Revolution No. 9 by Neil McMahon Read Free Book Online Page B

it over.”
    â€œThere’s nothing to think over,” Monks said. “He needs to get to a hospital, now.”
    â€œWhy should I believe you?”
    â€œWhat would I have to gain by lying?”
    â€œMaybe you’re trying to fuck with our heads.”
    â€œOh, for Christ’s sake.” Monks turned away in disgust.
    â€œSo, we’ll just try some of that insulin for a few days,” Freeboot said. “If it helps, maybe I’ll start listening to you.”
    He turned his gaze on the others, imperious now, and spoke with the clipped efficiency of having made a decision.
    â€œTaxman, Shrinkwrap, we’ve got to talk. You”—he pointed at Captain America—“take your bride. Hammerhead, you stay here.”
    Marguerite flashed a bruised glance at Freeboot, then stepped out into the night. Captain America followed, closing the door behind them.
    Hammerhead watched them with flat, unblinking eyes.
    Freeboot swung to face Monks. “You go on back with Mandrake.”
    There was no point in arguing further. Monks did as he was told.
    When he stepped into the bedroom, Motherlode was sitting on the edge of Mandrake’s bed, petting him and whispering to him—finally acting like a mother, if a stoned and disheveled one. She was wearing a rumpled flannel nightgown, her breasts loose and sagging beneath it.
    â€œIs he going to get better?” she asked Monks.
    â€œIf we get him proper treatment, he will,” Monks said, making another bid for an ally.
    â€œThat’s why I wanted a doctor.”
    That’s not enough , Monks was about to say, but it was another pointless argument. Whether Freeboot had ground her down to this state or she had found her own way to it, there was no help here. On the one hand, it was hard to feel sympathy for a mother who could fall into a self-induced stupor beside her sick child. On the other, Monks pitied anyone that desperate. She seemed bewildered, more than anything—incapable of dealing with this crisis.
    She stood up, opened a dresser drawer, and took out a bottle of Percocets.
    â€œWill you take care of him now?” she asked.
    Monks looked at the fearful, uncomprehending little boy, in the hands of his addict mother and berserk father.
    â€œI’ll do what I can,” he said.
    She murmured thanks, and with a suddenly furtive air—clutching the pills, avoiding Monks’s gaze, and not looking back at Mandrake—she edged out of the room.
    A moment later, the blanket in the doorway shifted aside, and Hammerhead came in. He dropped something on the floor that clanked when it hit.
    Monks realized, with numb amazement, that it was a pair of handcuffs.
    â€œPut them on,” Hammerhead said.
    â€œYou can’t be serious.”
    â€œYou seem to have a little attitude problem. We’re going to have to work on that.”
    Monks stared at him, looking for some sign of sarcasm—the recognition that he was parroting Taxman’s words about himself, from just a few minutes earlier. But his face showed nothing except barely controlled anger. It hit Monks that this was really about Marguerite, whom he clearly was sweet on, walking off with the handsome Captain America. He was shifting the blame, projecting his rage onto a safe target. It was akin to Glenn’s claim that Monks had this coming because he “owes me bigtime,” and Freeboot’s blaming Monks for his own maltreatment, because he couldn’t be trusted.
    This was a trait that Monks associated with children and with psychopaths, and a memory flashed through his mind of a court defense that he had once heard from a bank robber who had gunned down a young female teller: her death was her own fault, because she had pressed the alarm button.
    â€œDo you have any idea of the consequences of kidnapingme?” Monks said. “In the eyes of the real world? You’re looking at prison.”
    Hammerhead raised his