Hounds of Love

I shone the pocket torch on the lock, scanning it back and forth to build up an image in my mind of what I was looking at. The torch's beam was a circle about as large as my thumbprint, to reduce the chances of anyone else seeing the light. Bill, standing behind be and holding the velvet-lined leather bag with our tools in, sighed softly, reflectively.
"You know, it'd be kind of cool to own a kennel," he said quietly. I held my hand out, and he dropped an electronic probe into it.
"You can get them from garden centres, I think," I said. "Or build your own of course, it's not like they're big or difficult. Hell, maybe we could go the whole hog and get an architect to design us one!"
"Not that kind of kennel! A kennel, like a stable. A collection of dogs."
"I'm pretty sure they're called packs," I said. The tool beeped softly, confirming that there was a voltage flowing somewhere inside the lock. I handed it back to Bill and asked for an isolator core.
"Well, whatever they're called. It'd be pretty cool to own one of them. What architect?"
"James," I said, realising I needed a fixative as well. Bill located it in the toolbag. "Why do you want this pack of dogs then? They'll probably view you as the runt of the litter and dominate you completely. Oh... this isn't your Temple of Love again, is it?"
"No! Jesus, a guy dares to dream and you go and drag his dreams down to the sewers. No, these are Hounds of Love."
I finished locking the isolator core in place and indicated I needed a nine volt battery. My silence was eloquent enough.
"Not like that Temple! No, these are Hounds of Love. I'd hire them out to people who wanted to find love, a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, and the dogs would race off and find people who could be compatible. Then, like Lassie they'd communicate, and people would say things like, 'What's that? There's someone who loves me waiting to meet me?'"
"Bill," I said in as even a tone as I could manage. "Think about this. You're proposing to let loose a pack of dogs who'll pounce on people, pinning them to the ground and slobbering on them, to tell them that a complete stranger is infatuated with them and plans to lock them in a small room and do unspeakable things to them day after day after day–" The lock clicked and I shut up. A moment later, a very quiet hiss told me that the voltage in the lock had shut off.
"Impact punch," I said, holding my hand out.
"You make everything sound bad," said Bill. "It wouldn't be like that."
"I've seen you trying to train things," I said, grunting slightly as I worked on the lock. "It would be exactly like that. And exactly those kinds of people would be your customers. And I don't make everything sound bad, just things you're doing. Which reminds me, how's the mushroom girl?"
"What mushroom girl?" He sounded genuinely puzzled.
"Chanterelle? Shi'itake? Morel?" I guessed. The lock pinged unexpectedly and I scanned the torch rapidly over it again, and discovered that what I'd expected to be reinforced and anodised was actually a cheap aluminium cover.
"Oh, Morel. No, I'm seeing Pomodoro now. Her name means 'Golden Apple,' how beautiful is that?"
I stifled a giggle and wrenched. The lock resisted for a moment and then slid out into my hand. I handed it back to Bill, and opened the door.
"Is she red-faced and slightly overweight?" I said. We walked down the corridor, our footsteps clicking slightly on the tiles.
"Well... hey, why?"
"Pomodoro means tomato in Italian, so I'd imagine she's red and squishy. Jesus, Bill, you're paying for these girls. Can't you afford ones with real names?"
He said nothing, but the corridor had widened into a room now, an exhibition space with the painting that we'd come to liberate standing on steel easels. We had work to do.