“Kill her one day.”
“You want to kill her?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The woman just stared, her stare containing a profound distrust. Not just of Tammy, or indeed of Katya: of the world, but of being alive. It was as though every breathing moment was conditional; an agony. And despite the brutal foulness of the thing’s appearance, Tammy felt some measure of sympathy for it.
“Maybe I could get this Katya to come out,” Tammy suggested.
The male growled, deep in his chest. “You’d do that?” Tammy was ready to make any promise right now, to get out of her present predicament. She nodded.
There was a long moment, in which the freaks did not reply. Then, glancing around the company of her fellows, as if to check that she would not be challenged, the female caught hold of Tammy’s wrist, and pulled her up out of the thicket.
“We’re going?” Tammy said.
“Yes! Yes!” the female replied. “Quickly, though. Quickly.” She didn’t get any argument from Tammy, who was happy to be on her way. Whatever dangers the house held they could hardly be worse than staying out here in the open. The day was quickly passing away. It would soon be dark. And judging by the repeated glances the woman gave the sky, she too was cognizant of the failing light. After the third or fourth glance Tammy couldn’t help but ask her what she was so nervous about. “Peacock,” she said. A peacock? There had been peacocks here? It wasn’t so surprising, on second thoughts. It fitted with the extravagance of the place. But they belonged on well-clipped lawns, not in this jungle of thorns and flowers. And even assuming the bird could push its way through the thicket without being stripped of all its finery, what could it do if did catch up with them? They had bad tempers, she remembered reading once, but they were nervous things. She’d just shoo it away.
“Nothing to be scared of,” Tammy said.
The woman gave her another disconcerting sideways look. The male, meanwhile, came up beside Tammy and stared at her breasts. Not about to be intimidated, Tammy she stared back. There was something vaguely recognizable in this freak; a cast to his features which reminded her of somebody famous. Who the hell was it? Some movie star. Was it Victor Mature? Yes, it was. Victor Mature. It was uncanny.
The lookalike, meanwhile, leaned forward, hooked a long cold finger through a hole in Tammy’s blouse and before she could do a damn thing about it, tore the light cotton blouse away from her skin.
“You keep away from me,” she told the offender.
He bared his teeth at her. “Pretty boobies,” he said.
“What?”
The forbidding grimace had transformed into a weird version of a smile. “Titties,” he said.
He reached out and touched the side of her breast with his open palm, stroking it. “Jugs. Knockers — ”
“Baby feeders,” Tammy added, figuring it was better to play along with the joke, however witless.
“Fun bags,” he grinned, almost moronically.
She wondered just for a moment if that was the answer to this mystery: that these pitiful remnants of humanity were cretins, mongols, retards; the children of Hollywood parents who could not bear the idea that they’d produced such freaks, and given them over to somebody who’d simply dumped them in the empty Canyon. No, that was ridiculous. Atrocities like that didn’t happen in this day and age; it was unthinkably callous. But it did go some way to explaining the curious passages of starry flesh and bone she kept seeing: Garbo’s throat on the woman, Victor Mature in this breast-obsessed male.
“Udders,” he said.
“Jigglies,” she countered. “Chi-chis. Kazooms — ”
Oh, she had a million. So presumably did every woman with larger than average breasts in America. It had started when she was twelve, when thanks to an unfortunate hormonal trick she was walking around with a bosom that would have looked just fine on a big-boned twenty-two-year-old. Suddenly men were looking at her, and the dirty words just came tumbling out of their mouths. She went through a phase when she thought every man in Sacramento had Tourette’s Syndrome. Never mind that the girl with the hooters was twelve; men got diarrhea of the mouth at the sight of large breasts. She had them called everything: ‘the twins’, ‘skin-pillows’, her ‘rack’, her ‘set’, her ‘mounds’, her ‘missiles’, her ‘melons’, her ‘milk-makers’. At first it upset her to be the object of fun, but after a while she learned not to listen to it anymore, unless some unusual name came along to swell the lexicon, like ‘global superstars’, or ‘bodacious ta-tas’, both of which had brought a despairing smile to her face. Of course in two years time all her girlfriends had got bosoms of their own —