Chapter Four.
Four Months Earlier.
CHARNEL: A repository for dead bodies.
A few days have gone. Spencer isn't sure where the time went. His appetite hasn't improved and nor has his mood. Floyd sits on a grassy knoll looking over the scene. There is a secret smile on his face. There is nothing better than a pissed off Spencer who refuses to say how pissed off he is.
Spencer is standing with his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, looking. Staring. His mouth is slightly open and he's clicking his teeth together as though thinking how to word exactly how much dislike he has for where he is. He slowly turns and looks at Floyd.
'Here.' Spencer says, but it's not a command, Floyd thinks it's a question and he's answered it once. How many times does he have to say the same thing? Maybe wait until Spencer implodes into himself and then he'll explain more. Floyd likes to see Spencer get riled up like this. So angry that the end of his nose goes red and he stands on his toes, as though about to fire himself into space. 'Here?' That was a definite question and Floyd just grins.
Spencer recoils from the expression on Floyd's face, turns his back on him and looks again.
He's looking at a dilapidated double wide trailer. It might have once been white, but it's now a strange yellow colour with blotches of moss growing in shadowy areas. The sun, rain, snow... wind... light and darkness have got to it over the years it must have been standing there on bricks. There's a porch at the front. A small shed like building to the side. The windows look as though they've not been cleaned in decades. There are old bikes in the undergrowth. Kids bikes, pink bikes, blue ones... rusting away. Old car tyres, a broken and rusted out car of some make – Spencer can't tell from where he's standing. There's old fridges, ovens, a bathtub and a pile of bricks with mortar still stuck to them. The ground is dirt, which will quickly turn to mud in the winter. Spencer checks it with the heel of his shoe, digging it a couple of times into the soil.
'Here?' He asks once more.
Floyd wonders if he has lost the ability to say anything else, but at least it's a whole word.
'Yes.' Floyd sighs. 'Thought you'd like it.'
'This?' Spencer waves a hand in the direction of the thing he's expected to start living in. 'Is there running water? Electricity? Any power of any kind?'
Damn, that was a lot of words in a row and all perfectly formed... as perfectly formed as that blond he shagged a few days back... as perfectly formed as Sam when he's being a good little slut. As perfectly formed as Spencer used to be. Floyd raises an eyebrow at the outburst, because that surely was what just happened.
Spencer had an outburst.
'You're never fucking satisfied.' Floyd walks over to Spencer and takes one of his hands, kissing each finger in turn. 'Want me to carry you over the threshold?'
'Will it collapse?'
'Might. It's been here a while. You don't like it?' He takes Spencer's other hand and sucks on his middle finger. Mmmmm.
'Stop that.' Spencer jerks his hand away, but Floyd isn't going to let go. 'Just... s – s – s...'
'Suck?' Floyd helps him out.
'Stop!' And now Spencer gets his hand back. 'I'm not staying here all winter.'
'It will be snug.'
'It will be freezing. I'll die of the cold.' So many words! Now Floyd is sure that Spencer is enjoying this. Stress fucks with his language skills... and he's talking just beautifully. Does Spencer think he can't tell that? Strange genius.
'I'll wrap myself around you. Keep you close. Keep you warm. Keep you satisfied. You'll want for nothing except maybe lube.'
Spencer's shoulders slump. The idea of being with Floyd, snowed in, somewhere remote... part of that is wonderful – yet a very big chunk of that picture involves a lot of pain. They'll both go stir crazy. Floyd will forget about keeping him warm. He'll wander off, drunk or doped up and find that blond. He'll abandon him to freeze – lose all sense of time, which has never meant all that much to Floyd.
'Who does it belong to?' Spencer has stepped up onto the porch. It creaks and moans and something goes ping, but it doesn't break and send him back into the dirt. At least not yet. The place stinks. He can smell it before even opening the door. Rot. Wet wood. Wet paper... damp rotting filth. There's mushrooms growing in the gap between trailer and wooden porch. Wonders if Floyd will eat them. Wonders if he himself will have to eat them.
'Me.' Floyd bounces up the steps behind Spencer. The wood groans. 'I've had it years. All of this is mine.' A faint hand gesture. 'Go on in.'
It's like walking into a charnel. Spencer expects the place to be full of the dead. Full of things Floyd has killed over the years.
He's not all that disappointed.
The door leads into a lounge area. There's rotting carpet on the floor, a couch with mushrooms and moss covering it, a leather chair, rotted beyond help. A kitchen, small dark, dank... can just be seen and off to the side there's a passage with three doors leading off it. The walls are warped. Some pictures hang there but they are covered in some kind of grime. Spencer can't see what they are pictures of, but knowing Floyd as he does, they're probably of a forest; trees. A display cabinet is on the far side of the room with an oddly sloping floor – it is that which catches Spencer's attention. A lovely display of bones... skulls... leg and arm bones, ribs... Twenty... a quick head count. There are twenty skulls sitting there.
Spencer takes a step back, but Floyd is there, placing hands on his back, pushing him forward.
'You might like to make a few changes.' Floyd says. Is that amusement in his voice? Spencer is too distracted by this hole, this coffin... this place of obvious death... much too distracted to note that sound which was almost a laugh.
'Change? A few?' Spencer is welded to the spot, so Floyd sidles around him and walks to the rotting leather armchair and sits. He sinks... sinks and sinks until his backside must have been on the floor and his legs bent so Floyd can only just see over his knees.
'Might need new furniture.' Floyd comments, but doesn't move. Maybe he's stuck.
'There are bones!' Spencer needs to point this out, just in case Floyd has not noticed it. 'On display!'
Floyd frowns over the worn denim of his black jeans... his knees... 'Uh hu.'
'Why!'
'Trophies. I like to keep them sometimes. If the condition is good, you know?'
'No I don't know!' Spencer is again backing out. He's out of the door and on the porch, feeling with his feet for the edge so he doesn't tumble down the steps. It will be dark soon. He's not staying there! Not going back into Floyd's macabre trophy room! Too much of a risk... becoming part of it. Not him. Never. He would run... Spencer wants to run. But he finds he's just standing there. He wants to ask why his life is such a mess. But he doesn't bother. He knows that answer. It's sitting in the remains of a chair in the remains of a double wide trailer in the middle of the woods with skulls on the display cabinet.
He glances around again, notices the kids bikes. They can't have been there long. Surely not. There was still paint to be seen. The ground hadn't covered them over, not completely. Why are there children's bicycles here? What in hell's name has Floyd been doing in his secret hide-away? Killing children? Snatching them away from parents as they rode around on their bikes?
No.
However much Spencer thought... however logical that seemed, considering what Floyd had in the trailer, it didn't sit right. Floyd didn't snatch kids. He didn't kill children. Someone else had done that, if that's what it was.
His eyes flicker over to the bath tub. It's an old thing and from where he's standing he can see that the outside is blackened. Initially he thought it was just dirt, but now he can see, because the angle is different here, he can see that it's burnt. It's been sitting in flames. Maybe a house fire. Probably not. He doesn't go for a closer look. Doesn't want to see if there is anything in the tub.
Slowly he half stumbles, mostly walks on feet which are tingling, warning him to run away – get the hell out of this place before it's too late, but it's to the little shed he seems to be walking to. A loud groan, a ripping moaning sound comes from the trailer. Spencer only just hears it as he concentrates on walking.
One foot
Then another.
Well done. Not on his face in the dirt yet, though he's sure that's coming soon. He won't be shocked. There's a small latch on the shed door. A metal one, rusty, but it still turns. It squeaks but not overly so and Spencer pauses. It's been oiled. He rubs his fingers together, looking at the dark oily muck on his fingers. Someone has oiled the latch. Someone has been here. He turns and looks back at the trailer and Floyd is standing there with a bit of leather stuck to his arm. He's not noticed it, or he doesn't care.
'Might not want to go in there.' He calls over at Spencer. 'I can explain it all.' Floyd walks down the warped steps and into the dirt. He's watching Spencer, but doesn't seem bothered enough to stop him.
The shed door opens without even a whisper. The afternoon light shines in, causing a Spencer shaped shadow to form, but it's enough light for Spencer to make a low whine... a keening whimper. And now he's in the dirt. On his backside, digging his heels in and pushing back from what he's seen. Hands scrabbling and tearing at the ground. He bends a fingernail back and yelps.
'What in the name of...' And Spencer's voice cuts out as Floyd who is now behind him, places a hand over his mouth.
'You react to things in ways I don't expect.' Floyd hissed into Spencer's ear. 'Can't a man have a collection without you shitting yourself?'
Spencer struggles from the hand, but now an arm is around his throat and he's being dragged backwards. He kicks out at the ground, but all that does is cause one of his shoes to fly off and land near the open shed door.
He's screaming... inside he's screaming. Outside all he's doing is making small childish whimpering noises. He feels the sudden difference in height. he opens his eyes... They were closed. He can't remember when he closed them. Floyd is dragging him by his head, by his neck, up the steps and back into the charnel. The rotting wood scrapes over his back, grazes his skin. A slither of wood stabs down behind a fingernail, another into the palm of his hand, splinters in his inner wrists as he tries to hold on and not be dragged back into the trailer...
Over the little step. A ridge of metal. It snags on Spencer's jeans and Floyd tugs harder, the hand still over a quietly screaming mouth. Over the ridge, over the carpet that rucks up and forms a wave like pattern where Spencer is still fighting against being dragged. It's a red carpet. He can see that now. There's a small pattern on it, but the carpet is too dirty to work out what it is. It's sticky. Tacky. Damp.
Floyd drags Spencer down the short passage and into what maybe was once a bedroom. It's empty now except for a rusty metal bar which seems to go through a hole in the floor and up through the ceiling. It's to there that Spencer is taken, released... and then quickly chained. It's a long chain. A very long chain. It rattles and slithers on the floor and then Floyd lights a candle and allows Spencer to see the rest of the room.
It doesn't matter if he screams now.
No one will hear him.
No one ever hears anything out here.
Floyd closes the door. Goes back outside. Walks to the shed and looks in. You can't see the walls. You can hardly see the floor. It's packed, floor to ceiling with bones. Grinning skulls... all sizes... all human, at least all mostly human. There are some sub-species in there. Some hybrids. Some like him. Some like Sam. Mostly they're like Spencer who is in his room screaming like a girl.
The shed door is closed, latched, patted in a gesture of love or maybe it's respect and Floyd walks back to the trailer.
By the morning Spencer would have calmed down. He'll get used to it.
Floyd's reasoning was if he had to get used to Spencer's life, then it was about time Spencer got used to his.
Seemed fair to Floyd.
Spencer didn't sleep. No one could have slept in that room. There are shelves, like book shelves, lining the wall, floor to ceiling, but rather than books there are bones. A few skulls, but mostly limbs. In truth, Spencer doesn't look too closely and the candle guttered and burnt out after a couple of hours. He'd screamed so much that his voice was a low rasp. It wasn't a cold night, but Spencer was still shaking and his teeth chattering, when Floyd opened the door and put an electric flashlight on the floor for Spencer to use.
He doesn't use it yet.
A mug of coffee is placed before Spencer too. That also goes untouched. At least for now. Floyd hunkers down, his back to the shelving making the bones rattle as though they are trying to come back to life.
'Questions?' Floyd says as though he thought all of this was perfectly understandable. It was all so obvious. Why would anyone question anything?
But Spencer nods, looks at his fingers, picks at the splinters and then looks up at Floyd and gives him the full blast of his deadliest glare. It makes Floyd feel all tingly inside.
'Did you kill all of these people?' Spencer asks.
Floyd looks around the room and then back at Spencer. 'Not all of them.' There was a short pause. 'Probably most. But you need to understand this is centuries worth of bodies. I've not collected – I mean killed - all these over the course of last summer. You realise that. I had them stored. A big old house with a huge under-workings. They were stored there for the longest of times. It was originally a cave, you see... then as time moved on I had a small cottage built, then a bigger place. It was secure. It was home, as much as you can have a home when you're what I am.' He slipped down to sit properly, crossing his legs, and putting hands on his knees. 'You've never understood me, have you. Never really known what I'm all about. You think of me as some mad man who kills for fun. Eats for pleasure. It's not like that. Anyway, the house caught fire. Vandals broke in, didn't realise they were walking over the bones of their ancestors and the little bastards burnt the place almost to the ground. Well, actually a lot still stood. I even took you there once, but I'd removed the bones by then. Had them stored somewhere else, but still I kept a few favourites. I needed the skins. I needed the hair. I made Princess. You remember Princess? I'd bring her here.'
'The bikes?' Spencer manages to cough out.
'The bikes? Oh the bikes! Yes they belonged to Princess. She's long dead though. BANG... she exploded. What did you think I should have done with my bones? Given them away? Let someone find them and incinerate them? No... they're treasures beyond that.'
'Why chain me up here?'
'Because you would have run. You would have legged it and made a phone call. That's no good. You're going to have to learn to live with it, Babes. Look, this chain is long enough to reach the porch. You're free to roam. Use the bathroom, cook... all that stuff, but you're not free to run from me. If I've been cursed to have to watch you die, then you're cursed with having to watch death. That seems like a trade. You think?'
Spencer picks up the coffee mug and holds it tightly. 'Let me go.' He demands in a steady voice.
'Not going to happen. Not until you learn to respect me. Not until you learn your damned...'
The coffee was thrown. The mug hits the bridge of Floyd's nose. It was not painful... the drink was only warm and Floyd isn't easily taken down my a coffee mug. He's had enough thrown at him over the years. Spencer though, not so tough when a boot connects with the side of his ungrateful and pig-headed skull. The stupid, selfish and wilful fool.
His head hits the metal bar.
Donk
Floyd leaves him laying there, but the door is open. He is free to investigate as long as he doesn't attempt to get the manacle off his ankle. As long as he has started to learn his place.
He has adjusted.
Floyd knew he would.
As a treat, Floyd even got a disposable phone so Spencer could contact someone and let him know he was just fine. Obviously it's Hotchner who gets the call and obviously Floyd makes Spencer put the phone on speaker and it's going to be a very quick call. Very quick.
'Hotch? It's Reid.'
'Reid? Where are you?'
'I'm fine. Everything is good. I'm just taking a break. I needed to get away.'
'Sam was...'
The phone is snatched out of Spencer's hand and flipped shut. It is then dropped on the floor and stamped on. That was it. That was all Spencer got to say, but it will calm Hotch down. Stop him worrying. Surely.
But we're getting ahead...all the phone call comes later. It's winter. There is heating in the lounge and Floyd has moved the skulls out to the storage shed. There is a furnace which is kept going and the place actually warms up a bit. The unfortunate side effect of that is that the mould dries out and the smell if so strong it's hard to breathe. Windows have to be cranked open with a small white handle. The glass, which is really transparent plastic is a strange colour and a bit wavy in places. Windows don't shut again properly. It gets colder and then the heat is cranked up and once again the windows are opened to let out the rich aroma of drying out death, because that's how it smells to Spencer. Like death.
Spencer does spend a lot of the time curled up with Floyd. What else is there to do? He can't get away and really wonders now if he wants to get away. What is there out there for him to run to? The security of the Feds? No... they can't offer it. It's not available. They've tried that before and if Floyd wants him back he'll just wade on in and take him and Spencer knows he'd not resist.
They lay on a floor in one of the other rooms with a sleeping bag wrapped around them.
Floyd kisses the back of Spencer's neck. Lights out. Always from the back... spooning lovingly. Sex is not so loving. It's hard and painful, but unless it's like that, then somehow Spencer isn't happy. It's not making love. Never has been. It's cheap sex. Dirty sex. It's what they both want. It's what they both get.
Floyd disappears for two days. Comes back with a bucket of chicken. It's cold... the chicken is cold, but Floyd says they can warm it. He's been with the blond. Spencer knows. Doesn't ask, just sits in a gloomy corner where the cold gusts which blast under the door can't reach him. He sucks the meat off the bones and watches Floyd who is chewing on the gristle and spitting bits of bone out, but Floyd doesn't look at Spencer's face. He hardly ever does. Not now. That stopped a couple of years ago. At around the same time Floyd told Spencer to shave every day and to moisturise. At around the same time Floyd began muttering about age and...
… and Spencer doesn't want to think about what else, because it makes him think of the kids bikes in the yard and makes him think Floyd is a liar and that he's lured children back here and that makes him feel sick. Makes his bones feel cold and makes his brain catch fire and burn so hard and fast that Spencer cries out and holds a half eaten chicken leg (in crispy bread-crumb) to his head.
'Why did you make a little girl to keep you company?' Spencer is asking as tears run down his face.
Floyd leans inwards slightly and peers at Spencer's tears. 'Migraine?' It's not an answer to the question and Spencer can't nod because his eyeballs will fall out and his brain will pour out of his face, if he does that.
'Why?' There's a bit of chicken stuck between his teeth and he needs to get rid of it, but if he takes his hands from his head, his skull will explode. This he knows. He's sure of it.
'Because that was... because... hey.' Floyd pauses and cocks his head to the side. 'I'll get you some mushrooms. They'll get rid of the head pain.' Avoidance. Simple. Done. Why the hell should he answer such a question?
'Why a girl?' Spencer says between gritted teeth.
'You think I made her to fuck? You think after all these years that I'm some damned child molester? You think I'm that sort of a monster? Really Spence. That's ridiculous. Maybe, just maybe had it been a boy I might have made certain things... well you know... available, but it was a small girl! If you think I'm that sort... oh! You think the bikes... You think... Fuck you!' And Floyd is on his feet and pacing, walking over chicken which neither of them are going to eat. 'All this time! Have you once, even once seen me take interest in a child? What in the name of sweet fuck is wrong with you? What makes you think this shit? All those years... all those damned years I waited for you to grow up... I waited... I fucking well WAITED! If I wanted kids I'd have had you! I would have Jack Hotchner! Believe me, Babes, if I wanted kids to fuck then you'd know first hand. This is bloody un-fucking-believable. This is beyond... fuck!' And Floyd leaves the trailer.
Spencer can hear the sound of the motorbike starting... the grumble of the wheels over the dirt and the sound of it disappearing down the track.
Floyd has left the door open, so Spencer crawls over to close it.
It's snowing. He kneels just inside the trailer. His knees are an inch away from that metal ridge and he watches the flakes whirl down. It's not settling. It turns to a damp splodge on the dirt. The ground is too warm, but it's a sign that it's winter. Really winter. Spencer stands up, the chain clatters behind him. He closes the door on the snow and wonders what month it is now. How long has he been chained up here? Does that blond still work at that motel? Is that where Floyd has gone now? Spencer thinks it is. Spencer thinks that poor blond will get a black eye. He expects Floyd to come home smelling of blood.
Three nights... three damned nights and Floyd hasn't come back. The only food there is is the mashed up chicken stuck to the carpet, and Spencer kneels on the floor, crying like a fool, picking up bits of stinking, gritty chicken and slipping it between his lips. It doesn't keep the hunger away.
The heating has gone off. The furnace is too far away for him to reach with the damned chain.
Is Floyd coming back? Has something happened?
Has he left him here to die? Is that what he did to the others... the ones stored in bits in the shed?
A sudden pain in his stomach. A griping ripping pain. Spencer lumbers to the toilet and gets his grubby cords down just in time.
He's sweating. A fever. Food poisoning. What kind of fool eats old chicken off a filthy floor? The kind of fool who is chained to a pole in a trailer in the middle of nowhere.
His stomach contracts. His bowels open.
It feels like he's shitting lava. It makes his nose run, eyes water...
Then the throwing up starts. On the floor at his feet as he sits on the dirty toilet. It splatters over his feet and onto the iron manacle around his ankle.
He knows he's going to die.
Spencer had imagined all sorts of deaths for himself. Most of them directly at Floyd's hands... ripping him apart. Tearing his heart from his chest... that's what he expected. Not this. Not sitting on a toilet shitting and puking and shaking.
Next time Spencer opens his eyes he's laying on the lounge floor. The sleeping bag wrapped around him. There's a smell of cheroot smoke and whiskey in the air. Floyd has returned. Saved him from shitting his intestines into a chemical toilet.
'Here.' And a bowl of soup is suddenly in front of him.
Does this newly made and even more insane Floyd seriously think he can manage something like soup? He would like to ask Floyd where he went. Why did he leave him to die, but he's not dead, it seems, just limp and sore around the edges. The soup will not be eaten... do you eat soup? Drink it? Spencer's not sure, but either way... he doesn't like the look of it. Is there something floating in it? Something small. Something with wings?
'How long have we been here?' That is what he finally asks as he pushes up onto one shaking elbow.
Floyd gives a shrug. 'Time is a concept which I have difficulty with. You'd be better off asking Sam. He's got that shit tight.' Floyd is still wearing what he had on last time Spencer saw him. He gives Floyd a quick look, checking for blood splatter but sees nothing.
'Is Sam going to be joining us here?' With a sigh Spencer lays back down again. That small movement, resting on his elbow has stripped him of all energy.
'I could pick up a watch for you, if it's bothering you that much. I did say earlier, did I not... that I was having no more to do with Sam... I don't know exactly how long we've been here... eight weeks... at a guess. Not more.'
Two months? Spencer pulled on the sleeping bag, snuggled deeper. It felt like some sort of protection from monsters. A gigantic condom made of quilting and stuffed with Angel feathers. He falls asleep thinking of how Angels lose their feathers. He dreams of Floyd laying down on his front, big dark skinned Angels standing next to him – they both look like Morgan - ripping off his wings. Tearing them from his back. There's a terrible sound of bone snapping and flesh tearing... an even more terrible sound of Floyd screaming... and feathers fly around. Little boys and little girls ride around on blue and pink bikes with tassels on the hand grips... cards on the spokes... dddrrrrr dddrrrrr. Childish giggling as they snatch the feathers from the air and when Spencer looks back, Floyd is sinking into the forest floor... slowly at first and he can see he's kicking and pulling at tree roots and howling for another chance... and the wings are tossed into a metal bin and set alight...
But it's just a dream.
It's hot.
Spencer's clothing is stuck to him. The smell – the smell from him, the sleeping bag, the trailer, it's all disgusting, but that doesn't stop his stomach from rumbling. He's not sure when he last ate anything. There's dried vomit on his foot... on his sock. It's stiff with dried on goo and little bits of old chicken. At least it's only puke and not something even worse.
Slowly, with a hand to the side of his head, Spencer pushes the sleeping bag away and sits up.
White tearing pain shoots through his head. Closing his eyes makes no difference. Day or night? He has no idea. It's just here. This place. The trailer. He's burning up. Fever? His head feels hot. Hands are shaking. Whole body feels as though it's been drained.
'Hey Babes.' A soft and contented voice. 'How you doing there? Hungry yet?'
No... not hungry. His brain isn't going to allow him to eat. All he really needs right now is to lay down in his own bed, in his own apartment and sleep on bedding that smells of washing powder. His hair is sticking to the side of his face. Is he dying? Spencer thinks he is. This feels like dying.
'A drink. Water.' A cup, plastic... no, not plastic. Spencer opens one eye slightly and peers down. Styrofoam. He can smell sweet coffee has been in there. There's a brown line around it, inside of it, halfway down and strange circular shapes on the bottom. Floyd hasn't washed it out, but Spencer puts the edge of the cup to his mouth and drinks.
'Not too much.' Floyd takes it away from him. 'You've been ill.' In case Spencer hadn't realised that yet. 'You too hot? I'll open a window.'
Spencer wants to tell Floyd not to let the cold in, but he doesn't. He does want the heat out of the place. He picks at his cords... stuck to his skin between his legs... stuck to his arse. Uncomfortable but at least he's dressed.
'I've not left you.' Floyd moves closer and touches Spencer's forehead. 'I've waited. I'm always fucking waiting for you... either to grow up, or die. Nothing in the middle. Most depressing relationship known. I thought it would be fun. Thought I'd get it right.'
Spencer takes the cup from Floyd and sips at the warm water again. He doesn't speak yet.
'Live a dream.' Floyd mutters. 'Live a dream life. Never age. Never die. But it's not that simple.' Floyd is moaning. Complaining about his miserable lot again. Spencer is tired of this. He hears it too often. Poor thing. How dreadful being immortal. 'It's nearly Christmas.'
Spencer blinks at him and sips more water. What does Floyd want him to say? What does he want him to do? He doesn't know, so he keeps quiet. There's a small knife laying on the floor. He glances at it. Wriggles a bit. Covers it with the bottom corner of the sleeping bag. He'll sort this mess himself. Floyd's lost the plot.
Floyd never had a plot.
Poor thing.
'I had a dream about you.' Spencer is sitting on the couch. The mushrooms have been harvested. It's drying out. It smells bad though and the fabric is ripped, showing the stuffing of the cushions. The springs are gone... broken away... it's not very comfortable. Floyd has sunk back into the broken leather chair like some sort of weird sea creature... peering over his knees at Spencer.
'Is that rare?' He seems surprised that Spencer doesn't always dream about him.
'It wasn't erotic.' Spencer says. 'It was strange. A fevered dream.'
'I see... tell me.'
Like all dreams, though, bits go... they fade away and are hard to pull back again. Spencer looks down at his stiff sock and wonders how long it's been on his foot. It's Christmas day. Spencer would love to say it's the worst he's ever had, but oddly, it's not.
'You were in a forest... naked... on your front. Two dark Angels were tearing off your wings... there were feathers... floating in the air and children on bikes.'
'Wow.' Floyd rests his chin on his knees. 'And?'
'And nothing. You were in pain. You fell through the ground.'
Floyd raises an eyebrow. 'Sam must be close.'
Spencer had no idea what that meant or how that had any relevance to his dream. There is a nugget of an idea to ask, but he can't be bothered. He's got a gift wrapped on his lap. Bandages wrapped around his arms. The knife was sharp. He sliced into his flesh, but Floyd found him too soon. Why couldn't he have just left him to die? That surely was what this was all about. He was here to die. He wiggles his toes. There has been no chance to go and get Floyd a gift. He's got nothing to give in return and stupidly he feels guilt. He picks at the tape holding the red and green patterned paper in place. It's squishy. An rotting head? Would that really shock him? Spencer pulls some of the tape back. The pattern from the paper adheres to the tape leaving a white stripe where it had been stuck down. Another bit is pulled away and cautiously Spencer pulls the paper away from whatever it is inside. He just sits staring at it. He can feel a prickle of something behind his eyes. Surely he's not going to cry over this? Two pairs of socks. The label has been cut off, the pairs separated and put back together so they don't match. Spencer picks the balled up socks out of the paper and presses one of them to his nose, breathing in clean... that lovely smell of something new. A quick glance over at Floyd and then Spencer looks back into the package. A sweater. Knitted. Red with snowflakes on it. Little Christmas elves. It's probably the most thoughtful thing Floyd has ever done. Odd socks and an ugly sweater. What more can a man ask for?
'That OK?' Floyd asks over the hands clawing at his knees.
'Wonderful. Truly.' Spencer gets up, placing them to one side and goes to Floyd. He would have sat on his lap had there been a lap to sit on, but Floyd was all bent up in the broken chair. It was a light kiss, on the lips. There was a smell of cloves. 'Thank you.' He can't say more. He's crying. How ridiculous! How insane is that? After all this time kept prisoner in this filthy death hole, he's so happy because Floyd actually thought of him.
'Put it on.' Floyd points at the sweater. 'I need a good laugh.'
Standing outside the trailer, Spencer in his new sweater, socks, and his shoes on his feet. His cords are grimy, disgusting... and he can smell himself, but he feels better now than he has done since the incident in the apartment. Floyd is pouring fuel over the floor of the trailer. Says it's time to get rid of it. He's got a nice Christmas surprise for Spencer.
The bike is not here. Time has drifted in such a peculiar manner that Spencer doesn't know now how long it's been since he last heard the bike revving up and Floyd grinding out of ear-shot on it. The bag Spencer had originally had packed for him, all that time ago, is at his feet. It's been snowing, very lightly, but enough to cover the ground which he thinks is probably hard as concrete now. The shed has a white snowy roof. It looks like something from a child's story, something a normal child would have had read to them. Not him though. Not Spencer. He turns when Floyd comes back out of the trailer, a book of card matches in his hand, which he passes to Spencer, telling him to light it. Put it up in flames. Say goodbye to it. It makes no sense to Spencer. Why get rid of it now? He thinks of asking, but not now. He might not like the answer and today is meant to be a good day. No need to spoil things now. Not now he's finally got the manacle off his ankle. He takes the book of matches and pulls off a yellow tipped match. Walks with it towards the vile trailer he's strangely come to think of as home. He strikes a match and tosses it in through the door. It lands just the other side of the metal ridge and goes out. Floyd makes a derisive snorting sound. That sound he makes when Spencer does something wrong, stupid... can't speak properly... that familiar sound. Today, Spencer isn't going to let it bother him. He pulls off another, strikes it, allows it to flame properly and throws it. This one goes further... There's a small blue flame on the carpet and Floyd is pulling him back out of the way, right back – pulling him back by his shoulder.
The trailer makes an odd popping sound and Spencer feels the heat brush over his face, drying any dampness there was there. They walk backwards, holding hands. Spencer is frowning and Floyd is smirking. It's the happiest they've been for a long time. For months.
The fire won't spread. The trees are wet. The ground is wet. Everything is wet. It will burn out and leave nothing. Spencer wonders if it might, just might, spread to the shed... perhaps something will float upwards, in flames, like a fiery bird and land on the shed and burn the whole terrible building to the ground. But they don't wait to see.
'This way.' And Floyd is pulling Spencer out of the clearing and across where he used to keep his bike and there between some trees is a track. Spencer has been in the woods enough times to know it's not an animal track. The smaller trees and undergrowth have been hacked back. There are marks on the snow... footprints – back and forth. Spencer looks at them. Looks at what Floyd's tracks look like. It's him. He's been walking down here.
They walk out of the line of trees and in front of him now is a big white house. The grounds around it are flat... the grass under the small amount of snow is showing through in places. Green. Much too green. There's smoke coming from a chimney. A large garage to park a few cars. The house goes up over three floors... beautiful. A really beautiful house.
'Who lives here?' Spencer is very confused now. How can this place be so close to the trailer and no one complain of the smell... of the screaming? Of the skulls?
'We do.' Floyd waves a hand over the scene. 'It's mine. I said I own the land around here.'
This is Floyd's? This lovely white house with a wrap around porch and Christmas decorations hanging down from a balcony? Why were they living in shit if this place was just around the corner?
Spencer pulls Floyd to stop. 'I – I... Floy... urg... ah.' And he gives up. His hands tingle with a sudden flow of adrenaline. His toes curl in his shoes. His breath puffs out like he's expelling a demon from inside and his hand squeezes Floyd's.
'I needed you to see.' Floyd seems to be explaining. 'I needed you to know what it feels like to be trapped. To have no way out. To see everything rotting around you. I had to show you what it's like for me all the time. Every day. Day in – day out... I see it, Spencer... the ground, the people... my loves and hates, lives... it all falls to rot and I had to have you see how it feels for me all the time. This beautiful house – next year, well I suspect, hope, it will still look much like this, but a decade or two? Then the rot will be there. The wood will be warping. The chimneys will stop drawing. The rooms will fill with smoke. The people I live with will die, be dead... rotting like that trailer. You can see a lovely house. I see despair. I see a drudgery which is my life. You can have it. It's yours. Live in it. Sleep in it. Have parties. Invite Hotchner and Jack... yes... invite them... they'll love it. They'll see you happy. What will I see? I'll see what life could have been if some fucker hadn't ripped off my wings and burnt them.'
'That... that... it... that...'
'Was just a dream... so you said. Sam is close.'
Sam is close? Still that made no sense to Spencer. Spencer also can't remember saying that the dream wings had been burnt. He is sure he didn't say that part. He could stand here now in the snow, slowly getting colder and argue, ask question, at least attempt to ask, or he could carry on walking. Floyd is carrying Spencer's bag. They slowly walk towards the house.
The door is opened for them. A man in a uniform. Very smart. He does a small bow to Floyd and nods to Spencer. There is no surprise on his middle aged face. He's been expecting them. There's also not a lot of pleasure on the man's grey expression.
'Merry Christmas.' The uniform says to them both. Floyd mutters something in return and hands over Spencer's bag. Spencer isn't listening to what is being said, he's looking around him... looking at the sweeping staircase with a gallery looking down at them. He's looking at polished wooden floors, huge oil paintings on the walls, chandeliers, rugs, wall hangings of some ancient design. There are display cabinets again, but Spencer pays them little attention.
Spencer often has trouble finding the right words when he's out of his comfort zone, or if he's not sure of the subject and if stress has built to that intolerable level he often feels... now though, he's lost for words for a whole different reason.
'Like it?' The voice is suddenly loud and breaks through Spencer's thoughts.
What can he say? An honest 'No' would be the way to go, or maybe a small lie, something to make it seem that he'll get used to it? But it's gross. It's so far beyond like that Spencer doesn't know how to proceed even with a few hand gestures. The uniform is going up the stairs with his bag, up the beautiful sweeping staircase, but... but nothing else is beautiful about it. It's like a mad-man's museum. The trailer was bad. The trailer was the worst he could think of, but this? Was that a stuffed person in that glass case? Was that a painted skull glaring down at them from the top of the stairs... Spencer blinked and looked again... yes it was. It was a skull.
'You'll love it. Come on. There's tea waiting.'
Tea? Had Spencer drank tea in how whole life? Had he ever seen Floyd drink it? They were both pure coffee men. That was maybe the only thing they had in common – that and the love of a good blow-job, but tea?
It makes Spencer's head feel dizzy... The hallway they stand in feels oppressive and macabre. He doesn't want tea... he wants to know who that person is in the display case! He wants to know if he's due to join her in some manner, but yet he seems to be following Floyd into a room... A large room with a blazing fire, a couch... more than one couch actually, some arm chairs, more artwork which all seems to follow the same theme... Hell. Torture. Death. Such a calming atmosphere! Floyd rests himself back on a cream coloured chaise. There's gold and red cushions, he tosses them to the side and just lays back, relaxing... he's at home. This is Floyd's home.
The walls are dark orange. The rugs are blue. The paint around the windows is bright green. Nothing matches. The furniture seems to come from different time zones. Some so old Spencer dare not sit or touch, and some looking like it came from a discount sofa store downtown. The light is dim... the room smells of incense and scented candles. There are more display cabinets in here and it's towards those that Spencer gravitates.
'Just sit the fuck down will you?' Floyd snaps as the door opens and a younger man also in uniform walks in with a tray. Teapot... milk, sugar... small delicate china cups with roses painted on the side and little matching saucers.
'Thanks.' Floyd indicates a shiny coffee table.
The servant, for that's what he turns out to be, lays down a heat proof mat, lays out coasters. Oh they know Floyd. They know him well.
'Is there anything else?' Floyd is asked.
'How long until dinner?'
'Half an hour.' The man backs away, bows... leaves.
Spencer turns to look at Floyd and the tray and teapot. He has a million questions to ask and can't force even a babble of nonsense out. His tongue seems to have glued itself to the roof of his mouth. Sit here and drink tea? Live here? In this place that looks like it's the imaginings of insanity? He can't do it. Yet the offer of food. The offer of a clean bed. It's enticing. It's a sweet thought. Maybe the other rooms are not so strange.
'Who is the woman in the glass box.' Spencer rushes the words out as he sits on the couch nearest to the coffee table and Floyd. He speaks quickly... has to before his brain realises he's speaking and shuts him down again. He's not expecting an answer and watches Floyd pour tea. The golden liquid races through the strainer and into the cup. Floyd adds a little milk, just a splash, but oddly no sugar. He places it on a coaster next to Spencer and then pours one the same for himself.
'Constance Valantynes.' Floyd replies and then blows over his tea... Spencer wishes it was him he was blowing and not the tea. He suddenly feels uncomfortable and rests a yellow velvet cushion on his lap.
'Why?' Floyd gives the cushion a look and then smirks at Spencer.
'She was interesting. A murderer. She poisoned her husband and eldest son at a Thanks Giving dinner. They died the following day, though no proof that it was she who did it. I knew. I was there, you see? I was here... And there... Over the course of the next ten years she poisoned all of her sons – there were three others. She had no daughters. She didn't feel that any man should have control over her. She was very much fond of taking affairs into her own hands. She died... fell down the stairs out there.' Floyd jabbed a thumb over towards the door. 'It was just her and me living here at the time and I knew that my name was next on her list. I'd seen it. I'd seen her murderous list and though she had no idea what or who she was dealing with, I disliked the thought that she had it in mind to do away with me, so I... I pushed her down the stairs. Don't look so horrified. She was a bad person, Spencer. Living out here in the middle of nowhere, who was going to report her missing, this was over a hundred years back, you see? No one would miss her. And she was a good subject. I skinned her...'
'No.' Spencer put his cup down. 'I don't need to know details.'
'Oh.' Disappointment was in Floyd's voice. He was on a roll. He was enjoying the expressions on Spencer's face. 'Actually, I bought it. I was telling the truth about it being Constance Valantynes, but the rest is utter bullshit. I've only had her a couple of years. Came from a museum of curiosity that was closing down. She was an hermaphrodite. Something different. Anyway... dinner is ready soon, maybe we should talk about something else. You like this house?'
Spencer's jaw was working. He was grinding his teeth. Why did Floyd never tell the damned truth? Why all this made up rubbish and fabrications. He was an interesting person in himself, why lie about everything? What did he really think he was hiding?
The food was like something Spencer had never seen. Far – far too much for the pair of them to eat. It would have been too much for twenty guests, not just two of them. There was just about every sort of fowl, stuffed with every other sort of bird imaginable. A lot of it, Spencer didn't even want to ask about. Small crunchy things which Floyd relished looked a bit too much like fried cockroaches for Spencer to even look at too closely, but Floyd was enjoying them. There was wine, red, white, things in between, sparkling, and not. There was nothing there which had been forgotten. Vegetables were piled up in steaming heaps, pate, mousse, lemon slices covered in hard sugar, honey combs, chocolate to drink and nibble on. Oranges, and exotic things which Spencer couldn't even put a name to. All of it perfectly ridiculous. Perfectly wonderful – if you discounted cockroaches and the uneasy feeling that the stuffed pork wasn't actually from a pig of any description, though Floyd promised there was nothing there which came from anything even slightly illegal. Floyd's sense of what was legal and what the law actually stated were not necessarily the same thing.
The eating of food in a room with a ceiling painted with golden Angels and silvery Demons... a floor with rushes... for goodness sake! Candles to light, which twinkled off the thousands of bits of silverware. It was a pure monstrosity... and Spencer allowed himself to be dragged straight into it.
In the afternoon, after they'd both napped for an hour or so, or at least Spencer had napped and Floyd had laid back on his damned chaise and watched... they go for a walk in the shallow snow. It is chilly, feet crunch in the frozen white, but Floyd's hands are warm... his mouth hot with excitement and there is actual joy in the way he is walking, showing off this place to Spencer. They walk around the front of the house with holly and other various bits dangling down – Spencer had to sadly admit to himself, silently, that now he was close to it, that it didn't look all that festive. There was something wrong, and out of place about it. But around the corner Floyd stands and points out a small brick built outbuilding. No... come, Spencer... be honest with yourself, that is not just a stone outbuilding. It is a small chapel. A tall dark, slate roof and pillars drilling down into the snow. There was no tower, no bell... no windows now he looked closer, but it is carved on the outside... almost a mirror of what had been on the dining room ceiling... Angelic and Demonic forms.
'It's a crypt.' Floyd announces. 'I moved all the bones here as this place, though pretty, was more or less empty, so I shoved the whole lot in there.' Floyd pauses, turns to Spencer and licks him on the ear. 'You might not want to go in there.' He speaks in a whisper across the side of Spencer's face. His breath still smells of cloves.
'No.' Spencer absolutely agreed with that. It was a place he was never going to go. Though if this was Floyd's why did he have the bones at the trailer in the first place? Nothing made sense. But then where was the shock there? Nothing ever did make much sense with Floyd.
The bedroom.
Spencer stood now at the threshold just staring. It was not like the gaudiness of the rest of the house. There seemed to be no skulls or bones or body parts laying around. There were no rushes on the floor. Yet it was still far from normal. The room was hung with soft fabrics. Layers of it hung from the walls and covered the window. The bed, low to the floor seemed almost to be inside a tent of red, browns, embroidered silks... There was incense burning... no fire, but the room seemed to give off its own warmth. The floor, like downstairs in the hall, was a dark polished wood. It wasn't a fright to see it, it was just very, very peculiar. Once in the room, with the dark door closed behind him, he could see a chest at the bottom of the bed... and over to the side a bathtub full of scented water. What to say about this? How was he meant to react? Was it a joke? It surely was.
'Lovely.' Spencer says as he walks to the bed, running his hands over the fabric.
'Thought you'd like it. Thought it was your sort of thing. There's clean clothes in the chest. Have a bath, get changed and I'll lay here on the bed and watch.'
Floyd thought he'd like it? Really? Spencer isn't looking in Floyd's direction. He doesn't want Floyd to see the confusion on his face. Does the man really know him so little? Had he never been in his apartment and seen what he likes? Fairy land wasn't something Spencer would have said was one of his loves. The thought of a bath, though, that was enticing. The thought of Floyd watching, well he was used to that. It no longer bothered him.
Spencer pulled off the Christmas sweater and placed on top of the wooden chest. He kicked off his shoes, removed the socks pulled down his cords... Standing there looking stupid and skinny with bandages up his arms. He picks at them for a while, wondering if he should remove them. The damage was done a few weeks back now. Floyd had stitched him back together. It will look a mess. A horrible mess, but his arms always did. Covered in scars of futile suicide attempts, cigarette burns, and old track marks. His arms were never on display for anyone but Floyd. It didn't matter. Spencer no longer cared. So off they come, dangling down like party streamers and then tossed on top of the box with his other stuff.
Just stands there. Unmoving. Staring at the self induced mess. His breath hitches. He feels Floyd's breath on his back. Fingers moving slowly down his spine.
'Wash.' It's not a request... and so Spencer steps into the warm water and it's a luxury he'd forgotten about. It had slipped his stupid and battered mind. He'd forgotten how wonderful it is just to sit and soak and feel the warm water engulf him like a lover. A lover who will not try to drown him, choke him or do any other sort of half expected thing as he sat there breathing in rose scented water.
'Lovely.' But the word comes out in a sob. Please don't cry because of having a bath! How pathetic would that look? How grateful would it make you appear? How much would that please Floyd to see how broken he's feeling – not just feeling – Spencer is sure he's broken beyond repair.
His arms sting. His back stings. His hands hurt, but it's such a fantastic feeling. He's alive. Still alive after everything that's happened. His ankle which had been chaffed by the metal manacle almost sighs with its own pleasure... and Spencer looks around, maybe Floyd will wash his back for him. A quick scrub – perhaps get him to get in the water too – it could be fun, but Floyd is sitting on the bed, lounging... watching... those dark eyes, the way he watches – it's almost painful. It hurts Spencer's brain. It shoots white hot fire through him... so he looks away. Doesn't ask. Actually no longer wants Floyd's hands on him whilst he's soaking months of dirt, vomit, shit and other things off his body.
'You've lost weight.' Floyd comments.
It's not a surprise really. He'd been ill. He's been starved. He's been treated like you'd not treat a dog, but Spencer just nods and touches his ribs. 'A bit.' He says.
'A bit.' Floyd repeats. Maybe he's correcting himself. Maybe he's telling Spencer that he knows it's a lie. It's not a bit. It's a lot. But if he gets to eat like he did earlier, he'll soon put it all back on again. His body was used to starving – living on fungus and acorn stew out in the woods, up a mountain, in a dirty backstreet, locked in a cellar... all those miserable and vile places Floyd has put him... and still he doesn't know why.
'Sam is close.' Floyd suddenly says and Spencer turns to look at him.
'How close?'
'A month... six weeks... something like that. I can feel him. I can smell him. I can taste him.'
'He's going to live here?' Spencer has washed his hair, wrapped a towel, a green towel around his head and steps out of the water, grabbing another to wrap around his middle. Why feel coy in front of Floyd? No idea. Probably because Floyd mentioned Sam.
Floyd shrugs. 'If he wants. I can hardly turn him away, not after trying to bash his brains out. Though... I think violence was incited on his part there. He wanted what I did. What I've not worked out yet, is why?'
Spencer raises his eyebrows. 'Will he bring others with him?'
'Unknown. You mean Hotchner, Rossi and that other cunt? Maybe... not sure. Maybe not. Don't have to worry about that now though, huh? Come here... lay with me... let me lick you dry.'
It was the first time in a long while that Spencer and Floyd had done what could be classed as a bit of love making.
They touched with hands and mouths; tongues and teeth, fingernails and feet. Floyd even removed his boots and shirt... though didn't go so far as getting out of his jeans. They did end up around his thighs though, which for Spencer was something of a miracle. Each probed and explored the other as though it was something new and something they'd never had before. It was somewhat gentle. There was no blood. A lot of yelping and squirming and Floyd fairly exploded when Spencer ran his teeth, nibbling along Floyd's collar bone.
It was, maybe restrained. Perhaps Floyd was aware of how fragile Spencer had become, not just physically, but mentally too. No talking was involved which removed that barrier. It was sweet... all legs, arms... slender bodies and sweat.
Spencer fell asleep with Floyd wrapped around him and oddly awoke with Floyd still there. They carried on a silent life. Floyd uttering the occasional word, but not expecting anything but pure love and need and want in return.
There were people to clean the rooms, to run the bath, to change the bedding and cook for them. They had to do nothing but be attentive towards each other and Floyd didn't go racing off for his blond shag in some run down motel.
And the new year came... the old year gone, dusted... no need to think about it or worry about it. A new start. The pair of them.
And Sam.
Well someone had to spoil the grace and peace of what Spencer was experiencing.