

I lifted the lid of the bureau. “I know it’s serious, Em, but what can I do? I just have to accept my fate.” I opened the little letter drawer and slid my hand inside.

“You could apologize to Monsieur De Quipp—I’m sure he would accept your apology,” said Emma.

I felt for the hidden catch, to open the secret compartment. “I hope you haven’t been pleading for my life, Em,” I smiled.

“Travis doesn’t want to fight you,” she said.

“Doesn’t want to kill me, you mean,” I laughed. I was still fumbling for the release mechanism.

“Don’t say that.”

I caught my finger on something sharp and spun away in pain.

“Shit!” I sucked my bleeding nail.

“What have you done?” she cried.

“It’s nothing,” I held up my hand. “Just ripped the nail off my trigger finger, that’s all.”

“Let me see.” She came and took my hand and inspected it. “That looks nasty.”

I pulled my hand away and let it fall to my side. “It’s nothing,” I said. “Wouldn’t have made any difference anyway—I can’t shoot a gun, Em. I don’t know one end of a gun from the other. They say De Quipp’s a crack shot. I don’t stand a cat in hell’s chance.”

“You can’t fight with a broken nail,” she said. “Call it off, Steve. Please call it off.”

My gaze fell upon her beautiful sea green eyes—those selfsame eyes I had fallen in love with—and I was overwhelmed with emotions. I didn’t know whether to kiss her, scream at her, push her away, or plead with her. I smiled and reached up to stroke her cheek.

“Em, that’s not the way these things work,” I said. “Some things cannot be undone. And we must bear the consequences of things we did in haste. Like when David Beckham got sent off in that Argentinian game. I’m going to miss football.”

“This is all my fault!” she cried, biting her lip.

I grabbed her hard by the shoulders and winced as the pain shot through my nail. “No it’s not! Don’t ever say that! This is all my own fault. I asked for this.”

“No, Steve. If I hadn’t—”

I quickly put my finger to her lips. Emma kissed it. “This isn’t about you, Em. I don’t own you. I had no right to treat you like a possession. You chose De Quipp. And I should have accepted your decision gracefully.”

“Oh, Steve, I’m so sorry,” she sighed.

I thought about kissing her, but turned away instead and held my forehead. “My only defence is—but it’s too late for all that now. I won’t burden you with my—with my—feelings.”

Her arms threaded around my waist and I felt her cheek rest softly between my shoulder blades. “Tell me, Steve. You can tell me now,” she breathed.

Her warmth against my back felt like love returning. I folded my arms and smoothed her hands with mine. “Em, although I know I have no right to ask, will you promise me one thing?”

“What?”

“Will you tell my child about me?”

I felt her gasp.

“Em? Will you tell our child—I’m sorry his father couldn’t be around for her, or him? I’ve always wanted a baby. I wonder what it’ll be. Don’t suppose I’ll ever know now.”

She suddenly wrenched her arms away. “Stop it! Stop it!” she cried, and threw herself face down on my bed, her whole body shuddering with sobs.

“I’ve upset you,” I said, coming to kneel down by the bed to stroke her hair.

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 suddenly 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.