She showed nothing of margarets maternal nature, nor
Isabels (what could only be called) "anaemic" concern for others.
 She snorted, her breathing remaining deep and even.

There's nothing, he mused to himself, quite like the peace of
 a trophy wife with a prenuptial agreement in her favor.

He reached over in the dark for the night-lamp and shielded
his eyes with an arm. The house, a three story eight bed-roomed
 terrace near the bay of san vincente, was quiet as a grave
around the harsh stuttering sobs of the boy. No light penetrated
the thick curtains in the passage as he moved through the house.

 

He watched his own disembodied hand reaching out and pushing the
door open. In his mind he could read the stick-ons. Hang 51.
No Parents. No speed Zone. The Stop sign that led to yet another

pointless argument. A medley of crap  contributing to lowering the

general tone of the house. The boy had his torch on under the blankets

making a luminscent red lump on the bed.

 

Will prepared to give what he called his "locker" prep talk, a string

of nonsense syllables wrapped up in soothing animal noises. With

children and women the key was setting on the right combination of
kindness and authority. No doubt the boy was neurotic about being
parted from his second mother. Understandable. Will's bank account
still had the fang-marks where she bled him dry. It's easier to
pass a camel through the eye of a needle, than to part a rich man
from his wife.

" Philip. Phil..," he pulled the blanket back and looked into the
boys red swollen eyes. "What's the matter son?"

"My hands.. my hands hurt," Philip lifted his hands and held them up.
He took the boy's small hand in his and rubbed it between his fingers,

looked at it disbelievingly. Pulled the mickey-mouse nightlamp closer.

The hand was firm as a soft metal, rigid but yielding. The

butter-yellow heaviness of gold. He looked at the join of the wrist

where the  skin merged with metal, looked up into his sons terrified

face. Looked at his hand once more. It was modelled perfectly, even

down to the tiny hairs engraved into the prosthetic.

He pressed down on the palm, "Can you feel this?"

Phillip shook his head, his chest heaving.