Three French Hens

Gomez climbed the stairs to the attic, the rickety wood creaking underneath him. He was looking for something in particular and would not be diverted in his quest. The attic was large and for the most part full of abandoned heirlooms that were maintained not through necessity but nostalgia. He went to a far corner of the attic and threw open the first trunk that his eyes found with a great sense of purpose. Morticia had said that it was in a trunk and they needed to get it wrapped and under the tree before the children returned. That was all the hurried, and rather vague, information she had given him. A plume of dust erupted from within it and as it cleared he stared at the mess within. It was not what he was looking for but nor could he deny the fact that he was immediately enthralled. He had all but forgotten about this trunk; life had taken off and he had left it behind. It was full to the brim with photographs. He plunged his hand into the pile, pulling out a small, black and white print. He had forgotten about this photograph; though the events were clean and glistening in his memory. It was the photograph from Camp Custer - shark fins, striped bathing suits. He placed it aside; the memories too painful perhaps. He plunged his hand in again. It was a photograph from his cousin's funeral; she had been in that room on that very night. But he could not see her in the background. He smiled - the photo was a marker of that life before. A life he would scarcely recognise now. He placed it with more confidence in the trunk and pulled out another. This one was less recognisable and he had to sift through his bank of memories before he was able to recall any such event. He was transported back to a seedy, delightful little nightclub in Paris. It was Christmas and he was on his grand tour. He knew this because in the background of the photo there was a huge Christmas tree and sparkling lights. He could have been no older than 19, perhaps 20 at the oldest. And there were three of the most delightful women, if he could have called them that, that he had ever known at that tender age. They spoiled him in every way a man could be spoiled. Sirens, the brides of Dracula. In the photo, he was surrounded by all three of them. For the life of him, he could not remember any of their names but he could remember how terribly experienced the blonde one was. He looked at his younger self and failed to match it with the man he was now. Family man. Loving husband. A father trying to find that elusive Christmas present your wife insists she has bought your son but has no idea where she may have hidden it. He laughed lightly to himself.

"A private joke?"

He turned to face his wife and smiled lightly. He held out the photograph to her and she took it in her pale, spindly fingers.

"Reminiscing?" She took it from him. He watched her face, a shadow falling over its impenetrable beauty. She studied the image carefully and looked at him with a raised eye brow.

"I truly hope you weren't reminiscing," she smiled enigmatically.

"Cara mia, how could you even suggest they could hold a candle to you?"

He sullied towards her and tossed the photo aside, into the piles of accoutrements, trunks, shackles and baby toys that littered the huge attic. She laughed lightly and allowed him to pull her against his body.

"I didn't mon amour."

"No…because it would be absurd," he began kissing her neck lightly.

"Who were those women?"

"Just three French hens," he grumbled into the mass of black hair.

"Oh but mon cour, mon sauvage, mon dieu…" she allowed him to pull her down on to the floor, "Did they speak French to you?"

Her face feigned dissapointment of the innocent variety but behind that was hidden a far more sinister intention. He could barely answer, so enthralled was he with the gold that was dripping from her tongue. More natural than her mother tongue, more intense than anything she could ever do. Every word was a lash against his skin.

"Not as well as you can, my little raven….so much better than any French hen."

Pugsley, it was safe to say, would not get his knives until they had satisfied their wants.