‘Sorry?’ I arch a brow.
‘There’s more to being here and staying protected,’ she says, ignoring my question. ‘You don’t just hide. You help. I guess, Boss left it up to me to show you ‘round.’
I follow her past the stalls where horses snort softly. Beyond the stalls, we pass cars – some gleaming, some stripped. An immaculate Bentley sits beside a dismembered Jaguar, its parts strewn across the floor like entrails. Then I see it. A wide table, littered with knives. One catches the light – and my eye. I stop breathing. Beside them: rubber gloves, a torn 25kg bag labelled “LIME”, and a wood chipper.
Waylynn gestures towards the table. ‘Cleaners make things disappear. Blood. Bodies. Mistakes. You want to be one of us? You’ve got to learn this first,’ she points to the machine, adding, ‘You can start by cleaning the wood chipper.’
She throws me a pair of rubber gloves. ‘You clean, you survive. You hesitate... you’re next.’ She tips her cowboy hat up and flashes me a grin, then punches me in the arm. ‘Don’t worry, Curator. All is good. The last guy,’ she adds, gesturing to the wood chipper, ‘was late in a payment.’
I gasp.
‘Kidding!...Sort of. Look, the rules are simple. This here is what I callthe dirty beautiful. Learn it, you live. Screw it up, and you become it, or you lose a digit. Watch your fingers; this bad boy isn’t for composting carrots,’ she chuckles.
‘I gathered,’ I murmur.
‘Right. It only comes out when demons can’t die by normal means.’
‘Demons?’
‘That’s code for three snitches who thought honour meant chatty confessions,’ she admits. Then her smile softens. ‘But hey, I like you, Curator. Boss must see something in you, too. You’ve got the kind of look that tells me,I’ve never held a hacksaw, but I’m open to trying new things, or am I wrong?’
The gloves snap against my skin with a twang, the rubber hugging tightly to my wrists. It’s awkward and unfamiliar.
‘When you’re done here, you can tend to the chickens. If the chipper coughs up any chunky surprises, you can yeet them into the chicken coop. They’ll go full Jurassic Park. Have you ever cleaned out a coop full of meat-eaters?’
‘No.’
‘You’ll need to collect the bones. Check out this one,’ she reaches to the top of a shelf. ‘A damn jawbone. I swear one of them dragged a whole spine last week, so don’t trip and fall over. They’ll eat you alive.’
Waylynn walks away, tossing me a grin over her shoulder. ‘If you need anything…’ she hollers, ‘I’ll be out here feeding the horses, and talking to them like they’re my therapist. They’re better listeners than men. It’s good to have some female non-equine company for a change.’
I don’t answer, just nod, swallowing the tension.
‘Just don’t puke. I can’t do puke!’ she finalises, before disappearing behind a stall, and I exhale.
I pause mid-step, tilting my head up, drawn by the whisper of movement – and there, I see them – two bats, curled asleep above the rafter beams, wrapped inside their wings. My breath catches, and I smile.
Maybe I am home after all.
EPILOGUE
THE PUNISHER
‘I miss you, little lamb.’ The phone screen goes dark, Tarran’s face lingering behind glass as we end our video call. I sit, motionless staring out of the large window framing the front garden, her voice echoing in my mind.
She always knew how to make silence feel like a vow.
The door to the dining room clicks behind me, subtle. Not careful, but casual. That should be Sal.
‘You’re late,’ I say without turning around.
He stalls mid-step, and I spin around to face him. A flicker of guilt across his face. ‘But, by the sounds of it,’ I murmur, ‘it was worth it.’
Sal eases into a chair, tugs at his cuff like he’s hiding a rush of adrenaline beneath the freshly laundered suit.
‘Sorry, boss...ahem, Gabriel.’
‘Here,’ I say, pushing a glass of whiskey forward with a deliberate drag across the table. ‘We’ve got a problem back home.’
