Feelings of Fear by Graham Masterton

Author:Graham Masterton [Masterton, Graham]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror, Fiction, Short Stories (Single Author)
ISBN: 9781448203857
Publisher: Severn House
Published: 2000-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Cold Turkey

“… and, as usual, Tarquin wishes all of you a very merry Christmas,” said Uncle Philip, stroking the pedigree British Blue cat that sat in his lap. It was obvious, however, that Tarquin was wishing for only one thing. His coppery eyes were fixed on the huge, well-bronzed turkey that had just arrived in the middle of the dining-table. His tension was almost palpable. Mandy felt that if the turkey had been capable of twitching just an inch, Tarquin would have launched himself at it, and nothing could have stopped him.

“A very merry Christmas to Tarquin,” Kenneth replied, raising his glass. “Long may he live in the lap of luxury.” Kenneth was floridly drunk; and two of his shirt-buttons were missing but he was not too drunk to be less-than-subtly sarcastic.

Nicholas raised his glass, too, although he had remained supremely, remotely sober. A new partner in a firm of Essex Street solicitors couldn’t afford to be caught for drink-driving, and besides, he never liked to lose control. His wife Libby, however, was beginning to look distinctly disarranged. She had already pulled one of her crackers and she had awkwardly tugged a purple paper hat over her frizzy ginger hair.

“To Tarquin,” said Nicholas, and gave Uncle Philip a waxy, colorless smile. “May all his dreams come true.”

“Cats don’t have dreams, do they?” frowned Libby.

“Oh, yes,” Nicholas assured her, as if he had never met her before. “They have the same kind of dreams as any other creature. Lust, greed, and lost opportunities. Most of all, though, they dream of revenge.”

“I don’t think Tarquin dreams of revenge, do you, sweetie?” said Mandy, reaching over and tickling his chin. “I think Tarquin has nice dreams, about mice, and turkey.”

Caitlin, arty and vague, threw back her tawny mane and jangled her silver bangles. “I don’t think he dreams about mice, either. Cats are too cerebral to dream of mice.”

“Cerebral?” laughed Kenneth. “They’re not cerebral. They’re parasites. They’re not much better than tapeworms with fur.”

“Kenneth!” Mary scolded him. “We’re just about to eat lunch!”

Mary was Mandy’s mother. Mandy’s father had died in April in a road accident in Newbury, bloody and white in his BMW, with a local doctor holding his hand. His life insurance had scarcely covered the mortgage, and ever since then Mary and Mandy had been living on a smaller and smaller budget. Mandy couldn’t remember when she had last bought herself a new skirt.

She thought that Christmas at Box Hill was dull beyond endurance. For three days every year the Chesterton family sat in the gloomy drawing-room or the musty-smelling conservatory, picking at soft-centered chocolates and cracking stale Brazil nuts, or bickering about politics or who had cheated at Monopoly two Christmases ago and who had ripped the board in half in a rage.

For Mandy, Tarquin was the only consolation. At least he didn’t argue and he didn’t get drunk. He was so haughty. Apart from Uncle Philip, Mandy was the only member of the family by whom Tarquin would deign to be stroked.

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