STEPHEN JONES lives in London, England. He is the winner of three World Fantasy Awards, four Horror Writers Association Bram Stoker Awards and three International Horror Guild Awards as well as being a seventeen-time recipient of the British Fantasy Award and a Hugo Award nominee. A former television producer/director and genre movie publicist and consultant (the first three
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Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Robinson, an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2007
Collection and editorial material copyright © Stephen Jones 2007
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-1-84529-481-6
eBook ISBN: 978-1-78033-277-2
Printed and bound in the EU
13579 10 8642
CONTENTS
AL SARRANTONIO
RAMSEY CAMPBELL
JOHN GORDON
CHRISTOPHER FOWLER
MARK SAMUELS
ELIZABETH HAND
MARK MORRIS
LYNDA E. RUCKER
JAY LAKE
PETER ATKINS
GENE WOLFE
NICHOLAS ROYLE
MICHAEL BISHOP
MARK CHADBOURN
JOEL LANE
DAVID J. SCHOW
DON TUMASONIS
CAITLÍN R. KIERNAN
DAVID MORRELL
F. GWYNPLAINE MacINTYRE
RICHARD CHRISTIAN MATHESON
GEOFF RYMAN
GLEN HIRSHBERG
KIM NEWMAN
STEPHEN JONES & KIM NEWMAN
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank David Barraclough, Kim Newman, Michael Marshall Smith, Sara and Randy Broecker, Val and Les Edwards, Max Burnell, Rodger Turner and Wayne MacLaurin (
INTRODUCTION: HORROR IN 2006 copyright © Stephen Jones 2007.
SUMMER copyright © Al Sarrantonio 2006. Originally published in
DIGGING DEEP copyright © Ramsey Campbell 2006. Originally published in
THE NIGHT WATCH copyright © John Gordon 2006. Originally published in
THE LUXURY OF HARM copyright © Christopher Fowler 2006. Originally published in
SENTINELS copyright © Mark Samuels 2006. Originally published in
THE SAFFRON GATHERERS copyright © Elizabeth Hand 2006. Originally published in
WHAT NATURE ABHORS copyright © Mark Morris 2006. Originally published in
THE LAST REEL copyright © Lynda E. Rucker 2006. Originally published in
THE AMERICAN DEAD copyright © Joseph E. Lake, Jr. 2006. Originally published in
BETWEEN THE COLD MOON AND THE EARTH copyright © Peter Atkins 2006. Originally published in
SOB IN THE SILENCE copyright © Gene Wolfe 2006. Originally published in
CONTINUITY ERROR copyright © Nicholas Royle 2006. Originally published in
DR PRIDA’S DREAM-PLAGUED PATIENT copyright © Michael Bishop 2006. Originally published in
THE ONES WE LEAVE BEHIND copyright © Mark Chadbourn 2006. Originally published in
MINE copyright © Joel Lane 2006. Originally published in
OBSEQUY copyright © David J. Schow 2006. Originally published in
THROWN copyright © Don Tumasonis 2006. Originally published in
HOUSES UNDER THE SEA copyright © Caitlín R. Kiernan 2006. Originally published in
THEY copyright © David Morrell 2006. Originally published on
THE CLOCKWORK HORROR copyright © F. Gwynplaine Maclntyre. Originally published in
MAKING CABINETS copyright © Richard Christian Matheson. Originally published in
POL POT’S BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER (FANTASY) copyright © Geoff Ryman 2006. Originally published in
DEVIL’S SMILE copyright © Glen Hirshberg 2006. Originally published in
THE MAN WHO GOT OFF THE GHOST TRAIN copyright © Kim Newman 2006. Originally published in
NECROLOGY: 2006 copyright © Stephen Jones and Kim Newman 2007.
USEFUL ADDRESSES copyright © Stephen Jones 2007.
Paul
INTRODUCTION
Horror in 2006
IN FEBRUARY 2006, French conglomerate Lagardere bought the Time Warner Book Group for $537.5 million and became the third largest book publisher in the world (after Pearson and McGraw Hill). Lagardere is the parent company of publisher Hachette Livre, which already owned Orion/Gollancz and Hodder Headline in the UK. The acquisition meant that they also took control of the Warner Books, Warner Aspect, Little Brown and Mysterious Press imprints in the US, and Orbit and Atom in the UK. The various imprints were subsequently renamed Hachette Book Group USA and Little Brown Book Group.
Following the death of their founder in 2005, Byron Preiss Visual Publications and iBooks, Inc. voluntarily filed for Chapter 7 bankruptcy and closed down all operations at the end of February. It was announced that the companies did not have sufficient resources to continue operations. They were subsequently put up for public auction, with the back catalogue, copyrights and author agreements included amongst the assets. The companies were acquired by J. Boylston & Company, who placed an initial bid of $125,000 and planned to continue publishing titles under the Byron Preiss imprints.
American Marketing Services, which owned Publishers Group West, declared Chapter 11 bankruptcy on December 26th with debts of $200 million. AMS was the largest book distributor in America, with more than 150 clients including Carroll & Graf, Dark Horse Comics, McSweeney’s, RE/Search, Thunder’s Mouth Press and Underwood Books.
HMV acquired Britain’s Ottakar’s bookshop chain for £62.9 million, and pulped several million pounds of stock in the process. The 141 stores were subsequently rebranded as Waterstone’s.
Mr Alton Verm of Conroe, Texas, was outraged when he saw the book his fifteen-year-old daughter brought home from the local high school. “It’s just all kinds of filth,” Verm complained. “I want to get the book taken out of the class.” To that end, he filed a “Request for Reconsideration of Instructional Materials” with the Conroe Independent School District. The book he so vehemently objected to was Ray Bradbury’s classic
In September, the Rt Reverend David Gillett, the Bishop of Bolton, accused retailers of creating a “climate of fear” by selling traditional Halloween merchandise. Writing to Britain’s five biggest supermarket chains, he urged them to rethink the way they marketed the pagan holiday: “I share the view of many Christians that large retailers are increasingly keen to commercialise Halloween celebrations in a way that pressurises parents to purchase goods that promote the dark, negative side of Halloween and could encourage anti-social behaviour,” he said. “I am worried that Halloween has the potential to trivialise the realities of evil in the world and that occult practices should not be condoned, even if they are only being presented in a caricatured, light-hearted form.”
It was estimated that Britain now spends $120 million on Halloween. Analysts say that the UK is fast catching up with America, where it costs the average family around $120.00 to buy Halloween accessories, in an industry that is worth nearly $9 billion a year. Although some critics decried the growing “Americanisation” of Halloween, in the UK it is the third most profitable event for retailers after Christmas and Easter, with the seven days before October 31st now the second busiest shopping week of the year.
In June, author J. K. Rowling was voted Britain’s greatest living writer in an online survey for
By the end of 2006, Rowling’s
According to the American Library Association, Rowling’s
J. K. Rowling teamed up with fellow authors Stephen King and John Irving over August 1st and 2nd at New York City’s Radio City Music Hall for a benefit appearance in aid of The Haven Foundation and Doctors Without Borders. The trio read from their work and answered questions in front of the 6,000-strong audiences.
In Stephen King’s novel
King’s second novel of the year,
In his occasional “The Pop of King” column in
Little’s
A landscape gardener set out to rescue his kidnapped wife and learn about his own dysfunctional past in
James Herbert’s
With a first printing of 1.5 million copies from Bantam, Thomas Harris’ lazy prequel
The Southern Gothic
When an ancient Egyptian tomb went on display in New York, people started eviscerating each other and only framed FBI agent Aloysius Pendergast could solve the mystery in
Robin Cook’s latest medical thriller,
Parish vicar Merrily Watkins aided her daughter’s investigation of the spirit of a dead drug-dealer and help protect the local ley lines in
A new communicator with the dead confronted invading aliens in Brian Lumley’s
After coming out of a period of writer’s block, Shaun Hutson’s latest was titled
The first volume in the “Sissy Sawyer” series, Graham Masterton’s
The UK’s Headline imprint reissued the late Richard Laymon’s novels in “Richard Laymon Collection” omnibus paperback editions, with
A new independent paperback imprint, Abaddon Books, was launched in Britain in August 2006. Simon Spurrier’s
On the eve of his wedding, a reluctant attorney teamed up with Jack Frost to prevent two realities encroaching on each other in Christopher Golden’s
A serial killer apparently had a change of heart in Tom Piccirilli’s
In Scott Nicholson’s lively horror novel
Simon Clark’s
While the crumbling building was being renovated after standing empty for forty years, the ghosts of Pittsburgh’s George Washington High School refused to stay buried in
Jeff VanderMeer’s
A widow and her small child moved into a haunted house in Gayle Wilson’s
The cast of a reality TV show was deposited on an island with real demons in
A woman’s search for her daughter’s killer became a self-destructive obsession in
The nightmares of a number of murder victims were linked in
T. J. MacGregor’s
Near-future necromancer Dante Valentine found she was
A mystical rock caused terrifying visions in Pete Earley’s supernatural thriller
MaxBrooks’
A hypochondriac San Francisco storeowner discovered that he had been given the job of Death’s assistant in Christopher Moore’s adult comedy
Dorchester Publishing’s Leisure imprint continued to churn out numerous paperback originals as apocalyptic flood waters awakened a breed of monstrous worms in Brian Keene’s fun disaster novel
Tim Lebbon’s
Al Sarrantonio’s
Something hungry and evil waited in a subterranean well beneath the cellar of an old house in
Leisure reissued Jack Ketchum’s
From Harlequin Books/Silhouette’s Nocturne imprint, a woman who could talk to ghosts was stalked by a witch-hunting killer in Lisa Childs’
With reportedly six million copies of her “Anita Blake” books in print,
Set in third century Rome, Chelsea Quinn Yarbro’s 19th century historical novel about vampire Ragoczy Germain Sanctus-Franciscus was entitled
TV director Tony Foster had to halt a Demonic Convergence with the help of his friend, vampire Henry Fitzroy, in Tanya Huff’s
Navajo Nightwalker police officer Lee Nez returned in David Thurlo and Aimee Thurlo’s
B. H. Fingerman’s
Barbara Hambly’s
Whereas once vampires were used as figures of fear in literature, they are now more likely to be depicted as humorous characters or, even worse, potential romantic partners in numerous paperback originals (“vampromcoms”?) apparently aimed at middle-class housewives and undiscerning supermarket shoppers.
Reminiscent of the boom-and-bust horror cycle of the 1980s, vampire romances and – even more bizarrely – vampire/werewolf romances swamped the market in 2006. Not only were these volumes mostly aimed at people who read outside the horror genre, but the majority were written by authors (often under multiple pseudonyms) who had no other interest in horror. However, there was no denying that there was a huge audience for these types of books.
Telepathic waitress Sookie Stackhouse had to recover a bracelet belonging to the vampire Queen of Louisiana in
An undead woman opened a vampire dating agency in Manhattan in Kimberly Raye’s
An undead casino owner became involved in politics in Erin McCarthy’s
In Kerrelyn Sparks’
Mario Acevedo’s comedy debut novel,
In
A bounty hunter became involved with vampires in
A woman discovered that she had a new destiny in Alexandra Ivy’s vampire romance
A biochemist pursued by the undead was helped by a vampire hunter in
Nora Roberts’
A female PI discovered that her former fiancé had become a vampire and was accused of murder in Jenna Black’s
Originally published in different form as an e-book in 2001,
Meanwhile, Dracula found himself in a lesbian Europe in Wendy Swanscombe’s erotic novel
Michael Schiefelbein’s
A vampire fell in love with another werecat in Nina Bangs’
Kresley Cole’s
Jan Underwood’s
Lori Handeland’s
Through a letter reputedly written by Jack the Ripper, pregnant werewolf Elena Michaels unwittingly unleashed a Victorian serial killer and a pair of zombie thugs into the modern world in
Late night radio host and celebrity werewolf Kitty Norville took on a Senate committee investigating the paranormal in
A werewolf and a werefox teamed up in Christine Warren’s
A new governess discovered the secret of Wolfram Castle in Donna Lea Simpson’s
A werewolf helped a woman who was turned into a were-jaguar by a serial killer in
A werewolf pretended to be a dog while investigating a murder in
Ronda Thompson’s
Diane Setterfield’s debut novel,
Following a global disaster, New York City was overrun by cannibal zombies in David Wellington’s debut
Sarah Langan’s debut novel
Set in an alternate London, Mike Carey’s first novel
Gordon Dahlquist’s heavily promoted first novel,
A boy who thought he had superpowers was actually possessed by a demon in Sam Enthoven’s YA debut,
Michael Cox’s Victorian murder mystery,
Paul Magrs’ comedic novel
Actor and scriptwriter Mark Gatiss’
Matthew Pearl’s
From Strider Nolan Media, the first volume of
Dover Publications reissued
Also edited by Jones,
September 13th was designated “Roald Dahl Day” for children in the UK. It would have been the author’s 90th birthday.
Lemony Snicket (Daniel Handler) finally wrapped up his “Series of Unfortunate Events” after thirteen volumes with the aptly-titled
Christopher Golden and Ford Lytle Gilmore’s
In Scott Westerfield’s
Graham Joyce’s
Nancy Holder’s
Dead teenagers were trapped in the eponymous world of Neal Shusterman’s
A trio of Victorian teenagers discovered that a factory owner was reanimating the dead in Justin Richards’
Three children became lost in an attic of universe proportions in Garry Kilworth’s
Mirroring their popularity amongst romance readers, vampire novels also continued to do well with the young adult audience.
A sixteen-year-old college student discovered that she was living with some odd housemates in
A popular girl at school was turned into a vampire in Serena Robar’s
Teenage vampire twins wanted revenge on a girl’s undead boyfriend in
A teenager discovered vampires living amongst New York high society in Melissa de la Cruz’s
Issued as a handsome-looking hardcover by Californian imprint Medusa Press, with a Foreword by publisher Frank Chigas,
From Serpent’s Tail,
Laurell K. Hamilton’s
Edited by Iain Sinclair,
Edited by Brandon Massey,
Despite any publisher and author’s profits being donated to the Save the Children Tsunami Relief Fund,
Edited by P. N. Elrod,
Edited by Stephen Jones,
The two volumes overlapped with a number of authors but by just three stories, from Glen Hirshberg, Adam L. G. Nevill, and China Miéville, Emma Bircham and Max Schäfer.
2006 saw an explosion of “Year’s Best” anthologies, with the busy Jason Strahan editing two titles from Night Shade Books and another for The Science Fiction Book Club. There were also at least five different titles from Prime Books/Wildside Press. The latter’s output included
From Wildside’s new romance imprint, Juno Books,
From the same publisher, John Llewellyn Probert’s linked collection
T. M. Wright’s short novel
Midnight Library/Eibon Books’
Edited by Kevin L. Donihe,
Although its quarterly schedule was reportedly cut in half by Cosmos Books/Wildside Press, the twelfth volume of Philip Harbottle’s
From Paul Miller’s Earthling Publications,
Set in the Kansas Dust Bowl during the 1930s Depression, a young girl and an escaped convict battled a plague of vampiric creatures in
Conrad Williams’ novel
Fourteen stories (two original) by Steven Utley, along with an Introduction by Howard Waldrop, were collected in
A young woman travelled through a dream landscape in Richard Calder’s novel
Each PS hardcover was published in a 500-copy numbered trade edition signed by the author and a 200-copy slipcased edition signed by all contributors.
With an Introduction by Mark Morris, Mark Samuels’
Two individuals apparently shared the same apartment with a highly intelligent parrot in T. M. Wright’s
PS novellas were published in 500 numbered paperback editions signed by the author, and 300 numbered hardcover copies signed by all the contributors.
Produced as a “special publication for
Fifteen years after the previous volume appeared, Gauntlet Press published
Also from Gauntlet,
A West Virginia town found itself cut off from the rest of the world and invaded by creatures from another dimension in Stephen Mark Rainey’s novel
In Lee Thomas’ novel
Edited by Alison L. R. Davies with a Foreword by Stephen Jones and a frontispiece illustration by Clive Barker,
In Dominic McDonagh’s debut novella
Also from Telos,
Available from Cemetery Dance Publications, Stephen King’s
Published by Subterranean as an attractive hardcover illustrated by Ted Naifeh,
Joe R. Lansdale edited
Edited by Kealan Patrick Burke,
The twentieth anniversary edition of Brian Lumley’s vampire novel
Kim Newman’s
Co-published by MonkeyBrain and the Fandom Association of Central Texas (FACT) to tie-in with the 2006 World Fantasy Convention,
From Golden Gryphon Press with a Foreword by Howard Waldrop,
From the same imprint, Charles Stross’ Lovecraftian spy novel
Jack Ketchum’s 1991 novel
Michael Cadnum’s
Available from Sean Wright’s Crowswing Books,
Gary McMahon’s
Edited by Christopher C. Teague,
Also from Rainfall,
Jon Farmer’s iconoclastic study of history and popular culture from Savoy,
“Hosted” by Ramsey Campbell,
Ramsey Campbell’s classic 1979 serial killer novel
From the same imprint, Theodore Sturgeon’s
Thomas Ligotti introduced Roland Topor’s surreal 1964 novel
From Chicago’s Twilight Tales,
Edited by Myna Wallin and Halli Villegas,
Produced by Spectre Library in a 200-copy limited edition,
From Ash-Tree Press, Jessie Douglas Kerruish’s classic 1922 werewolf mystery
Gothic Press founder Gary William Crawford was the author of
Small Beer Press reissued Howard Waldrop’s 1986 collection
Edited by James Ambuehl for Elder Signs Press/Dimensions Books,
Government bio-engineered ticks got loose in the Ozark Mountains and started killing people in the humorous novel
Available from Dark Arts Books,
Edited by Ron Shiflet,
Steve Deighan’s
Also from Hadesgate,
Selected from the Horror World website by editor Nanci Kalanta,
Bruce Boston’s writings were collected in
As a Christmas “present” for subscribers, Hill House Publishers produced a special signed and numbered edition of Ray Bradbury’s 1973 story “The Wish”, limited to 250 copies with a new Afterword by the author. A lettered edition of the small hardcover book was also available in a fifty-two-copy edition. As an added “thank you” to subscribers of the forthcoming
The Rolling Darkness Revue once again toured a number of bookstores in southern California during the run-up to Halloween, entertaining audiences with its unique blend of music and fiction. Joining founding members Peter Atkins and Glen Hirshberg in guest spots were Clay McLeod Chapman, Dennis Etchison, Aimee Bender, Lisa Morton and Norman Partridge. All but Bender had stories in the chapbook
From Gauntlet Press’ Edge Books imprint,
Attractively produced by DreamHaven Books,
From California’s Tropism Press,
Edited with an Introduction by Jonathan Reitan and James R. Beach,
With its sixth issue, PS Publishing’s
The three issues of Richard Chizmar and Robert Morrish’s
Possibly the best-looking of the “publisher’s magazines”, William Schafer’s
Another publisher to launch its own magazine title was Prime Books, an imprint of Wildside Press. Edited by Nick Mamatas and limited to 1,500 copies given away at World Fantasy convention 2006, the dull-looking “issue zero” of
Also now published by Wildside Press in association with Terminus Publishing Co,
In December, Wildside publisher John Betancourt fired the entire editorial team of
Also from Wildside, the third issue of
Meanwhile, the second issue of the magazine was released as a “collector’s edition” trade paperback with extra fiction not included in the newsprint version.
Although Gordon Van Gelder’s
As usual, regular
Fourteen months after going “on hiatus”,
The third issue of
James R. Beach’s
The four issues of Jason B. Sizemore’s impressive-looking magazine
Patrick and Honna Swenson’s
Christopher M. Cevasco’s twice-yearly
Published bi-monthly by TTA Press,
Despite still advertising subscriptions, TTA Press’ previously announced horror magazine
Edited by Trevor Denyer,
The fourth annual issue of Adam Golaski and Jeff Paris’ perfect-bound
The December issue of
Dave Lindschmidt’s glossy
Edited by Doyle Eldon Wilmoth Jr. and published by SpecFic-World,
From Elder Sign Press, William Jones’
Issue #23 of
With still no sign of their long-promised tome on Italian director Mario Bava, Tim and Donna Lucas managed to get just five issues of
Canada’s
The annual Rue Morgue Festival of Fear, held over three days in September in Toronto included special guests Alice Cooper, Guillermo del Toro, Jeffrey Combs, Linda Blair, Roddy Piper, Ben Chapman, Michael Berryman and others.
Charles N. Brown’s newszine
Under editors Marie O’Regan and the busy Barber, the BFS’ journal
Edited with an Afterword by the ubiquitous Paul Kane and Marie O’Regan, and featuring a “heartfelt” Introduction by Stephen Jones,
BFS members were also treated to a special edition of
From the Ghost Story Society,
Edited by Gwilym Games,
The tenth issue of David Longhorn’s annual
The two issues of John Benson’s
Gavin J. Grant and Kelly Link’s
The October issue of
Published by Writer’s Digest in association with “The Horror Writers of America” [sic], Mort Castle’s guide
Dorothy Hoobler and Thomas Hoobler’s
Edited by Scott Connors for print-on-demand publisher Hippocampus Press,
H. P. Lovecraft’s
In December, a number of original Lovecraft letters and manuscripts were auctioned at Sotheby’s. Among the items was an autographed manuscript of “The Shunned House” that sold for $45,000.
From McFarland Publishing, Allen A. Debus’
Published by Greenwood Press/Praeger,
Don D’Ammassa’s
Published in a signed edition limited to 500 copies, John Clute’s
Translated from the Russian by Adam Bromfield and published in a movie tie-in edition, Sergei Lukyanenko’s 1998 novel
Other tie-in novels of the year included
From BL Publishing/Black Flame,
Dark Horse Comics’ DH Press launched its paperback series of licensed Universal Monsters novels with
Other tie-in books based on older film properties included
Although
The Power of Three may also have reached the end of its television run, but the Halliwell sisters continued their witchy ways in
At least
The exploits of the tenth Doctor and Rose continued in
Based on the classic Gothic daytime soap opera,
Games Workshop issued a profit warning following the end of the
John Shirley was busy novelising
Tim Lebbon’s
Editor Mark Morris asked fifty contributors to write about their favourite horror films in
Although
Published by Telos as a hefty trade paperback,
Night Shade Books reissued Andrew Migliore and John Strysik’s wide-ranging 1995 study
Andy Murray’s
From the same publisher, Denis Meikle’s
Celebrating its subject’s 80th birthday, Alan Silver and James Ursini’s
From Baylor University Press, Kim Paffenroth’s study
In
Also from McFarland, Michael Klossner’s
Vampire fans could choose from Matthew Pateman’s study
Best known for his many
The subtitle of Steve Starger and J. David Spurlock’s
As usual, the Fenners also edited
Ray Bradbury’s classic story
Poet Laura Leuck teamed up with artist Gris Grimly for
From Fantagraphics Books,
London’s Great Ormond Street Hospital for Sick Children, which still holds the copyright to J. M. Barrie’s
The hospital, which was bequeathed the rights to his books by Barrie, claimed that Moore’s title would need their permission or license to publish. In response, the author told the BBC that “It wasn’t our intention to try to provoke a ban”.
Avatar’s
Many of Marvel’s superheroes turned up as the walking dead in writer Robert Kirkman’s
Dark Horse Comics’
IDW Publishing adapted Clive Barker’s
Reprinted by Headpress as a large format paperback,
The “Best Sellers Illustrated” series featured Bram Stoker’s
Also available was a young adult graphic adaptation of
Disney’s exuberant if self-indulgent sequel
Despite their success with the
James Wong’s silly but stylish
Jonathan Liebesman’s
Co-scripted by Wes Craven and starring Kristen Bell (TV’s
Gellar also turned up as the star of
Although a remake of John Carpenter’s
Another unnecessary remake was
Simon West’s remake of the 1979 film
Starring Liev Schreiber and Julia Stiles as the concerned parents, John Moore’s
Nicolas Cage starred as the duped cop in Neil LaBute’s totally unnecessary remake of the 1973 classic
With its troubled production profiled in detail on HBO’s hugely entertaining
Another group of luckless victims were put through a series of gory tests by Tobin Bell’s dying madman in Lionsgate’s
“Presented by” Quentin Tarantino, Eli Roth’s gratuitous and unpleasant
Fledgling distributor Fox Atomic’s similarly-themed
Jeroen Krabbe’s eccentric film-maker assembled a group of disposable actors in Bernard Rose’s
World Wrestling Entertainment presented Gregory Dark’s
David Slade’s
Taking the splatter genre to its obvious comedy conclusion, Christopher Smith’s
Kate Beckinsale returned as leather-clad vampire werewolf-hunter Selene in her husband Len Wiseman’s stylish-looking but confusing adventure
Kristanna Loken played a half-human, half-vampire “dhampir” in Uwe Boll’s third video game adaptation
In Ti West’s low budget
The creepy Countess Elizabeth Bathory used a bootleg version of a video game to select her victims in the surprisingly effective
A woman (Radha Mitchell) searched for her sick daughter in the zombie-haunted town of
Jeff Broadstreet’s
Demi Moore played a successful novelist who moved to a remote Scottish village where she was apparently haunted by the ghost of her recently-deceased young son in Craig Rosenberg’s curiously old-fashioned British thriller
David Payne’s
Lucky McKee’s long-delayed second feature
David Zucker’s uneven comedy
Despite a huge, Internet-fuelled publicity build-up, David R. Ellis’ entertaining
Director Joon-ho Bong’s clever and amusing
In Marc Forster’s clever metaphysical fantasy
Rival Victorian illusionists Christian Bale and Hugh Jackman attempted to destroy each other with real magic in Christopher Nolan’s flashback-driven
M. Night Shyamalan’s overly complicated fable
Guillermo del Toro had far more success creating an alternate reality in his sumptuous
Despite being directed by Dave McKean and scripted by Neil Gaiman,
Filmed during a break in the making of
Darren Aronofsky’s long-in-development
Hans Horn’s
Sissy Spacek and Donald Sutherland starred in Courtney Solomon’s
Rock musicians Jack Black and Kyle Gass were on the trail of a mythical Satanic guitar plectrum in the uneven comedy
For film-goers who thought they had seen it all before, Denzel Washington’s ATF agent used advanced digital surveillance to “travel back through time” to prevent a terrorist bombing in Tony Scott’s high-concept SF thriller
Nathan Fillion was the likeable small town sheriff who had to contend with a killer alien plague that turned the townsfolk into zombies in
Alfonso Cuarón’s impressive
Utilising a rotoscoped animation process, Richard Linklater’s
Scripted by Larry and Andy Wachowski and based on Alan Moore’s cult graphic novel (he asked for his name to be taken off the credits, as usual), Natalie Portman and Hugo Weaving starred as the political revolutionaries in James McTeigue’s delayed
When Bryan Singer pulled out to revive another comic book franchise, Brett Ratner took over at the helm of the third and possibly final entry in the mutant superhero franchise,
Despite technically being a semi-sequel to Richard Donner’s 1978 film, Singer’s
Shown theatrically in Beverly Hills for one night only in November to benefit The Christopher Reeve Foundation, original director Donner’s cut of
Ben Affleck portrayed former
Ivan Reitman’s harmless chick-flick comedy,
Based on Patrick Süskind’s best-selling novel, Ben Whishaw played the Parisian serial killer with heightened olfactory sense in German director Tom Tykwer’s
Olivia Bonamy and Michaël Cohen were the married couple menaced by feral schoolchildren in their remote Romanian mansion in the French production
A blonde angel (Rie Rasmussen) gave a man (Jamel Debbouze) contemplating suicide his life back in Luc Besson’s pretentious
Over a weekend in November, Freestyle Releasing/After Dark Films offered a “horror fest” of independent films under the umbrella title
The same month, cinemagoers got a sneak preview of
Gerard Butler, Sarah Polley and Stellan Skarsgård starred in the mythological saga of
Based on the popular series of YA novels by Anthony Horowitz,
Veterans Dick Van Dyke and Mickey Rooney added a much-needed touch of class to the Ben Stiller fantasy/comedy
Adam Sandler’s office workaholic discovered that he could take control of his life with a universal remote invented by Christopher Walken’s crazy scientist in Frank Coraci’s crass comedy
John Favreau’s children’s adventure
Tim Allen’s deputy DA found himself transforming into a were-pooch in Brian Robbins’ contemporary remake of Walt Disney’s
Britain’s Aardman Studios eschewed its usual claymation technique for computer graphics with DreamWorks’ derivative mouse-out-of-water adventure
Featuring the voices of Julia Roberts, Nicolas Cage and Meryl Streep, John A. Davis’ children’s animated adventure
Also shown in selected venues in 3-D, Gil Kenan’s
Tim Burton’s classic
Although the original
2006 became the year that we finally said “goodbye” to the VHS (“Vertical Helical Scan”) cassette. The revolutionary home entertainment format went the way of Sony’s Betamax tapes and laserdiscs when DVD, new high-definition formats and the emerging video game consoles finally replaced it after thirty years. When the studios stopped manufacturing the tapes, retailers were left with no choice but to pull the plug on the format.
Peter Jackson’s overblown
Meanwhile, Jackson’s ongoing lawsuit against New Line Cinema over revenue disclosure from
Warner Bros’
Sony Pictures’
The two-disc 75th Anniversary editions of Universal’s
Universal also finally released a long-awaited two-disc set of
Fox’s
Anchor Bay Entertainment’s six-disc “Ultimate Collection of Video Nasties”,
From Britain’s DD Home Entertainment,
Released under the distributor’s “Classic Horror” label,
Kim Newman and Stephen Jones contributed the booklets to the Network DVD releases of James Whale’s
A two-disc special edition of
The two-disc special edition of
Original cast members Anne Francis, Earl Holliman, Richard Anderson, Warren Stevens and Robby the Robot reunited in mid-November for a 50th Anniversary screening of MGM’s 1956 classic
New label Casa Negra Entertainment began releasing classic Mexican horror films in restored subtitled versions on DVD. Remastered and uncut,
The first direct-to-DVD release from Warner Bros’ specialty horror division Raw Feed, John Shiban’s
Set in a world of murderous children,
From Retro Shock-O-Rama Cinema, Joe Sarno’s cult 1974 vampire film
Bill Moseley, Tim Thomerson, Phil Fondacarro and Tommy Chong all made special appearances in Charles Band’s
When released on DVD in the UK,
Anchor Bay’s
Made without a grain of talent or humour, A. Susan Svehla’s dire
Fans of the old horror stars were much better served by
Written, produced and directed by Paul Davids,
In November, Forry Ackerman celebrated his 90th birthday with a party in Los Angeles. Among those attending were Ray Bradbury, Carla Laemmle, Anne Robinson, James Karen, Bobbi Bresse, George Clayton Johnson, David J. Skal, Peter Atkins and Dennis Etchison. Guests received a copy of
Jonathan English’s mythological fantasy adventure
Also from those purveyors of fine flicks, Yancy Butler starred in
Tom Skerritt turned up in the self-descriptive
Casper Van Dien and Lynda Carter found themselves up against some scary Latin American vampires in
Tobe Hooper directed
A slumming Ben Cross’ mad Nazi scientist created a device that transformed a World War II German soldier into a monstrous killing machine in David Mores’ cheap and cheerful
A scientific expedition to an unknown world encountered hungry mutants in
Directed by Mick Garris and scripted by the author himself,
Noah Wyle returned as nerdy bookworm Flynn Carsen, protecting the world’s most treasured supernatural artefacts, in Jonathan Frakes’
Casper Van Dien’s roguish archaeologist and Leonor Varela’s museum curator tried to beat Malcolm McDowell’s secret Hellfire Council to a collection of Ancient Egyptian tablets with supernatural powers in Hallmark’s
Peter Krause played homicide detective Joe Miller, searching for his missing daughter (Elle Fanning) through a mysterious motel room that was a gateway in time and space, in the three-part Sci Fi mini-series
Daryl Hannah played an unlikely insectoid alien queen planning world domination in Robert Leiberman’s ludicrous mini-series
Created by Stephen Gallagher, who soon left the project due to ubiquitous “creative differences”, Granada’s
Gallagher was also set to script a TV movie of
As Las Vegas, the Hoover Dam and Mount Rushmore were destroyed over two nights, the North American continent was split in two by a massive earthquake in NBC’s by-the-numbers sequel
Ray Winstone did little more than walk through his performance as the sympathetic barber who cut the throats of his customers in David Moore’s BBC film of
Based on a story by Dennis Wheatley,
In Stuart Orme’s two-part
Ian Richardson provided the voice of Death who, with his reluctant assistant Albert (David Jason), had to save Christmas from Marc Warren’s psychotic Mr Teatime and the mysterious “Auditors” in Vadim Jean’s all-star holiday treat
For younger viewers, Pratchett’s time-travel adventure
In
John Goodman starred as Saint Nick in NBC’s live-action remake of
The animated
BBC-TV’s revived
For the show’s Christmas special, “The Runaway Bride”, the Doctor teamed up with comedian Catherine Tate as a sarcastic bride who vanished from her wedding ceremony and ended up on the Tardis. Together they battled Sarah Parish’s impressive giant spider-queen.
Although the first episode of the “adult”
Modern Manchester police detective Sam Tyler (John Simm) was knocked down by a car and apparently found himself transported back to a surprisingly un-PC 1973 in the BBC’s enjoyable and amusing eight-part series
Less successful was the BBC’s feature-length remake of Fred Hoyle and James Elliot’s 1961 SF series
Also disappointing,
For those fans still missing
The second, thirteen-episode season of Showtime Network’s anthology series
Richard Christian Matheson also scripted “Battle Ground”, the first and probably best episode of TNT’s
In Showtime Network’s blackly humorous
In America, The CW was the network that was created out of the merger of The WB and UPN. Co-owners CBS and Time Warner launched the new channel in September with a $50 million promotional campaign.
In The CW’s
In NBC’s
Following a near-fatal séance at the end of the first season, Lesley Sharp returned as morose medium Alison Mundy, haunted by the ghost of her dead mother (Amanda Lawrence) in a second, eight-part series of
Meanwhile, Melinda (Jennifer Love Hewitt) had to make peace with her mother to lay a ghost to rest in CBS-TV’s
Bill Paterson’s scientific investigator Douglas Monaghan was mostly missing from the six-part, third series of the BBC’s
A group of dull characters discovered that they possessed superpowers and had to “save the cheerleader (Hayden Panettiere), save the world” in NBC-TV’s over-hyped
CBS-TV’s gloomy post-apocalyptic drama
In ABC-TV’s meandering
Meanwhile, Hurley’s cursed lottery numbers from
After five seasons, ABC’s
The Sci Fi Channel’s
USA Network’s
Despite being an interesting variation on
After being marooned with his rebellious teenage daughter Zoë (Jordan Hinson) in the eponymous town of the Sci Fi Channel’s
Series eight of The WB’s
Paul Wesley’s eighteen-year-old orphan discovered that he was a Nephilim, the offspring of an angel and a mortal in the ABC Family limited-run series
Over on The CW’s
The team went searching for a woman who disappeared after an exorcism in an episode of CBS’
Not content with its usual lunacy,
Fan-of-the-show Peter Straub played a blind retired police officer on the March 27th episode of the daytime soap opera
Inspired by the book by Michael Lawrence, the BBC’s
Filmed in New Zealand,
The animated
An episode of The CW’s animated series
Ghostly DC Comics characters Deadman, Mr Terrific, Stargirl and the Shining Knight all turned up in episodes of the animated
Fox’s seventeenth annual
Michael Sheen portrayed the author in the BBC dramatised profile
The third season finale of the Sci Fi Channel’s “reality” show
Spike TV broadcast the
In early December, BBC Radio 3 broadcast
Playwright and poet Lemn Sissay traced
BBC Radio 4’s
Terry Pratchett’s “Discworld” novel
Toronto’s Princess of Wales Theatre became the first venue in the world to mount the epic three-and-a-half hour stage production of
Despite being nominated for two Tony Awards, Elton John and Bernie Taupin’s lavish stage musical of Anne Rice’s
It was announced in February that Andrew Lloyd Webber’s stage musical
There was more success for Sir Lloyd Webber’s
Having started out in a small club in Toronto in 2003,
In Los Angeles, the Gangbusters Theatre Company presented the official world stage premiere of George A. Romero’s
A short drive across town at the Lex Theatre, Theatre East’s
Over April and May, South Pasadena’s Freemont Centre Theatre presented a limited engagement of
The Dorothy Chandler Pavilion hosted the world premiere in May of the LAOpera’s production of
Presented by the Improbable theatre company and the National Theatre of Scotland,
The Children’s Society’s 125th Anniversary was celebrated at London’s Royal Albert Hall on October 22nd with two fundraising performances of Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine’s musical
For the first time ever, Jeff Wayne performed his
Jonathan Kent’s Glyndebourne on Tour’s production of
Nintendo’s Wii console was the new must-have gadget of 2006, especially after Sony delayed the European launch of its new PlayStation 3 until the following spring. The Wii controller, shaped like a television remote, interacted with a sensor bar placed in front of the TV that translated the player’s motion into movement on the screen.
Meanwhile, Johnny Depp voiced the disappointing
At least
Although the film was not due for release until 2007, Gentle Giant offered six-inch busts of “Harry Potter”, “Draco Malfoy” and “Cho Chang”, based on the characters in
The third “Now Playing” series included a seven-inch figure of the Werewolf from
NECA’s “The Cult Classics Hall of Fame” included limited edition figures of The Crow, Freddy Krueger, Jason Vorhees and the ever-popular Pinhead.
McFarlane Toys acquired the licensing rights to the 1992 movie
From Factory X, the replica of Rupert Giles’
“Black Widow” and “Bonejangles” statues from
Fantastik Plastiks’
“Herman Munster” and “Grandpa Munster” were caricatured in Electric Tiki’s
Hawthorne Village offered
Artbox’s set of 72
Comic Images’
Fay Wray, in a classic pose from
San Francisco was the popular location for World Horror Convention 2006, held over May llth-14th. Despite an impressive line-up of guests that included international authors Kim Newman and Koji Suzuki, publisher John Pelan, artist Brom, actor Bill Moseley and Toastmaster Peter Straub, mismanagement led to some problems after the event. Ray Garton was announced as the somewhat premature recipient of the Grand Master Award.
The 19th annual Horror Writers Association Bram Stoker Awards were presented at a banquet at an airport hotel in Newark, New Jersey, on June 17th.
The Novel award was a tie between David Morrell’s
British FantasyCon XXX was held in Nottingham over September 22nd-24th. The impressive line-up of Guests of Honour included Clive Barker, Ramsey Campbell, Neil Gaiman, Raymond E. Feist and Juliet E. McKenna, while David J. Howe was Master of Ceremonies.
The August Derleth Award for Best Novel went to Neil Gaiman’s
World Fantasy Convention 2006, celebrating the “Robert E. Howard Centennial”, was held in Austin, Texas, over November 2nd-5th. Authors Glen Cook, Dave Duncan and “Robin Hobb” (Megan Lindholm) were Guests of Honor. Editor GoH was the legendary Glenn Lord, Artist GoH was John Jude Palencar, and Gary Gianni was billed as Robert E. Howard Artist Guest.
The eleventh International Horror Guild Awards (now apparently referred to as the “Iggys”) were presented on the Thursday evening at World Fantasy, hosted by artist John Picacio.
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro became the first woman honoured with the IHG Living Legend Award, which was presented by Suzy McKee Charnas. Brett Easton Ellis’
In fact, the 2006 IHG Awards were surrounded by controversy, but we will return to that a little later . . .
Three days later in Austin, Toastmaster Bradley Denton hosted the 2006 World Fantasy Awards presentation following a crowded banquet on the Sunday afternoon. The Special Award, Non-Professional went to David J. Howe and Stephen Walker for their publishing imprint Telos Books, and the Special Award, Professional was somewhat controversially presented to Sean Wallace for Prime Books. James Jean won for Artist, Bruce Holland Rogers’
More observant readers may have noticed that no anthology winner was listed in the International Horror Guild Awards above. This was not an oversight.
I’ve talked about awards in these pages before, and they continue to be a thorny subject. Although most general readers will be unaware of the situation, in 2006 there was a brief flurry of controversy in the horror field over a decision by the IHG judges to not even
For a year that produced many new and notable anthologies, not to mention the two annual “Year’s Best” horror volumes, it seemed inexplicable to many people working in the genre that the panel of IHG judges were apparently unable to come up with at least three titles first published in the year 2005 worthy of a nomination. Obviously, this did not seem to have been a problem for any other major awards in the field.
As a result, around seventy people (including myself and other previous and multiple IHG winners) put our names to an “Open Letter” to the administrators condemning their decision and pointing out that their failure to acknowledge
The anthologies market is already depressed enough. Why should any publisher support future anthology projects if one of the major awards in the field could not find anything even worthwhile to nominate out of a year’s worth of titles? Arguably, 2005 may not have been the best of years, but it was certainly far from the worst . . .
As we had intended, our open letter stirred up discussion within the field. However, what none of us who put our names to the statement expected was the vehemence that it would provoke.
Within hours of its posting, message boards were buzzing with people discussing the pros and cons of the letter. I soon started receiving e-mails attacking me personally. Over the following weeks I was threatened and insulted, and I know that others received similar treatment.
However, I’m delighted to say that these kinds of bullying tactics ultimately failed. Only one person who signed the letter subsequently asked to have his name removed. Many more contacted us and asked if they could have their names
In the end, the IHG judges claimed that they didn’t really consider “reprint” anthologies (an odd statement, given that such information appears nowhere in their rules and, in the past, I have won the IHG Award for this very anthology series). Perhaps even more telling was the excuse by another judge that the panel did not receive enough
What the IHG judges and administrator had failed to take into account was that it is the job of the panel to track down individual titles and then discuss the subjective merits of those books amongst themselves.
Even more importantly, it is not in the judges’ remit to compare one year’s output of books with that of any earlier years. In this particular case, they should have nominated whichever anthology titles they collectively felt were the best of those published in 2005. If they then decided that none of these titles ultimately deserved the final award, then so be it. But to simply say that not one single book – and the genuine contributions made by the authors, editors and publishers involved – was worth acknowledging not only harmed people’s perception of the genre, but it is also diminished an award that is supposed to be all about recognising “achievement” in the field of horror and dark fantasy.
At the very least, our protest raised some important issues, and I hope that such a decision will not be taken so lightly again.
For me, personally, it was a nasty, spiteful and disheartening time that exposed the dark and malicious underbelly of the genre I love and work in. Am I glad I got involved? Sure. Given the harassment that I had to put up with, would I do it again? You betcha!
The Editor
May, 2007
AL SARRANTONIO
Summer
AL SARRANTONIO IS THE AUTHOR of more than forty books. He is a winner of the Bram Stoker Award and has been a finalist for the World Fantasy Award, the British Fantasy Award, the International Horror Guild Award, the Locus Award and the Private Eye Writers of America Shamus Award.
His novels, spanning the horror, science fiction, fantasy, mystery and Western genres, include
The author’s short stories have appeared in magazines such as
Upcoming publications include a new horror collection,
“Unless I’m mistaken,” reveals Sarrantonio, “ ‘Summer’, an unabashed homage to Ray Bradbury, presents one of the very few ideas that Bradbury never covered in his
“Not to say that he’s never touched on the season: His ‘Rocket Summer’ and ‘All Summer in a Day’ (you may notice my clumsy and roundabout paraphrase of that title in the first line of my story) are wonderful evocations of the warm months.
“Regardless, I’d like to think there’s a little salt and pepper of the Old Master in my tale. Perhaps if Ray had had that idea before me, it would have looked a little bit like my story.”
IT WAS A SUMMER DAY that was all of summer. Dry heat rose from the cracks in the sidewalks, brushing the brown grass that grew there as it shimmered by. There was a hush in the stilted air, high and hanging, the sun like a burnt coin frozen in the pale and cloudless sky, the trees still, green leaves dried and baked, panting for a breeze.
Rotating window fans moved hot air from outside to inside. Newspapers rustled on kitchen tables, their pages waving until the artificial breeze moved on, then settling hot and desultory back into unread place. The breakfast plates sat unstacked, forgotten; lunch plates with uneaten lunch – curling pumpernickel, wilted lettuce, an inkblot of mustard dry as paper – sat nearby. Morning coffee milled in two mugs, still tepid from the afternoon warmth.
“My Gosh, Mabel, has it ever been this hot before?” George Meadows said from his easy chair; he sat arranged like a man who had eaten a great meal, with his shirt and trousers loosened, but only against the heat.
His wife Mabel, prostrate on the nearby couch, the faded sunflowers of her house dress clashing and merging in a wilted riot with the worn daisies of the sofa print, tried to say something but failed. Her right hand continued to weakly fan herself with its magazine and she tried again.
“Hot as it’s . . . ever been,” she managed to get out in a croak, and then closed her eyes and ears, discouraging further comment.
“Yep,” George managed to answer before closing his own eyes. He couldn’t resist, he never could, getting the last word in. He rallied to add, even though Mabel was already perfectly aware: “Man on the radio said it might get hotter still.”
Three twelve-year-old boys hated Summer.
They hadn’t always. At one time, Summer had belonged to them. From the first day of school letting out, until the dreaded bell sounded again, they had ruled summer as if they owned it. There had been baseball and bad tennis, and miniature golf and marbles in the hot dust. There had been butterfly hunts with orange black monarchs big as pterodactyls and just as difficult to catch. Trips to the secret pond with jars, and pondwater drops under Lem’s microscope to watch the amoebas within. And their own swimming, from dawn to dusk some days, emerging at the end waterlogged beings, raisin boys, to dry and unwilt in the setting sun. And Monk’s telescope at night, the fat dry cold moon sliding across the eyepiece like a pockmarked balloon; Saturn hanging silent and majestic with its golden split ring. Backyard campouts, the walls of Shep’s pup tent lit from within not with fireflies but with the flashlights of boys with comic books, the smell of Sterno and pancake batter the next morning, the metal taste of warm water in boy scout canteens.
Summer had been their time – the time away from schoolbooks and parents’ waggling fingers, the time to be boys. And this year it had started the same – the banishment of black-and-white marble notebooks, pencils thrown under beds spearing dust bunnies, school clothes in the backs of closets.
And out with the baseball glove! Oiled, smelling like new wet leather, sneakers that smelled of dirt, short pants, the dewy morning giving way to a fresh hot feeling and late afternoon thunderstorms scattering the ballplayers with warm wet drops big as knuckles and the temperature dropping and making them shiver. And swimming, and more swimming, and more swimming still, and the cool-warm nights, the sharp cold taste of ice cream, of a bottle of cola drawn from an iced bucket, of a hot dog steaming, hiding under hot sauerkraut. A drive-in movie in Uncle Jed’s pickup truck: two hiding under the tarp until they were in.
Morning noon and night it was summer.
Real summer.
Until:
Something . . .
. . . began to change.
It was Shep who noticed it first: in the dangerous treehouse on a mid-August afternoon. They had finished trading baseball cards, arguing over how many cards (always doubles!) to attach to bicycle spokes to make them clack and were halfway through another argument about who was prettier, Margaret O’Hearn or Angie Bernstein, when Shep’s head went up and he sniffed, just like a hound dog might. His leg, swinging through one of the hut’s many floor holes, pendulumed to a frozen stop.
“What’s wrong?” Lem asked, and Monk looked up from his new copy of
“Turn off your brain, Shep,” Monk growled. “It’s summer.”
“Just because you don’t want to talk about girls or leg hair or B.O.—” Lem began, but he stopped dead at the look on Shep’s face.
“Something’s different,” Shep said, and he still held that pointer-at-a-bird look.
Lem tried to laugh, but stopped abruptly, a hiccup of seriousness at the look in Shep’s eyes.
A whisper: “What do you mean: different?”
Shep spoke without breaking his concentration. “Don’t you
Monk shook his head with finality and went back to his comic, but Lem’s face had taken on a worried look.
Shep was never wrong about these kinds of things.
“I . . . don’t feel anything . . .” Lem offered mildly.
Idly, still scanning his
“You feel
“Be quiet—” Shep said abruptly, and it was not a request.
The other two boys were silent – and now Monk sat up, his butt easily finding the structure’s largest hole, which they inevitably called “the crapper.”
Something like a faint hiss, something like the eerie castanet sound cicadas make, passed by his ears and brushed him on one cheek, but there was not so much as a breeze in the early hot afternoon.
“What was—?”
“It’s getting hotter,” Shep said simply.
“Maybe it’s because of Hell’s Cave,” Monk laughed, but nobody joined him.
That afternoon it was too hot to swim. It stayed that way the next three days. They abandoned the treehouse, leaving its lopsided openwork collection of mismatched boards and tattooed, badly nailed orange crates, and moved into Monk’s cellar, which was damp but cool.
It had never been too hot to swim before:
Never.
They perused Monk’s comic book collection, which after banishment to the basement was on the verge of mold. Monk had built, from boards too useless even for the treehouse, a lab table in one corner, and they fiddled with the chemistry set, trying to make things that were yellow and then turned red, others that made smoke. They toyed with the rabbit-ear antenna on the ancient television, a huge wooden box with a tiny black and white screen the size of a TV dinner tin – for a while they brought in the monster movie channel, and watched, in a snowy and line-infested picture, the Man from Planet X rampage through the Scottish moors. Monk brought down a bowl of grapes, and they ate some of them, and spit the rest at each other out of their mouths, pressing their cheeks for cannonade.
But their eyes kept drifting to the cellar windows, and the heat and light outside.
“Maybe we should go swimming anyway,” Monk said, finally, on the second day.
They made it halfway to the secret pond, and turned around, dripping and panting.
Overhead, the sun looked hotter, if not larger.
They played darts in the cellar, and set up plastic army men and knocked them down with marbles and rubber bands.
Lem and Shep talked about body odor and shaving their upper lips while Monk scowled.
And always, for three days, they kept looking to the cellar windows, up high, filled with light, and closed against the summer heat.
That night they took Monk’s telescope to the secret pond, and Shep’s pup tent, and Lem’s dad’s battery radio.
The radio played music, and talked about the heat. The air was dry as the inside of an oven. There was a cloudless sky, and a smile of moon tilted at an amused angle, and, after a while, there were stars in the dark but they looked faraway and dim through the hot air. The telescope went unused. They swam for a while, but the water, over the last three days, had taken on the temperature and feel of warm tea. Inside the tent it was as hot as outside, and they shifted uncomfortably as they tried to sleep. When they tried to read comics by flashlight, the flashlights dimmed and then went out.
In the dark, Lem tried to talk again about Margaret O’Hearn and Amy Bernstein, and about Shep joining the track team when they all started Junior High in the fall, but Monk told them to shut up.
Later Shep said, out of the blue, “What do you think about Hell’s Cave?”
“What about it?” Monk sneered. “You think it leads down to Hell?”
“That’s what they say.”
Lem was silent, and then he said, “You think that’s why the heat won’t end . . . ?”
“I wonder,” Shep replied.
“You really think—?” Lem began.
“Go to sleep!” Monk demanded.
In the morning it was even hotter.
The sun came up over the trees the color of melted butter. Monk set up the griddle over two Sterno cans, but no one was hungry so he didn’t even start breakfast. They spit out the water in their canteens, which tasted like warm aluminum.
It was getting even hotter.
“Ninety-nine today,” the radio chirped, “and who knows how hot tomorrow. It only went down to eighty-nine last night, folks. Hope you’ve got those fans on high, or your head in the fridge!”
He went on to say the weather bureau had no idea why it was so hot.
“What does that mean?” Shep said. “Isn’t it their job to know?”
As if in answer the chirpy radio voice said, “Apparently, folks, this heat has little to do with the weather! According to meteorological indications, it should be in the middle eighties, with moderate humidity! Fancy that!”
“Fancy
The radio voice, again as if in answer, chirped just before a commercial came on: “Hey, folks! Maybe it’ll
Shep looked at his friends, and there was a suddenly grim look on his face.
“Maybe he’s right,” he said.
It didn’t rain over the next ten days. Thunder heads would gather in the West, dark mushrooming promises of cool and wet, and then break apart as they came overhead, dissipating like pipe smoke into the blue high air. The grasses turned from moist green to brown; postage stamp lawns changed color overnight and died. In town, the few places with air conditioning – Ferber’s Department Store, the Five and Dime with its brand new machine perched over the front door, dripping warm condenser water from its badly installed drain onto entering customers – were packed with customers who didn’t buy anything, only wandered the isles like zombies seeking cool relief. The temperature rose into the low hundreds, dropping into the nineties at night. On the roads, automobiles like ancient reptiles sat deserted at angles against curbs, their hoods up, radiators hissing angrily. Buses, looking like brontosauruses, passengerless, stood unmoving, their front and middle doors accordianed open, yawning lazily at empty white bus stop benches.
Birds stopped singing in trees; the morning dawned as hot as midday. Dogs panted in their doghouses. There were no mosquitoes, and houseflies hung motionless to window screens. Spiders crawled into shadows and stayed there.
Cold water came out of taps almost steaming.
It was getting even hotter.
Three twelve-year-old boys made one more pilgrimage to the secret pond. They were sick of Monk’s cellar, had done every experiment in the chemistry manual, had recklessly mixed chemicals on their own until one produced in a beaker a roiling cloud of orange choking gas that drove them upstairs. It had become too hot in the cellar anyway, with the windows closed or open. In Monk’s kitchen the refrigerator whirred like an unhappy robot, its doors permanently open to provide a tiny measure of coolness to the kitchen. Milk had spoiled, its odor battling with the sour stench of rotting vegetables. Dishes, unwashed, were piled in the sink. The radio was on, a background insect buzz. Monk’s parents had gone to the five and dime for the air conditioning.
“And even hotter, with record temperatures reported now not only around the United States but in Europe and Asia as well, in a widening area . . .” the radio said, though the announcer sounded less chirpy, almost tired. “Locally, state authorities are warning anyone prone to heat stroke . . .”
Monk and Shep and Lem took whatever dry food was left, found Shep’s pup tent, inexpertly rolled and abandoned in a corner, and set out for the pond.
“. . . forty deaths reported in . . .” the radio voice reported unhappily as the screen door banged behind them.
It was like walking through a bakery oven. The heat was not only in the ground and in the air, but all around them. They felt it through their sneakers, on their knees, their eyelids. Their hair felt hot. The air was dry as a firecracker.
Shep looked up into the sun, and his eyes hurt.
“I don’t care how hot the water is,” Monk said, “it can’t be worse than this.”
It was. When they got to the pond and stripped, there was vapor rising from the surface of the water, and fish floated dead, like flat plastic toys.
“I don’t care,” Monk said, and stepped in, and yelped.
He looked back at his friends in awe, and showed his retracted foot, which was red.
“It’s actually
Lem sat on the ground and put his head in his hands.
Monk was putting his clothes back on, his hands shaking.
Shep said with certainty, “Someone stole summer, and we’re going to Hell’s Cave to get it back.”
“Ungh?” a weak voice said from the kitchen table. George Meadows sat staring at his half empty coffee cup, watching the coffee in it steam. He had poured it an hour and a half ago, and it was still hot.
He lifted his hand toward it, looked at the sweat stain it left in the shape of a hand on the table and lowered it again.
“Mabel?” he called in a raspy, whispery voice. The sound of fanning had stopped and when George Meadows made the extreme effort to turn his head he saw that his wife’s house dress looked as if it was melting, with her in it, into the sofa. Her right hand, unmoving, still gripped her magazine and her eyes held a fixed, glazed look. Her chest barely moved up and down.
“Oh, Lord . . .” he breathed, closing his eyes, getting the last word in though she hadn’t said anything. “Gettin’ hotter still . . .”
Three twelve-year-old boys stood in front of a cave opening buttressed with rotting timbers. With them was Monk’s rusting Radio Flyer, bursting like a Conestoga wagon with their supplies: the battery radio, two new-batteried flashlights (one of them worked); three boxes of cereal; six comic books, no doubles; a large thermos of hot ice tea; four cans of warm cream soda; a length of clothesline pilfered from Lem’s mother’s backyard; a mousetrap, over which they had bantered incessantly (“What if we meet up with rats?” Lem debated; “Why not a gorilla?” Shep shot back; in the end Shep got tired of the argument and threw it on the pile), a B-B gun, a kitchen knife with a broken handle, a crucifix, a Bible. The last two had been added by Shep, because, he said, “We’re heading down
They headed in.
It was dim, and, compared to outside, almost cool in the cave. But as they moved farther in it got even dimmer and hot and stuffy. Their bodies were covered with sweat, but they didn’t notice. There was a twist to the left, and then a climb that disappointed them, and then a suddenly drop which brought them real darkness and a halt.
Lem, who was pulling the wagon, rummaged through the pile and pulled out the bad flashlight, and then the good one, which he handed to Shep.
Shep switched it on and played the light over their faces.
“You look scared,” he said.
“Can we stop here for the night?” Lem asked.
Shep consulted his watch with the light beam. “It’s two in the afternoon!”
Behind them, they saw how steeply the floor had dropped; there was a circle of light leading out that looked hot and far away.
“I’m hungry,” Monk said.
“Later,” Shep answered, and turned the flashlight beam ahead of them.
There was darkness, and a steep descent, and Monk and Lem followed as the beam pointed down into it.
After twenty minutes that seemed like a day, the black wagon handle slipped out of Lem’s sweaty hand and the wagon clattered past him.
“Look out!” he called, and Monk and Shep jumped aside as the wagon roared down the steep incline ahead of them.
They heard it rattle off into the bowels of the earth, then they heard nothing.
“Why did you tell us to get out of the way?” Shep asked angrily. “We could have stopped it!”
“We’ll catch up to it,” Monk shot back.
“Sorry . . .” Lem said.
“No matter. Monk’s right.” The flashlight beam pointed ahead, and down they went.
Two real hours went by. Lem was thirsty, and Monk wanted to stop, but Shep kept going. If anything it was hotter than above now, and Lem finally panted timidly, “You think we’re almost . . . there?”
“You mean
Monk snorted, and Shep spun angrily toward him with the flashlight, which at that exact moment went out.
“
“Be quiet,” Shep ordered, “it’s just stuck.” They heard him shaking the flashlight in the dark, but the beam didn’t come on.
“Maybe the cover’s loose—”
There was the rattle of loosened metal, a
“Uh oh,” Monk said.
“Help me find them—” Shep ordered, but now there was a note of desperation in his voice.
“I hear rats!” Lem cried, and they all went silent.
Something was skittering in the dark ahead of them.
“Get down and help me find the parts!” Shep said, and for a few minutes there was only the sound of frightened breathing and the pat and slide of hands on the floor of the cave.
“I’ve got the lens!” Shep cried suddenly.
“And here’s the reflector!” Monk added.
“What if there are
“All we need is the cover, and one of the batteries. The other one is still in the body.”
“I’ve got the battery!” Monk exulted a moment later.
“I can’t find the cover!” Shep said desperately.
“I’m telling you there are rats!” Lem whimpered.
“I can’t find the cover either!” Monk.
There was fumbling in the dark, heavy breathing.
A bolt of light blinded them, went out, blinded them.
“I don’t need the cover – I’ll hold it on,” Shep said.
He pointed the flashlight, clutched together by the pressure of his hand, at his friends, Monk on the cave floor, still probing, Lem with his back against the wall, eyes closed.
The beam shot to the floor, moved crazily this way and that, then froze on a round red piece of plastic.
“The cover!” Monk yelled, and pounced on it.
“Give it to me!” Shep said.
There was more fumbling, darkness, then bright light again.
They stood huffing and puffing at their exertion.
Their breaths quieted.
The scrabbling sound was still ahead of them.
“
The flashlight beam swung down and ahead of them, and caught the crashed remains of the red wagon on its side, a chewed-open box of cereal, and the long fat grey-brown length of a rat as it put its whiskered, sniffing nose into the mouse trap.
There was a loud
They stopped two hours later for the night. By Shep’s watch it was ten o’clock. The flashlight had gone out again, and this time it was the batteries but Shep took the batteries from the other unworking one. They were tired and hungry, thirsty and hot. The wagon was serviceable but now made a loud squeak with each turn of the front wheels. The handle had been bent, but Lem forced it back into shape. They’d found everything but one can of pop, which Monk promptly stepped on when they set out. He smelled like cream soda, and his friends didn’t let him forget it.
“We’ll need the batteries for tomorrow,” Shep said solemnly. He had found a flat wide place to stop, a kind of hitch in the slope. Ahead of them was only darkness.
It was hot and close and sticky, and they felt a vague heat drifting up at them from below.
“What happens when the batteries run out?” Lem asked.
“We’ll have to conserve them,” Shep said.
“But what happens—?”
“Be quiet,” Shep said, at the same moment Monk snapped, “Shut up, Lem.”
They ate in darkness, and drank warm soda and un-iced tea, and listened, but there was nothing to hear. No rats, no nearby roasting fires, no dripping water, no sound of any kind. Just the silent sound of heat getting hotter.
“I hope we’re close,” Lem said. “I want to go home.”
“Home to what?” Shep answered. “If we don’t find something down here . . .”
The rest went unsaid.
They sat in a circle, and moved closer, the flashlight in the midst of them like a doused campfire.
Shep laughed and said, “We never finished talking about Angle Bernstein, did we?”
Lem laughed too. “Or how your pits smell!”
“Or your mustache!” Shep shot back.
Monk was silent.
“Hey, Monk,” Shep said, “you shaving your lip yet?”
“And using ‘B-Oderant’? You smell like cream soda, but do you also smell like a
Monk feigned snoring.
“Hey Monk—”
The snoring ceased. “Leave me alone.”
Lem hooted: “Cream soda boy!”
“Horse pit boy!” Shep laughed.
Monk said nothing, and soon he was snoring for real.
Shep woke them up at seven o’clock by his watch.
At first he couldn’t move; it was hard to breathe and so hot he felt as if he was under a steam iron. He knew it was growing impossibly warmer. He could feel and smell and taste it, just like he had in the tree house.
“We have to find the end today,” he said, grimly.
They ate and drank in the dark, just like the night before. Now there was no talking. Lem was having trouble breathing, taking shallow ragged huffs at the air.
“Feels . . . like . . . we’re . . . in a . . . barbecue . . .” he rasped. “Hard . . . to . . . breathe . . .”
They turned on the battery radio and there was hiss up and down the dial until the one strong local channel came on. It was the same announcer, only now all of the chirp had gone out of his voice.
“. . . hundred and ten here this morning, folks,” he said. “And it’s September first! Local ponds are steamed dry, and the electricity was out for three hours yesterday. Same all over, now. Ice caps are melting, and in Australia, where it’s the end of wintertime, the temperature hit ninety-nine yesterday . . .”
They snapped off the radio.
“Let’s go,” Shep said.
Lem began to cry after a half-hour.
“I can’t
“It’s not much farther,” Shep said evenly. He was having trouble breathing himself. “This is something we’ve got to do, Lem. If we do it maybe we can have all that again.”
Shep pointed the flashlight at Monk, who was trudging silently, straight ahead.
The flashlight began to fail as they reached a wall of fallen rocks. Ignoring the impediment for the moment, Shep used the remaining light to rip the battery cover off the back of the radio and pull the batteries out.
They were a different size, so he put the radio on and let it stay on, a droning buzz in the background.
The flashlight went out, then flickered on again.
“Quick!” Shep shouted. “Check to either side and see if there’s a way around!”
Lem shuffled off to the left, and Monk stood unmoving where he was.
Shep pushed impatiently past him, flicking the flash on and off to pull precious weak yellow beams out of it.
“There’s no way around here,” Lem called out laconically from the left.
Shep blinked the light on, off, punched desperately around the edge of the barrier, looking for a hole, a rift, a way through.
“Nothing . . .” he huffed weakly.
He turned with a last thought, flaring the flash into life so that the beam played across Monk.
“Maybe there’s a crack! Maybe we can pull the wall down!”
“There is no crack,” Monk said dully, “and we can’t pull it down.” His legs abruptly folded underneath him and he sat on the cave floor.
Shep turned the light off, on again; the beam was dull, pumpkin colored but he played it all over the rock barrier.
“Got to be—”
“There is no ‘Hell’s Cave’,” Monk said dully. “It’s just a myth. My father told me about it when I was seven. This is just an old mine that played out and then caved in.”
“But—”
“
“What?” Shep said, moving closer. On the other side, Lem sank to the floor.
“It was me . . .” Monk repeated.
Lem began to cry, mewling like a hurt kitten, and the flashlight beam died again. In the dark, Shep flicked it on, off, on, off.
“
Shep hit the button one more time on the flashlight, and it flared like a dying candle, haloing Monk’s haunted face, and then faded out again.
“I didn’t want it to end.” In the darkness Monk spoke in a whispered, monotone. “I didn’t want it
“Didn’t want
“This summer,” Monk answered, sighing. “The three of us. I wanted it to last forever. I didn’t want us to . . . change. Which is what we were doing. Talking about girls instead of baseball cards, hairy legs instead of monster comics, body odor instead of swimming and telescopes. We used to do everything together and now that was going to change. When we went to Junior High Lem was going to try to date Angie Bernstein and you were going out for track. Then you would go out with Margaret O’Hearn, and the baseball cards and comics would go in the back of the closet, along with the marbles and the pup tent and the canteen and butterfly net. The chemistry set would collect dust in the corner of the basement. I could see it coming. It was all changing, and I didn’t want it to.”
“But how . . . ?” Shep asked.
In the dark, he could almost hear Monk shrug and heard him hitch a sob. “I don’t
Lem cried out hoarsely, then settled into low rasping sobs.
It had become even hotter, and then hotter still. The radio, still on, blurted out a stifled cry of static and then was silent.
In the sweaty, close, unbearably hot cave, the flashlight went on with one final smudge of sick light, illuminating Monk’s crying face.
“I’m so sorry . . .” he whispered.
“Mabel?” George Meadows croaked. He could barely talk, his words fighting through the heat, which had intensified. His wife lay unmoving on the sofa, her desiccated arm hanging over the side, fingers brushing her dropped magazine. Her house dress was now completely part of the couch’s pattern, melded into it like an iron transfer. The window fan had given up. The sky was very bright. Puffs of steam rose from the floor, up from the cellar, from the ground below. Somewhere in the back of his nostrils, George smelled smoke, and fire.
“Mabel?” he called again, although now he could not feel the easy chair beneath him. He felt light as a flake of ash rising from a campfire.
His eyes were so hot he could no longer see.
He took in one final, rasping, burning breath as the world turned to fire and roaring flame around him.
And, even now, he could not resist getting in the last word, letting his final breath out in a cracked whisper even though there was no one to listen: “Yep. Hottest ever.”
RAMSEY CAMPBELL
Digging Deep
RAMSEY CAMPBELL’S LATEST NOVEL is titled
Along with his columns in
“The following story came out of the air or rather the airwaves,” explains the author. “BBC Radio 4 reported that a significant number of people do indeed take their mobiles with them as my protagonist does.
“It seems to prove that one of the seminal images of horror fiction has yet to be driven underground by technology. Sometimes the old ideas are best, eh? But I hope I’ve brought it up to date.”
IT MUST HAVE BEEN QUITE a nightmare. It was apparently enough to make Coe drag the quilt around him, since he feels more than a sheeted mattress beneath him, and to leave a sense of suffocating helplessness, of being worse than alone in the dark. He isn’t helpless. Even if his fit of rage blotted out his senses, it must have persuaded the family. They’ve brought him home. There wasn’t a quilt on his hospital bed.
Who’s in the house with him? Perhaps they all are, to impress on him how much they care about him, but he knows how recently they started. There was barely space for all of them around his bed in the private room. Whenever they thought he was asleep some of them would begin whispering. He’s sure he overheard plans for his funeral. Now they appear to have left him by himself, and yet he feels hemmed in. Is the dark oppressing him? He has never seen it so dark.
It doesn’t feel like his bedroom. He has always been able to distinguish the familiar surroundings when any of his fears jerked him awake. He could think that someone – his daughter Simone or son Daniel, most likely – has denied him light to pay him back for having spent too much of their legacy on the private room. However much he widens his eyes, they remain coated with blackness. He parts his dry lips to call someone to open the curtains, and then his tongue retreats behind his teeth. He should deal with the bedclothes first. Nobody ought to see him laid out as if he’s awaiting examination. In the throes of the nightmare he has pulled the entire quilt under him.
He grasps a handful and plants his other hand against the padded headboard to lift his body while he snatches the quilt from beneath him. That’s the plan, but he’s unable to take hold of the material. It’s more slippery than it ought to be, and doesn’t budge. Did his last bout of rage leave him so enfeebled, or is his weight pinning down the quilt? He stretches out his arms to find the edges, and his knuckles bump into cushions on both sides of him. But they aren’t cushions, they’re walls.
He’s in some kind of outsize cot. The walls must be cutting off the light. Presumably the idea is to prevent him from rolling out of bed. He’s furious at being treated like this, especially when he wasn’t consulted. He flings up his hands to grab the tops of the walls and heave himself up to shout for whoever’s in the house, and his fingertips collide with a padded surface.
The sides of the cot must bend inwards at the top, that’s all. His trembling hands have flinched and bruised his sunken cheeks, but he lifts them. His elbows are still pressed against the bottom of the container when his hands blunder against an obstruction above his face. It’s plump and slippery, and scrabbling at it only loosens his nails from the quick. His knees rear up, knocking together before they bump into the obstacle, and then his feet deal it a few shaky kicks. Far too soon his fury is exhausted, and he lies inert as though the blackness is earth that’s weighing on him. It isn’t far removed. His family cared about him even less than he suspected. They’ve consigned him to his last and worst fear.
Can’t this be another nightmare? How can it make sense? However prematurely eager Simone’s husband may have been to sign the death certificate, Daniel would have had to be less than professional too. Could he have saved on the embalming and had the funeral at once? At least he has dressed his father in a suit, but the pockets feel empty as death.
Coe can’t be sure until he tries them all. His quivering fists are clenched next to his face, but he forces them open and gropes over his ribs. His inside breast pocket is flat as a card, and so are the others in the jacket. When he fumbles at his trousers pockets he’s dismayed to find how thin he is – so scrawny that he’s afraid the protrusion on his right hip is a broken bone. But it’s in the pocket, and in his haste to carry it to his face he almost shies it out of reach. Somebody cared after all. He pokes at the keypad, and before his heart has time to beat, the mobile phone lights up.
He could almost wish the glow it sheds were dimmer. It shows him how closely he’s boxed in by the quilted surface. It’s less than a hand’s breadth from his shoulders, and when he tilts his face up to judge the extent of his prison the pudgy lid bumps his forehead. Around the phone the silky padding glimmers green, while farther down the box it’s whitish like another species of mould, and beyond his feet it’s black as soil. He lets his head sink onto the pillow that’s the entire floor and does his desperate best to be aware of nothing but the mobile. It’s his lifeline, and he needn’t panic because he can’t remember a single number. The phone will remember for him.
His knuckles dig into the underside of the lid as he holds the mobile away from his face. It’s still too close; the digits merge into a watery blur. He only has to locate the key for the stored numbers, and he jabs it hard enough to bruise his fingertip. The symbol that appears in the illuminated window looks shapeless as a blob of mud, but he knows it represents an address book. He pokes the topmost left-hand key of the numeric pad, although he has begun to regret making Daniel number one, and holds the mobile against his ear.
There’s silence except for a hiss of static that sounds too much like a trickle of earth. Though his prison seems oppressively hot, he shivers at the possibility that he may be too far underground for the phone to work. He wriggles onto his side to bring the mobile a few inches closer to the surface, but before his shoulder is anything like vertical it thumps the lid. As he strives to maintain his position, the distant phone starts to ring.
It continues when he risks sinking back, but that’s all. He’s close to pleading, although he doesn’t know with whom, by the time the shrill insistent pulse is interrupted. The voice isn’t Daniel’s. It’s entirely anonymous, and informs Coe that the person he’s calling isn’t available. It confirms Daniel’s number in a different voice that sounds less than human, an assemblage of digits pronounced by a computer, and invites him to leave a message.
“It’s your father. That’s right, I’m alive. You’ve buried me alive. Are you there? Can you hear me? Answer the phone, you – Just answer. Tell me that you’re coming. Ring when you get this. Come and let me out. Come now.”
Was it his breath that made the glow flicker? He’s desperately tempted to keep talking until this chivvies out a response, but he mustn’t waste the battery. He ends the call and thumbs the key next to Daniel’s. It’s supposed to contact Simone, but it triggers the same recorded voice.
He could almost imagine that it’s a cruel joke, even when the voice composed of fragments reads out her number. At first he doesn’t speak when the message concludes with a beep, and then he’s afraid of losing the connection. “It’s me,” he babbles. “Yes, your father. Someone was a bit too happy to see me off. Aren’t you there either, or are you scared to speak up? Are you all out celebrating? Don’t let me spoil the party. Just send someone who can dig me up.”
He’s growing hysterical. These aren’t the sorts of comments he should leave; he can’t afford to antagonise his family just now. His unwieldy fingers have already terminated the call – surely the mobile hasn’t lost contact by itself. Should he ring his son and daughter back? Alternatively there are friends he could phone, if he can remember their numbers – and then he realises there’s only one call he should make. Why did he spend so long in trying to reach his family? He uses a finger to count down the blurred keypad and jabs the ninth key thrice.
He has scarcely lowered the phone to his ear when an operator cuts off the bell. “Emergency,” she declares.
Coe can be as fast as that. “Police,” he says while she’s enquiring which service he requires, but she carries on with her script. “Police,” he says louder and harsher.
This earns him a silence that feels stuffed with padding. She can’t expect callers who are in danger to be polite, but he’s anxious to apologise in case she can hear. Before he can take a breath a male voice says “Gloucestershire Constabulary.”
“Can you help me? You may have trouble believing this, but I’m buried alive.”
He sounds altogether too contrite. He nearly emits a wild laugh at the idea of seeking the appropriate tone for the situation, but the policeman is asking “What is your name, sir?”
“Alan Coe,” says Coe and is pinioned by realising that it must be carved on a stone at least six feet above him.
“And where are you calling from?”
The question seems to emphasise the sickly greenish glimmer of the fattened walls and lid. Does the policeman want the mobile number? That’s the answer Coe gives him. “And what is your location, sir?” the voice crackles in his ear.
Coe has the sudden ghastly notion that his children haven’t simply rushed the funeral – that for reasons he’s afraid to contemplate, they’ve laid him to rest somewhere other than with his wife. Surely some of the family would have opposed them. “Mercy Hill,” he has to believe.
“I didn’t catch that, sir.”
Is the mobile running out of power? “Mercy Hill,” he shouts so loud that the dim glow appears to quiver.
“Whereabouts on Mercy Hill?”
Every question renders his surroundings more substantial, and the replies he has to give are worse. “Down in front of the church,” he’s barely able to acknowledge. “Eighth row, no, ninth, I think. Left of the avenue.”
There’s no audible response. The policeman must be typing the details, unless he’s writing them down. “How long will you be?” Coe is more than concerned to learn. “I don’t know how much air I’ve got. Not much.”
“You’re telling us you’re buried alive in a graveyard.”
Has the policeman raised his voice because the connection is weak? “That’s what I said,” Coe says as loud.
“I suggest you get off the phone now, sir.”
“You haven’t told me how soon you can be here.”
“You’d better hope we haven’t time to be. We’ve had enough Halloween pranks for one year.”
Coe feels faint and breathless, which is dismayingly like suffocation, but he manages to articulate “You think I’m playing a joke.”
“I’d use another word for it. I advise you to give it up immediately, and that voice you’re putting on as well.”
“I’m putting nothing on. Can’t you hear I’m deadly serious? You’re using up my air, you – Just do your job or let me speak to your superior.”
“I warn you, sir, we can trace this call.”
“Do so. Come and get me,” Coe almost screams, but his voice grows flat. He’s haranguing nobody except himself.
Has the connection failed, or did the policeman cut him off? Did he say enough to make them trace him? Perhaps he should switch off the mobile to conserve the battery, but he has no idea whether this would leave the phone impossible to trace. The thought of waiting in the dark without knowing whether help is on the way brings the walls and lid closer to rob him of breath. As he holds the phone at a cramped arm’s length to poke the redial button, he sees the greenish light appear to tug the swollen ceiling down. When he snatches the mobile back to his ear the action seems to draw the lid closer still.
An operator responds at once. “Police,” he begs as she finishes her first word. “Police.”
Has she recognised him? The silence isn’t telling. It emits a burst of static so fragmented that he’s afraid the connection is breaking up, and then a voice says “Gloucestershire Constabulary.”
For a distracted moment he thinks she’s the operator. Surely a policewoman will be more sympathetic than her colleague. “It’s Alan Coe again,” Coe says with all the authority he can summon up. “I promise you this is no joke. They’ve buried me because they must have thought I’d passed on. I’ve already called you once but I wasn’t informed what’s happening. May I assume somebody is on their way?”
How much air has all that taken? He’s holding his breath as if this may compensate, although it makes the walls and lid appear to bulge towards him, when the policewoman says in the distance “He’s back. I see what you meant about the voice.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Coe says through his bared teeth, then tries a shout, which sounds flattened by padding. “What’s the matter with my voice?”
“He wants to know what’s wrong with his voice.”
“So you heard me the first time.” Perhaps he shouldn’t address her as if she’s a child, but he’s unable to moderate his tone. “What are you saying about my voice?”
“I don’t know how old you’re trying to sound, but nobody’s that old and still alive.”
“I’m old enough to be your father, so do as you’re told.” She either doesn’t hear this or ignores it, but he ensures she hears “I’m old enough for them to pass me off as dead.”
“And bury you.”
“That’s what I’ve already told you and your colleague.”
“In a grave.”
“On Mercy Hill below the church. Halfway along the ninth row down, to the left of the avenue.”
He can almost see the trench and his own hand dropping a fistful of earth into the depths that harboured his wife’s coffin. All at once he’s intensely aware that it must be under him. He might have wanted to be reunited with her at the end – at least, with her as she was before she stopped recognising him and grew unrecognisable, little more than a skeleton with an infant’s mind – but not like this. He remembers the spadefuls of earth piling up on her coffin and realises that now they’re on top of him. “And you’re expecting us to have it dug up,” the policewoman says.
“Can’t you do it yourselves?” Since this is hardly the best time to criticise their methods, he adds “Have you got someone?”
“How long do you plan to carry on with this? Do you honestly think you’re taking us in?”
“I’m not trying to. For the love of God, it’s the truth.” Coe’s free hand claws at the wall as if this may communicate his plight somehow, and his fingers wince as though they’ve scratched a blackboard. “Why won’t you believe me?” he pleads.
“You really expect us to believe a phone would work down there.”
“Yes, because it is.”
“I an’t hea ou.”
The connection is faltering. He nearly accuses her of having wished this on him. “I said it is,” he cries.
“Very unny.” Yet more distantly she says “Now he’s aking it ound a if it’s aking up.”
Is the light growing unreliable too? For a blink the darkness seems to surge at him – just darkness, not soil spilling into his prison. Or has his consciousness begun to gutter for lack of air? “It is,” he gasps. “Tell me they’re coming to find me.”
“You won’t like it if they do.”
At least her voice is whole again, and surely his must be. “You still think I’m joking. Why would I joke about something like this at my age, for God’s sake? I didn’t even know it was Halloween.”
“You’re saying you don’t know what you just said you know.”
“Because your colleague told me. I don’t know how long I’ve been here,” he realises aloud, and the light dims as if to suggest how much air he may have unconsciously used up.
“Long enough. We’d have to give you full marks for persistence. Are you in a cupboard, by the way? It sounds like one. Your trick nearly worked.”
“It’s a coffin, God help me. Can’t you hear that?” Coe cries and scrapes his nails across the underside of the lid.
Perhaps the squealing is more tangible than audible. He’s holding the mobile towards it, but when he returns the phone to his ear the policewoman says “I’ve heard all I want to, I think.”
“Are you still calling me a liar?” He should have demanded to speak to whoever’s in charge. He’s about to do so when a thought ambushes him. “If you really think I am,” he blurts, “why are you talking to me?”
At once he knows. However demeaning it is to be taken for a criminal, that’s unimportant if they’re locating him. He’ll talk for as long as she needs to keep him talking. He’s opening his mouth to rant when he hears a man say “No joy, I’m afraid. Can’t trace it.”
If Coe is too far underground, how is he able to phone? The policewoman brings him to the edge of panic. “Count yourself lucky,” she tells him, “and don’t dare play a trick like this again. Don’t you realise you may be tying up a line while someone genuinely needs our help?”
He mustn’t let her go. He’s terrified that if she rings off they won’t accept his calls. It doesn’t matter what he says so long as it makes the police come for him. Before she has finished lecturing him he shouts “Don’t you speak to me like that, you stupid cow.”
“I’m war ing ou, ir—”
“Do the work we’re paying you to do, and that means the whole shiftless lot of you. You’re too fond of finding excuses not to help the public, you damned lazy swine.” He’s no longer shouting just to be heard. “You weren’t much help with my wife, were you? You were worse than useless when she was wandering the streets not knowing where she was. And you were a joke when she started chasing me round the house because she’d forgotten who I was and thought I’d broken in. That’s right, you’re the bloody joke, not me. She nearly killed me with a kitchen knife. Now get on with your job for a change, you pathetic wretched—”
Without bothering to flicker the light goes out, and he hears nothing but death in his ear. He clutches the mobile and shakes it and pokes blindly at the keys, none of which brings him a sound except for the lifeless clacking of plastic or provides the least relief from the unutterable blackness. At last he’s overcome by exhaustion or despair or both. His arms drop to his sides, and the phone slips out of his hand.
Perhaps it’s the lack of air, but he feels as if he may soon be resigned to lying where he is. Shutting his eyes takes him closer to sleep. The surface beneath him is comfortable enough, after all. He could fancy he’s in bed, or is that mere fancy? Can’t he have dreamed he wakened in his coffin and everything that followed? Why, he has managed to drag the quilt under himself, which is how the nightmare began. He’s vowing that it won’t recur when a huge buzzing insect crawls against his hand.
He jerks away from it, and his scalp collides with the headboard, which is too plump. The insect isn’t only buzzing, it’s glowing feebly. It’s the mobile, which has regained sufficient energy to vibrate. As he grabs it, the decaying light seems to fatten the interior of the coffin. He jabs the key to take the call and fumbles the mobile against his ear. “Hello?” he pleads.
“Coming.”
It’s barely a voice. It sounds as unnatural as the numbers in the answering messages did, and at least as close to falling to bits. Surely that’s the fault of the connection. Before he can speak again the darkness caves in on him, and he’s holding an inert lump of plastic against his ear.
There’s a sound, however. It’s muffled but growing more audible. He prays that he’s recognising it, and then he’s sure he does. Someone is digging towards him.
“I’m here,” he cries and claps a bony hand against his withered lips. He shouldn’t waste whatever air is left, especially when he’s beginning to feel it’s as scarce as light down here. It seems unlikely that he would even have been heard. Why is he wishing he’d kept silent? He listens breathlessly to the scraping in the earth. How did the rescuers manage to dig down so far without his noticing? The activity inches closer – the sound of the shifting of earth – and all at once he’s frantically jabbing at the keypad in the blackness. Any response from the world overhead might be welcome, any voice other than the one that called him. The digging is beneath him.
JOHN GORDON
The Night Watch
JOHN GORDON WAS BORN in Jarrow-on-Tyne and now lives in Norwich with his wife, Sylvia. As a child he moved with his family to Wisbech in the Fens of Cambridgeshire, where he went to school. After serving in the Royal Navy on minesweepers and destroyers during World War II he became a journalist on various local newspapers.
His first book for young adults,
Gordon’s short stories are collected in
“Museums are potent places for storytellers,” reveals the author, “none more so than Norwich Castle, which is the setting for ‘The Night Watch’. It stands on Castle Mound overlooking the heart of the city as it has done for eight centuries, but internally its bright and intriguing exhibits and showcases disguise a dark period of its history.
“It was once a prison, and I was standing in the corner of a picture gallery one day when one of the attendants told me that I had my feet on the spot where felons were hanged. Where once a trapdoor had let go under the feet of quite minor wrongdoers there was now smooth parquet flooring.
“There is also a deep well at the centre of the Castle’s main hall where children drop coins and count the seconds before the ripples spread. It is all so innocent . . .”
IT HAD BEEN A HARD DAY in the dungeons. Now, as the summer sun dipped to the horizon, Martin Glover stood on the Castle battlements and gazed out over the city. The golden cockerel at the tip of the of the Cathedral’s thin spire glinted in the setting sun and urged him to lean out through the crenellations as if he was about to fly to it across the rooftops. He tested the notion by opening his mouth as if to feel the rush of air.
“We want none of that, young sir.” There was a harsh rasp to the voice that made him start and look over his shoulder. “We wouldn’t want to have to scrape you up off of the street, would we, son?”
Dr Martin Glover, the scholar, was amused to be addressed as son. He was young, but not young enough for that. But he was aware he had just been spotted leaning too far over the parapet like a schoolboy showing off to a girl. “I was just enjoying the view,” he said.
“They all say that, son – but they go for the long drop just the same.”
“Do they, indeed?” Martin had not been aware that any suicides had chosen to leap from the battlements. He said so.
The man merely grinned. “There’s several been for the high jump hereabouts.”
“But surely not recently?” Martin had not seen the man before but he was obviously an attendant at the Castle. He had an air of authority, and at this hour all visitors had long since gone.
“Maybe not recently, but we do keep a record of all of them who come here to end it all.”
“That’s bizarre . . . I had no idea.”
“We keep a book.” The man was thin and his shaved head and hollow cheeks were frosted with a grey stubble. “We make a note of the names, and someone has to sign to say it happened. It’s our duty,
As a historian, he had been granted the freedom of the records kept in the Castle museum and he had been given space to work in what must have been the dungeons long ago. He had climbed to the battlements for a breath of fresh air before leaving. Now he glanced at his watch. It was later than he thought. “The Castle must have closed long ago!” he exclaimed.
“Locked and bolted some time back. Maybe you didn’t want to hear us making the last rounds . . . had your hands over your ears, maybe.” The man’s smile was watchful.
“Why should I not want to hear?”
“Matter of opinion, son. Some don’t want to hear me coming.”
Martin laughed. “People like me, you mean – too busy with their lives to want to stop work.”
“If that’s the way you want to think of it, son.”
The man’s dark clothes were slightly shabby, and not what Martin expected of a museum attendant, particularly the loose leather jacket, sleeveless and rubbed smooth with wear. Dress regulations were plainly relaxed for night staff.
Martin, suddenly embarrassed by his own silence as he studied the man’s clothes, said, “I have to apologise. You must have stayed on late to let me out.”
The attendant was amused. “That’s no problem at all, son. We keep a night watch hereabouts.”
“Nevertheless . . .” Martin began, then changed his tack. “Well I must be on my way and let you get on with your night’s work . . . your patrols, or whatever you have to do.” He nodded towards the large bunch of keys in the man’s hand, “Locking up, and that sort of thing.”
“Locking up . . .” The thin smile pushed up wrinkles that turned his eyes into watery slits that glinted in the last of the sun. “Plenty of that, oh yes.”
Martin grinned a shade uncomfortably with the golden glint of the eyes on him. “I hope you can
“Enjoy the fresh air while you have the chance,
Martin made a mild attempt to correct him. “You haven’t chased me off the roof,” he said, “so I imagine my name is on a list of people allowed behind the scenes.”
It had no effect. “There’s always a list, Mr Glover, always a list.”
“Well I’m very pleased to be on the right one.” Suicides were still on Martin’s mind. “But I’m afraid I don’t know your name, Mr . . .”
“Me name is Jack, but that don’t matter . . . you won’t be around when I’m here next.”
That could be true. Martin, the historian, had almost finished his work among the records kept in the old dungeons, but it rankled that the nightwatchman was dismissing him so curtly.
The man had turned away and the sunlight no longer showed his face. “We’ve had our glimpse of daylight,” he said, “so now it’s time to go.” Another order, but Martin had no reason to disobey. He had had a profitable day and his laptop held many files that would fill out the detail of his research.
He crossed the roof and began descending the stair into the heart of the Castle. Above him keys rattled as the door to the roof was locked. It seemed an unnecessary precaution. No thief could possibly scale the Castle walls to make an entry, but perhaps locking up was a measure to prevent people coming out onto the roof from below . . .
“Suicide . . .” The nightwatchman’s voice broke into his thoughts. “You’d be surprised at how often it’s in their minds when I bring ’em up here.”
Martin turned and looked up. A skylight at the top of the steep stair framed the foreshortened figure of the nightwatchman as he came down. He was as squat as a frog.
“As you work nights,” said Martin, “you don’t take tour parties up here so I suppose it’s only the odd person like me who is allowed on the roof alone.”
“That’s right. People just like you . . . but the ones you’ve got to watch is them who’ve got out of the habit of daylight, if you know what I mean.” No, Martin did not understand him, but the descending figure was pressing him and he had to turn and continue going down. “I take ’em up as a kindness, so as they can see the world spread out on every side, but it’s then I’ve got to watch ’em most of all . . . talk about trying to cheat the hangman!”
The nightwatchman was laughing as they came down to the open floor that had once been the Great Hall of the Castle. Martin pushed thoughts of suicide out of his mind, but for a moment he trembled and felt very small at the edge of the huge emptiness. Without its daytime visitors the Castle brooded on too many secrets, and even though the museum exhibits in their glass cases were still illuminated and shed a familiar and friendly glow, the ceiling high overhead was a shroud of darkness.
He turned to the watchman. “I wouldn’t blame you if you kept these lights on all night.”
“Not up to me, son. They go off all by theirselves.”
“Then I imagine you are pretty lonely, Jack.” It was the first time he had used the man’s name, but it sounded ingratiating as if he sought companionship in facing a childish fear of the dark.
“I wouldn’t say lonely. I’ve always enjoyed my work.”
“I mean there are so many strange things here to work on the imagination.” Martin turned and marched swiftly to where an iron grating was set in the centre of the floor. “Take this, for example.”
They stood on each side of the grating and looked down. A vertical shaft had been cut through the rock and they gazed down through the long funnel that had been rigged with lights but nevertheless ended in darkness far below.
“I know it’s only a well, but it’s dark down there at the bottom. Gives me the creeps.” Martin shuddered. The well had always made him uneasy even when, feeling like a child himself, he had stood among crowds of children kneeling on the grating to let pennies fall into the darkness. He stepped back. “Too big a drop for me,” he said.
The watchman did not appear to have heard him. He stood with head bent, contemplating the depth of the pit, and the light from below emphasised his heavy brow, the spread of his nostrils, and the severe line of his mouth as he concentrated. “Yes,” he said, and blew out his breath in a grim chuckle. “I’ve seen men sprung apart in a drop not half so big as that.”
“Sprung apart? What does that mean?”
“Don’t ask . . . or I might tell you.” The watchman lifted his head and the shadows flung up from the light below distorted his smile. He was gloating at the thoughts he had put into Martin’s mind. “It’s not something a young feller would want to know about – not in your situation.”
“What situation is that?” Martin was angry and expected an answer, but none came. Instead, the watchman motioned him to step ahead and lead the way across the Great Hall. Martin, on the verge of defying him, hesitated. And then it was too late. There was a hint of malice in the watchman’s steady stare that persuaded him to swallow his pride and obey. He went ahead, but it was a mistake. He felt like a schoolboy . . . or worse. The faint jangle of keys at his back compelled him to think of the watchman as his jailer which, in effect, he was. There was no way out of the Castle without him.
The lights in the exhibition cases suddenly went out and he stumbled. It betrayed his nervousness, and he felt foolish because there was enough pale greyness in the air from the arrow slits in the Castle wall to show him the way to the next chamber. He apologised for the stumble.
“And they call
“I suppose it’s the night work they don’t like.” Martin was sympathetic, but the response was a laugh so harsh he felt the back of his neck crawl.
“It’s not the night they don’t like – it’s the morning! It’s what has to be done when the sun comes up – that’s what makes ’em go all lily-white.”
Martin manoeuvred so that the watchman was no longer completely behind him but alongside. “What is it they have to do . . . in the morning?”
“They have to open up the place, don’t they? But there’s one door in particular they don’t want to open, ain’t there?” The bristled head turned towards him. “And you know what door that is, I reckon.”
Martin did know. It was suddenly obvious what was happening. The nightwatchman had detected his anxiety and was putting him through something that happened several times every day. The old Castle, in more recent times, had been a prison and parties were conducted through what little remained intact of those brutal days. It was an entertainment. The guides made the prison tour as gruesome as they could, and there was one place in particular where to be told of the unlocking of a door at dawn gave tourists a ghastly thrill.
“It’s the door of the execution chamber,” said Martin.
“You got nerve, son. A lot of people in your shoes don’t want to know about it.”
“In my shoes?”
“You’re standing there talking about it when you know what’s coming.”
Martin was ignorant of what came next. It was his guide who knew what would happen.
“I can open that door and I don’t feel a thing,” said the watchman, “but some o’ them others always jib at it.”
The man loved his work. His grim pleasure was to make people fear him. Dread at being alone in the Castle with such a man must have shown in Martin’s face. Jack the watchman detected it.
“There’s nothing to worry about, son,” he said. “I’m good at me job.” His chuckle was a rasp as if he was clearing phlegm. “None of me clients ever complained . . . yet.”
Too much talk of death. Martin was caught up in the night-watchman’s world. He was losing himself, as if he was a scared child.
Too much like a child. He wanted to be safe at home . . . with his mother and father, as if they were still alive.
He and the watchman had entered part of the Castle where each room led into others in a confusing honeycomb. “It’s very late.” His mouth was dry and, like the terrified boy he had become, he had to lick his lips before he went on. “I don’t need to fetch my papers from down below, I’ll just leave straight away.”
He had begun to cross the room before he realised he did not know which way to go. The honeycomb was a maze and he was not sure which archway led to the foyer and the outer door. To take the wrong one would make confusion even worse.
He paused, and turned. The watchman had not budged.
“Lost your way, son?”
“If you could just point me in the right direction . . .”
“And even then you wouldn’t get far without these.” The watchman, smiling, held up his bunch of keys and jangled them softly.
The room was a picture gallery lit only by the blue glow of the emergency lights close to the floor. Martin felt its dimness close around him. He was trapped. Then the watchman spoke.
“Nothing to worry about, son. You’ll be out and away in just a few minutes. I can guarantee you that.”
And Martin’s head sagged with relief. Jack the watchman was playing a game with him. He was still acting out the daytime tour to give him an idea of what the Castle meant to those who were not allowed the privileges of scholars.
“I’m tired.” He yawned and his eyes were closed as he listened. The watchman was still playing his part. He had the voice for it; harsh and without pity.
“Some of them tell me they’ll be glad when it’s all over. After all that time down in them dark dungeons they come up here as quiet as lambs. They don’t even want to go for that little walk on the roof that we just had. Everyone knows I always offer – but some just don’t want me to take ’em.”
There was silence. Martin kept his eyes closed. The nightwatch-man would see that he was not afraid. The game was over.
“You know where you are, son.”
He did know. More than a hundred years ago this picture gallery had not existed. It had been part of the prison.
He felt a hand on his arm. Jack the watchman changed his tone. He gave orders. “You’ve had your walk, lad. Now it’s time to go.”
The grip tightened, and Martin opened his eyes.
The light in the room had changed, but that could only be the effect of having had his eyes closed. The light was yellow, like the pale glow of candles, and the walls were dull and seemed to have closed in. The ceiling, too, was lower, and in the centre of the room was something he had not noticed. At first he took it for an open doorway until he realised it was no more than a doorframe, freestanding in the middle of the floor.
He opened his mouth to ask a question when, from one side of the room, what seemed to be a group of people entered in single file, gliding silently until they stood behind the open doorway. It was then he saw that the framework was no door. It was a gallows. A noose hung from the centre beam.
It was all a trick. The figures were no more than a shadow show, a projection on the wall to entertain visitors. And only the nightwatch-man could have switched it on. Martin moved to tell him so, but before he could even look over his shoulder his arms were forced together behind his back and his wrists were bound.
He opened his mouth to cry out but the cord at his wrists was twisted and bit into his flesh with a spasm that arched him backwards.
“It’s no good, lad.” The watchman’s voice rasped in his ear. “You know you got to go through with it.”
He gritted his teeth. “Go through with what!”
“You should never have done what you done,” said Jack. “You knew this was coming.”
And in that moment Martin did know what lay ahead. Every sinew in his body tautened and he twisted. He felt his shirt sleeve rip, and he backed away. But he got no further than a single step. He stood against a stone wall. Cold stone. And the floor was stone. Except for the wooden flap of the trap in the centre, under the noose.
“It ain’t no use.” It was Jack’s voice.
There was no way out. He had slipped from century to century. Even his clothes were different. His prison shirt had been torn in his struggle. His feet were clammy in the cold leather of his shoes. The gallows were in front of him and there was nowhere to go.
“You know you got to go through with it, lad. You was a naughty boy, wasn’t you?”
Martin shrank from the voice. It spoke the truth. He was a boy. He was wicked. He had put his skinny fingers into a purse and pulled out a coin.
“You done it, so you knew this was coming. I give you a walk on the roof, didn’t I? Like I do to everyone I has to deal with. I give you a breath of fresh air and let you see the countryside, but then I bring you down here and you got to face it.”
There were tears on his face, but there was no chance to cry out. He was choked to silence by heavy fingers across his face.
“You don’t want to be gagged now, do you, son?”
The fingers relaxed and as they did so Martin ceased to struggle.
“That’s more like it, boy. Now I want you to step forward.”
He heard himself whimper. Then the voice of the hangman. “Three steps . . . that’s all it takes.”
He was gripped and pushed. He saw the outline of the trap in the floor, and his feet were kicked until he stood on it.
His legs were bound. The rope brushed his head, but there was no hood. He felt the knot of the noose tighten under his ear. The rope was rough on his neck. He struggled, silently, lithe as a cat, writhing like a dangling man but with his feet still scuffling the solid trapdoor. And now came the hood, and blackness. The cloth was against his mouth and his last breath was muffled as the trap fell away beneath him, and he dropped.
Then nothing . . .
blankness . . .
darkness . . .
Pain flashed white in his brain, and a voice was saying something.
The hangman had bungled. His neck was not broken. He struggled to free his arms from the cords. There were no cords.
The voice again: “Dr Glover . . . can you hear me? We’ve been looking for you. You weren’t in your office and we found you here . . .”
He lay on a hard floor. He moved an arm. He was not shackled. A flashlight blinded him, and he shielded his eyes.
“We thought you must’ve gone onto the roof for a breath of air, but there was no sign of you.”
Suddenly he was sitting up. There were two men. “Who are you!”
“Night staff. We’ve just found you.”
He looked around wildly. He was in the picture gallery. The light was dim except for the beam stabbing into his eyes. No gallows. He slid his hand over the polished floor. No sign of a trapdoor.
“Where is he?” he said
The men were crouched beside him. Who did he mean, they asked.
“Jack,” he said. He scrambled to his feet. “Where’s the one they call Jack?”
The men were silent for a moment. Then one of them said, “There’s only us two, Dr Glover – Maurice and Fred, we do the night watch together.”
Silence. He looked from one to the other. Maurice and Fred. He opened his mouth but no words came.
“You must have fainted, Doctor. Did you hurt yourself?”
“No . . . no, there’s nothing wrong with me.” He looked around the gallery. He got to his feet without help, and after a moment turned cautiously to face them. “Long ago,” he said, knowing that he spoke slyly, “I believe this room had another purpose. Is that so?”
Both men smiled. “You mean when it was a prison?” said Maurice, the leader. “Someone’s been telling you the old story.” He nodded towards the corner. “It’s true enough. The gallows used to be over there, in the execution chamber.”
Martin’s mouth was too dry to speak. He was unsteady, and Maurice noticed. “Let’s go down to your room, Dr Glover, and we’ll get you a drink.”
Sitting at his desk with the companionship of two others he began to recover. “I didn’t know anything about the gallows but I certainly felt strange in that room,” he said.
They both nodded. “Fred and I can tell you that something lingers in places like that, and if you weren’t feeling too good, well . . .” Maurice shrugged.
Martin had only hinted at his nightmare, but he had to test what had happened. “I was told . . .” he began and then corrected himself. “People say there have been a lot of suicides here . . . people leaping from the Castle walls.”
“I’ve never heard of any,” said Maurice, and Fred agreed.
“But there’s a list,” Martin insisted.
Both men looked blank and shook their heads and in his exasperation Martin suddenly burst out, “Jack told me the Castle kept a record!” Jack again, and there was no Jack. He looked away. “I’m sorry.”
It was Fred, the quieter of the two, who shuffled for a moment before he stood up and went to a filing cabinet in the corner of the tiny room that had at one time been a dungeon. He had to rummage before he took out what looked like an old account book and laid it on Martin’s desk. “I don’t know about suicides,” he said, “but I reckon this is a sort of register.”
Martin opened it. In fact it was an account book with columns marked in red ink. There was a list of dates and against each was a person’s name, and beneath that another name and then a sum of money. In each case the amount was one guinea.
Martin looked up. “They can’t be suicides.”
“No, Doctor. Not suicides, but they all died here in the Castle. They were executed here. Murderers mostly.”
He looked again at the columns. The names of hanged men, their age, and against each one the name of his trade. On the line beneath every one was written:
“That was for a job well done, Doctor Glover.” Both watchmen were smiling. “Jack Ketch was the name this city used to give to the public hangman – so as no one knew who he really was.”
“And they do say that Jack made all his clients suffer,” said Maurice. “Kind of played with them before he turned them off. And he never got the drop right so they suffered a lot more than they had to – more strangled than hanged.”
Martin nodded. His eyes dipped again to the page, the column of names and, at the bottom of the list, one in particular: Martin Jones, aged twelve, thief, and then the trade he was apprenticed to
CHRISTOPHER FOWLER
The Luxury of Harm
CHRISTOPHER FOWLER HAS WRITTEN many award-winning novels and collections of short stories. His 2003 book
When he’s not writing horror or dark comedy, he’s creating new adventures for Bryant & May, his elderly detectives of the sinister. He lives in King’s Cross, London, with a very nice view of St Paul’s Cathedral. His latest novel is
As Fowler admits: “ ‘The Luxury of Harm’ is a mean-spirited blend of real-life events that included being Best Man at an old friend’s wedding and going to a horror festival in an English coastal town. I don’t think I’ll be invited back after they read this.”
WHEN I WAS ELEVEN, I was warned to stay away from a new classmate with freckles and an insolent tie, so naturally we became inseparable partners in disruption, reducing our educators to tears of frustration.
For the next eight years our friendship proved mystifying to all. Simon horrified our teachers by illegally racing his Easy Rider motorbike across the football field. We took the deputy headmaster’s car to pieces, laying it out in the school car park as neatly as a stemmed Airfix kit. We produced a libellous school magazine with jokes filched from TV programmes, and created radio shows mocking everyone we knew. When you find yourself bullied, it’s best to team up with someone frightening. Simon perverted me from learning, and I made his soul appear salvageable whenever he super-glued the school cat or made prank phone-calls. I fretted that we would get into trouble, and he worked out how we could burn down the school without being caught.
Boys never tire of bad behaviour. Through the principals of economics and the theory of gravity, the Wars of the Roses and Shakespeare’s symbolism, we cut open golf balls and tied pupils up in the elastic, carved rocket-ships into desks and forged each others’ parental signatures on sick notes.
During puberty, Simon bought a mean leather jacket. I opted for an orange nylon polo-neck shirt with Velcro fastenings. He looked like James Dean. I looked like Simon Dee. In order to meet girls, we signed up for the school opera. Simon met a blue-eyed blonde backstage while I appeared as a dancing villager in a shrill, off-key production of
But before that end came, we shared a special moment. By the time this happened, we had gone our separate ways; he became the conformist, with a country home and family, and I turned into the strange one, living alone in town. Recontacting Simon, I persuaded him to come to a horror convention with me, in a tiny Somerset town called Silburton, where the narrow streets were steeped in mist that settled across the river estuary, and fishing boats lay on their sides in the mud like discarded toys. The place reeked of dead fish, tar and rotting shells, and the locals were so taciturn it seemed that conversation had been bred out of them.
The hotel, a modern brick block that looked like a caravan site outhouse, had no record of our booking, and was full because of the convention. In search of a guesthouse, we found a Bed & Breakfast place down beside the river ramps and lugged bags up three flights through narrow corridors, watching by the landlady in case we scratched her Indian-restaurant wallpaper. The beds felt wet and smelled of seaweed.
By the time we returned to the convention hotel, the opening night party was in full swing. A yellow-furred alien was hovering uncertainly in the reception area, struggling to hold a pint mug in his rubber claws, and a pair of local Goth girls clung to the counter, continually looking around as though they were afraid that their parents might wander in and spot them, raising their arms to point and scream like characters from
Every year the convention had a theme, and this year it was “Murderers on Page and Screen”, so there were a few Hannibal Lecters standing around, including a grinning lad with the top of his head sawn off. The bar staff took turns to stare at him through the serving hatch.
“Is this really what you do for fun?” Simon asked me, amazed that I could take pleasure from hanging out with guys dressed as Jason and Freddy, films no one even watched any more. “Who comes to these things?”
“Book people, lonely people,” I said simply, gesturing at the filling room. “Give it a chance,” I told him. “There’s no attitude here, and it gets to be fun around midnight, when everyone’s drunk. Come on, you said your life was very straight. This is something new.”
Simon looked unsure; he hardly ever read, so the dealers’ rooms, the panels and the literary conversation held no interest for him. He talked about his kids a lot, which was boring. I wanted him to be the kid I’d admired at school. He could relate to drinking, though, and relaxed after a couple of powerful local beers that swirled like dark sandstorms in their glasses. Simon could drink for England. “So,” he asked, “are they all writers looking for tips?”
“In a way. Take this year’s theme. We’re intrigued by motivation, method, character development. How do you create a realistic murderer? Who would make a good victim?” I tried to think of a way of involving Simon in my world. “Take the pair of us, for example. I’m on my home turf here. People know me. If I went missing, there would be questions asked. For once, you’re the outsider. You were once the tough guy, the bike-riding loner nobody knew, and you’re unknown here. That would make you the perfect victim.”
“Why?” Simon wasn’t the sort to let something beat him. His interest was piqued, and he wanted to understand.
“Because taking you out would require an act of bravery, and would be a show of strength. Killers seek notoriety to cover their inadequacies. But they also enjoy the remorse of loss.”
Simon snorted. “How the hell does that work?”
“There’s a strange pleasure to be taken in melancholy matters, don’t you think? A kind of tainted sweetness. Look at the Goths and their fascination with death and decay.”
“Okay, that’s the victim sorted, so who’s the killer?”
“Look around. Who would you choose?”
Simon scoped out the bar area. “Not the Jason or Freddy look-alikes. They’re geeks who would pass out at the sight of a paper cut. They’d be happy to watch, but they wouldn’t act.”
“Good, keep going.”
“And the Goths couldn’t kill, even though they’re professional mourners. They look tough but play gentle.”
“Excellent.”
“But him, over there.” He tapped his forefinger against the palm of his hand, indicating behind him. “He looks like he’s here to buy books about guys who murder their mothers. It wouldn’t be such a big step to committing a murder.”
“Yeah, we get a few of those at conventions. They sit in the front row at the Q&As, and are always the first to raise their hands with a question. There’s one guy, a retired doctor, who even gives me the creeps. Over there.” I pointed out the cadaverous Mr Henry, with his greasy comb-over and skin like the pages of a book left in the sun. He never missed a convention, even though he wasn’t a writer or publisher, or even a reader. “He once told me he owns one of the country’s largest collections of car crash photographs, and collects pictures of skin diseases.”
“That’s gross. I knew there would be freaks here.”
“Relax, he’s too obvious. If there’s one trick to serial killer stories, it’s making sure that the murderer is never someone you suspect. Have you noticed there are some very cute girls hanging around the bar?”
“You’re right about that,” Simon grudgingly admitted, watching two of them over the top of his glass.
“You should go and make their acquaintance,” I suggested. “I’ll just be here talking weird books with old friends, or the other way around.”
I got into a long discussion/argument about the merits of
Somehow I managed to overshoot the path, and ended up on the seaweed-slick ramp to the harbour. The only sounds were the lapping of the water and the tinging of masts. The tide was coming in, and the boats were being raised from their graves like reanimating corpses. Drunk and happy and suddenly tired, I sat down on the wet brown sand and allowed the sea-mist to slowly reveal its secrets. It formed a visible circle around me, like the kind of fog in a video game that always stays the same distance no matter how hard you run. A discarded shovel someone had used to dig for lugworms stood propped against the harbour wall. Orange nylon fishing nets, covered with stinking algae, were strung out like sirens’ shawls.
And through the mist I gradually discerned a slender figure, his head lolling slightly to one side, one arm lower than the other, like the skeleton in Aurora’s “Forgotten Prisoner” model kit, or the one that features on my cover of
There was a strong smell of ozone and rotting fish. The figure raised a ragged, dripping sleeve to its skull, rubbing skin to bone. It seemed as though it had ascended from the black bed of the sea.
“I fell off the fucking dock and tore my jacket. I am so incredibly slaughtered,” said Simon, before tipping over and landing on his back in the sand with a thump.
The next morning, screaming seagulls hovered so close to my bedroom window that I could see inside their mouths. Shafts of ocean sunlight bounced through the window, punching holes in my brain. My tongue tasted of old duvet. I needed air.
I knocked on Simon’s door, but there was no answer. Breakfast had finished, and the landlady had gone. The Easy Rider motorbike still stood in the car park behind the guest house.
The tide was out and the mist had blown away, leaving the foreshore covered in silvery razor-clams and arabesques of green weed. On the stone walkway above the harbour, an elderly lady in a tea-cosy hat marched past with a shopping bag. There was no one else about. The gulls shrieked and wheeled.
Carefully, I walked across the beach to the spot where Simon had fallen, and knelt down. It took a moment to locate the exact place. Rubbing gently at a patch of soft sand, I revealed his sand-filled mouth, his blocked nostrils, one open shell-scratched eye that stared bloodily up into the sky. I rose and stood hard on his face, rocking back and forth until I had forced his head deeper into the beach. I carefully covered him over with more sand, smoothing it flat and adding some curlicues of seaweed and a couple of cockleshells for effect. Finally I threw the shovel I had used on his neck as far as I could into the stagnant water of the harbour.
As I headed back to the convention hotel, ready to deliver my lecture on “Random Death: The Luxury of Harm”, a heartbreaking happiness descended upon me. I knew that there would be plenty of time to savour the full delicious loss of my old friend in the days, the months, the years to come.
MARK SAMUELS
Sentinels
MARK SAMUELS WAS BORN in Clapham, London. He is the author of two collections,
His stories have appeared in both
“When my friend Adam Clayton brought out his non-fiction book
“This research somehow got mixed up in my imagination with a 1970s film called
INSPECTOR GRAY’S INVOLVEMENT in the affair was due to a combination of ill fortune and the photographic cover of a London “urban legends” paperback called
He planned to lose himself in some cheap and trashy horror paperback from his little collection. The TV had broken down months ago and instead of replacing it he found that he had got into the habit of reading musty book relics from the ’60s and ’70s, with their yellowing, brittle pages and lurid covers. Gray fancied himself something of a connoisseur when it came to the covers; in fact he felt himself in opposition with the old maxim about never judging a book by them. He harboured the conviction that those featuring a weird photographic composition were invariably superior to those that had artwork depicting the tired cliché-symbols of horror; skulls, snakes or gothic castles for example.
In fact, he had come in for some jokes at his expense back at the Yard over his choice of reading matter. Most of his colleagues talked about little except what they watched on TV the night before, often sleazy porn videos that they’d “loaned” from the Obscene Publications division. They’d taken to calling him “The Weird Detective” behind his back and on one occasion he’d turned around sharply to find a group of constables miming having vampire fangs by putting their index fingers at the corners of their mouths. Gray made sure thereafter that he wasn’t seen reading any of his books during the little time he had for lunch. Instead he read one of the broadsheet papers as he consumed his sandwiches at his desk. His alienation from his colleagues caused him pain and he suspected that the department would run more smoothly were he not there.
What Gray saw as he passed by in his car appeared to be some sort of stunted, emaciated creature peering through the trellis gates of Kentish Town Underground Station. The thing was only around four or five feet tall and dressed in black ragged overalls. Its face was obscured by a mass of dusty shoulder-length hair.
It was gone 1:00 a.m. when Gray passed the Underground Station, and it had been closed for only a short time. He had pulled over to the side of the road and looked back in order to see whether the apparition was still there, but there was no sign of it at all. Doubtless, he thought, his colleagues back at the Yard would have laughed at what he thought he saw; too many of those damn books he read. But Gray felt his heart racing in his chest. He could not dismiss the thing that easily from his mind. What he’d seen was no product of the imagination. It had really been there.
Although the station was closed, it might not yet be deserted. Once the train service finished there were still staff working on the platforms and in the tunnels. An army of cleaners called “Fluffers” made their way along the lines and scoured them for debris. All manner of litter had to be cleared away, beer-cans, half-eaten junk food, newspapers, even tumbleweeds composed of skin and human hair. There was also the “Gangers”; the engineers who checked track safety. Perhaps Gray had simply glimpsed one of those overnight workers having a break, one whose similarity to the uncanny thing on the front cover of
Nevertheless, what he had observed remained in his thoughts, causing uneasy dreams when he finally slept: dreams of endless subterranean tunnels and of a gaunt silence punctuated by a distant rustling or whispering noise. Had he not seen whatever it was at the station (or whatever
As he sat at his desk the next morning, sipping at a cup of vile instant coffee, Gray flicked through the case files in his in-box. He had a feeling that had become increasingly commonplace during the course of the last few months. It was that the investigations to which he had been assigned were effectively a waste of effort. The assault that he’d suffered months ago during the arrest of Montrose the serial rapist had left him hospitalised for weeks and resulted in internal ruptures that would, he had been advised by the surgeon, require a much more sedate lifestyle. The Yard had done the best they could under the circumstances and found him a role, albeit desk bound, but although his initial assignments had been current Gray discovered that as time passed he was being asked to examine cases that had little chance of being solved. The bulk of these were missing persons.
Scarcely sociable before, Gray had turned further inwards after the beating. It had affected his mind just as much as his body. Somehow he had allowed his old friends to drift away and found excuses not to keep in touch with them. He felt himself to be little more than an empty shell and contact with others only served to reinforce the impression. The Yard offered Gray counselling to help him come to terms with the trauma caused by the Montrose incident, but he found the idea even more repellent than his doctor’s suggestion that he take a course of anti-depressants. When fate worked upon him he intended to adapt to it and not resist. Even so, he felt like a missing person who had himself been assigned to trace other missing persons.
Gray ran his tongue over his scalded lips, again cursing the too-hot and foul-tasting coffee, when his attention was taken up by a communiqué that had come in only a few hours earlier. Although a missing persons report is not usually filed until some days after a disappearance (except where children are involved), this one had been “fast-tracked” due to there being no question of the subject having absented himself deliberately. The missing individual was a tube train driver (or “operator” as they were now called). His name was Adam Drayton. The curious thing was this: he had abandoned his train between the Camden Town and Kentish Town stations on the Northern Line. It had been the very last service of the night, due to terminate at High Barnet at 1:30 a m. Moreover, if there had been any passengers in the carriages then they too had vanished.
Early in the morning a replacement driver had shunted the train into a siding. On the front of the case file a joker in the office had scrawled the words “Mary Celeste Tube? A Case for the Weird Detective?” with a marker pen.
But Inspector Gray, through some bizarre coincidence, was one of the few people who would recognise the name “Adam Drayton” in another connection. For it was also the name of the author/editor of that outré book of urban legends published under the title
Gray spent the afternoon interviewing Drayton’s colleagues in the staff mess room of the train depot just outside Finchley Central Station. This was where the tube drivers spent their time between shifts, sitting around drinking coffee, smoking their cigarettes and reading newspapers. They were a talkative bunch although the inspector could not help noticing their mistrust and fear of him as a representative from an outside authority. Some of them even seemed to believe that Drayton’s disappearance was an internal matter and should be left to the union to investigate. Outside interference, whether from the law or elsewhere, was certainly not welcome. Still, there were one or two who retained a sense of individuality and were able to realise that Gray had not come in order to apportion any blame, merely to discover what may have led Drayton to act in the manner that he did.
One of the drivers, Carlos Miguel, a Castilian, was particularly communicative. He had settled in this country after leaving Madrid in the early 1990s. He had been almost alone in befriending Drayton, who had been regarded by the others as an oddball whose political views were not sufficiently radical. Miguel was a tall, distinguished man in his forties with a shock of jet-black hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. He had shared Drayton’s enthusiasm for the recondite and whilst the others talked of union activities or the football results, the two men had retreated to a corner and held their own discussions.
Had Gray not been aware of Drayton’s editorship of that paperback
“So,” the Spaniard declared, “you know of
“Yes,” Gray replied, “I think it’s a bit garish but the cover’s particularly . . .”
Miguel cut in.
“
Gray looked blank and shook his head.
“Well,” Miguel went on, “you must understand that it would not be mistaken to say that he was obsessed with them. Drayton told me that the Northern Line has the longest continuous Yerkes tunnel on the network, over seventeen miles long. The stretch between East Finchley and Morden. Also it has the deepest. At Hampstead 900 feet below ground. He had numerous theories about what was down there;
“Speculations, rumour, hearsay,” Gray responded, “amounting to nothing more than fiction. He was just an editor of a horrible series of urban legends. I confess that the parallel between his disappearance and obsession is striking but . . .”
“
“The abandoned stations?”
“
“Are you suggesting that Adam Drayton stopped his train and got out at one of these ghost stations?”
“
“I don’t understand.”
“. . . like a moth drawn to a flame.”
That evening, once Gray had got back to his cramped flat in Tufnell Park, he sat down in his easy chair with his copy of
There was one paragraph in the final chapter that seemed to be the inspiration for the uneasy dreams Gray had experienced. It ran as follows:
“
His attention kept jumping from the text to the series of bizarre black and white photographs throughout the book. Quite where Drayton had obtained them from was not made clear; they were not credited. They may even have come from his personal collection. What they showed was this:
(Front cover) A blurred humanoid figure seen from a passing tube train whose face is almost completely covered by its hair. Between the strands there seems to be a mouth lined with shark-like fangs. The haggard creature is backing into a siding, away from the light.
(pg.18) A photographic record of a series of exhumed graves with empty coffins whose bases had been torn apart.
(pg.33) A blueprint of a subterranean reverse-tower with forty-five storeys and access shafts radiating from it in all directions, some leading to burial grounds, others to sewers etc. bearing the legend “North End (Hampstead)”.
(pg.49) What appears to be a series of bloody, smeared handprints on the white wall tiles of British Museum Station during its use as an air-raid shelter circa 1941.
(pg.87) Human bones, including a skull, photographed lying alongside the tracks of an Underground tunnel.
(pg.102) Graffiti scrawled (in charcoal?) on the side of 1972 Mk. 1 train stock that reads “THE HUNGRY CANNOT SLEEP”, “WE CRAWL THROUGH GRAVES”, “THE DARKNESS BEHIND YOUR EYES” and “BELOW THERE IS ONLY PAIN”.
(pg.126) A sewer chamber choked by vast quantities of hair hanging from a curved ceiling of Victorian brickwork.
It was relatively easy for Gray to obtain a search warrant in order to enter the disused South Kentish Town station. Although above ground the building was now occupied by a massage parlour where once the ticket hall had been, all the subterranean shafts, corridors and other passageways were still owned by London Underground. Since their abandonment there had been no reason to maintain them and parts of the former station were unsafe. In order to gain access Gray had to agree to be accompanied by a track maintenance engineer who worked on that stretch of the Northern Line and who was familiar with the site.
This engineer, John Heath, arranged to meet Gray outside the massage parlour at the corner of Kentish Town Road and Castle Place. The inspector parked his car directly in front of the building and was struck by the fact that its exterior still had the appearance of an Underground Station, lacking only the familiar sign displayed outside. Hanging around in front of the entrance to the newsagents was a small man in a yellow safety helmet and boiler suit. He carried a heavy bag with a sub-contractors’ logo on it. His hands were entirely covered with a thick layer of soot. Doubtless it was the man who been assigned to assist Gray.
Heath looked just like a throwback to the 1960s. His hippie-length hair was brittle and grey as dust. Over his mouth and nose he wore a loose protective mask. He also wore a pair of John Lennon style glasses with thick lenses that made the eyes behind them look liquid. He was really quite horribly ridiculous.
After Gray had produced his police ID, the two went inside, and the Inspector explained their purpose to the owners of the massage parlour (who seemed relieved that the search was not connected with what went on at their premises). Then Heath, consulting a map of the structure, led Gray down into a storage cellar at the back of the establishment where access to the emergency stairs could be gained.
The old lift shafts were useless. Their cages and all the workings had been removed back when the station was closed in 1924, but the stairway to the upper lift landing and the emergency staircase to the lower lift landing were passable. The entry doors were padlocked and Heath sought and tried several keys drawn from his bag before he found the correct ones to use.
“They,” Heath said, his voice muffled by the baggy mask covering his mouth and nose, “told me why you want to get down here. Anyway it’s pointless. We already looked for Drayton. All you’re doing is putting yourself in danger.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” replied Gray, “just get on with it. You do your job and I’ll do mine, okay?”
“Watch your step as we go. These old passageways are treacherous. Even if you don’t wind up falling into a ventilation shaft, you might stumble in front of a passing train. Hear the noise?”
As he unlocked the door there came from far below in the depths the sound of carriages rumbling along distant tracks, followed moments later by a powerful draught of musty air.
Heath chuckled. He turned on a powerful torch and aimed its beam along the stairway and around to the dark-green tiled walls at the turn ahead. The steps were littered with debris.
Gray was amazed at how familiar and yet how strange their surroundings appeared. Like any Londoner he had used the tube system on innumerable occasions and had passed through the subterranean mazes of many stations, though always when they were illuminated by overhead strip lighting, with hurried passengers making their way to or from a platform. But here the darkness was in control and every echoing footfall reinforced the grim feeling of total isolation. And yet it was only the withdrawal of light and of other people that created this feeling: actually it was just the same as any other tube station would be after the services had stopped running. Except that this was no temporary interruption to be resumed in the morning. This really was what Carlos Miguel called
“Did you know Adam Drayton?” Gray asked in order to break the gaunt silence between the sound of passing trains.
He could only see the back of Heath. The engineer’s slightly hunched form crept downwards along the steps, apparently intent solely upon what he was doing. But he finally responded after what seemed to be a considered pause.
“Oh yes,” Heath said, “I knew
“Safety?”
“The union said it was faulty signals that were to blame. And strange noises on the track. Made him cautious. Better to be safe than sorry. Go-slow is preferable to taking chances. That’s what the union said.”
They had reached the bottom of the stairway and emerged onto the upper lift landing. The tiles here were a grimy cream and red colour. In the circle of light cast by Heath’s torch, he caught glimpses of advertising posters from the early 1920s that had been left up on the tiled walls of the corridor ahead; LIFEBUOY, BOVRIL, OXO, WRIGLEY’S and GUINNESS. Another tube train roared through one of the tunnels below and the accompanying blast of air flapped the torn parts of the posters.
“What do you know about the disused stations here on the Northern Line? Have you seen the others for yourself?” Gray asked.
“I know something. I’ve been in them all at one time or another. They have a bad reputation. The most significant is North End or the ‘Bull & Bush’ as the train operators like to call it.” Heath responded.
“Why significant?”
“The floodgates, y’know,” said Heath. “Instead of the tube station that was going to be there in 1906 they developed it into a central command centre. Certain stations on the network have the gates, but they’re all controlled from North End. Reckon the building goes down more than a thousand feet, though only the higher levels were initially used. It was started in the 1940s so they could stop the entire Underground system being flooded. Most of the gates were individually controlled before then.”
“How could the whole system be flooded?”
“If the Nazis had dropped a bomb in the Thames the tunnels under the river could have collapsed. Within ten minutes the Underground system would have been completely filled with water and submerged, y’know. Well, that’s what they said. Later on, in the early 1970s, they built a second zone of gates just outside stations like Shepherds Bush, Aldgate East and Bounds Green, before where the tracks emerge overground.”
“What have they got to do with flooding?”
“Nothing. But they thought people would go mental when the three-minute warnings went off and try to run along the tracks into the train tunnels to escape from Soviet atom bombs. Well, you get the idea . . .”
By now they’d reached the emergency spiral stairway, which led much further downward to the lower lift landing. It was considerably steeper than the previous stairway and Gray kept a hand against the wall as the two men descended. Their footfalls echoed as if ghosts were following close behind.
“Talking of weird stuff like that, you know about the Sentinel Train?” Heath asked. He didn’t wait for an answer before continuing with his topic, “First stop King William Street station along the abandoned spur, runs down to Borough without halting, then reverses up the Bank branch of the Northern Line. Only stops at the ghost stations along the route; nowhere else, goes on to City Road, right here to South Kentish Town, then back via Camden, before terminating at the deepest of all: North End, under Hamp-stead Heath. Anyway, I told you about that one, didn’t I? The Sentinel lets the inspection crews examine the stuff the public never sees. Company doesn’t leave the traction current to the rails on overnight, so a diesel locomotive pulls the old F Stock carriages. The train has a free run on the deserted tracks. Happens once a week or thereabouts. Every tube line has its own Sentinel.”
“Are you pulling my leg?” Gray replied testily. “That’s straight out of Drayton’s book. It seems to me you must have read it.”
They’d reached the lower lift landing.
“This passageway leads to the north and southbound platforms,” Heath said, “but they’re long gone.”
Were the idea not totally ridiculous Gray could have mistaken his companion for something dressed up in a boiler suit in order to pass as human. His colleagues at the Yard would have laughed at his suspicion. But he could not shake off the impression that, in the darkness, Heath’s appearance was genuinely similar to the figure that Gray had glimpsed peering out of the trellised gates of Kentish Town Station. That was only a few nights ago and one stop along the Northern Line from this ghost station. He’d seen it with his own eyes and the experience was not drawn from the pages of a crazy book like
“You didn’t answer my question.” Gray said. From his coat pocket he drew a packet of Benson & Hedges cigarettes.
“What one was that again?” Heath snuffled.
“The one about having read
“Oh, that . . . look, you can’t smoke down here. It’s dangerous.”
“Do you see any ‘No Smoking’ signs around? Anyway I’m sure your mask will protect you.”
Heath paused and regarded the glowing tip of Gray’s cigarette. He finally came back to the point.
“Yeah, I’ve read that book. I know it off by heart. It’s a favourite of mine.”
From further back along the passageways Gray thought he detected a rustling noise, like a pile of leaves dispersed by the wind. But, before he was able to tell from which direction it came, the racket of a passing northbound train drowned them out. Gray thought he heard Heath muttering.
It sounded like “. . . bigmouth . . . Miguel . . . he’s sorted . . .” but most of these words were also lost in the roar.
It was obvious that Heath knew something about Drayton’s disappearance and may even have had a hand in it. Perhaps he was also dangerously obsessed with all those ghost stations and had come to regard Drayton as his rival. In any case, the place to interview Heath was back at the Yard, not here and now. Gray’s back and stomach ached; the old ruptures were playing up again. It was time to get back to the surface. There was nothing down here that was of any use to his investigation. Besides, although Heath was small, Gray feared that he was dealing with a lunatic.
There was that damn rustling again, like leaves! It sounded closer this time. Heath seemed not to notice it though and coldly regarded Gray smoking his cigarette, glaring through narrowed eyes that swam behind the thick lenses of his glasses.
“Well,” said Gray, “I’ve seen everything I want to see here. Let’s get back to the surface.
“All right,” Heath replied, “but you ain’t looked yet. To come all this way and not look at it would be a waste of my time and yours.”
“Look at what exactly?”
“Over there in the corner. Thirty yards, right up against the wall.” Heath flashed the torch’s beam onto what appeared to be a large pile of rags. “Go and see. I already know what it is. I’ll stay where I am. In case you’re worried, like.”
As he got nearer, Gray glanced back to make sure that Heath made no attempt to creep up on him. What he believed was a pile of rags was in fact a body slumped in the angle between wall and floor, its face turned towards the tiles. The back of its skull was smashed in. Dried blood caked the matted hair. As he turned the body over, Gray guessed that its face would be unfamiliar; he expected it to be Drayton, whom he’d never seen. But it was the Spaniard, Carlos Miguel. Heath had not moved an inch whilst Gray examined the corpse, but something living dropped from the darkness of the ceiling onto him and the impact drove the police inspector crashing to the floor.
His head struck the concrete and he blacked out.
Gray awoke in a tube train carriage. He felt nauseous with pain as consciousness returned. He ran his fingers over his head and found half a dozen scratches and wounds around his face and on the back of his skull. There was a stabbing pain in his stomach and he was aware of feeling wet around the seat of his trousers. The fall had reopened some of his old internal ruptures and blood was leaking out of his lower intestine.
Although racked with pain, he forced himself to take in the details of his surroundings. He was on a moving train, one that hurtled through the tunnels at breakneck speed.
The floor was littered with prostrate bodies. Some were hanging by their necks from knotted leather straps attached to the ceiling rails. All had been recently murdered and bore signs of mutilation. There were dozens of the corpses packed into the carriage. Their limbs protruded at misshapen angles from the humps of flesh and clothing. Extreme terror and pain marked their facial expressions. The body of Carlos Miguel lay amongst the charnel crowds. Like the Castilian, Gray had been left for dead.
Somehow he’d come to be a passenger in a carriage that appeared to date from, he guessed, the 1920s. The carriage lights were single bulbs housed in Art-Deco glass oysters with a very wide aisle running between the longitudinal seating. It must have been antiquated rolling stock, for there were advertisements from that far-off decade above the windows and the Underground map showed routes such as the Hampstead and Highgate Line, the City and South London Railway and the Central London Railway. Back then the Victoria and Jubilee lines had not even been thought of, let alone built. Moreover, the map was like a complicated tangle of spaghetti and not modelled on the famous Beck circuit-board design.
Struggling to his feet and clutching the pole at the end of the seats, Gray stood in a daze for a moment, rocking with the motion of the train. His wristwatch showed 1:20 a.m. He’d been out cold for well over eight hours. His left trouser leg stuck to the inside of his thigh, where the stream of blood oozing from his rectum had partially dried. He picked his way through the corpses and found that he was trapped in the last carriage of the train and the connecting door to the penultimate carriage had been welded shut.
Gray crept back to a seat and peered through the window to the tunnels outside. Suddenly the train entered a platform, without slowing, and he pressed his face to the glass in order to try and make out the station name as it flashed past. The light from the interior of the carriages projected enough illumination for him to see a faded sign reading NORTH END. It also just made visible the stunted, faceless forms that haunted the shadows of passageways further back – forms that shunned the light, but which welcomed the arrival of the Sentinel with malefic glee, chattering deafeningly in the semi-darkness.
Gray had no doubt that the inner and outer gates were closed right the way across the Underground network, now that the Sentinel had completed its journey. He harboured the notion that these gates served a purpose quite different from the official one and were used to prevent escape along the tracks to the surface. Drayton had described many pieces of the jigsaw in his book
In his mind’s eye he saw a vision in which the disparate chapters of Drayton’s book merged to form a coherent explanation of what was happening. It was an explanation involving a series of derelict reverse skyscrapers, one of which was beneath North End, whose ultimate depth was probably over a thousand feet; a structure populated by beings who were sometimes bored with the repast foraged by using the smaller tunnels that led to the cemeteries and burial grounds across London. Could it be possible that the feasters had absorbed some of the characteristics of the corpses upon which they preyed, as in cannibalistic folklore?
He thought of an abandoned train and its driver . . .
As he thought about the ghost stations on the Piccadilly Line, the Central Line, the Metropolitan Line and all the others, he guessed that each doubtless had its own Sentinel operating that night as well.
Suddenly, the lights in all the carriages went out.
Acting on the signal, as they’d done so many times in the past, they surged up from the edifice’s black abyss of corridors and debris-choked rooms in a ravenous tide.
As the stunted forms eagerly scrambled across the divide between them and the train, he finally realised that, in order to keep them down there in the dark, to prevent them overrunning London altogether, it was necessary for them to be fed.
Gray only had time to scream once in the darkness.
ELIZABETH HAND
The Saffron Gatherers
ELIZABETH HAND IS THE multiple-award-winning author of eight novels, including
“ ‘The Saffron Gatherers’ is the last tale in a four-story sequence titled ‘The Lost Domain’,” the author reveals, “which deals with the themes of creative and erotic obsession.
“All four tales are set in a post-9/11 world resembling our own; in the case of ‘The Saffron Gatherers’, a dark world that is just now being born.”
HE HAD ALMOST BEEN as much a place to her as a person; the lost domain, the land of heart’s desire. Alone at night she would think of him as others might imagine an empty beach, blue water; for years she had done this, and fallen into sleep.
She flew to Seattle to attend a symposium on the Future. It was a welcome trip – on the East Coast, where she lived, it had rained without stopping for thirty-four days. A meteorological record, now a tired joke: only six more days to go! Even Seattle was drier than that.
She was part of a panel discussion on natural disasters and global warming. Her first three novels had presented near-future visions of apocalypse; she had stopped writing them when it became less like fiction and too much like reportage. Since then she had produced a series of time-travel books, wish-fulfilment fantasies about visiting the ancient world. Many of her friends and colleagues in the field had turned to similar themes, retro, nostalgic, historical. Her academic background was in classical archeology; the research was joyous, if exhausting. She hated to fly, the constant round of threats and delay. The weather and concomitant poverty, starvation, drought, flooding, riots – it had all become so bad that it was like an extreme sport now, to visit places that had once unfolded from one’s imagination in the brightly-colored panoramas of 1920s postal cards. Still she went, armed with eyeshade, earplugs, music and pills that put her to sleep. Behind her eyes, she saw Randall’s arm flung above his head, his face half-turned from hers on the pillow. Fifteen minutes after the panel had ended she was in a cab on her way to SeaTac. Several hours later she was in San Francisco.
He met her at the airport. After the weeks of rain back East and Seattle’s muted sheen, the sunlight felt like something alive, clawing at her eyes. They drove to her hotel, the same place she always stayed; like something from an old B-movie, the lobby with its ornate cast-iron stair-rail, the narrow front desk of polished walnut; clerks who all might have been played by the young Peter Lorre. The elevator with its illuminated dial like a clock that could never settle on the time; an espresso shop tucked into the back entrance, no bigger than a broom closet.
Randall always had to stoop to enter the elevator. He was very tall, not as thin as he had been when they first met, nearly twenty years earlier. His hair was still so straight and fine that it always felt wet, but the luster had faded from it: it was no longer dark-blonde but grey, a strange dusky color, almost blue in some lights, like pale damp slate. He had grey-blue eyes; a habit of looking up through downturned black lashes that at first had seemed coquettish. She had since learned it was part of a deep reticence, a detachment from the world that sometimes seemed to border on the pathological. You might call him an agoraphobe, if he had stayed indoors.
But he didn’t. They had grown up in neighboring towns in New York, though they only met years later, in DC. When the time came to choose allegiance to a place, she fled to Maine, with all those other writers and artists seeking a retreat into the past; he chose Northern California. He was a journalist, a staff writer for a glossy magazine that only came out four times a year, each issue costing as much as a bottle of decent sémillon. He interviewed scientists engaged in paradigm-breaking research, Nobel Prize-winning writers; poets who wrote on their own skin and had expensive addictions to drugs that subtly altered their personalities, the tenor of their words, so that each new book or online publication seemed to have been written by another person. Multiple Poets’ Disorder, Randall had tagged this, and the term stuck; he was the sort of writer who coined phrases. He had a curved mouth, beautiful long fingers. Each time he used a pen, she was surprised again to recall that he was left-handed. He collected incunabula –
The hotel room was small and stuffy. There was a wooden ceiling fan that turned slowly, barely stirring the white curtain that covered the single window. It overlooked an airshaft. Directly across was another old building, a window that showed a family sitting at a kitchen table, eating beneath a fluorescent bulb.
“Come here, Suzanne,” said Randall. “I have something for you.”
She turned. He was sitting on the bed – a nice bed, good mattress and expensive white linens and duvet – reaching for the leather mailbag he always carried to remove a flat parcel.
“Here,” he said. “For you.”
It was a book. With Randall it was always books. Or expensive tea: tiny, neon-colored foil packets that hissed when she opened them and exuded fragrances she could not describe, dried leaves that looked like mouse droppings, or flower petals, or fur; leaves that, once infused, tasted of old leather and made her dream of complicated sex.
“Thank you,” she said, unfolding the mauve tissue the book was wrapped in. Then, as she saw what it was, “Oh!
“Since you’re going back to Thera. Something to read on the plane.”
It was an oversized book in a slipcase: the classic edition of
Suzanne had seen the original painting a decade ago, when it was easier for American researchers to gain access to the restored ruins and the National Archaeological Museum in Athens. After two years of paperwork and bureaucratic wheedling, she had just received permission to return.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. It still took her breath away, how modern the girl looked, not just her clothes and jewelry and body art but her expression, lips parted, her gaze at once imploring and vacant: the 15-year-old who had inherited the earth,
“Well, don’t drop it in the tub.” Randall leaned over to kiss her head. “That was the only copy I could find on the net. It’s become a very scarce book.”
“Of course,” said Suzanne, and smiled.
“Claude is going to meet us for dinner. But not till seven. Come here—”
They lay in the dark room. His skin tasted of salt and bitter lemon; his hair against her thighs felt warm, liquid. She shut her eyes and imagined him beside her, his long limbs and rueful mouth; opened her eyes and there he was, now, sleeping. She held her hand above his chest and felt heat radiating from him, a scent like honey. She began to cry silently.
His hands. That big rumpled bed. In two days she would be gone, the room would be cleaned. There would be nothing to show she had ever been here at all.
They drove to an Afghan restaurant in North Beach. Randall’s car was older, a second-generation hybrid; even with the grants and tax breaks, a far more expensive vehicle than she or anyone she knew back east could ever afford. She had never gotten used to how quiet it was.
Outside, the sidewalks were filled with people, the early evening light silvery-blue and gold, like a sun shower. Couples arm-in-arm, children, groups of students waving their hands as they spoke on their cell phones, a skateboarder hustling to keep up with a pack of
“Everyone just seems so much more absorbed here,” she said. Even the panhandlers were antic.
“It’s the light. It makes everyone happy. Also the drugs they put in our drinking water.” She laughed, and he put his arm around her.
Claude was sitting in the restaurant when they arrived. He was a poet who had gained notoriety and then prominence in the late 1980s with the “Hyacinthus Elegies,” his response to the AIDS epidemic. Randall first interviewed him after Claude received his MacArthur Fellowship. They subsequently became good friends. On the wall of his flat, Randall had a handwritten copy of the second elegy, with one of the poet’s signature drawings of a hyacinth at the bottom.
“Suzanne!” He jumped up to embrace her, shook hands with Randall then beckoned them both to sit. “I ordered some wine. A good cab I heard about from someone at the gym.”
Suzanne adored Claude. The day before she left for Seattle, he’d sent flowers to her, a half-dozen delicate
“I should have brought the book!” Suzanne sat beside him, shaking her head in dismay. “This beautiful book that Randall gave me – Spirotiadis’ Thera book?”
“No! I’ve heard of it, I could never find it. Is it wonderful?”
“It’s gorgeous. You would love it, Claude.”
They ate, and spoke of his collected poetry, forthcoming next winter; of Suzanne’s trip to Akrotiri. Of Randall’s next interview, with a woman on the House Committee on Bioethics who was rumored to be sympathetic to the pro-cloning lobby, but only in cases involving “only” children – no siblings, no twins or multiples – who died before age fourteen.
“Grim,” said Claude. He shook his head and reached for the second bottle of wine. “I can’t imagine it. Even pets . . .”
He shuddered, then turned to rest a hand on Suzanne’s shoulder. “So: back to Santorini. Are you excited?”
“I am. Just seeing that book, it made me excited again. It’s such an incredible place – you’re there, and you think, What could this have been? If it had survived, if it all hadn’t just gone
“Well, then it would really have gone,” said Randall. “I mean, it would have been lost. There would have been no volcanic ash to preserve it. All your paintings, we would never have known them. Just like we don’t know anything else from back then.”
“We know
“Oh,
“Would it?” She sipped her wine. “We don’t know that. We don’t know what it would have become. This—”
She gestured at the room, the couple sitting beneath twinkling rose-colored lights, playing with a digital toy that left little chattering faces in the air as the woman switched it on and off. Outside, dusk and neon. “It might have become like this. “
“This.” Randall leaned back in his chair, staring at her. “Is this so wonderful?”
“Oh yes,” she said, staring back at him, the two of them unsmiling. “This is all a miracle.”
He excused himself. Claude refilled his glass and turned back to Suzanne. “So. How are things?”
“With Randall?” She sighed. “It’s good. I dunno. Maybe it’s great. Tomorrow – we’re going to look at houses.”
Claude raised a tattooed eyebrow. “Really?”
She nodded. Randall had been looking at houses for three years now, ever since the divorce.
“Who knows?” she said. “Maybe this will be the charm. How hard can it be to buy a house?”
“In San Francisco? Doll, it’s easier to win the stem cell lottery. But yes, Randall is a very discerning buyer. He’s the last of the true idealists. He’s looking for the
“Yup.”
“Well. Maybe that
“I don’t know. Maybe. If he had a house. Probably not.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’m looking for the
She opened her hands as though catching rain. Claude looked at her quizzically.
“Too sunny?” he said. “Too warm? Too beautiful?”
“I suppose. The land of the lotus-eaters. I love knowing it’s here, but.” She drank more wine. “Maybe if I had more job security.”
“You’re a writer. It’s against Nature for you to have job security.”
“Yeah, no kidding. What about you? You don’t ever worry about that?”
He gave her his sweet sad smile and shook his head. “Never. The world will always need poets. We’re like the lilies of the field.”
“What about journalists?” Randall appeared behind them, slipping his cell phone back into his pocket. “What are we?”
“Quackgrass,” said Claude.
“Cactus,” said Suzanne.
“Oh, gee. I get it,” said Randall. “Because we’re all hard and spiny and no one loves us.”
“Because you only bloom once a year,” said Suzanne.
“When it rains,” added Claude.
“That was my realtor.” Randall sat and downed the rest of his wine. “Sunday’s open house day. Two o’clock till four. Suzanne, we have a lot of ground to cover.”
He gestured for the waiter. Suzanne leaned over to kiss Claude’s cheek.
“When do you leave for Hydra?” she asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!” She looked crestfallen. “That’s so soon!”
“The beautiful life was brief,’ ” said Claude, and laughed. “You’re only here till Monday. I have a reservation on the ferry from Piraeus, I couldn’t change it.”
“How long will you be there? I’ll be in Athens Tuesday after next, then I go to Akrotiri.”
Claude smiled. “That might work. Here—”
He copied out a phone number in his careful, calligraphic hand. “This is Zali’s number on Hydra. A cell phone, I have no idea if it will even work. But I’ll see you soon. Like you said—”
He lifted his thin hands and gestured at the room around them, his dark eyes wide. “This is a miracle.”
Randall paid the check and they turned to go. At the door, Claude hugged Suzanne. “Don’t miss your plane,” he said.
“Don’t wind her up!” said Randall.
“Don’t miss yours,” said Suzanne. Her eyes filled with tears as she pressed her face against Claude’s. “It was so good to see you. If I miss you, have a wonderful time in Hydra.”
“Oh, I will,” said Claude. “I always do.”
Randall dropped her off at her hotel. She knew better than to ask him to stay; besides, she was tired, and the wine was starting to give her a headache.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Nine o’clock. A leisurely breakfast, and then . . .”
He leaned over to open her door, then kissed her. “The exciting new world of California real estate.”
Outside, the evening had grown cool, but the hotel room still felt close: it smelled of sex, and the sweetish dusty scent of old books. She opened the window by the airshaft and went to take a shower. Afterwards she got into bed, but found herself unable to sleep.
The wine, she thought; always a mistake. She considered taking one of the anti-anxiety drugs she carried for flying, but decided against it. Instead she picked up the book Randall had given her.
She knew all the images, from other books and websites, and the island itself. Nearly four thousand years ago, now; much of it might have been built yesterday. Beneath fifteen feet of volcanic ash and pumice, homes with ocean views and indoor plumbing, pipes that might have channeled steam from underground vents fed by the volcano the city was built upon. Fragments of glass that might have been windows, or lenses. The great pithoi that still held food when they were opened millennia later. Great containers of honey for trade, for embalming the Egyptian dead. Yellow grains of pollen. Wine.
But no human remains. No bones, no grimacing tormented figures as were found beneath the sand at Herculaneum, where the fishermen had fled and died. Not even animal remains, save for the charred vertebrae of a single donkey. They had all known to leave. And when they did, their city was not abandoned in frantic haste or fear. All was orderly, the pithoi still sealed, no metal utensils or weapons strewn upon the floor, no bolts of silk or linen; no jewelry.
Only the paintings, and they were everywhere; so lovely and beautifully wrought that at first the excavators thought they had uncovered a temple complex.
But they weren’t temples: they were homes. Someone had paid an artist, or teams of artists, to paint frescoes on the walls of room after room after room. Sea daffodils, swallows; dolphins and pleasure boats, the boats themselves decorated with more dolphins and flying seabirds, golden nautilus on their prows. Wreaths of flowers. A shipwreck. Always you saw the same colors, ochre-yellow and ferrous red; a pigment made by grinding glaucophane, a vitreous mineral that produced a grey-blue shimmer; a bright pure French blue. But of course it wasn’t French blue but Egyptian blue – Pompeiian blue – one of the earliest pigments, used for thousands of years; you made it by combining a calcium compound with ground malachite and quartz, then heating it to extreme temperatures.
But no green. It was a blue and gold and red world. Not even the plants were green.
Otherwise, the paintings were so alive that, when she’d first seen them, she half-expected her finger would be wet if she touched them. The eyes of the boys who played at boxing were children’s eyes. The antelopes had the mad topaz glare of wild goats. The monkeys had blue fur and looked like dancing cats. There were people walking in the streets. You could see what their houses looked like, red brick and yellow shutters.
She turned towards the back of the book, to the section on Xeste 3. It was the most famous building at the site. It contained the most famous paintings – the woman known as the “Mistress of Animals.” “The Adorants,” who appeared to be striding down a fashion runway. “The Lustral Basin.”
The saffron gatherers.
She gazed at the image from the East Wall of Room Three, two women harvesting the stigma of the crocus blossoms. The flowers were like stylized yellow fireworks, growing from the rocks and also appearing in a repetitive motif on the wall above the figures, like the fleur-de-lis patterns on wallpaper. The fragments of painted plaster had been meticulously restored; there was no attempt to fill in what was missing, as had been done at Knossos under Sir Arthur Evans’ supervision to sometimes cartoonish effect.
None of that had not been necessary here. The fresco was nearly intact. You could see how the older woman’s eyebrow was slightly raised, with annoyance or perhaps just impatience, and count the number of stigmata the younger acolyte held in her outstretched palm.
How long would it have taken for them to fill those baskets? The crocuses bloomed only in autumn, and each small blossom contained just three tiny crimson threads, the female stigmata. It might take 100,000 flowers to produce a half-pound of the spice.
And what did they use the spice for? Cooking; painting; a pigment they traded to the Egyptians for dyeing mummy bandages.
She closed the book. She could hear distant sirens, and a soft hum from the ceiling fan. Tomorrow they would look at houses.
For breakfast they went to the Embarcadero, the huge indoor market inside the restored ferry building that had been damaged over a century before, in the 1906 earthquake. There was a shop with nothing but olive oil and infused vinegars; another that sold only mushrooms, great woven panniers and baskets filled with tree-ears, portobellos, fungus that looked like orange coral; black morels and matsutake and golden chanterelles.
They stuck with coffee and sweet rolls, and ate outside on a bench looking over the Bay. A man threw sticks into the water for a pair of black labs; another man swam along the embankment. The sunlight was strong and clear as gin, and nearly as potent: it made Suzanne feel lightheaded and slightly drowsy, even though she had just gotten up.
“Now,” said Randall. He took out the newspaper, opened it to the real estate section, and handed it to her. He had circled eight listings. “The first two are in Oakland; then we’ll hit Berkeley and Kensington. You ready?”
They drove in heavy traffic across the Oakland-Bay bridge. To either side, bronze water that looked as though it would be too hot to swim in; before them the Oakland Hills, where the houses were ranged in undulating lines like waves. Once in the city they began to climb in and out of pocket neighborhoods poised between the arid and the tropic. Bungalows nearly hidden beneath overhanging trees suddenly yielded to bright white stucco houses flanked by aloes and agaves. It looked at once wildly fanciful and comfortable, as though all urban planning had been left to Dr Seuss.
“They do something here called ‘staging’,” said Randall as they pulled behind a line of parked cars on a hillside. A phalanx of realtors’ signs rose from a grassy mound beside them. “Homeowners pay thousands and thousands of dollars for a decorator to come in and tart up their houses with rented furniture and art and stuff. So, you know, it looks like it’s worth three million dollars.”
They walked to the first house, a Craftsman bungalow tucked behind trees like prehistoric ferns. There was a fountain outside, filled with koi that stared up with engorged silvery eyes. Inside, exposed beams and dark hardwood floors so glossy they looked covered with maple syrup. There was a grand piano, and large framed posters from Parisian cafés – Suzanne was to note a lot of these as the afternoon wore on – and much heavy dark Mediterranean-style furniture, as well as a few early Mission pieces that might have been genuine. The kitchen floors were tiled. In the master bath, there were mosaics in the sink and sunken tub.
Randall barely glanced at these. He made a beeline for the deck. After wandering around for a few minutes, Suzanne followed him.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. Below, terraced gardens gave way to stepped hillsides, and then the city proper, and then the gilded expanse of San Francisco Bay, with sailboats like swans moving slowly beneath the bridge.
“For four million dollars, it better be,” said Randall.
She looked at him. His expression was avid, but it was also sad, his pale eyes melancholy in the brilliant sunlight. He drew her to him and gazed out above the treetops, then pointed across the blue water.
“That’s where we were. Your hotel, it’s right there, somewhere.” His voice grew soft. “At night it all looks like a fairy city. The lights, and the bridges . . . You can’t believe that anyone could have built it.”
He blinked, shading his eyes with his hand, then looked away. When he turned back his cheeks were damp.
“Come on,” he said. He bent to kiss her forehead. “Got to keep moving.”
They drove to the next house, and the next, and the one after that. The light and heat made her dizzy; and the scents of all the unfamiliar flowers, the play of water in fountains and a swimming pool like a great turquoise lozenge. She found herself wandering through expansive bedrooms with people she did not know, walking in and out of closets, bathrooms, a sauna. Every room seemed lavish, the air charged as though anticipating a wonderful party; tables set with beeswax candles and bottles of wine and crystal stemware. Counter-tops of hand-thrown Italian tiles; globular cobalt vases filled with sunflowers, another recurring motif.
But there was no sign of anyone who might actually live in one of these houses, only a series of well-dressed women with expensively restrained jewelry who would greet them, usually in the kitchen, and make sure they had a flyer listing the home’s attributes. There were plates of cookies, banana bread warm from the oven. Bottles of sparkling water and organic lemonade.
And, always, a view. They didn’t look at houses without views. To Suzanne, some were spectacular; others, merely glorious. All were more beautiful than anything she saw from her own windows or deck, where she looked out onto evergreens and grey rocks and, much of the year, snow.
It was all so dreamlike that it was nearly impossible for her to imagine real people living here. For her a house had always meant a refuge from the world; the place where you hid from whatever catastrophe was breaking that morning.
But now she saw that it could be different. She began to understand that, for Randall at least, a house wasn’t a retreat. It was a way of engaging with the world; of opening himself to it. The view wasn’t yours. You belonged to it, you were a tiny part of it, like the sailboats and the seagulls and the flowers in the garden; like the sunflowers on the highly polished tables.
You were part of what made it real. She had always thought it was the other way around.
“You ready?” Randall came up behind her and put his hand on her neck. “This is it. We’re done. Let’s go have a drink.”
On the way out the door he stopped to talk to the agent.
“They’ll be taking bids tomorrow,” she said. “We’ll let you know on Tuesday.”
“Tuesday?’ Suzanne said in amazement when they got back outside. “You can do all this in two days? Spend a million dollars on a house?”
“Four million,” said Randall. “This is how it works out here. The race is to the quick.”
She had assumed they would go to another restaurant for drinks and then dinner. Instead, to her surprise, he drove to his flat. He took a bottle of Pommery Louise from the refrigerator and opened it, and she wandered about examining his manuscripts as he made dinner. At the Embarcadero, without her knowing, he had bought chanterelles and morels, imported pasta colored like spring flowers, arugula and baby tatsoi. For dessert, orange-blossom custard. When they were finished, they remained out on the deck and looked at the Bay, the rented view. Lights shimmered through the dusk. In a flowering quince in the garden, dozens of hummingbirds droned and darted like bees, attacking each other with needle beaks.
“So.” Randall’s face was slightly flushed. They had finished the champagne, and he had poured them each some cognac. “If this happens – if I get the house. Will you move out here?”
She stared down at the hummingbirds. Her heart was racing. The quince had no smell, none that she could detect, anyway; yet still they swarmed around it. Because it was so large, and its thousands of blossoms were so red. She hesitated, then said, “Yes.”
He nodded and took a quick sip of cognac. “Why don’t you just stay, then? Till we find out on Tuesday? I have to go down to San Jose early tomorrow to interview this guy, you could come and we could go to that place for lunch.”
“I can’t.” She bit her lip, thinking. “No . . . I wish I could, but I have to finish that piece before I leave for Greece.”
“You can’t just leave from here?”
“No.” That would be impossible, to change her whole itinerary. “And I don’t have any of my things – I need to pack, and get my notes . . . I’m sorry.”
He took her hand and kissed it. “That’s okay. When you get back.”
That night she lay in his bed as Randall slept beside her, staring at the manuscripts on their shelves, the framed lines of poetry. His breathing was low, and she pressed her hand against his chest, feeling his ribs beneath the skin, his heartbeat. She thought of canceling her flight; of postponing the entire trip.
But it was impossible. She moved the pillow beneath her head, so that she could see past him, to the wide picture window. Even with the curtains drawn you could see the lights of the city, faraway as stars.
Very early next morning he drove her to the hotel to get her things and then to the airport.
“My cell will be on,” he said as he got her bag from the car. “Call me down in San Jose, once you get in.”
“I will.”
He kissed her and for a long moment they stood at curbside, arms around each other.
“Book your ticket back here,” he said at last, and drew away. “I’ll talk to you tonight.”
She watched him go, the nearly silent car lost among the taxis and limousines; then hurried to catch her flight. Once she had boarded she switched off her cell, then got out her eyemask, earplugs, book, water bottle; she took one of her pills. It took twenty minutes for the drug to kick in, but she had the timing down pat: the plane lifted into the air and she looked out her window, already feeling not so much calm as detached, mildly stoned. It was a beautiful day, cloudless; later it would be hot. As the plane banked above the city she looked down at the skein of roads, cars sliding along them like beads or raindrops on a string. The traffic crept along 280, the road Randall would take to San Jose. She turned her head to keep it in view as the plane leveled out and began to head inland.
Behind her a man gasped; then another. Someone shouted. Everyone turned to look out the windows.
Below, without a sound that she could hear above the jet’s roar, the city fell away. Where it met the sea the water turned brown then white then turgid green. A long line of smoke arose – no, not smoke, Suzanne thought, starting to rise from her seat; dust. No flames, none that she could see; more like a burning fuse, though there was no fire, nothing but white and brown and black dust, a pall of dust that ran in a straight line from the city’s tip north to south, roughly tracking along the interstate. The plane continued to pull away, she had to strain to see it now, a long green line in the water, the bridges trembling and shining like wires. One snapped then fell, another, miraculously, remained intact. She couldn’t see the third bridge. Then everything was green crumpled hillsides, vineyards; distant mountains.
People began to scream. The pilot’s voice came on, a blaze of static then silence. Then his voice again, not calm but ordering them to remain so. A few passengers tried to clamber into the aisles but flight attendants and other passengers pulled or pushed them back into their seats. She could hear someone getting sick in the front of the plane. A child crying. Weeping, the buzz and bleat of cell phones followed by repeated commands to put them all away.
Amazingly, everyone did. It wasn’t a terrorist attack. The plane, apparently would not plummet from the sky; but everyone was too afraid that it might to turn their phones back on.
She took another pill, frantic, fumbling at the bottle and barely getting the cap back on. She opened it again, put two, no three, pills into her palm and pocketed them. Then she flagged down one of the flight attendants as she rushed down the aisle.
“Here,” said Suzanne. The attendant’s mouth was wide, as though she were screaming; but she was silent. “You can give these to them—”
Suzanne gestured towards the back of the plane, where a man was repeating the same name over and over and a woman was keening. “You can take one if you want, the dosage is pretty low. Keep them. Keep them.”
The flight attendant stared at her. Finally she nodded as Suzanne pressed the pill bottle into her hand.
“Thank you,” she said in a low voice. “Thank you so much, I will.”
Suzanne watched her gulp one pink tablet, then walk to the rear of the plane. She continued to watch from her seat as the attendant went down the aisle, furtively doling out pills to those who seemed to need them most. After about twenty minutes, Suzanne took another pill. As she drifted into unconsciousness she heard the pilot’s voice over the intercom, informing the passengers of what he knew of the disaster. She slept.
The plane touched down in Boston, greatly delayed by the weather, the ripple affect on air traffic from the catastrophe. It had been raining for thirty-seven days. Outside, glass-green sky, the flooded runways and orange cones blown over by the wind. In the plane’s cabin the air chimed with the sound of countless cell phones. She called Randall, over and over again; his phone rang but she received no answer, not even his voicemail.
Inside the terminal, a crowd of reporters and television people awaited, shouting questions and turning cameras on them as they stumbled down the corridor. No one ran; everyone found a place to stand, alone, with a cell phone. Suzanne staggered past the news crews, striking at a man who tried to stop her. Inside the terminal there were crowds of people around the TV screens, covering their mouths at the destruction. A lingering smell of vomit, of disinfectant. She hurried past them all, lurching slightly, feeling as though she struggled through wet sand. She retrieved her car, joined the endless line of traffic and began the long drive back to that cold green place, trees with leaves that had yet to open though it was already almost June, apple and lilac blossoms rotted brown on their drooping branches.
It was past midnight when she arrived home. The answering machine was blinking. She scrolled through her messages, hands shaking. She listened to just a few words of each, until she reached the last one.
A blast of static, satellite interference; then a voice. It was unmistakably Randall’s.
She couldn’t make out what he was saying. Everything was garbled, the connection cut out then picked up again. She couldn’t tell when he’d called. She played it over again, once, twice, seven times, trying to discern a single word, something in his tone, background noise, other voices: anything to hint when he had called, from where.
It was hopeless. She tried his cell phone again. Nothing.
She stood, exhausted, and crossed the room, touching table, chairs, countertops, like someone on a listing ship. She turned on the kitchen faucet and splashed cold water onto her face. She would go online and begin the process of finding numbers for hospitals, the Red Cross. He could be alive.
She went to her desk to turn on her computer. Beside it, in a vase, were the flowers Claude had sent her, a half-dozen dead narcissus smelling of rank water and slime. Their white petals were wilted, and the color had drained from the pale yellow cups.
All save one. A stem with a furled bloom no bigger than her pinkie, it had not yet opened when she’d left. Now the petals had spread like feathers, revealing its tiny yellow throat, three long crimson threads. She extended her hand to stroke first one stigma, then the next, until she had touched all three; lifted her hand to gaze at her fingertips, golden with pollen, and then at the darkened window. The empty sky, starless. Beneath blue water, the lost world.
MARK MORRIS
What Nature Abhors
MARK MORRIS BECAME a full-time writer in 1988 on the British government’s Enterprise Allowance Scheme, and a year later saw the publication of his first novel,
His thirteenth novel,
Forthcoming titles includes a
“ ‘What Nature Abhors’ was inspired by an otherwise extremely pleasant visit to Hampton Court Palace with my wife, Nel,” Morris explains. “It was a sunny day, and we were strolling through the gardens when we came across the statue of a figure, the upper half of which was tightly draped in black plastic.
“A sign explained that the statue had been damaged by the elements and was awaiting restoration, but the sight of it, like an upright, partially concealed murder victim, was arresting, incongruous and deliciously eerie, and it stayed with me.”
WHEN MEACHER OPENED his eyes the train was empty, though he had thought it was the jolt of the brakes that had woken him. He stood up, the low-level anxiety of disorientation already beginning to grind in his belly. The carriage was old and grimy, and smelled musty, as if each threadbare seat had absorbed too much sweat over too many years. The upholstery and stained carpet was predominantly grey with overlapping flecks in two shades of bilious green that jittered like TV interference on the periphery of his vision.
Outside the window the stone walls of the station building looked smoke-blackened, except for pale oblongs where the station’s name-plates had been removed, probably by vandals. As far as Meacher could see, it was not only the train that was deserted but the platform too – and so profoundly, it seemed to him, that he suppressed the urge to call out, oddly fearful of how intrusive, or worse insignificant, his voice might sound in the enveloping silence.
Stepping into the aisle, he automatically reached towards the luggage rack above his head, but found it empty. Had he had a bag, or even a jacket, at the outset of his journey? It would have been unusual for him to have travelled with neither, but his brain felt so dulled by fatigue that he honestly couldn’t remember. He sat down again, intimidated by solitude and by his own aberrant memory. He had a notion that the merest glimpse of a guard or another passenger, or perhaps even the incomprehensible blare of a station announcer’s voice, would be all that he would need to restore his sense of himself and his surroundings.
However when he realised, ten minutes later, that he was actually holding his breath in anticipation of a hint of life besides his own, he decided he could be passive no longer. He stood up with a decisiveness that was for no one’s benefit but his and lurched along the length of the carriage, his arms pumping like a cross-country skier’s as he yanked at seats to maintain his momentum.
Once on the platform he paused only briefly, so that he would not have to consciously acknowledge the absence of life. The EXIT sign caused his spirits to flare with a disproportionate fierceness if only because, albeit impersonal, it was a form of communication, and hinted at more to come. He stumped through the arch beneath the sign and found himself in a ticket office containing back-to-back rows of red metal seats and an unmanned ticket window. From above this too a name-plate had been removed, and with such care that Meacher wondered whether the place was understaffed because it was on the verge of closure.
The station was certainly small enough for this theory to be feasible, or at least appeared too inconsequential to have been granted a car park, because a further exit door led down a flight of stone steps and thence to what appeared to be a town centre side-street. Even out here there was no indication of life, though Meacher felt optimistic that he would encounter some sooner rather than later. There were signs of human occupation – the stink of stale urine as he had descended the steps, discarded confectionery wrappers and food cartons emblazoned with comfortingly iconic logos: McDonalds, Kit Kat, KFC. On the far side of a pedestrian crossing a chalked sign in a pub window promised BIG SCREEN SKY SPORTS! Meacher might have ventured inside to freshen his dry mouth with something sweet and fizzy if the pub’s wooden doors, so hefty they put him in mind of a dungeon, had not been firmly shut.
The pub’s neighbours were equally inaccessible. Indeed, a grubby jeweller’s and a shop which contained second-hand musical instruments had reinforced their unwillingness to attract trade via the employment of metal shutters. Meacher wondered what time it was. If the shops were closed and the pub not yet open he guessed it must be somewhere between six and seven p.m. Looking up afforded him no clue, because the greyness between the rooftops more closely resembled a thick net stretched between the buildings than a portion of sky.
He started to walk, though had no real idea in which direction the town centre lay. The silence was so unnerving that even the tiny crackle of grit beneath his soles made him wince. The narrow streets with their shuttered store-fronts all looked the same, and after a while he began to wonder whether he was walking in circles. His mind still felt oddly inactive, as though unable to form thoughts of any substance. Every so often he didn’t so much stop to listen as stumble to a halt, as if he was a machine that periodically needed to conserve its energy to recharge. Unless his senses were as faulty as his memory, it seemed he was utterly alone. There was neither the distant rumble of traffic, nor even the faintest trill of birdsong.
Perhaps it was Sunday and everything was shut. The thought was less a comfort, and more an attempt to prevent his sense of disquiet escalating into fear. In truth he knew that no town centre was ever
Blundering to yet another halt he nervously sniffed the air. The only reason he could think of for such a wide-scale evacuation was the presence of some kind of severe physical threat. Was the place about to be bombed by terrorists or could the attack already be underway? Perhaps he was wandering around, blithely inhaling toxic fumes; perhaps germ warfare had come to middle England and he was gulping down anthrax spores or worse. Or perhaps, he thought, as he examined his skin and tried to convince himself that the nausea and breathlessness he was feeling were psychosomatic, the attack had already happened. Perhaps a nuclear bomb had been dropped close by and the town’s population had been evacuated to protect them from the approaching cloud of radioactive dust.
There were flaws in his thinking, he knew that. But one thing was certain: he had to get to a phone, had to find out what was going on. He started to run, telling himself it was only stress that was making his lungs hurt and his legs feel leaden. But if so, what was it that was affecting his memory? He couldn’t even remember getting on the train, never mind where he had been going, or for what reason.
As if his desperation for answers had made it happen, he suddenly emerged from the stultifying maze of drab streets full of shuttered buildings and found himself in a pedestrianised precinct leading to what appeared to be a central square. There were comfortingly familiar chain-stores here – Woolworth, Gap, HMV – though they seemed to be more impoverished versions of the ones he was used to seeing back home.
Home. Where was that? The renewed surge of panic that accompanied his dawning realisation that he knew almost nothing about himself was so overwhelming that he stumbled and almost fell as the strength drained out of him. He staggered up to a Miss Selfridge’s and put an outspread palm on the display window to steady himself. His head was pounding, his body slick with sweat, and he was finding it difficult to breathe.
His mind, however, was in overdrive. He thought of the air teeming with germs and chemicals, thought of toxins rushing through his body, disrupting and destroying it. He expected to start coughing up blood at any moment, expected blisters to erupt on his skin. He waited for the first searing pain in his gut or head, and hoped that when it came it would be intense enough to render him quickly unconscious. He’d rather pass out and die unknowing than writhe in agony as his innards dissolved into soup.
He was heartened to discover, however, that several minutes later, rather than deteriorating, his condition had actually improved. He felt well enough, at least, to push himself away from the window and stand unaided. He even managed a wry grin.
At first he thought it was some kind of
There was not one mannequin he could see that did not have its face hidden in some way. Most had plastic bags over their heads, though in Envy they (whoever
Whatever the reason, the sight of all those smothered heads gave him the creeps. He shuddered and turned his gaze purposefully towards the central square. As he did so, noticing that it contained a statue of what appeared to be a figure on horseback, which he thought might be able to give him an indication of where he was, he heard the first sound behind him that he hadn’t made himself.
It was an odd sound, and brief, like someone liquidly clearing their throat or attempting to gargle with their own phlegm. It was also faint and muffled, as if he had heard it inside a house from several rooms away. He whirled round, but by the time he had spun ninety degrees all was quiet once more. Nevertheless, he hurried across to the door of River Island, which he had pinpointed in his mind as the source of the sound, and yanked the handle. Finding the door locked, he peered through one of its reinforced glass panels at the store interior.
The place was gloomy and apparently deserted. He was about to turn away when yet another mannequin caught his eye. This one was standing at the back of the shop, and like all the others had a plastic bag draped over its head. In this case, however, not only did the bag appear to be clinging tightly to the mannequin’s face, but there seemed to be an oval-shaped indentation in the plastic that to Meacher resembled a gaping mouth desperate for air.
Recoiling with a cry, Meacher turned away. There was a part of him that instantly wanted to go back, if only to reassure himself that what he had seen had been nothing but the result of shadow-play and his own imagination. However his revulsion was too great, and propelled him towards the statue that dominated the central square. As he drew closer to it he noticed two things almost in unison. One was the presence of a quartet of telephone boxes – all Perspex and cold grey steel – on the pavement outside a darkened café called Petra’s Pantry, and the other was that what appeared to be a hessian sack had been pulled down over the statue’s head.
At least they left the horse alone, Meacher thought, and felt a sudden urge to giggle. He clapped a hand over his mouth and rushed towards the telephone boxes like a drunken man looking for somewhere to throw up.
Wrenching open the door almost pulled his arm out of its socket. He fell inside, snatched up the receiver and rammed it against his ear. The familiar hum of the dialling tone filled him with such joy that he
He was on the verge of taking out his frustration by smashing the receiver against the smugly indifferent display screen when he remembered that emergency calls were free. Unable to prevent the escape of a triumphant whoop that he found hard to equate to himself, he jabbed thrice at the nine, and was only able to quell his eagerness to do it again by clenching his fist.
A phone burred once, then was interrupted by a barely audible click. Meacher was framing his lips to say hello into the expectant pause that followed when the screaming began.
It was a child’s voice, shrill and bubbling with terror. Its words were running together, to form a plea that it seemed would never end. “
The child’s voice had had a devastating effect on him, not only because it had been distressing to hear, but because it had awakened what felt like a memory he couldn’t grasp. He
The base of the statue was a rectangular block of stone six feet high and inset with panels, each of which contained an elaborate carving of interweaving vines. Meacher threw himself at it, scraping a layer of skin off his arms as he hauled himself up beside the horse and its rider. The statue was slightly larger than life-size, the rider’s covered head now eight or ten feet above him. As Meacher placed his left foot on the horse’s raised foreleg and grasped a loop of stone rein to heave himself closer to the sack which he intended to tear from the rider’s head in an act of manic defiance, he heard the rattling thump of a door opening on the opposite side of the square.
Excited, fearful, and even a little abashed at the prospect of being discovered in such an uncompromising position, Meacher strained to see which of the many doors had opened and who had opened it. However he hadn’t raised himself quite high enough to lift his gaze above the horse’s frozen mane, and so had to clamber down from his perch and peer between its motionlessly galloping legs, feeling not unlike a child engaged in a game of hide and seek.
What he saw bewildered him for no more than a second before cold, harsh fear stabbed at the base of his throat, then cascaded through his body, lodging in his stomach like broken glass. On the far side of the square, the door of a pub, the fleur-de-lis, had opened and four men had emerged from it. Dressed in jeans and shirts and boots, they looked perfectly normal except for one thing. Like the mannequins in the clothes stores and the stone rider atop its horse, each of them wore a sack-like hood over their head.
The two thoughts that sped through Meacher’s mind were more like sharp, bright flashes of despair than anything else. The first thought was an instinctive one that Meacher would have found curious had he had time to ponder it. He thought that if only he had removed the sack from the statue’s head and placed it over his own, he would have been safe. His second thought was perhaps equally intriguing, but more fundamental: he knew with absolute conviction that he had to get away before the men caught sight of him.
Even as he jumped sprawlingly from the statue’s plinth and tried to use its blocky mass to cover his retreat, however, he knew he was already too late. The men did not cry out, but even through their makeshift hoods it was obvious they were aware of his presence. They moved towards him with a purpose both remorseless and terrifying, and when he began to run, his terror making him feel as though he was wearing lead boots, their pursuit became more purposeful still.
The subsequent chase through the unknown town’s deserted streets was as surreally terrifying as any nightmare. Meacher’s terror made him stumble and stagger and skid. Within moments his body was greasy with sweat, which flowed from his hair and into his eyes, blinding him. His heart hammered, his lungs toiled, and his breath felt like a length of barbed wire that he couldn’t dislodge from his throat. Whenever he glanced back, his pursuers were the same distance behind him, which may have been encouraging if not for the fact that they appeared to be marching rather than running, their movements effortless, machine-like, full of deadly intent.
They were toying with him, Meacher knew. They were wearing him down prior to closing in for the kill. Meacher wished he could see their faces, and yet at the same time dreaded the disclosure of whatever might be concealed within those sack-cloth hoods. In fact, in some ways the prospect of finding out was what terrified him more than anything else.
The streets were getting narrower, danker. Sooner or later he would come to a dead end and then that would be that. If he couldn’t outrun his pursuers he had to escape them in some other way. The only viable alternative was to evade them for long enough to find a hiding place. At best that would be a short-term solution, but at least it would give him time to think, to plan his next move.
He rounded a corner, his hand slapping the brick to steady himself as he changed direction, and – as though he had willed it to appear – saw an aperture between two buildings on his right, so narrow it could barely even be termed an alleyway. He plunged down it, and was immediately doused in a gloom cold enough to make him feel he was underwater. Above him the tops of the buildings on either side of the rat-run appeared to be craning to touch one another. Certainly they gave the impression that they were squeezing the thin white stripe of sky that separated them still thinner. So dark did this make the alleyway that from his present position Meacher couldn’t see its end.
It was too late to change his mind, though. If he emerged from the alleyway now his pursuers would be on to him in an instant. He began to trot forward, stepping as lightly as he could in the hope that those behind him might plough straight past the slit-like entrance, oblivious. How much could they see through those hoods? How much could they hear? How much could they
This last thought came unbidden, and disturbed him the most. He thought of sniffer dogs, attuned not to the scent of food or drugs, but to fear. He quickened his pace. Was the alleyway getting narrower still? If he stretched out both arms like a child pretending to fly, he reckoned he might just about be able to touch the buildings on either side.
As he passed them, he barely glanced at the individual establishments embedded within the grey stone edifices. On a subconscious level he registered that each of them was a cramped shop unit, comprising of a door and a narrow display window with a sign above it. However there was not one that wasn’t coated in a layer of dust and grime so thick that it both obscured the name on the sign and made it impossible to tell what the shop sold, or once had. This, combined with a deepening murk that felt like twilight’s closing fist, made him fail to notice that one of the shop doors was ajar until it creaked as it widened further.
Meacher’s senses were so attuned to danger that his instinctive leftward spring was balletic. His landing, however, was not so graceful. His ankle turned on the pitted tarmac and he all but shoulder-charged the door opposite the one which had opened. As he fought to regain his senses and his balance, he saw a grey-shrouded figure materialise from the gloom beyond the open door and extend a beckoning hand. The figure’s face was concealed within a triangle of shadow so black it seemed impenetrable, but its words were clear enough.
“In here, quickly, if you don’t want them to find you.”
Though Meacher hesitated, it still took him less than a second to make up his mind. The boom of his shoulder hitting the door was even now reverberating in the alleyway; in the otherwise total silence his pursuers would have to be deaf not to have heard it. Scrambling upright, he propelled himself towards the figure, that backed away at his approach.
Crossing the threshold felt like passing through a portal between this world and the next. The darkness into which Meacher plunged seemed so profound that for several seconds he was completely disorientated. Opening his eyes wide and finding nothing for his vision to latch on to, he flailed with his arms, and was rewarded or punished by a crack of pain across the knuckles of his left hand. Undeterred, he groped again for the hard surface he had encountered and found a thin ledge of some kind – possibly a shelf or the edge of a desk. He clung to it like a shipwrecked man might cling to driftwood until his eyes had adapted to the sudden absence of light.
It took perhaps a minute for the slowly emerging slatted shapes to gain sufficient definition to reveal themselves as books. As soon as they did, he acknowledged that the shop was full of them. Of course, he would have known sooner if he had focused on any sense other than his eyesight, because as soon as he
“Thank you,” Meacher said, his throat clogged by dust and exertion, but the man’s only response was a sharp upraising of his left hand.
Though it was hard to make him out in the gloom, Meacher could tell by his stance that he was listening. As though deferring to a greater authority, Meacher too remained as still as he could, even though his exhausted body longed to sag. He did his utmost to contain his breath despite the attempts his racing heart and toiling lungs were making to encourage him to pant and wheeze. The two of them stood there for so long that Meacher began to wonder whether the shop owner was once again waiting for him to speak, and he was gathering the courage to do so when the man murmured, “Alas.”
Before Meacher could ask him what was wrong, a pounding on the door invalidated his question. Meacher instinctively scuttled forward, then ducked, twisting his head to look wildly behind him. Perhaps the most frightening aspect of the blows that seemed to be making the books shiver on their shelves was that they were not urgent but ponderous, relentless, evenly spaced. They sounded more like the pounding of some vast machine piston than human fists on wood. They suggested to Meacher that his pursuers would never give up, that they would hunt him down remorselessly, that in their eyes (if they
“Go up the stairs,” the man murmured, pointing to a shadowy patch of wall between two bookcases that on closer inspection Meacher realised was a door. “You’ll find an unlocked room there. Go inside and lock yourself in.”
He blundered across the room, feeling as though the must and mould of ancient books was lining his lungs like silt, and scrabbled at the dark blot of shadow that was the handle to the door that led upstairs. It opened smoothly, devoid of the creak he was expecting. He caught a glimpse of the stairs – little more than bands of differently-hued shadow – before the door clicked shut behind him, taking the last vestige of light with it.
A part of him welcomed the blackness. He wished he could curl up and close his eyes and lose himself in its folds. It was almost with reluctance that he forced himself on, edging forward until his toe-end connected with the bottom stair. He began to climb, his body now incredibly weary, his joints grinding with glassy pain. He tried not to wonder where this would end, whether – by some miracle – he would escape the clutches of his pursuers, recover his memory and find his way home. Without knowing why, he had become a fugitive, and the purpose of a fugitive was to run, and to keep running until he either got away or was caught.
Maybe his new-found ally would help him. Maybe, when Mea-cher’s pursuers had gone, the two of them would sit down together and the shop owner would answer all his questions. Meacher couldn’t hear anything from downstairs, couldn’t even hear the pounding. Was the shop owner talking to his pursuers at this moment? Or had they simply moved on? Had they knocked on the shop door not because they had known he was inside, but because they were knocking on every door, hoping to either rouse and question the occupants or simply to frighten him into bolting from wherever he might have chosen to hide?
He knew he had reached the upper landing only when his raised right foot failed to encounter another stair. He settled it gently next to his left and used his arms as antennae to probe the way ahead. Encountering no resistance, he shuffled forward, the soles of his feet scraping along a surface that felt like rough, gritty wood. After a few steps he moved to his right, and within seconds encountered a wall of what seemed to be cold, uneven plaster.
Feeling his way along, it only took him several seconds more to locate a door. His hands slithered over it until one of them found the knob, which was twisted in both directions several times before Meacher concluded that it was locked.
What was it the shop owner had said? Go upstairs and into the unlocked room? Something like that. Which meant, presumably, that of several rooms up here, only one was unlocked. He simply had to find it, that was all, simply had to be methodical.
Rather than move across to the other side of the landing, he decided to feel his way to the next door on this side, then there would be no chance of missing one. Blinking into the darkness and finding it unchanging, he probed the way cautiously forward with his feet, and almost immediately his left palm, caressing the wall, bumped against the jutting side of a second door frame.
Even without his sight, his hand moved unerringly to the door knob, and this time, with barely a twist, the door opened. Meacher stepped inside and quietly closed it behind him. Remembering what the shop owner had said about locking himself in, his searching fingers found a key, which rewarded him with a satisfying click when he twisted it clockwise.
Turning to face the room, he realised that it was not as dark as he had first thought. The faint, brownish illumination was provided by a meagre spill of light through a small window coated in grime and dust. Though the light was barely managing to establish itself, Meacher could just make out a bed with rumpled bedclothes and a tall blocky wardrobe. He did not notice the child, however, until it started whispering.
His head twisted so sharply that a hot thread of pain flared in his neck. The child was standing so closely to the wall furthest away from the door that until he focused on it fully it resembled nothing so much as a particular fall of shadow on an uneven patch of plaster. Thinking that his fumblings at the door may have caused the child to scuttle across the room and press itself against the wall in fear, Meacher moved closer to reassure it, more out of fear that it would give him away than because of a genuine urge to offer it comfort. However he had taken no more than four steps towards it when he stopped.
He had assumed the whispering to be a prayer, or an attempt by the child to find its voice, but now that he was close enough to hear it clearly he realised it was neither. What the child was whispering were the words that it, or some other child, had wailed in abject terror down the phone in the square at him. “
It was as though, by repeating the words, the child was giving them the power of an incantation, was mocking or damning him with them. Meacher felt anger, or more than anger, boiling inside him and he took two further steps across the room. It was only at this point, some six or eight feet from the child, that the scant light finally enabled him to make out particular details that had been denied him from further away. It was these details that caused the strength to drain from his legs so abruptly that he thumped forward on to his knees.
The child did not have its back to the wall at all; it was
It was the sight of the bag – black plastic wound round with masking tape – that triggered the memories in Meacher’s mind. Now, finally, he was beginning to realise why he was here. He held out his hands in supplication.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.
Slowly the child turned to face him. “
As though relishing the moment, the child raised its hands, its fingertips resting on the black plastic, making it crackle. Then, still whispering, it hooked its fingers into the plastic and began to tear the bag from its face.
LYNDA E. RUCKER
The Last Reel
LYNDA E. RUCKER WAS BORN in Birmingham, Alabama, and currently lives in Portland, Oregon, but will be packing it in shortly to go vagabonding around other parts of the world, for as long as those other parts of the world will have her.
In the last few years she has taken time off from writing fiction to pursue a graduate degree and, as an inexplicable result, has several stories scheduled to appear this year.
Her fiction has been, or will be, published in
“This story came from two places,” she reveals: “an imagined dialogue – which practically wrote itself – between a film lover and his girlfriend playing a silly game (and friends who read this commented that I seemed to have written a story in which my partner was the main character); and my grandmother’s house in rural Georgia, which I found spooky as a child.
“I once dreamed a witch lived behind that house – and to this day, as it falls further into dereliction and collapses into the woods surrounding it, it still feels like a terrifying, magical place to me.”
“WAIT A MINUTE,” Sophie said, “give me a clue, I know this one.”
“If you know it, you don’t need a clue, do you?” Kevin lit another cigarette and sank back against the seat.
She shot him a look. “Watch the road,” he cautioned, and she reached over to punch him in the shoulder.
“Smartass,” she said.
He sang softly, in a deep false bass. “Seven, seven, seven . . .”
“
“Well, if you didn’t get the
Sophie hit the brakes. The car slewed to the right and skidded to a stop.
“That was the turn back there,” she said. “Way to go, navigator.”
“I know that one. Kiwi film about Black Death victims who time-travel to modern-day New Zealand. And there was a Buster Keaton flick with the same name. Either way, I am trouncing your ass!”
“That wasn’t part of the game. Could you stop being a movie geek for five damn minutes?” Sophie asked rhetorically, dragging the gear stick into reverse.
“I’m a film critic. I know no other way.”
“Well, next time we’ll play some kind of – of
“A cooking game? Food geek.”
“At least we eat well. You guys would live on popcorn and Junior Mints if it wasn’t for people like me.”
The missed turn was unsignposted and, he noted, not visible until you were upon it and saw the break in the trees and brush that grew right to the edge of the highway. He decided not to mount a self-defense at that particular moment.
“Great,” Sophie murmured moments later as they bumped up the narrow gravel lane, rocks popping ominously against the underside of the car, branches scraping at the sides. “I wonder if the rental company has a ‘back of beyond’ clause absolving us from damages incurred in the actual middle of nowhere . . .”
She trailed off as they rounded a bend and the house was before them, all at once. It lurked in a clearing where all the grass had died and been dug up by the six dogs Sophie’s Aunt Rose had kept. According to the animal control people they were all feral, and had to be destroyed.
The house itself was low and dark, all blank windows and weathered boards the color of old dishwater.
Kevin said, “It’s haunted, right? I mean, it would have to be. Jesus, what a dump.” He hated the way his voice went up at the end, losing control a little bit like the sight of the house had really shaken him. “Jesus,” he said again.
“Well. It’s not like we have to spend the night here or anything.” Sophie was brisk, the way she always got when something made her uneasy.
“
“What?”
“William Castle feature. Vincent Price offers ten thousand dollars to whoever will spend the entire night in a haunted house.”
“Ah, but ten thousand dollars doesn’t go nearly as far as it did back in those days, even if having Mr Vincent Price do the offering makes it a little more attractive. Did they up the going price in the remake?”
“In the what?”
“The remake.”
“Blasphemer!” he said.
“Race you!” she answered. She was out the door before he knew it, her sandals clattering on the steps when he was only halfway across the yard.
“No fair,” he said, “you tricked me.” They were both laughing until she turned round to face the house, when it suddenly seemed rude to display too much levity as they prepared to survey the meager estate of poor deceased Aunt Rose.
Sophie’s key stuck in the front door, and for a moment he hoped it wouldn’tworkatall, butthenthelockturnedeasily.Thedarkspilledout.
They crossed the threshold into a foyer smelling of mold, and stale with the heat of a hot September day. Just a few feet ahead he could make out monstrous shapes that were revealed, once Sophie touched the light switch, to be a coat-rack bearing numerous heavy coats, and a hulking wardrobe. The hallway was short, a few steps across the worn grey carpet carrying him to the end.
Sophie had shown him photos late last night at her mother’s condo back in Atlanta, the mutilated snapshots with sister Rose snipped from every one. It struck him as cruel and excessive, the way family interactions so often do to anyone on the outside, the story behind it all – for there always is one – too convoluted and painful to ever be properly recalled or recounted by the perceived injured party.
Already the estrangement made more sense, though, now that he’d seen the house. He tried to imagine two sisters more different than Sophie’s bright, intimidating mother, vice-president of something-or-other at a big Atlanta bank, and this weird reclusive woman lost like a fairy tale witch in her spooky house in the woods. “Can you remember her at all?” he’d asked.
“Once,” Sophie had told him; she’d been very young – she couldn’t say for sure how young, but once, at some family gathering, maybe a funeral. “She scared me.”
No, that wasn’t right, her mother had insisted. Sophie and her Aunt Rose had never met. “I can’t fathom any circumstance under which
Sophie just shrugged. “She’s lying. Aunt Rose taught me a weird little dance, like a jig or something, but then Mother made me stop doing it when she found out who I learned it from. So I used to do it in secret, in my bedroom.” It was all, she said, that she did remember, and now scary Aunt Rose was dead and she was doing the responsible grown-up thing where her mother could not.
Sophie’s mother had been opposed.
“I’m telling you, you don’t even need to deal with it, honey. You stay right where you are. I’ll have people take care of it – get some appraisers out there, get the place sold, have the money deposited straight into your account.”
The harder her mother pushed, the more Sophie’s resolve grew to handle matters her own way. Kevin stayed silent and stayed out of it.
The doors to either side of them leading out of the foyer were closed. “Well,” Sophie said, and reached for the one on her right. Kevin had a moment of uneasiness as she passed into a darkness that swallowed her up. “Good God.” A dim light went on and he joined her just at the doorway of the kitchen, where the rancid smell of spoiled food hit him full on. “Will you look at that,” Sophie said, and he did. All three windows – one over the sink, and two at the front of the house – were covered with cardboard and held in place with black duct tape.
The rest of the room was unremarkable, old but standard appliances, rough wooden cabinets. The refrigerator door stood open, the bulb burned out, and unidentifiable bundles – perhaps packages of meat – littered the floor before it, some of them leaking thin rivulets of dark fluid. Scattered across the counter, lumps that had presumably been fruit or vegetables were grey and furry.
“I’ve worked in kitchens that were
He wanted to tell her to stop then, not to go into any more rooms ahead of him. She’d laugh at him, or get annoyed.
“Enough seen,” she said, pinching her nose, backing out, pulling the door shut after them. “How I hate to say this, but maybe my mother was right.”
The other door, now. Blackness, but this time he was prepared for it. In the second before Sophie found the switch he heard her finger scrabbling along the wall. It reminded him of something dried out and dead.
“
“Wow,” he said, struck stupid.
Even without the contrast of the squalid kitchen, the suffocating opulence of the living room would have been striking. Oriental rugs covered every inch of wall space, including, presumably, the windows. His knowledge of old furniture was confined to an occasional stroll through an antique mall back in Seattle, idly wondering what would possess people to pay hundreds of dollars for old Coca-Cola merchandise. But even his unpracticed eye spotted some value in the chaos of clashing eras and continents. A Chinese lacquer cabinet was wedged against one wall, next to it a couple of heavy ornate chairs, and a sleek Art Deco lamp. A mostly clear path meandered through the clutter to the opposite door, but you still had to make yourself compact to get through.
Sophie had already done so, fighting her way past a roll-top desk and tugging at an unremarkable looking occasional table that blocked the next door. He had a passing irrational urge to beg her not to open it. Too late anyway, as miraculous afternoon sunshine fell across her path.
“Auntie’s bedroom,” she said as she stepped through the doorway, and he hurried to join her with a growing anxiety that the first two rooms had left in him, a sense of being lost, buried alive.
The unblocked windows helped him to breathe easier. “I wish you’d stop going ahead of me,” he said. Auntie’s bedroom was as neat and bare as a nun’s cell. A single iron bed, white pillows, white coverlet pulled up tight. One wooden nightstand, empty save for an overflowing ashtray and a crumpled cigarette package. The cigarette butts were ringed with bright red lipstick. They reminded him of how badly he wanted to smoke, and he fumbled for his lighter before remembering he’d left his pack in the car. He crossed to one of the windows.
“I can’t see our car,” he said.
“Of course not. You’re looking out the back of the house.”
But that was nonsense. He ought to be seeing the driveway, and the ruined front yard, but there was only a stretch of bare ground and then a line of trees thickening into forest. He had a sense then that they moved, like curtains fluttering when something stirred on the other side.
“Look,” Sophie said. She lifted a shoebox from the other side of the bed and set it on the night table. He saw her flinch and jump back. The back of her hand caught the ashtray, and it smashed to the floor.
“Shit!” Sophie yelled.
“Are you okay?”
“I thought a spider ran out of the box. What an idiot.”
He came round the side of the bed and saw beads of blood welling up on her legs and sandaled feet where the shattered glass had pierced her skin. “I’m okay,” she said, “it just scared me. There’s probably Band Aids in the bathroom.” She pushed past him and opened the last door. He caught sight of a heavy porcelain sink and a bathtub on feet, then Sophie said, “Ew” and he went in after her. Brown water sputtered from the faucet.
“It’s just because it hasn’t been turned on in a while,” he said, “it’ll clear in a few minutes.”
“No Band-Aids,” she said, “no medicine cabinet, nothing. Apparently Aunt Rose didn’t even use soap. Doesn’t matter. They’re shallow.” Working in a kitchen had left her inured to minor cuts and burns. “Let’s see what’s in the box.”
“God,” she said, “do you have to be so morbid?
“That’s one,” he said, so he wouldn’t shout something stupid and hysterical like
“It’s filled with photographs,” she said. “
“That’s head-in-a-bag, not head-in-a-box,” he said desperately.
“Oh, for God’s sake. Picky, aren’t we?” Her voice changed. “That’s weird.”
“What?”
“I don’t know how she got hold of these. It’s all pictures of
Then she said,
She said it so cleanly, so matter-of-factly, that he couldn’t believe she wasn’t masking her pain.
“
“Check. That’s two.”
She grinned, waved snapshots at him in a less than menacing manner. “I’ll show you the life of the mind!”
“You don’t look a bit like John Goodman.”
But she wasn’t listening anymore. “What’s this?”
He had a sinking feeling of inevitability, like the second or third time you watch a movie in which something terrible is going to happen, and even as you know it’s coming, some part of you is hoping against hope that this time the film will magically find its path to a different fate. But this was not a movie, and it was nothing he’d seen before, so there was no reason for this sick feeling to engulf him when Sophie pulled a key out of the box.
“This is freaking me out,” she said. “Where did she get all these pictures of me? And why’d she keep them?”
“Maybe your mom sent them to her.” Families did weird stuff like that, mingling devotion and resentment, like his cousin Shelby who wouldn’t speak to her dad but made her son write him a letter once a month.
“Sent a whole shoebox full of pictures?” she asked. He shrugged. “It looks like a door key,” she went on. “I wonder . . . Kevin, do you have any idea how much that stuff in the other room is worth? What if this is the key to something even more valuable? Imagine if I came out of this with enough money to open my own restaurant?” Her eyes were shining when she looked at him. He wanted to take her hand and insist that they leave immediately, tell her that her mother was right and they should let other people deal with this.
Instead he said again, “This window ought to look out at the front yard. Why can’t I see the car?”
“There’s nothing
He lingered, not wanting to go back to the stuffy closed-in part of the house. On a whim he tried one of the windows; it seemed important to have another route of escape besides the front door, and anyway he was noticing a heavy flowery scent hanging about, the kind of sickly sweetness used to disguise the odor of something foul. He took a deep breath, but could find no hint to the source of the rottenness underneath. It was not the same as the spoiled food in the kitchen; this was something earthier and more intense.
Fresh air would do him good. He tugged at the window, and it did not budge. It appeared to be painted shut.
When he walked back into the living room, Sophie had vanished. A woman stood with her back to him, shoulders rigid, black-haired, wearing Sophie’s sweater. She turned and smiled at him, Sophie’s smile, Sophie’s eyes.
“Check out this funky wig,” she said. “Wouldn’t it be great for Halloween? What do you think my batty old aunt was doing with something like this?”
“Take it off,” he pleaded, but he must not have sounded serious at all because she laughed and flounced past him. “Head in a box,” she said. “Are you sure it’s not
“Of course I’m sure, it’s my clue. I made it up,” he said, but he could no longer remember what he’d had in mind for the third head-in-a-box film or why he’d started them on such a gruesome tack in the first place.
“Torso-in-a-box,” she said. “
“How do you know that? That she was beautiful?”
“You know what?” She laughed. “I hid some pictures of her when I was little, before my mom got hold of all the rest and cut them to pieces. I still have them somewhere, I guess. When I was a kid and I’d get mad at my mom, I’d make up a story that an evil witch had taken her over, my real mom was actually Aunt Rose and that she and my dad were coming to rescue me. Isn’t that stupid?”
“We should get going,” he said. “There’s nothing else out here, and it’s a long drive back.”
“That dance she taught me,” Sophie said. “She called it the something reel. The witches’ reel? Oh, I can’t remember. Anyway, I just want to look around a little more. I want to see if we can find out what this key goes to.”
He wanted to say that if it was truly concealing something so valuable, surely Aunt Rose would not make it so difficult to find and identify. Then again, Aunt Rose was at least a little bit crazy. Someone like Aunt Rose might think
“I know,” Sophie said. He followed her into the hallway, where she was tugging at the wardrobe.
“Be careful,” he said, “you’ll bring it down on yourself.” He went forward to help her. “Take hold at the bottom here. We don’t want to overbalance it.” He had not noticed, when they first walked in, how much worse the smell was here. This place was sealed up so tightly, could the air go bad, like you heard about in caving collapses, mining disasters?
Between the two of them they heaved the wardrobe a couple of feet away from the wall. Sophie said, “Kevin, look. Come round on my side.” She’d been right, after all; it had concealed a door, and she could twist the key in the lock and open the door just far enough to allow her to slip inside.
“Don’t,” he said, while she still stood on his side of the doorway, her hand on the knob.
She grinned at him. “Let’s make a deal. You tell me the other head-in-a-box movie and I won’t open it.”
“I can’t remember,” he said. “I guess it was
“Not good enough,” she said, and slipped into the darkness.
Long moments later she spoke. “I can’t find a light switch. Maybe there’s a string I can pull or something. Do you have your lighter?” She sounded as though she were speaking to him from the bottom of a well.
“It’s in the car,” he said. “Sophie, come out of there.”
“Can’t you just run out and get it for me? Come on, Kevin, five minutes and then we’re gone.”
He hesitated, then threw up his hands. “Fine.” It was easier to get angry with her. He must have imagined the way the front door resisted him when he turned the knob; it was swollen from exposure, maybe, and that made it stick when he tugged at it. Then he was out on the porch again, where the day was still warm and sunny and their car waited just where he’d parked it. Halfway back to it he turned and searched for the bedroom windows he’d looked out from.
A movement on the roof caught his eye. Something scampered across the peak and out of his sight down the other side. Something blackened and low.
He snatched the lighter up from where he’d left it in the well between seats and sprinted back to the house. He called her name as he burst through the front door, and her voice came back to him, muffled.
“Oh, shit, Sophie, why’d you shut the door?” He slumped against the wardrobe, rattled the knob. “It’s locked. Did you lock it?”
She sounded close – she must have been just on the other side of the door, but she might have been whispering against his ear. “There’s nothing
“Well, stay where you are. Don’t go moving around in there when you can’t see.” But she was doing just that; he could hear her, thumping about. “Are you
He’d once read somewhere that the best way to go about breaking down a door was to direct a blow near the lock.
“What are you
As he stepped over the threshold, he was surprised at how much of the room it illuminated when he held it high over his head. He felt his shoulders sag, tension draining out of them as he asked himself what he’d been expecting to find in there; Sophie’s father’s head in a box, perhaps? She was right, it was a small, bare, perfectly square room, perhaps ten feet by ten.
Then he noticed the walls. He stepped forward, one, two paces. “Get up,” he said. Sophie sat cross-legged in the middle of the room. The flame nipped at his thumb and he let the light go out.
He hoped that she had not seen what he had: every inch of wall space covered in thick black cursive writing or tattered pages torn from books, punctuated with photographs of Sophie. He thought that some of them had been hung upside down, perhaps defaced. He didn’t want to look again to confirm it.
Sophie was silent. Then, “There’s something painted on the floor here.” She sounded different in the dark. They had been together for years; how could any nuance be unknown to him? He took a few more steps in. He felt swallowed by the blackness. “Bring the light over here.”
His thumb was raw as he spun it against the wheel of the lighter. “Sophie,” he said, and the little flame spewed; the room flickered once more in shades of grey. He squatted, and held the lighter down low and close between them. “Sophie, will you please take off that wig?”
She giggled, and that sounded wrong too. “If it’s such a big deal to you,” she said, and snatched it off, tossed it in a corner. He wished she hadn’t done that, and almost asked her to pick it up. He hated the idea of it lying there like some furry dead thing, and he let the light go out once more.
“Your mother’s going to get worried if we don’t head back soon,” he said.
“I wonder what’s in the wardrobe?” she said.
“Your father’s head?”
Silence again. Then, “That’s not funny. Anyway, wouldn’t be much left of it, would there?”
“I’m sorry. I was kidding. It was stupid.” He could feel his shirt damp and stuck to his back, sweat trickling down his sides from his armpits. He became aware that his mouth hung open and he was breathing like he’d been running, heavy and ragged. “
“What?”
“
“Oh. I never heard of it.”
“Albert Finney with an axe and a yen for decapitation.”
“Oh,” she said again. “That was kind of a cheat, then, if you knew I couldn’t possibly get it.” The boards creaked beneath her feet as she made her way over to him. He resisted the urge to recoil, but jumped anyway when she touched him. Her hand was icy through the cloth of his shirt, her fingernails sharp and hard. “It’s so dark in here. Like there never was any light.” Her breath was on his cheek, warm and moist and stale-smelling. “You know?” she said, and then she pressed against him and fixed her mouth on his. Her tongue invaded, prying his lips apart.
He stumbled back away from her. “We have to go.”
She coughed, a phlegmy sound like she was a longtime smoker. “You’re right,” she said. “There’s nothing here anyway.”
He was relieved when she pushed past him and continued down the hall. The wig had left her hair matted and stuck to the crown of her head. When she opened the front door and he saw how the light had changed he realized how much later it was than he’d thought. She commented that it seemed to be growing dark so early these days, it was hard to believe that it wasn’t yet fall.
“Sophie, those cuts look terrible,” he said, noticing her legs. They’d gone dry and puckered-looking, like tiny gaping mouths. But she was already crawling in on the passenger side, and didn’t seem to hear him.
The engine failed to turn over the first time, then again and again, and sweat was dripping into his eyes. Sophie sat placid beside him, unmoved by the useless revving of the motor.
“What’s the number for Triple A?” he said. “Where’s your phone?”
“It’s dead. I forgot to recharge it last night.” She went on, “It’s not such a bad place, really. I bet we could do something with it.”
“I forgot my lighter,” he said.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said, already willing to forget that for a split second he’d thought of sending her back inside on the pretense of fetching something, then driving away – no, running away, a mile or more back up to the highway where he’d flag down a car. It wasn’t Sophie that stopped him—rather, the certainty that he might run as far as he could and would never find the highway, because it would no longer be there.
“Poor thing,” she said, “you must be tired. You probably shouldn’t drive anyway. There’s a bed inside, you know, if you need to rest.”
He steadied his foot on the accelerator and gunned the engine. He would feel better if only he would look at her, and she’d laugh, propose some calm and sensible plan for getting them out of this predicament. Someone will stop for us up on the highway, she’d say in a moment, out here in the country people still help you like that. But he could not do it. He found that a sort of numbness had taken him, rather than grief or any sense of loss, and he kept turning the key and pressing the gas long after it produced only a series of dry dead clicks, and still he could not bring himself to look into her eyes.
JAY LAKE
The American Dead
JAY LAKE LIVES IN PORTLAND, Oregon with his books and two inept cats, where he works on numerous writing and editing projects.
His current novels are
He is the winner of the 2004 John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer and a multiple nominee for the Hugo and World Fantasy Awards.
“There are little markers that tells us things about the world,” Lake explains, “so-called telling details. The airliner in the river in this story tells us the world has ended, because in our world we don’t leave downed airliners where they fell. The policeman’s notebook tells its own story. But the story that lasts the longest is the story of our dead.
“Someday the American dead will be the stuff of history. This is a story of one way that might have happened, and what it means to the people who remain standing puzzled in the ruins.”
AMERICANS ARE ALL RICH, even their dead. Pobrecito knows this because he spends the hottest parts of the days in the old
He sits within a drooping tree which fights with life and watches the flies make dark, wiggling rafts out on the water. There are dogs which live in the broken-backed jet out in the middle of the current, eyes glowing from behind the dozens of little shattered oval windows. At night the dogs swim across the slow current and run the river banks, hunting in the
They are why he never sleeps in the
When he was very young, Pobrecito found a case of magazines, old ones with bright color pictures of men and women without their clothes. Whoever had made the magazines had an astonishing imagination, because in Pobrecito’s experience most people who fucked seemed to do it either with booze or after a lot of screaming and fighting and being held down. There weren’t very many ways he’d ever seen it gone after. The people in these pictures were smiling, mostly, and arranged themselves more carefully than priests arranging a corpse. And they lived in the most astonishing places.
Pobrecito clips or tears the pictures out a few at a time and sells them on the streets of the
What he loves most about the magazines is not the nudity or the fucking or the strange combinations and arrangements these people found themselves in. No, what he loves is that these are Americans. Beautiful people in beautiful places doing beautiful things together.
“I will be an American some day,” he tells his friend Lucia. They are in the branches of the dying tree, sharing a bottle of
The magazines are stored elsewhere, in a place he has never even shown to Lucia.
“You are an idiot,” she declares, glancing out at the airplane in the river. The American flag can still be seen on its tall tail, small and weathered. No one has gone out to paint it over, for fear of the dogs. “All Americans are dead,” she adds with prim authority.
Lucia is smaller than Pobrecito, though older. She is one of the
She has never offered to touch him.
Pobrecito shakes off that thought. “What is dead can be reborn. This is what the priests are always telling us.” He grins, mottled teeth flashing even in shadow. “I shall bleach my skin and hair like they did, and have a fine house filled with swimming pools and bright furniture. My automobiles would be colorful and shiny and actually have petrol.”
She laughs then and sets her shoulder against his chest, tucking her head into his neck, sucking on the
That evening the folk of the
Pobrecito dodges booted feet and moves with the crowd, listening. He already knows he will sell no pictures tonight. Selling no pictures, he will not eat tomorrow. But he wants to understand what is wrong.
The crowd is speaking of priests.
“Girls, indeed.”
“. . . a scandal. And they use God’s name!”
“They wear those black dresses. Let them lie with one another.”
“Called them up there from a list. I tell you, I won’t allow my . . .”
“Hush! Do you want to hang?”
“A tax. How is this a
“Their time is coming. Soon.”
Pobrecito comes to understand. Girls are being taken away by the priests. To be used, he supposes, like the Americans in his pictures use each other. Will the girls of the
But eventually the anger melts into fatigue, and word comes that the
Over the weeks, a few more girls are called every few days, always the hale ones with good curves to their breasts. The
None of the girls come back.
In a few month’s time, some older women are called, and younger girls as well. They do not return, either. The
And the heat.
It is always a little hotter. This has been the way of things all of Pobrecito’s life.
The vanishing girls and women are good for Pobrecito’s little business. Sad men and wild-eyed boys buy from him, paying him in dented cans of dog food or little bundles of yams or onions. Even a few of the old women seek him out, clucking and tutting like senile chickens draped in funeral black, wanting pictures “of a girl alone, none of your despicable filth, just something to remember her by.”
But he is becoming too well known, too rich. He has more food than he and Lucia can eat in a day, and even a few metal tools and some old bits of gold, which he hides in his tree by the river.
Is he rich enough to be an American yet, Pobrecito wonders?
One day he makes his way into the
“Ah,” says Pobrecito, and reflexively offers them the wine. Perhaps it will save him from whatever is next. He doubts that, though.
The leader, for he has more decoration on his buttoned shoulder tabs, strokes the bright leather of his pistol belt for a moment, then smiles. It is a horrid sort of smile, something a man remembering an old photo he is trying to imitate might offer up. The other two do not bother. Instead they merely cradle a machete each, staring corpse-eyed at Pobrecito. All three of them are fat, their bellies bigger than their hips, unlike anyone in the
No one takes the wine.
“You are the guardian of Lucia Sandoz, is it not true?” the leader asks.
This is not what Pobrecito expected. “Ah . . . no. She comes here sometimes.”
The leader consults a thin notebook, ragged with handling, pages nearly black with ink. “You are Pobrecito the street merchant, no address, of the
“Yes.”
“Then you are the guardian of Lucia Sandoz. It says so here in my book, and so this must be a true thing.” His smile asserts itself again. “We have a summons for her.” All three
“She is not mine,” he says to his feet. Not Lucia. “And besides,” he adds, “she is a
They laugh, his tormentors, before one of the machete-carriers says, “How would you know if you hadn’t had her?”
The leader leans close. “She is
Then they beat him, using the flat of the machete blades and the rough toes of their boots. Pobrecito loses most of his left ear when a blade slips, and the palm of his hand is cut to the bone, but they stop before staving in his ribs or breaking any large bones.
“Find her,” says the leader. Pobrecito can barely hear him through the pain and blood in his ear. The
Pobrecito does not waste time on crying. He stumbles to his tree, knowing there are some extra clothes there that he can use to bind his ear and his hand. There are so many sicknesses that come in through bloody cuts and sores – black rot, green rot, the red crust – and he fears them all.
Stumbling, eyes dark and head ringing, Pobrecito can barely climb his tree because his arms and legs hurt so much. When he reaches the branch, he sees that someone has been at his cache of riches and food.
“I will never be an American,” Pobrecito whispers. He lays his mutilated ear against the slashed palm of his hand, pressing them together to slow the bleeding and protect the wounds from insects. Despite the pain, he lays that side of his head against the branch and stretches out to surrender to the ringing darkness.
“Wake up, fool!” It is Lucia’s voice. She is slapping him.
Pobrecito feels strange. His skin is itchy, crawly, prickly.
More slaps.
“Stop it this instant!” Her voice is rising toward a frightening break.
He opens his mouth to answer her and flies tumble in.
He is covered in flies.
“Gaaah!” Pobrecito screams.
“Get them off before they bite,” she says, her voice more under control.
Pobrecito stumbles to his feet, runs down the branch where it overhangs the water.
“Not the river . . .” she says behind him, but it is too late. The old branch narrows, is rotten, his legs are weak, his eyes not clear. In a crackling shower of wood, flies and blood, Pobrecito tumbles the five or six meters downward to slam into the slow, brown water, knocking the air from his body.
The river is blood warm, shocking him awake. He is under the surface, eyes open to a uniform brown with no way up. The water is sticky, strange, clinging to him, trying to draw him further down. Pobrecito kicks his legs, trying to come out, but there is still no up.
At least the flies are gone.
He begins to wonder if he could open his mouth and find something besides the burning in his empty lungs.
Something scrapes his legs. Something long, slow and powerful. Pobrecito throws his hands out and finds a stick. He pulls on it, but it does not come, so he pulls himself toward it.
A moment later he is gasping and muddy, clinging to a root sticking out from the river bank. Air is in his lungs, blessed air. Behind him the water burbles as the long, slow, powerful thing circles back to test him again. Out in the middle of the river, the dogs are barking.
Lucia is scrambling down the tree trunk, sobbing. “Fool! Idiot!”
She helps him pull himself out before his legs are taken. He lies on the bank gasping and crying, blessedly free of flies. He does not want to think about what the river water might have done to his wounds. “They . . . they came . . . they came for you . . .” he spits out.
“No one wants me,” she says fiercely.
“They said you were
She is quiet for a moment. “Fire-piss is killing the rich men up in the city, the old women say. The priests have heard from god that to fuck a clean woman takes the fire-piss from the man and gives it to her.”
“How do you know? No one comes back.”
“Some people pass in and out of the walls. Servants. Farmers. The word comes. And the cemetery is overflowing, up on the hill. With rich city men.” She stares at him for a moment. “The
“Ahhh . . .” He weeps, eyes filling with hot tears as they hadn’t for the beating, or for anything in his memory, really. “And they want you now.”
“The cure does not work, but it does not stop them from trying over and over. The priests say it is so, that they are not faithful enough. Up in the city, they believe they can make the world however they want it.” She stares at him for a while. “And perhaps they have a taste for new girls all the time.”
Pobrecito thinks about his American pictures. Obviously many people had a taste for new girls all the time. Has he somehow been feeding this evil? But he doesn’t sell his pictures in the city, or even to city men. Not directly. He has always wondered if some of his buyers did.
And if he could make the world the way he wanted it, he would wish away the heat and the insects and the sicknesses. He would make them all Americans like in his pictures, naked, happy, pale-skinned blondes with big houses and tables full of food and more water than any sane person could ever use. He would not wish for more girls to kill. Not even if God told him to.
“I want to show you something,” he says.
“Show me soon. I think the dogs are coming over.”
“In the day?”
“You got their attention, my friend.”
Out at the airplane, dogs were gathering on the wing, their feet in the slow water. Some of them were casting sticks and stones out into the river, looking for that great predator that had touched Pobrecito for a moment. Others growl through pointed teeth, eyes glowing at him. Smoke curls from some of the shattered oval windows. Great red and blue letters, faded and worn as the tail’s flag, loom along the rounded top of the airplane in some American prayer for the coming assault.
“It is over anyway,” he says. “Come.” He leads her deeper into the
Here among the houses of the American dead is his greatest treasure.
He shows Lucia a squared-off vault, door wedged tightly shut. Grabbing a cornice, Pobrecito pulls himself to the roof though his body strains with the pain of the beating and the curious ache of his fall into the river. He then dangles his arm over to help her up. There are two windows in the roof, and he knows the secret of loosening one.
In a moment they are in the cool darkness of the vault. There are two marble coffins here, carved with wreaths and flowers, and Pobrecito’s precious box of magazines at one end. He has left a few supplies, a can of drinkable water and some dried fruit, a homespun shirt without quite enough holes for it to disintegrate to ragged patches. And matches, his other great treasure.
“These people do not seem so wealthy,” Lucia whispers. “This is a fine little house for them, but the only riches here are yours.”
Pobrecito shrugs. “Perhaps they were robbed before I found them. Or perhaps their riches are within their coffins. This is a finer room than any you or I will ever live or die in.” As soon as he says that last, he wishes he hadn’t, as they may very well die in this room.
“So now what will you do?”
He pulls the magazines out of the their box, fans the pages open. Sleek American flesh in a hundred combinations flashes before his eyes, cocks, breasts, tongues, leather and plastic toys, sleek cars . . . all the world that was, once. The American world lost to the heat and the sicknesses. Pobrecito tosses the magazines into a pile, deliberately haphazard. After a few moments, Lucia begins to help, tearing a few apart, breaking their spines so they will lay flat. She ignores the pictures, though she is not so used to them as Pobrecito is.
Soon they have a glossy pile of images of the perfect past. Without another word, Pobrecito strikes a match and sets fire to a bright, curled edge. Cool faces, free of sweat and wounds, blacken and shrivel. He lights more matches, sets more edges of the pile on fire, until the flames take over.
The smoke stinks, filling the little vault, curling around the opening in the roof. He does not care, though Lucia is coughing. Pobrecito pulls off his wet, bloody clothes and pushes them into the base of the fire, then climbs atop one of the marble coffins. A few moments later, Lucia joins him.
She is naked as well.
They lie there on the bed of marble, smooth skinned as any Americans, kissing and touching, while the fire burns the pretty people in their pretty houses and the smoke rises through the roof. Outside dogs howl and
When Lucia takes his cock in her mouth, Pobrecito knows he is as wealthy as any American. A while later he feels the hot rush of himself into her, even as the smoke makes him so dizzy his thoughts have spun off into the sky like so many airplanes rising from their river grave.
Soon he will be a true American, wealthy and dead.
PETER ATKINS
Between the Cold Moon and the Earth
PETER ATKINS IS A NATIVE of Liverpool, but has lived in Los Angeles for fifteen years with his wife Dana. He is the author of the novels
His work has also appeared in
“Between the Cold Moon and the Earth” was written for the October 2006 tour of
“The story played very well on the reading tour,” recalls Atkins, “but my American audiences were confused by the fact that some of the 16-year-old characters had spent the earlier part of the evening in a pub.
“In fact, such flouting of the drinking laws was common in the 1970s Liverpool where I grew up. Other parts of the story are from life also, including its lovely and foul-mouthed heroine.”
THEY ONLY BRUSHED his cheek for a second or two, but her lips were fucking
“Christ, Carol,” he said. “Do you want my coat?”
She laughed. “What for?” she asked.
“Because it’s one in the morning,” he said. “And you’re cold.”
“It’s summer,” she pointed out, which was undeniably true but wasn’t really the issue. “Are you going to walk me home then?”
Michael had left the others about forty minutes earlier. Kirk had apparently copped off with the girl from Woolworth’s that they’d met inside the pub so Michael and Terry had tactfully peeled away before the bus stop and started walking the long way home around Sefton Park. He could’ve split a taxi fare with Terry but, given that they were still in the middle of their ongoing argument about the relative merits of T. Rex and Pink Floyd and that it was still a good six months before they’d find Roxy Music to agree on, they’d parted by unspoken consent and Michael had opted to cut across the park alone.
Carol had been standing on the path beside the huge park’s large boating lake. He’d practically shit himself when he first saw the shadowed figure there, assuming the worst – a midnight skinhead parked on watch ready to whistle his mates out of hiding to give this handy glam-rock faggot a good kicking – but Carol had been doing nothing more threatening than staring out at the center of the lake and the motionless full moon reflected there.
“All right, Michael,” she’d said, before he’d quite recognised her in the moonlight, and had kissed his cheek lightly in further greeting before he’d spoken her name. Now, he fell into step beside her and they began to walk the long slow curve around the lake.
“God, Carol. Where’ve you been?” he asked. “Nobody’s seen you for months.”
It was true. Her mum had remarried just before last Christmas and they’d moved. Not far away, still in the same city, but far enough for sixteen-year-olds to lose touch.
“I went to America,” Carol said.
Michael turned his head to see if she was kidding. “You went to
Her eyes narrowed for a moment as if she were re-checking her facts or her memory. “I think it was America,” she said.
“You
“It might have been an imaginary America,” she said, her voice a little impatient. “Do you want to hear the fucking story or not?”
Oh. Michael didn’t smile nor attempt to kiss her, but he felt like doing both. Telling stories – real, imagined, or some happy collision of the two – had been one of the bonds between them, one of the things he’d loved about her. Not the only thing of course. It’s not like he hadn’t shared Kirk and Terry’s enthusiastic affection for her astonishingly perfect breasts and for the teasingly challenging way she had about her that managed to suggest two things simultaneously: that, were circumstances to somehow become magically right, she might, you know, actually
There was some quick confusion about whether she’d got there by plane or by ship – Carol had never been a big fan of preamble – but apparently what mattered was that, after a few days, she found herself in a roadside diner with a bunch of people she hardly knew.
They were on a road trip and had stopped for lunch in this back-of-beyond and unpretentious diner – a place which, while perfectly clean and respectable, looked like it hadn’t been painted or refurbished since about 1952. They were in a booth, eating pie and drinking coffee. Her companions were about her age – but could, you know,
“Yo! Still need a refill here!” he shouted to the counter.
Carol stood up and, announcing she was going to the ladies’ room, slid her way out of the booth. Halfway down the room, she crossed paths with the waitress, who was hurrying toward their booth with a coffee pot. The woman’s name tag said
“Don’t mind him, love,” Carol said. “He’s a bit of a prick, but I’ll make sure he leaves a nice tip.”
Cindi, who was harried-looking and appeared to be at least 30, gave her a quick smile of gratitude. “Little girls’ room’s out back, sweetheart,” she said.
Carol exited the main building of the diner and saw that a separate structure, little more than a shack really, housed the bathrooms. She started across the gravelled parking lot, surrounded by scrub-grass that was discoloured and overgrown, looking down the all-but-deserted country road – the type of road, she’d been informed by her new friends, which was known as a two-lane blacktop. The diner and its shithouse annex were the only buildings for as far as her eye could see, apart from a hulking grain silo a hundred yards or so down the road. As Carol looked in that desolate direction, a cloud drifted over the sun, dimming the summer daylight and shifting the atmosphere into a kind of pre-storm dreariness. Carol shivered and wondered, not without a certain pleasure in the mystery, just where the hell she was.
Done peeing and alone in the bathroom, Carol washed her hands and splashed her face at the pretty crappy single sink that was all the place had to offer. The sound of the ancient cistern laboriously and noisily re-filling after her flush played in the background. Carol turned off the tap and looked for a moment at her reflection in the pitted and stained mirror above the sink. As the cistern finally creaked and whistled to a halt, the mirror suddenly cracked noisily across its width as if it was just too tired to keep trying.
“Fuckin’ ’ell!” said Carol, because it had made her jump and because she didn’t like the newly mismatched halves of her reflected face. She turned around, ready to walk out of the bathroom, and discovered she was no longer alone.
A little girl – what, six, seven years old? – was standing, silent and perfectly still, outside one of the stall doors, looking up at her. Oddly, the little girl was holding the palm of one hand over her right eye.
“Oh, shit,” said Carol, remembering that she’d just said
The little girl just kept looking at her.
“What’s your name?” Carol asked her, still smiling but still getting no response. Registering the hand-over-the-eye thing, she tried a new tack. “Oh,” she said. “Are we playing a game and nobody told me the rules? All right then, here we go.”
Raising her hand, Carol covered her own right eye with her palm. The little girl remained still and silent. Carol lowered her hand from her face. “Peek-a-boo,” she said.
Finally, the little girl smiled shyly and lowered her own hand. She had no right eye at all, just a smooth indented bank of flesh.
Carol was really good. She hardly jumped at all and her gasp was as short-lived as could reasonably be expected.
The little girl’s voice was very matter-of-fact. “Momma lost my eye-patch,” she said.
“Oh. That’s a shame,” said Carol, trying to keep her own voice as equally everyday.
“She’s gonna get me another one. When she goes to town.”
“Oh, well, that’s good. Will she get a nice colour? Do you have a favourite colour?”
The little girl shrugged. “What are you, retarded?” she said. “It’s an eye-patch. Who cares what colour it is?”
Carol didn’t know whether to laugh or slap her.
“You can go now, if you like,” said the little girl. “I have to make water.”
“Oh. All right. Sure. Well, look after yourself,” Carol said and, raising her hand in a slightly awkward wave of farewell, headed for the exit door. The little girl called after her.
“You take care in those woods now, Carol,” she said.
“I hadn’t told her my name,” said Carol.
“Well, that was weird,” Michael said.
Carol smiled, pleased. “
“You got lost in the woods?”
Carol nodded.
“Why’d they let you go wandering off on your own?”
“Who?”
“Your new American friends. The people you were in the café with.”
“Ha. Café.
“Whatever. How could they let you get lost?”
“Oh, yeah.” She thought about it for a second, looking out to their side at the boating lake and its ghost moon. “Well, p’raps they weren’t there to begin with. Doesn’t matter. Listen.”
Turned out Carol
Carol was tramping her way among the trees and the undergrowth on the mossy and leaf-strewn ground when she heard the sound for the first time. Faint and plaintive and too distant to be truly identifiable, it was nevertheless suggestive of something, something that Carol couldn’t quite put her finger on. Only when it came again, a few moments later, did she place it. It was the sound of a lonely ship’s horn in a midnight ocean, melancholy and eerie. Not quite as eerie, though, as the fact that once the horn had sounded this second time, all the other sounds stopped, all the other sounds of which Carol hadn’t even been consciously aware until they disappeared: birdsong; the footsteps of unseen animals moving through the woods; the sigh of the breeze as it whistled through the branches.
The only sounds now were those she made herself: the rustle and sway of the living branches she was pushing her way through and the crackle and snap of the dead ones she was breaking beneath her. Carol began to wonder if moving on in the same direction she’d been going was that great of an idea. She turned around and started heading back and, within a few yards, stepping out from between two particularly close trees, she found herself in a small grove-like clearing that she didn’t remember passing through earlier.
There was a downed and decaying tree-trunk lying in the leafy undergrowth that momentarily and ridiculously put Carol in mind of a park bench. But she really wasn’t in the mood to sit and relax and it wasn’t like there was, you know, a boating lake to look at the moon in or anything. So she kept moving, across the clearing, past the downed trunk, and stopped only when the voice spoke from behind her.
“What’s your rush, sweetheart?”
Carol turned back. Sitting perched on the bench-like trunk was a sailor. He was dressed in a square-neck deck-shirt and bell-bottomed pants and Carol might have taken a moment to wonder if sailors still dressed like that if she hadn’t been too busy being surprised just to see him at all. He was sitting in profile to her, one leg on the ground, the other arched up on the trunk and he didn’t turn to face her fully, perhaps because he was concentrating on rolling a cigarette.
“Ready-mades are easier,” the sailor said. “But I like the ritual – opening the paper, laying in the tobacco, rolling it up. Know what I mean?”
“I don’t smoke,” said Carol, which wasn’t strictly true, but who the fuck was he to deserve the truth.
“You chew?” he asked.
“Chew what?”
“Tobacco.”
“Eugh. No.”
The sailor chanted something rhythmic in response, like he was singing her a song but knew his limitations when it came to carrying a tune:
“
Carol stared at him. Confused. Not necessarily nervous. Not yet. She gestured out at the woods. “Where’d you come from?” she said.
“Dahlonega, Georgia. Little town northeast of Atlanta. Foot of the Appalachians.”
That wasn’t what she’d meant and she started to tell him so, but he interrupted.
“Ever been to Nagasaki, honeybun?”
“No.”
“How about Shanghai?”
The sailor was still sitting in profile to her. Talking to her, but staring straight ahead into the woods and beyond. He didn’t wait for a reply. “Docked there once,” he said. “Didn’t get shore-leave. Fellas who did told me I missed something, boy. Said there were whores there could practically tie themselves in knots. Real limber. Mmm. A man likes that. Likes ’em limber.”
Carol was very careful not to say anything at all. Not to move. Not to breathe.
“Clean, too,” said the sailor. “That’s important to me. Well, who knows? Maybe I’ll get back there one of these days. ’Course, once they get a good look at me, I might have to pay extra.” He turned finally to face her. “Whaddaya think?”
Half of his face was bone-pale and bloated, as if it had drowned years ago and been underwater ever since. His hair hung dank like seaweed and something pearl-like glinted in the moist dripping blackness of what used to be an eye-socket.
“Jesus Christ!” Carol said, frozen in shock, watching helplessly as the sailor put his cigarette in his half-ruined mouth, lit it, and inhaled.
“Calling on the Lord for salvation,” he said. “Good for you. Might help.” Smoke oozed out from the pulpy white flesh that barely clung to the bone beneath his dead face. “Might not.”
He rose to his feet and grinned at her. “Useta chase pigs through the Georgia pines, sweet thing,” he said, flinging his cigarette aside. “Let’s see if you’re faster than them little squealers.”
And then he came for her.
“I was a lot faster, though,” said Carol. “But it still took me ten minutes to lose him.”
“Fuck, Carol,” said Michael. “That wasn’t funny.”
“I didn’t say it was funny. I said it was weird. Remember?”
Michael turned to look at her and she tilted her face to look up at his, dark eyes glinting, adorably proud of herself. They’d walked nearly a full circuit of the lake now, neither of them even thinking to branch off in the direction of the park’s northern gate and the way home.
“Well, it was weird, all right,” Michael said. “Creepy ghost sailor. Pretty good.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Turns out there was a ship went down there in the Second World War. All hands lost.”
“Went down in the woods. That was a good trick.”
“It wasn’t the
“Was it Redondo?”
“The fuck’s
“It’s a beach. In America. I’ve heard of it. It’s on that Patti Smith album.”
“Oh, yeah. No. This wasn’t in America. It was in Cornwall.” She thought about it for a moment. “Yeah. Had to be Cornwall because of the rock pool.”
“You didn’t say anything about a rock pool.”
“I haven’t
Michael laughed, even though something else had just hit him. He was walking on a moonlit night alone with a beautiful girl and it apparently wasn’t occurring to him to try anything. He hadn’t even put his arm around her, for Christ’s sake. Terry and Kirk would give him such shit for this when he told them. He wondered for the first time if that was something Carol knew, if that was what had always been behind her stories, why she found them, why she told them, like some instinctive Scheherazade keeping would-be lovers at bay with narrative strategies. He felt something forming in him, a kind of sadness that he couldn’t name and didn’t understand.
“Is everything all right, Carol?” he asked, though he couldn’t say why.
“Well, it is
The park was silver-grey in the light from the moon. He wondered what time it was. “The rock pool,” he said.
“Exactly,” she said, pleased that he was paying attention.
She hadn’t seen it at first. Had kept moving along the deserted beach until the sandy shore gave way to rocky cave-strewn outcrops from the cliffs above the coastline. It was only when she clambered over an algae- and seaweed-coated rock wall that she found it. Orphaned from the sea and held within a natural basin formation, the pool was placid and still and ringed by several large boulders about its rim. It was about twenty feet across and looked to be fairly deep.
On one of the boulders, laid out as if waiting for their owner, were some items of clothing. A dress, a pair of stockings, some underwear. Carol looked from them out to the cool inviting water of the pool. A head broke surface as she looked, and a woman started swimming toward the rock where her clothes were. Catching sight of Carol, she stopped and trod water, looking at her suspiciously. “What are you doing?” she said. “Are you spying?” She was older than Carol, about her mum’s age maybe, a good-looking thirty-five.
“No, I’m not,” Carol said. “Why would I be spying?”
“You might be one of them,” the woman said.
“One of who?”
The woman narrowed her eyes and looked at Carol appraisingly. “You know who,” she said.
“No, I don’t,” Carol said. “And I’m not one of anybody. I was with some friends. We went to France. Just got back. The boat’s down there on the beach.”
“They’ve all got stories,” the woman said. “That’s how they get you.”
“Who?! Stop talking shit, willya? I –” Carol bit her tongue.
For the first time, the woman smiled. “Are you moderating your language for me?” she said. “That’s adorable.”
Carol felt strangely flustered. Was this woman
“I understand,” the woman said, still smiling, still staring straight into Carol’s eyes. “I’m an older lady and you want to be polite. But, you know, I’m not really
Carol felt funny. She swallowed. The woman kept her eyes fixed on Carol as she stepped very close to her. “I’m going to tell you a secret,” she said, and leaned forward to whisper the secret in Carol’s ear. “I’m real limber for my age.”
Carol jumped back as the woman’s voice began a familiar rhythmic chant.
“
Carol tried to run but the woman had already grabbed her by the throat. “What’s your rush, sweetheart?” she said, and her voice was different now, guttural and amused. “Party’s just getting started.”
Carol was struggling in the choking grip. She tried to swing a fist at the woman’s head but her punch was effortlessly blocked by the woman’s other arm.
“Your eyes are so pretty,” the woman said. “I’m going to have them for earrings.”
Her mouth opened inhumanly wide. Her tongue flicked out with reptile speed. It was long and black and forked.
“But, like I said,” said Carol, “I escaped.”
“How?” said Michael, expecting another previously unmentioned element to be brought into play, like a knife or a gun or a really sharp stick or a last-minute rescue by her Francophile friends from the recently-invented boat. But Carol had a different ending in mind.
“I walked into the moon,” she said.
Michael looked up to the night sky.
“No,” said Carol. “Not that moon. This one.”
She was pointing out towards the center of the utterly calm lake and the perfect moon reflected there. Looking at it with her, neither of them walking now, Michael felt the cold of the night as if for the first time. He waited in silence, afraid to speak, afraid to give voice to his questions, afraid that they would be answered.
She told another story then, the last, he knew, that his sweet lost friend would ever tell him, the tale of how the other moon had many ways into and out of this world: through placid lakes on summer evenings; through city streets on rain-slicked nights; from out of the ocean depths for the eyes of lonely night-watch sailors.
And when she was done, when Michael could no longer pretend not to know in whose company he truly was, she turned to him and smiled a heartbreaking smile of farewell.
She looked beautiful in monochrome, in the subtle tones of the moon that had claimed her for its own. Not drained of colour, but richly reimagined, painted in shades of silver and grey, of black and delicate lunar blue. She looked almost liquid, as if, were Michael to reach out a hand and even try to touch her, she might ripple into strange expansions of herself.
“Thanks, Michael,” she said. “I can make it home from here.”
Michael didn’t say anything. Didn’t know what he could possibly find to say that the tears in his young eyes weren’t already saying. The beautiful dead girl pointed a silver finger beyond him, in the direction of his life. “Go on,” she said kindly. “Don’t look back.”
And he didn’t look back, not even when he heard the impossible footsteps on the water, not even when he heard the shadow moon sigh in welcome, and the quiet lapping of the lake water as if something had slipped effortlessly beneath it.
He’d later hear the alternative versions, of course – the stories of how, one moonlit night, Carol had walked out of the third-floor window of her step-father’s house and the vile rumors as to why – but he would prefer, for all his days, to believe the story that the lost girl herself had chosen to tell him.
He continued home through the park, not even breaking step as his fingers sought and found the numb spot on his cheek, the frozen place where her cold lips had blessed him, waiting for her frostbite kiss to bloom in tomorrow’s mirror.
GENE WOLFE
Sob in the Silence
GENE WOLFE IS ACCLAIMED for his dense, allusion-rich prose. He is a prolific short story writer as well as a novelist, and has won two Nebula Awards and three World Fantasy Awards.
His latest books are
“ ‘Sob in the Silence’ is horror, I think,” says Wolfe. “It originally appeared in
“In the booklet, the reproduction of Lisa’s ‘The Children’s Hour’ is too small and too dim to see the terrified faces of the children; they are peeping from the pocket of a tall figure with a puppet. The original art, in all its dark glory, comes pretty close to terrifying.”
“THIS,” THE HORROR WRITER told the family visiting him, “is beyond any question the least haunted house in the Midwest. No ghost, none at all, will come within miles of the place. So I am assured.”
Robbie straightened his little glasses and mumbled, “Well, it looks haunted.”
“It does, young man.” After teetering between seven and eight, the horror writer decided that Robbie was about seven. “It’s the filthy yellow stucco. No doubt it was a cheerful yellow once, but God only knows how long it’s been up. I’m going to have it torn off, every scrap of it, and put up fresh, which I will paint white.”
“Can’t you just paint over?” Kiara asked. (Kiara of the all-conquering pout, of the golden hair and the tiny silver earrings.)
Looking very serious, the horror writer nodded. And licked his lips only mentally. “I’ve tried, believe me. That hideous color is the result of air pollution – of smoke, soot, and dirt, if you will – that has clung to the stucco. Paint over it, and it bleeds out through the new paint. Washing—”
“Water jets under high pressure.” Dan was Robbie’s father, and Kiara’s. “You can rent the units, or buy one for a thousand or so.”
“I own one,” the horror writer told him. “With a strong cleaning agent added to the water, it will do the job.” He paused to smile. “Unfortunately, the stucco’s old and fragile. Here and there, a good jet breaks it.”
“Ghosts,” Charity said. Charity was Mrs Dan, a pudgy woman with a soft, not unattractive face and a remarkable talent for dowdy hats. “Please go back to your ghosts. I find ghosts far more interesting.”
“As do I.” The horror writer favored her with his most dazzling smile. “I’ve tried repeatedly to interest psychic researchers in the old place, which has a – may I call it fascinating? History. I’ve been persuasive and persistent, and no less than three teams have checked this old place out as a result. All three have reported that they found nothing. No evidence whatsoever. No spoor of spooks. No cooperative specters a struggling author might use for research purposes.”
“And publicity,” Kiara said. “Don’t forget publicity. I plan to get into public relations when I graduate.”
“And publicity, you’re right. By the time you’re well settled in public relations, I hope to be wealthy enough to engage you. If I am, I will. That’s a promise.”
Charity leveled a plump forefinger. “You, on the other hand, have clearly seen or heard or felt something. You had to have something more than this big dark living-room to get the psychics in, and you had it. Tell us.”
The horror writer produced a sharply bent briar that showed signs of years of use. “Will this trouble anyone? I rarely smoke in here, but if we’re going to have a good long chat – well, a pipe may make things go more smoothly. Would anyone care for a drink?”
Charity was quickly equipped with white wine, Dan with Johnnie-Walker-and-water, and Robbie with cola. “A lot of the kids drink beer at IVY Tech,” Kiara announced in a tone that indicated she was one of them. “I don’t, though.”
“Not until you’re twenty-one,” Dan said firmly.
“You see?” She pouted.
The horror writer nodded. “I do indeed. One of the things I see is that you have good parents, parents who care about you and are zealous for your welfare.” He slipped Kiara a scarcely perceptible wink. “What about a plain soda? I always find soda water over ice refreshing, myself.”
Charity said, “That would be fine, if she wants it.”
Kiara said she did, and he became busy behind the bar.
Robbie had been watching the dark upper corners of the old, high-ceilinged room. “I thought I saw one.”
“A ghost?” The horror writer looked up, his blue eyes twinkling.
“A bat. Maybe we can catch it.”
Dan said, “There’s probably a belfry, too.”
“I’m afraid not. Perhaps I’ll add one once I get the new stucco on.”
“You need one. As I’ve told my wife a dozen times, anybody who believes in ghosts has bats in his belfry.”
“It’s better, perhaps,” Charity murmured, “if living things breathe and move up there. Better than just bells, rotting ropes, and dust. Tell us more about this place, please.”
“It was a country house originally.” With the air of one who performed a sacrament, the horror writer poured club soda into a tall frosted glass that already contained five ice cubes and (wholly concealed by his fingers) a generous two inches of vodka. “A quiet place in which a wealthy family could get away from the heat and stench of city summers. The family was ruined somehow – I don’t recall the details. I know it’s usually the man who kills in murder-suicides, but in this house it was the woman. She shot her husband and her stepdaughters, and killed herself.”
Charity said, “I could never bring myself to do that. I could never kill Dan. Or his children. I suppose I might kill myself. That’s conceivable. But not the rest.”
Straight-faced, the horror writer handed his frosted glass to Kiara. “I couldn’t kill myself,” he told her. “I like myself too much. Other people? Who can say?”
Robbie banged down his cola. “You’re trying to scare us!”
“Of course I am. It’s my trade.”
Dan asked, “They all died? That’s good shooting.”
The horror writer resumed his chair and picked up his briar. “No. As a matter of fact they didn’t. One of the three stepdaughters survived. She had been shot in the head at close range, yet she lived.”
Dan said, “Happens sometime.”
“It does. It did in this case. Her name was Maude Parkhurst. Maude was a popular name back around 1900, which is when her parents and sisters died. Ever hear of her?”
Dan shook his head.
“She was left penniless and scarred for life. It seems to have disordered her thinking. Or perhaps the bullet did it. In any event, she founded her own church and was its pope and prophetess. It was called – maybe it’s still called, since it may still be around for all I know – the Unionists of Heaven and Earth.”
Charity said, “I’ve heard of it. It sounded innocent enough.”
The horror writer shrugged. “Today? Perhaps it is. Back then, I would say no. Decidedly no. It was, in its own fantastic fashion, about as repellent as a cult can be. May I call it a cult?”
Kiara grinned prettily over her glass. “Go right ahead. I won’t object.”
“A friend of mine, another Dan, once defined a cult for me. He said that if the leader gets all the women, it’s a cult.”
Dan nodded. “Good man. There’s a lot to that.”
“There is, but in the case of the UHE, as it was called, it didn’t apply. Maude Parkhurst didn’t want the women, or the men either. The way to get to Heaven, she told her followers, was to live like angels here on earth.”
Dan snorted.
“Exactly. Any sensible person would have told them that they were not angels. That it was natural and right for angels to live like angels, but that men and women should live like human beings.”
“We really know almost nothing about angels.” Charity looked pensive. “Just that they carry the Lord’s messages. It’s Saint Paul, I think, who says that each of us has an angel who acts as our advocate in Heaven. So we know that, too. But it’s really very little.”
“This is about sex,” Kiara said. “I smell it coming.”
The horror writer nodded. “You’re exactly right, and I’m beginning to wonder if you’re not the most intelligent person here. It is indeed. Members of the UHE were to refrain from all forms of sexual activity. If unmarried, they were not to marry. If married, they were to separate and remain separated.”
“The University of Heaven at Elysium. On a T-shirt. I can see it now.”
Charity coughed, the sound of it scarcely audible in the large, dark room. “Well, Kiara, I don’t see anything wrong with that if it was voluntary.”
“Neither do I,” the horror writer said, “but there’s more. Those wishing to join underwent an initiation period of a year. At the end of that time, there was a midnight ceremony. If they had children, those children had to attend, all of them. There they watched their parents commit suicide – or that’s how it looked. I don’t know the details, but I know that at the end of the service they were carried out of the church, apparently lifeless and covered with blood.”
Charity whispered, “Good God . . .”
“When the congregation had gone home,” the horror writer continued, “the children were brought here. They were told that it was an orphanage, and it was operated like one. Before long it actually was one. Apparently there was some sort of tax advantage, so it was registered with the state as a church-run foundation, and from time to time the authorities sent actual orphans here. It was the age of orphanages, as you may know. Few children, if any, were put in foster homes. Normally, it was the orphanage for any child without parents or close relatives.”
Dan said, “There used to be a comic strip about it,
The horror writer nodded. “Based upon a popular poem of the nineteenth century.“ ‘Little Orphant Annie’s come to our house to stay,An’ wash the cups an’ saucers up,an’ brush the crumbs away,An’ shoo the chickens off the porch,an’ dust the hearth an’ sweep,An’ make the fire, an’ bake the bread,an’ earn her board an’ keep.An’ all us other children,when the supper things is done,We set around the kitchen fire an’ has the mostest funA-list’nin’ to the witch tales ’at Annie tells about,An’ the Gobble-uns ’at gets youEf youDon’tWatchOut!’
“You see,” the horror writer finished, smiling, “in those days you could get an orphan girl from such an orphanage as this to be your maid of all work and baby-sitter. You fed and clothed her, gave her a place to sleep, and paid her nothing at all. Despite being showered with that sort of kindness, those girls picked up enough of the monstrosity and lonely emptiness of the universe to become the first practitioners of my art, the oral recounters of horrific tales whose efforts preceded all horror writing.”
“Was it really so bad for them?” Kiara asked.
“Here? Worse. I haven’t told you the worst yet, you see. Indeed, I haven’t even touched upon it.” The horror writer turned to Dan. “Perhaps you’d like to send Robbie out. That might be advisable.”
Dan shrugged. “He watches TV. I doubt that anything you’ll say will frighten him.”
Charity pursed her lips but said nothing.
The horror writer had taken advantage of the pause to light his pipe. “You don’t have to stay, Robbie.” He puffed fragrant white smoke, and watched it begin its slow climb to the ceiling. “You know where your room is, and you may go anywhere in the house unless you meet with a locked door.”
Kiara smiled. “Secrets! We’re in Bluebeard’s cashel – castle. I knew it!”
“No secrets,” the horror writer told her, “just a very dangerous cellar stair – steep, shaky, and innocent of any sort of railing.”
Robbie whispered, “I’m not going.”
“So I see. From time to time, Robbie, one of the children would learn or guess that his parents were not in fact dead. When that happened, he or she might try to get away and return home. I’ve made every effort to learn just how often that happened, but the sources are contradictory on the point. Some say three and some five, and one says more than twenty. I should add that we who perform this type of research soon learn to be wary of the number three. It’s the favorite of those who don’t know the real number. There are several places on the grounds that may once of have been graves – unmarked graves long since emptied by the authorities. But . . .”
Charity leaned toward him, her face tense. “Do you mean to say that those children were killed?”
The horror writer nodded. “I do. Those who were returned here by their parents were. That is the most horrible fact attached to this really quite awful old house. Or at least, it is the worst we know of – perhaps the worst that occurred.”
He drew on his pipe, letting smoke trickle from his nostrils. “A special midnight service was held here, in this room in which we sit. At that service the church members are said to have flown. To have fluttered about this room like so many strange birds. No doubt they ran and waved their arms, as children sometimes do. Very possibly they thought they flew. The members of medieval witch cults seem really to have believed that they flew to the gatherings of their covens, although no sane person supposes they actually did.”
Charity asked, “But you say they killed the children?”
The horror writer nodded. “Yes, at the end of the ceremony. Call it the children’s hour, a term that some authorities say they used themselves. They shot them as Maude Parkhurst’s father and sisters had been shot. The executioner was chosen by lot. Maude is said to have hoped aloud that it would fall to her, as it seems to have done more than once. Twice at least.”
Dan said, “It’s hard to believe anybody would really do that.”
“Perhaps it is, although news broadcasts have told me of things every bit as bad. Or worse.”
The horror writer drew on his pipe again, and the room had grown dark enough that the red glow from its bowl lit his face from below. “The children were asleep by that time, as Maude, her father, and her sisters had been. The lucky winner crept into the child’s bedroom, accompanied by at least one other member who carried a candle. The moment the shot was fired, the candle was blown out. The noise would’ve awakened any other children who had been sleeping in that room, of course; but they awakened only to darkness and the smell of gun smoke.”
Dan said, “Angels!” There was a world of contempt in the word.
“There are angels in Hell,” the horror writer told him, “not just in Heaven. Indeed, the angels of Hell may be the more numerous.”
Charity pretended to yawn while nodding her reluctant agreement. “I think it’s time we all went up bed. Don’t you?”
Dan said, “I certainly do. I drove one hell of a long way today.”
Kiara lingered when the others had gone. “Ish really nice meeting you.” She swayed as she spoke, though only slightly. “Don’ forget I get to be your public relations agent. You promished.”
“You have my word.” The horror writer smiled, knowing how much his word was worth.
For a lingering moment they clasped hands. “Ish hard to believe,” she said, “that you were dad’s roommate. You sheem – seem – so much younger.”
He thanked her and watched her climb the wide curved staircase that had been the pride of the Parkhursts long ago, wondering all the while whether she knew that he was watching. Whether she knew or not, watching Kiara climb stairs was too great a pleasure to surrender.
On the floor above, Charity was getting Robbie ready for bed. “You’re a brave boy, I know. Aren’t you a brave boy, darling? Say it, please. It always helps to say it.”
“I’m a brave boy,” Robbie told her dutifully.
“You are. I know you are. You won’t let that silly man downstairs fool you. You’ll stay in your own bed, in your own room, and get a good night’s sleep. We’ll do some sight-seeing tomorrow, forests and lakes and rugged hills where the worked-out mines hide.”
Charity hesitated, gnawing with small white teeth at her full lower lip. “There’s no nightlight in here, I’m afraid, but I’ve got a little flashlight in my purse. I could lend you that. Would you like it?”
Robbie nodded, and clasped Charity’s little plastic flashlight tightly as he watched her leave. Her hand – the one without rings – reached up to the light switch. Her fingers found it.
There was darkness.
He located the switch again with the watery beam of the disposable flashlight, knowing that he would be scolded (perhaps even spanked) if he switched the solitary overhead light back on but wanting to know exactly where that switch was, just in case.
At last he turned Charity’s flashlight off and lay down. It was hot in the too-large, too-empty room. Hot and silent.
He sat up again, and aimed the flashlight toward the window. It was indeed open, but open only the width of his hand. He got out of bed, dropped the flashlight into the shirt pocket of his pajamas, and tried to raise the window farther. No effort he could put forth would budge it.
At last he lay down again, and the room felt hotter than ever.
When he had looked out through the window, it had seemed terribly high. How many flights of stairs had they climbed to get up here? He could remember only one, wide carpeted stairs that had curved as they climbed; but that one had been a long, long stair. From the window he had seen the tops of trees.
Treetops and stars. The moon had been out, lighting the lawn below and showing him the dark leaves of the treetops, although the moon itself had not been in sight from the window.
“It walks across the sky,” he told himself. Dan, his father, had said that once.
“You could walk . . .” The voice seemed near, but faint and thin.
Robbie switched the flashlight back on. There was no one there.
Under the bed, he thought. They’re under the bed.
But he dared not leave the bed to look, and lay down once more. An older person would have tried to persuade himself that he had imagined the voice, or would have left the bed to investigate. Robbie did neither. His line between palpable and imagined things was blurred and faint, and he had not the slightest desire to see the speaker, whether that speaker was real or make-believe.
There were no other windows that might be opened. He thought of going out. The hall would be dark, but Dan and Charity were sleeping in a room not very far away. The door of their room might be locked, though. They did that sometimes.
He would be scolded in any event. Scolded and perhaps spanked, too. It was not the pain he feared, but the humiliation. “I’ll have to go back here,” he whispered to himself. “Even if they don’t spank me, I’ll have to go back.”
“You could walk away . . .” A girl’s voice, very faint. From the ceiling? No, Robbie decided, from the side toward the door.
“No,” he said. “They’d be mad.”
“You’ll die . . .”
“Like us . . .”
Robbie sat up, shaking.
Outside, the horror writer was hiking toward the old, rented truck he had parked more than a mile away. The ground was soft after yesterday’s storm, and it was essential – absolutely essential – that there be tracks left by a strange vehicle.
A turn onto a side road, a walk of a hundred yards, and the beam of his big electric lantern picked out the truck among the trees. When he could set the lantern on its hood, he put on latex gloves. Soon, very soon, the clock would strike the children’s hour and Edith with the golden hair would be his. Beautiful Kiara would be his. As for laughing Allegra, he neither knew nor cared who she might be.
“Wa’ ish?” Kiara’s voice was thick with vodka and sleep.
“It’s only me,” Robbie told her, and slipped under the covers. “I’m scared.”
She put a protective arm around him.
“There are other kids in here. There are! They’re gone when you turn on the light, but they come back. They do!”
“Uh huh.” She hugged him tighter and went back to sleep.
In Scales Mound, the horror writer parked the truck and walked three blocks to his car. He had paid two weeks rent on the truck, he reminded himself. Had paid that rent only three days ago. It would be eleven days at least before the rental agency began to worry about it, and he could return it or send another check before then.
His gun, the only gun he owned, had been concealed in a piece of nondescript luggage and locked in the car. He took it out and made sure the safety was on before starting the engine. It was only a long-barreled twenty-two; but it looked sinister, and should be sufficient to make Kiara obey if the threat of force were needed.
Once she was down there . . . Once she was down there, she might scream all she liked. It would not matter. As he drove back to the house, he tried to decide whether he should hold it or put it into one of the big side pockets of his barn coat.
Robbie, having escaped Kiara’s warm embrace, decided that her room was cooler than his. For one thing, she had two windows. For another, both were open wider than his one window had been. Besides, it was just cooler. He pulled the sheet up, hoping she would not mind.
“Run . . .” whispered the faint, thin voices.
“Run . . . Run . . .”
“Get away while you can . . .”
“Go . . .”
Robbie shook his head and shut his eyes.
Outside Kiara’s bedroom, the horror writer patted the long-barreled pistol he had pushed into his belt. His coat pockets held rags, two short lengths of quarter-inch rope, a small roll of duct tape, and a large folding knife. He hoped to need none of them.
There was no provision for locking Kiara’s door. He had been careful to see to that. No key for the quaint old lock, no interior bolt; and yet she might have blocked it with a chair. He opened it slowly, finding no obstruction.
The old oak doors were thick and solid, the old walls thicker and solider still. If Dan and his wife were sleeping soundly, it would take a great deal of commotion in here to wake them.
Behind him, the door swung shut on well-oiled hinges. The click of the latch was the only sound.
Moonlight coming through the windows rendered the penlight in his shirt pocket unnecessary. She was there, lying on her side and sound asleep, her lovely face turned toward him.
As he moved toward her, Robbie sat up, his mouth a dark circle, his pale face a mask of terror. The horror writer pushed him down again.
The muzzle of his pistol was tight against Robbie’s head; this though the horror writer could not have said how it came to be there. His index finger squeezed even as he realized it was on the trigger.
There was a muffled bang, like the sound of a large book dropped. Something jerked under the horror writer’s hand, and he whispered, “Die like my father. Like Alice and June. Die like me.” He whispered it, but did not understand what he intended by it.
Kiara’s eye were open. He struck her with the barrel, reversed the pistol and struck her again and again with the butt, stopping only when he realized he did not know how many times he had hit her already or where his blows had landed.
After pushing up the safety, he put the pistol back into his belt and stood listening. The room next to that in which he stood had been Robbie’s. Presumably, there was no one there to hear.
The room beyond that one – the room nearest the front stair – was Dan’s and Charity’s. He would stand behind the door if they came in, shoot them both, run. Mexico. South America.
They did not.
The house was silent save for his own rapid breathing and Kiara’s slow, labored breaths; beyond the open windows, the night-wind sobbed in the trees. Any other sound would have come, almost, as a relief.
There was none.
He had broken the cellar window, left tracks with the worn old shoes he had gotten from a recycle store, left tire tracks with the old truck. He smiled faintly when he recalled its mismatched tires. Let them work on that one.
He picked up Kiara and slung her over his shoulder, finding her soft, warm, and heavier than he had expected.
The back stairs were narrow and in poor repair; they creaked beneath his feet, but they were farther – much farther – from the room in which Dan and Charity slept. He descended them slowly, holding Kiara with his right arm while his left hand grasped the rail.
She stirred and moaned. He wondered whether he would have to hit her again, and decided he would not unless she screamed. If she screamed, he would drop her and do what had to be done.
She did not.
The grounds were extensive, and included a wood from which (long ago) firewood had been cut. It had grown back now, a tangle of larches and alders, firs and red cedars. Toward the back, not far from the property line, he had by merest chance stumbled upon the old well. There had been a cabin there once. No doubt it had burned. A cow or a child might have fallen into the abandoned well, and so some prudent person had covered it with a slab of limestone. Leaves and twigs on that stone had turned, in time, to soil. He had moved the stone away, leaving the soil on it largely undisturbed.
When he reached the abandoned well at last, panting and sweating, he laid Kiara down. His penlight showed that her eyes were open. Her bloodstained face seemed to him a mask of fear; seeing it, he felt himself stand straighter and grow stronger.
“You may listen to me or not,” he told her. “What you do really doesn’t matter, but I thought I ought to do you the kindness of explaining just what has happened and what will happen. What I plan, and your place in my plans.”
She made an inarticulate sound that might have been a word or a moan.
“You’re listening. Good. There’s an old well here. Only I know that it exists. At the bottom – shall we say twelve feet down? At the bottom there’s mud and a little water. You’ll get dirty, in other words, but you won’t die of thirst. There you will wait for me for as long as the police actively investigate. From time to time I may, or may not, come here and toss down a sandwich.”
He smiled. “It won’t hurt you in the least, my dear, to lose a little weight. When things have quieted down, I’ll come and pull you out. You’ll be grateful – oh, very grateful – for your rescue. Soiled and starved, but very grateful. Together we’ll walk back to my home. You may need help, and if you do I’ll provide it.”
He bent and picked her up. “I’ll bathe you, feed you, and nurse you.”
Three strides brought him to the dark mouth of the well. “After that, you’ll obey me in everything. Or you had better. And in time, perhaps, you’ll come to like it.”
He let her fall, smiled, and turned away.
There remained only the problem of the gun. Bullets could be matched to barrels, and there was an ejected shell somewhere. The gun would have to be destroyed; it was blued steel; running water should do the job, and do it swiftly.
Still smiling, he set off for the creek.
It was after four o’clock the following afternoon when Captain Barlowe of the Sheriff’s Department explained the crime. Captain Barlowe was a middle-aged and heavy-limbed. He had a thick mustache. “What happened in this house last night is becoming pretty clear.” His tone was weighty. “Why it happened . . .” He shook his head.
The horror writer said, “I know my house was broken into. One of your men showed me that. I know poor little Robbie’s dead, and I know Kiara’s missing. But that’s all I know.”
“Exactly.” Captain Barlowe clasped his big hands and unclasped them. “It’s pretty much all I know, too, sir. Other than that, all I can do is supply details. The gun that killed the boy was a twenty-two semi-automatic. It could have been a pistol or a rifle. It could even have been a sawn-off rifle. There’s no more common caliber in the world.”
The horror writer nodded.
“He was killed with one shot, a contact shot to the head, and he was probably killed for being in a room in which he had no business being. He’d left his own bed and crawled into his big sister’s. Not for sex, sir. I could see what you were thinking. He was too young for that. He was just a little kid alone in a strange house. He got lonely and was murdered for it.”
Captain Barlowe paused to clear his throat. “You told my men that there had been no cars in your driveway since the rain except your own and the boy’s parents’. Is that right?”
The horror writer nodded. “I’ve racked my brain trying to think of somebody else, and come up empty. Dan and I are old friends. You ought to know that.”
Captain Barlowe nodded. “I do, sir. He told me.”
“We get together when we can, usually that’s once or twice a year. This year he and Charity decided to vacation in this area. He’s a golfer and a fisherman.”
Captain Barlowe nodded again. “He should love our part of the state.”
“That’s what I thought, Captain. I don’t play golf, but I checked out some of the courses here. I fish a bit, and I told him about that. He said he was coming, and I told him I had plenty of room. They were only going to stay for two nights.”
“You kept your cellar door locked?”
“Usually? No. I locked it when I heard they were coming. The cellar’s dirty and the steps are dangerous. You know how small boys are.”
“Yes, sir. I used to be one. The killer jimmied it open.”
The horror writer nodded. “I saw that.”
“You sleep on the ground floor. You didn’t hear anything?”
“No. I’m a sound sleeper.”
“I understand. Here’s my problem, sir, and I hope you can help me with it. Crime requires three things. They’re motive, means, and opportunity. Know those, and you know a lot. I’ve got a murder case here. It’s the murder of a kid. I hate the bastards who kill kids, and I’ve never had a case I wanted to solve more.”
“I understand,” the horror writer said.
“Means is no problem. He had a gun, a car, and tools. Maybe gloves, because we haven’t found any fresh prints we can’t identify. His motive may have been robbery, but it was probably of a sexual nature. Here’s a young girl, a blonde. Very good-looking to judge by the only picture we’ve seen so far.”
“She is.” The horror writer nodded his agreement.
“He must have seen her somewhere. And not just that. He must have known that she was going to be in this house last night. Where did he see her? How did he know where she was going to be? If I can find the answers to those questions we’ll get him.”
“I wish I could help you.” The horror writer’s smile was inward only.
“You’ve had no visitors since your guests arrived?”
He shook his head. “None.”
“Delivery men? A guy to fix the furnace? Something like that?”
“No, nobody. They got here late yesterday afternoon, Captain.”
“I understand. Now think about this, please. I want to know everybody – and I mean everybody, no matter who it was – you told that they were coming.”
“I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about it a great deal, Captain. And I didn’t tell anyone. When I went around to the golf courses, I told people I was expecting guests and they’d want to play golf. But I never said who those guests were. There was no reason to.”
“That settles it.” Captain Barlowe rose, looking grim. “It’s somebody they told. The father’s given us the names of three people and he’s trying to come up with more. There may be more. He admits that. His wife . . .”
“Hadn’t she told anyone?”
“That just it, sir. She did. She seems to have told quite a few people and says can’t remember them all. She’s lying because she doesn’t want her friends bothered. Well, by God they’re going to be bothered. My problem – one of my problems – is that all these people are out of state. I can’t go after them myself, and I’d like to. I want have a good look at them. I want to see their faces change when they’re asked certain questions.”
He breathed deep, expanding a chest notably capacious, and let it out. “On the plus side, we’re after a stranger. Some of the local people may have seen him and noticed him. He may – I said
“Couldn’t he have rented a car at the airport?” the horror writer asked.
“Yes, sir. He could, and I hope to God he did. If he did, we’ll get him sure. But his car had worn tires, and that’s not characteristic of rentals.”
“I see.”
“If he did rent his car, it’ll have bloodstains in it, and the rental people will notice. She was bleeding when she was carried out of her bedroom.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Not much, but some. We found blood in the hall and more on the back stairs. The bad thing is that if he flew in and plans to fly back out, he can’t take her with him. He’ll kill her. He may have killed her already.”
Captain Barlowe left, Dan and Charity moved into a motel, and the day ended in quiet triumph. The experts who had visited the crime scene earlier reappeared and took more photographs and blood samples. The horror writer asked them no questions, and they volunteered nothing.
He drove to town the next morning and shopped at several stores. So far as he could judge, he was not followed. That afternoon he got out the binoculars he had acquired years before for bird-watching and scanned the surrounding woods and fields, seeing no one.
At sunrise the next morning he rescanned them, paying particular attention to areas he thought he might have slighted before. Selecting an apple from the previous day’s purchases, he made his way through grass still wet with dew to the well and tossed it in.
He had hoped that she would thank him and plead for release; if she did either her voice was too faint for him to catch her words, this though it seemed to him there was a sound of some sort from the well, a faint, high humming. As he tramped back to the house, he decided that it had probably been an echo of the wind.
The rest of that day he spent preparing her cellar room.
He slept well that night and woke refreshed twenty minutes before his clock radio would have roused him. The three-eighths-inch rope he had brought two days earlier awaited him in the kitchen; he knotted it as soon as he had finished breakfast, spacing the knots about a foot apart.
When he had wound it around his waist and tied it securely, he discovered bloodstains – small but noticeable – on the back of his barn coat. Eventually it would have to be burned, but a fire at this season would be suspicious in itself; a long soak in a strong bleach solution would have to do the job – for the present, if not permanently. Pulled out, his shirt hid the rope, although not well.
When he reached the well, he tied one end of the rope to a convenient branch and called softly.
There was no reply.
A louder “Kiara!” brought no reply either. She was still asleep, the horror writer decided. Asleep or, just possibly, unconscious. He dropped the free end of the rope into the well, swung over the edge, and began the climb down.
He had expected the length of his rope to exceed the depth of the well by three feet at least; but there came a time when his feet could find no more rope below him – or find the muddy bottom either.
His pen light revealed it, eight inches, perhaps, below the soles of his shoes. Another knot down – this knot almost the last – brought his feet into contact with the mud.
He released the rope.
He had expected to sink into the mud, but had thought to sink to a depth of no more than three or four inches; he found himself floundering, instead, in mud up to his knees. It was difficult to retain his footing; bracing one hand against the stone side of the well, he managed to do it.
At the first step he attempted, the mud sucked his shoe from his foot. Groping the mud for it got his hands thoroughly filthy, but failed to locate it. Attempting a second step cost him his other shoe as well.
This time, however, his groping fingers found a large, soft thing in the mud. His pen light winked on – but in the space of twenty seconds or a little less its always-faint beam faded to darkness. His fingers told him of hair matted with mud, of an ear, and then of a small earring. When he took his hand from it, he stood among corpses, shadowy child-sized bodies his fingers could not locate. Shuddering, he looked up.
Above him, far above him, a small circle of blue was bisected by the dark limb to which he had tied his rope. The rope itself swayed gently in the air, its lower end not quite out of reach.
He caught it and tried to pull himself up; his hands were slippery with mud, and it escaped them.
Desperately, almost frantically, he strove to catch it again, but his struggles caused him to sink deeper into the mud.
He tried to climb the wall of the well; at his depth its rough stones were thick with slime.
At last he recalled Kiara’s body, and by a struggle that seemed to him long managed to get both feet on it. With its support, his fingertips once more brushed the dangling end of the rope. Bracing his right foot on what felt like the head, he made a final all-out effort.
And caught the rope, grasping it a finger’s breadth from its frayed end. The slight tension he exerted on it straightened it, and perhaps stretched it a trifle. Bent the limb above by a fraction of an inch. With his right arm straining almost out of its socket and his feet pressing hard against Kiara’s corpse, the fingers of his left hand could just touch the final knot.
Something took hold of his right foot, pinning toes and transverse arch in jaws that might have been those of a trap.
The horror writer struggled then, and screamed again and again as he was drawn under – screamed and shrieked and begged until the stinking almost liquid mud stopped his mouth.
NICHOLAS ROYLE
Continuity Error
NICHOLAS ROYLE WAS BORN in Manchester in 1963. He is the author of five novels,
Widely published as a journalist, with regular appearances in
“Much of what happens in the story did actually happen in so-called real life,” confirms the author. “I would like to acknowledge Rebecca Healey’s generous help with lip-reading and Michael Kemp’s kind permission to quote from his poetry.”
CHRISTINE RANG MADDOX on his mobile. A little accident, she said. A bump.
“Was anyone hurt?”
“No, no one was hurt.”
He made his way to the side street in Shepherd’s Bush where it had happened. A one-way street temporarily blocked off by roadworks at the junction with Goldhawk Road. Estate agent’s on the corner. Christine had reversed away from the roadworks and at five miles an hour hit a silver Toyota coming out of the concealed exit from the sunken car park behind the estate agent’s.
By the time Maddox arrived, the driver of the silver Toyota was in full magnanimous third-party mode, confident the insurance companies would find in his favour. Maddox hated him on sight. Too reasonable, too forthcoming. Like providing his address and insurance details was some kind of favour.
Maddox’s son Jack had got out of the car and stood staring at the small pile of shattered glass on the road, seemingly transfixed by it. Christine was visibly upset, despite the unctuous affability of the Toyota driver and Maddox’s own efforts to downplay the situation.
“It’s only a couple of lights and a new wing. No one was hurt, that’s the main thing.”
Two days later, Maddox and Jack were walking past the top of the side street. The roadworks had been removed and a car was exiting into Goldhawk Road without any difficulty.
“Is that where the accident happened, Daddy?” asked the little boy.
“Yes.”
Jack stopped, his big eyes taking in the details. The fresh asphalt by the junction, the concealed exit from the sunken car park behind the estate agent’s.
“Is it still there?” the little boy asked.
“What? Is what still there?”
“The accident. Is the accident still there?”
Maddox didn’t know what to say.
They were getting ready to go out. Christine was ready and Maddox was nearly ready, a too-familiar scenario. She waited by the front door, smart, made-up, tall in new boots and long coat, enveloped in a haze of expensive perfume.
“Are you nearly ready, Brian?”
That she added his name to the harmless query was a bad sign. It meant her patience was stretched too thin. But he’d lost his car key. He’d looked everywhere. Twice. And couldn’t find it.
“Where did you last have it?” she shouted up the stairs.
The unhelpfulness of the question grated against his nerves.
“I don’t know. That’s the whole point.”
He started again. Bedroom (bedside drawer, dressing gown). Jacket pockets. Kitchen.
“Have you looked in your box?”
“Yes, I’ve looked in my box.”
They each had a box, like an in-tray, in the kitchen. Christine never used hers, but always knew where everything was. Maddox used his, but still managed to lose at least one important item every day. Wallet, phone, keys. Chequebook, bank card. Everything always turned up, sooner or later, but in this case, not soon enough.
“I can’t find it. I’ve looked everywhere.”
Heavy sigh.
If the atmosphere hadn’t become tense he would jokingly accuse her of having hidden it, of trying to make him think he was losing his mind. But that wouldn’t play now. They were beyond that.
“It’s probably at the
“How could it be at the flat when my car’s outside?” he snapped before realising that
“It’s a pity you don’t have a spare key,” she said.
“It’s a pity your car’s in the garage,” he retorted, “about to be declared uneconomical to repair. Look, Christine, it’s very late. I can’t find it and I certainly won’t find it with you hovering, getting all wound up, so I suggest you get a cab and I’ll follow.”
“But what if you don’t find it?’
“I’ll find it. I’ll be there, just a little late, that’s all. You go. You’ll easily pick up a black cab on the Green. You’re only going to Ladbroke Grove.”
Sweating, he listened as the front door was opened and shut – slammed. Gate clanged. Fading echo of footsteps receding. He felt the tension flow out of him and collapsed on to the nearest chair. He loosened his tie and reached for a glass.
In their bedroom he pressed the power button on his laptop. While waiting, he stared blankly at the framed poster on the wall. A production he’d been in more than twenty years ago.
Aslie Pitter, the most naturally talented actor in the cast. He’d done one or two things – a Channel Four sitcom, guest appearance in
Elinore Vickery had turned up in something at the Waterman’s. Maddox had liked her, tried to keep in touch, but there was an invisible barrier, as if she’d known him better than he knew himself.
Missing out on a couple of good parts because of his size (five foot five in stocking feet, eight stone dead), Maddox had quit the theatre and concentrated on writing. Barker had helped with one or two contacts and Maddox sold a couple of horror stories. Over the years he’d moved away from fiction into journalism and book-length non-fiction. The current project,
He read through the afternoon’s work, then closed the laptop. He opened his bedside drawer and there was his car key. He looked at it. Had it been there before? Of course it had. How could it not have been? But he’d not seen it, so it might as well not have been. It had effectively disappeared. Hysterical blindness? Negative hallucination?
He pocketed the key and went downstairs. The door closed behind him and the car started first time. He sneaked past White City – the exhibition halls were gone, torn down for a future shopping centre – and slipped on to the Westway. He didn’t think of Christine as he approached Ladbroke Grove, but of Christie, John Reginald Halli-day. The former relief projectionist at the Electric, who had murdered at least six women, had lived at 10 Rillington Place, later renamed Ruston Close before being demolished to make way for the elevated motorway on which Maddox was now driving. The film, starring Dickie Attenborough as the killer and John Hurt as his poor dupe of an upstairs neighbour, who swung for at least one of Christie’s crimes, had been filmed in Rillington Place itself. Maddox understood, from comments posted on ghoulish message boards on the internet, that the interiors had been shot in No.8 and the exteriors outside No.10. But when the police, acting on a tip-off from Timothy Evans, yanked open a manhole cover outside No.10, Attenborough could be seen peering out through the ground-floor window of the end house in the terrace, No.10, where three of Christie’s victims had been walled up in the pantry, his wife Ethel being found under the floorboards in the front room. For Maddox it was the key shot in the film, the only clear evidence that they’d gained access to the charnel house itself. The only other explanation being that they’d mocked up the entire street in the studio, which he didn’t buy.
The case accounted for five pages in Maddox’s book. He concentrated mainly on the interweaving of fact and fiction, the merging of film and reality. Attenborough as Christie. No.8 standing in for No.10, if indeed it did. The internet also yielded a piece of Pathe film footage of the demolition of Ruston Close. Two men with pickaxes. A third man speaking to camera. A burning house. Shots of the house at the end of the street with the white (replacement) door. Clearly the same house as that in the film. But there was no sound, the reporter mouthing inaudible commentary. Maddox lured a lip-reader to the flat, a junior editor from one of the publishers that had turned down his book. She reminded him of Linzi with her green eyes and shoulder-length streaked hair. Even in heels she didn’t reach Mad-dox’s height, but she had a confident, relaxed smile, She held his gaze when he spoke to her and appeared to be looking into his eyes, but must have been watching his lips, as she relied heavily on lip-reading. Maddox was careful to make sure she was looking in his direction before speaking to her, probably over-careful. She must have spent a lifetime compensating for situations in which people wouldn’t have made such allowances. Working backwards from the first words she managed to lip-read and then having to catch up. So much information assumed rather than known for certain, but Maddox could relate to that. In some areas of life he, too, knew nothing for certain. The deaf woman’s name was Karen. He assumed the proposal for his book had been rejected by someone senior who had given Karen the unpleasant job of telling the author, but he didn’t know
When she entered the flat, Maddox felt at ease. In control. He apologised for the loud, bass-heavy music coming from the downstairs flat, but she said she couldn’t hear it.
“I thought you might be able to feel it,” he said.
“It’s a new building,” she said. “Concrete floors. Otherwise . . .”
He showed her the footage. She said it wasn’t straightforward. The quality was poor and the picture kept pixellating, plus the reporter unhelpfully turned his head to the side on several occasions.
Maddox asked her if she would come back and have another go if he was able to tidy the picture up a bit.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to get much off it for you,” she said.
“If you wouldn’t mind just trying one more time, perhaps when you’re less tired,” he said. “It’s very important to me, for my book, you know.”
Maddox pulled into one of the reserved spaces outside a block of purpose-built flats in the depressed residential trapezium bordered by Green Lanes and the roads of West Green, Seven Sisters and St Ann’s. He listened to the ticking of the cooling engine for a few moments as he watched the darkened windows of the second-floor flat. The top flat.
The street door had been left open by one of his neighbours. He walked up.
Inside the flat, he left the light switched off, poured himself a drink and sat in the single armchair. He pulled out his phone and sent a short text message. Orange street-lighting cast a deathly glow over the cheap bookshelves stacked with pulp novels, true crime, horror anthologies and dystopian science fiction. His phone chimed. He opened it, read the return message and replied to it. When he’d lived here, the room had been dominated by a double bed. Moving into Christine’s house had allowed him to turn the tiny flat into the dedicated office he’d always wanted by burning the bed on the waste ground out the back. He’d considered giving it away, since selling it had struck him as tiresome: placing an ad, answering calls, opening the door to strangers. Easier to burn the damn thing and all the memories associated with it. So then he’d moved his desk from the east end of the room, under the Velux window, to the west-facing windows overlooking the street.
Another text arrived. He read it and closed the phone without replying.
As usual, loud music was playing in the downstairs flat.
He drained his glass and let his head fall back against the soft cushion. The Artex ceiling had attracted cobwebs and grime, but he doubted he would ever feel the need to repaint or clean it. Very few people ever came here. Linzi had spent a lot of time in the flat, of course. He laughed bitterly, then chewed his lip and stared at the ceiling, sensitive to the slightest noise in spite of the thump of the bass from the downstairs flat. Christine had hardly stepped over the threshold. She’d been once or twice soon after they’d met, but not since. There was no reason to. It was clear from the odd comment that she resented his keeping the flat, since it was a drain on resources, but as he’d argued, there was no room in the house for all these books and tapes. Not to mention the stuff stored in the loft. He chewed his lip again.
He switched on the stereo and the ordered chaos of Paul Schiitze’s
He opened a file and did some work, tidied up some troublesome text. He saved it and opened another file, “Dollis Hill”. Notes, a few stabs at an address, gaps, big gaps. He was going to have to go back.
He replayed the mental rushes. Autumn 1986. A fine day. Gusty, but dry, bright. Walking in an unfamiliar district of London. A long road, tree-lined. High up. View down over the city between detached houses and semis. Victorian, Edwardian.
The entryphone buzzed, bringing him back to the present with a start. He closed the file. He got to his feet, crossed to the hall and picked up the phone.
“The door’s open. Come up,” he said, before realising she couldn’t hear him.
He remained standing in the hall, listening to footsteps climbing the interior staircase. When the footsteps stopped outside his door there was a pause before the knock came. He imagined her composing herself, perhaps straightening her clothes, removing a hair from her collar. Or looking at her watch and thinking of bolting. He opened the door as she knocked, which startled her.
“Come in,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”
All Maddox had done to improve the image on the video was change the size of the Media Player window so that the reporter’s mouth, while slightly smaller, was less affected by picture breakup.
While Karen studied the footage, Maddox crossed to the far side of the room. He returned with a glass of red wine, which he placed beside the laptop. Karen raised a hand to decline, but Maddox simply pushed the glass slightly closer to her and left it there. Finally, while she was watching the footage for a third time, her hand reached out, perhaps involuntarily, to pick up the glass. She took a sip, then held the glass aloft while studying the image of the jaunty reporter: Michael Caine glasses, buttoned-up jacket, button-down shirt, hand alighting on hip like a butterfly.
Maddox watched as she replayed the footage again. Each time the reporter started speaking, she moved a little closer to the screen and seemed to angle her head slightly to the left in order to favour her right ear, in which she had a trace of hearing, despite the fact there was no sound at all on the film. Habit, Maddox decided.
Karen leaned back and looked at Maddox before speaking.
“He’s saying something like
Her speech was that of a person who had learned to talk the hard way, without being able to hear the sound of her own voice.
“That’s great. That’s very helpful, Karen. It would be fifteen, not fifty. I didn’t even know for certain that he was talking about Christie’s house.
“No, I’m not sure, but that’s what it sounds like.”
Karen’s choice of expression –
Maddox went to fill up her glass, but she placed her hand over it.
“I’ve got to go,” she said. “I said I could only stop by for a minute.’
Maddox stood his ground with the wine bottle, then stepped back.
“Another time,” he said.
“Have you got something else you want me to look at?”
“I might have. If it’s not too much of an imposition.”
“Just let me know.”
He showed her out, then switched the light off again and watched from the window as she regained the street. She stopped, looked one way, then went the other, as if deciding there and then which way to go. Hardly the action of a woman with an appointment. He watched as she walked south towards St Ann’s Road and disappeared around the corner, then he sat down in the armchair and emptied her wine glass. His gaze roved across the bookshelves and climbed the walls before reaching the ceiling. He then sat without moving for half an hour, his eyes not leaving the ceiling, listening to the building’s creaks and sighs, the music downstairs having been turned off.
He took a different route back, climbing the Harringay Ladder and going west past the top of Priory Park. He floored the pedal through the Cranley Gardens S-bend and allowed the gradient to slow the car so that he rolled to a stop outside No. 23. There he killed the engine and looked up at the second-floor flat where Dennis Nilsen had lived from October 1981 to February 1983. One of Nilsen’s mistakes, which had led to his being caught, was to have left the window in the gable dormer wide open for long periods, attracting the attention of neighbours.
Maddox looked at his watch and started the engine. He got on to the North Circular, coming off at Staples Corner, heading south down Edgware Road and turning right into Dollis Hill Lane. He slowed to a crawl, leaning forward over the wheel, craning his neck at the houses on the south side. He was sure it would be on the south side. He definitely remembered a wide tree-lined avenue with views over central London. Land falling away behind the house. Long walk from the tube. Which tube? He didn’t know.
He turned right, cruised the next street. He wasn’t even sure of the street. Dollis Hill Lane sounded right, but as soon as he’d got the idea of Cricklewood Lane off the internet that had sounded right too. He’d gone there, to 108/110 Cricklewood Lane, after reading on the net that that was where they’d shot
Some time in the autumn of 1986, Maddox had come here, to a house in Dollis Hill. A movie was being made. Clive Barker was directing his first film.
They did a short interview over lunch, which they ate on the floor of a room at the back of the house.
“We’re surrounded by images which are momentarily potent and carry no resonance whatsoever,” Barker was saying in transatlantic Scouse. “Advertising, the pop video, a thing which seems to mean an awful lot and is in fact absolutely negligible.”
Maddox noticed the hairdresser carrying a paper plate and a cup. She sat cross-legged on the floor next to another crew member and they talked as they ate.
“What frightens you?” he asked Barker.
“Unlit streets, flying, being stuck in the tube at rush hour. Places where you have to relinquish control.”
Once they’d finished, Maddox hung around awkwardly, waiting for a chance to talk to the hairdresser. When it came – her companion rising to go – he seized it. She was getting up too and Maddox contrived to step in front of her, blocking her way. He apologised and introduced himself. “I was just interviewing Clive. We’ve known each other a couple of years. I was in one of his plays.”
“Linzi,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m only here for one day. The regular girl called in sick.”
“Then I’m lucky I came today,” he said, smiling shyly.
She was wearing a dark green top of soft cotton that was exactly the same shade as her eyes. Her hair, light brown with natural blonde streaks, was tied back in a knot pierced by a pencil.
“Are you going to stick around?” she asked.
“I’ve done my interview, but if no one kicks me out . . .”
“It’s a pretty relaxed set.”
He did stick around and most of the time he watched Linzi, promising himself he wouldn’t leave until he’d got her number. It took him the rest of the afternoon, but he got it. She scribbled it on a blank page in her Filofax, then tore out the page and said, “Call me.”
The chances of finding the house in darkness were even less than in daylight. He’d been up to Dollis Hill a couple of times in the last few weeks, once in the car and once on foot. Lately, he’d been thinking more about Linzi, and specifically about the early days, before it started to go wrong. He’d spent enough time going over the bad times and wanted to revisit the good. He wanted to see the house again, but couldn’t. He needed to locate it for his book. He’d rewatched the film, which contained enough shots of the house’s exterior that it should have been easy to locate it, but it didn’t seem to matter how many times he trailed these suburban avenues, the house wasn’t there. Or if it was, he couldn’t see it. He’d begun to think it might have been knocked down, possibly even straight after the shoot. It could have been why the house had been available. In the film there was a No.55 on the porch, but that would be set dressing, like the renumbering of 25 Powis Square, in
He looked at his watch and calculated that if he was quick he could get to Ladbroke Grove in time for coffee and to drive Christine home, thereby reducing the amount of grief she would give him. Negligibly, he realised, but still.
In the morning, he feigned sleep while she dressed. Her movements were businesslike, crisp. The night before had been a riot, as expected. When he had turned up at the dinner, two and a half hours late, she had contented herself with merely shooting him a look, but as soon as they left she started. And as soon as she started, he switched off.
It didn’t let up even when they got home, but he wasn’t listening. He marvelled at how closely he was able to mimic the condition with which Karen, his lip-reader, had been born. Thinking of Karen, moreover, relaxed him inside, while Christine kept on, even once they’d got into bed. Elective deafness – it beat hysterical blindness.
When he was sure Christine had left the house – the slammed door, the gate that clanged – he got up and showered. Within half an hour, having spent ten minutes pointing the DVD remote at the television, he was behind the wheel of the car with his son in the back seat. South Tottenham in twenty minutes was a bigger ask by day than by night, but he gave it his best shot. Rush hour was over (Christine, in common with everyone who worked on weekly magazines, finished earlier than she started), but skirting the congestion charge zone was still a challenge.
He parked where he had the night before and turned to see that Jack was asleep. He left him there, locked the car and walked up. He had decided, while lying in bed with his back to Christine, that it would be worth going up into the loft. Somewhere in the loft was a box containing old diaries, including one for 1986. He had never been a consistent diarist, but some years had seen him make more notes than others. It was worth a rummage among the spider’s webs and desiccated wasps” nests. His size meant he didn’t bang his head on the latticework of pine beams.
The loft still smelled faintly of formalin. He suspected it always would until he got rid of the suitcase at the far end. He shone the torch in its direction. Big old-fashioned brown leather case, rescued from a skip and cleaned up. Solid, sturdy, two catches and a strap with a buckle. Could take a fair weight.
He redirected the torch at the line of dusty boxes closer to the trap door. The first box contained T-shirts that he never wore any more but couldn’t bear to throw away. The second was full of old typescripts stiff with Tipp-Ex. The diaries were in the third box along. He bent down and sorted through: 1974, a shiny black Pocket Diary filled mainly with notes on the history of the Crusades; 1976, the summer of the heatwave,
Maddox could listen to Martin for hours. The later they stayed up, the more profound their discussions seemed to become. Maddox watched as Martin dragged on his cigarette and held the smoke in his lungs for an eternity, stretching the moment, before blowing it out in perfect rings. When Martin talked about the bodies in the anatomy lab, Maddox became entranced. He imagined Martin alone in the lab with a dozen flayed corpses. Bending over them, examining them, carefully removing a strip of muscle, severing a tendon. Getting up close to the secrets, the mysteries, of death. Martin said it didn’t matter how long he spent washing his hands, they still smelled of formalin. He held them under Maddox’s nose, then moved to cup his cheeks in an affectionate, stroking gesture.
“You don’t mind, do you?” he said, as his hand landed on Maddox’s knee.
“Could you get me in there? Into the lab?” Maddox asked, shaking his head, picturing himself among the bodies, as Martin’s hand moved up his thigh.
“No. But I could bring you something out. Something you could keep.”
Martin’s hand had reached Maddox’s lap and Maddox was mildly surprised to discover that far from objecting, he was aroused. If this was to be the downpayment on whatever Martin might fetch him back from the dissection table, so be it.
“I’ve got something for you,” Martin said a couple of days later, “in my room.”
Maddox followed Martin to his room.
“So where is it?” Maddox asked.
“Can’t just leave that sort of thing lying about. But what’s the rush?’
Martin lay down on the bed and unbuckled his belt.
Maddox hesitated, considered walking out, but he felt certain he’d always regret it if he left empty-handed. Instead, he knelt beside the bed and spat into his palm.
Afterwards, Martin pulled open his desk drawer.
“There you go,” he said.
Maddox withdrew a strong-smelling package. He started to work at the knot in the outermost plastic bag, but it wouldn’t come easily. He asked Martin what it contained.
“A piece of subcutaneous fat from the body of a middle-aged man. If anyone ever asks, you didn’t get it from me.”
Maddox returned to his own room on the seventh floor, washing his hands on the way. He cut open the bag and unwrapped his spoils. The gobbet of fat, four inches by two, looked like a piece of tripe, white and bloodless, and the stench of formalin made him feel sick and excited at the same time. Maddox was careful not to touch the fat as he wrapped it up again and secured the package with tape. He opened his wardrobe and pulled out the brown suitcase he’d liberated from a skip in Judd Street.
He saw less of Martin after that. At first he contrived subtly to avoid him and then started going out with Valerie, a girl with fat arms and wide hips he picked up in the union bar on cocktails night. He wasn’t convinced they were a good match, but the opportunity was convenient, given the Martin situation.
The piece of fat remained wrapped up in its suitcase, which smelled so strongly that Maddox only had to open the case and take a sniff to re-experience how he had felt when Martin had given him the body part. As he lay in bed trying to get to sleep (alone. Valerie didn’t last more than a few weeks) he sometimes thought about the man who had knowingly willed his cadaver to science. He wondered what his name might have been and what kind of man he was. What he might have been in life. He would hardly have been able to foresee what would happen to the small part of him that was now nestled inside Maddox’s wardrobe.
When Maddox left the hall of residence for a flat in Holloway, the case went with him, still empty but for its human remains. He kept it on top of a cupboard. It stayed there for two years. When he moved into the flat in N15, he put the suitcase in the loft, where it had remained ever since. The piece of fat was no longer in Maddox’s possession, but the suitcase was not free of the smell of formalin.
Maddox’s 1986 diary was at the bottom of the box. It took only a couple of minutes to find what he was looking for. “
He drove to Dollis Hill via Cranley Gardens, but on this occasion didn’t stop.
“Why didn’t I think of checking my old diaries before, eh, Jack?” he said, looking in the rear-view mirror.
His son was silent, staring out of the window.
Turning into Dollis Hill Lane from Edgware Road, he slowed to a crawl, oblivious to the noisy rebuke of the driver immediately behind him, who pulled out and swerved to overtake, engine racing, finger given. Maddox brought the car to a halt on a slight incline outside No. 187. He looked at the house and felt an unsettling combination of familiarity and non-recognition. Attraction and repulsion. He had to stare at the house for two or three minutes before he realised why he had driven past it so many times and failed to recognise it.
Like most things recalled from the past, it was smaller than the version in his memory. But the main difference was the apparent age of the building. He remembered a Victorian villa, possibly Edwardian. The house in front of him was new. The rendering on the front gable end had gone up in the last few years. The wood-framed bay windows on the first floor were of recent construction. The casement window in the top flat, second floor, was obviously new. The mansard roof was a familiar shape, but the clay Rosemarys were all fresh from the tile shop. The materials were new, but the style was not. The basic design was unchanged, from what he could remember of the exterior shots in the film, which he’d looked at again before coming out, but in spite of that the house looked new. As if a skeleton had grown new muscle and flesh.
“Just like Frank,” he said out loud.
“What, Daddy?”
“Just like Frank in the film.”
“What film?”
“They made a film in this house and I came to see them make it. You’re too young to see it yet. One day, maybe.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s about a man who disappears and then comes back to life with the help of his girlfriend. It happened in that room up there.” He pointed to the top flat. “Although, the windows are wrong,” he said, trying to remember the second-floor window in the film. “I need to check it again.”
The only part of the exterior that looked as if they’d taken care to try to match the original was the front door.
As he’d walked from the
“Why are you so interested in this house, Daddy?” Jack asked from the back seat.
“Because of what happened here. Because of the film. And because I met somebody here. Somebody I knew before I met your mother.’
Linzi lived in East Finchley. They went to see films at the Phoenix or met for drinks in Muswell Hill. Malaysian meals in Crouch End. He showed her the house in Hillfield Avenue where he had visited Clive Barker.
“Peter Straub used to live on the same road, just further up the hill,” he told her.
“Who’s Peter Straub?”
“Have you heard of Stephen King?”
“Of course.”
“Straub and King wrote a book together.
Maddox and Linzi started meeting during the day at the Wisteria Tea Rooms on Middle Lane and it was there, among the pot plants and mismatched crockery, that Maddox realised with a kind of slow, swooning surprise that he was happy. The realisation was so slow because the feeling was so unfamiliar. They took long walks through Highgate Cemetery and across Hampstead Heath.
Weeks became months. The cherry blossom came out in long straight lines down Cecile Park, and fell to the pavements, and came out again. Linzi often stayed at Maddox’s flat in South Tottenham, but frowned distastefully at his true-crime books. One morning while she was still asleep, Maddox was dressing, looking for a particular T-shirt. Unable to find it, he climbed up the ladder into the loft. Searching through a box of old clothes, he didn’t hear Linzi climbing the ladder or see her head and shoulders suddenly intrude into the loft space.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“Shit.” He jumped, hitting his head. “Ow. That hurt. Shit. Nothing. Looking for something.”
“What’s that smell?”
“Nothing.”
He urged her back down the ladder and made sure the trap door was fastened before pulling on the
Whenever he went into the loft from then on, whether Linzi was around or not, he would pull the ladder up after him and close the trap door. The loft was private.
When he got back to the flat that evening, he went up into the loft again – duly covering his tracks, although he was alone – and took the small wrapped parcel from the suitcase. The lid fell shut, the old-fashioned clasps sliding home without his needing to fasten them. Quality craftsmanship.
When it was dark, he buried the slice of tissue in the waste ground behind the flats.
As the decade approached its end, the directionless lifestyle that Maddox and Linzi had drifted into seemed to become more expensive. The bills turned red. Maddox started working regular shifts on the subs’ desk at the
They spent the afternoon in the pubs and secondhand bookshops of the North Laines. Maddox found a Ramsey Campbell anthology, an M. John Harrison collection and
“ ‘This is all I ever wanted/to meet you in the fast decaying shadows/on the outskirts of this or any city/alone and in exile.’ ”
As the train rattled through Sussex, Maddox pored over the photographs in his true-crime book.
“Look,” he said, pointing to a caption: “Brighton Trunk Crime No.2: The trunk’s contents.”
“Very romantic,” Linzi said as she turned to the window, but Maddox couldn’t look away from the crumpled stockings on the legs of the victim, Violette Kaye. Her broken neck. The pinched scowl on her decomposed face. To Maddox the picture was as beautiful as it was terrible.
Over the next few days, Maddox read up on the Brighton Trunk Murders of 1934. He discovered that Tony Mancini, who had confessed to putting Violette Kay’s body in the trunk but claimed she had died accidentally (only to retract that claim and accept responsibility for her murder more than forty years later), had lodged at 52 Kemp Street. He rooted around for the poetry pamphlet Linzi had bought him. He found it under a pile of magazines. The poet’s name was Michael Kemp. He wanted to share his discovery of this coincidence with Linzi when she arrived at his flat with scissors and hairdressing cape.
“Why not save a bit of money?” she said, moving the chair from Maddox’s desk into the middle of the room. As she worked on his hair, she talked about Gerry from the salon. “He’s so funny,” she said. “The customers love him. He certainly keeps me and the other girls entertained.”
“Male hairdressers in women’s salons are all puffs, surely?”
Linzi stopped cutting and looked at him.
“So?” she said. “So what if they are? And anyway, Gerry’s not gay. No way.”
“Really? How can you be so sure?”
“A girl knows. Okay?”
“Have you fucked him then or what?”
She took a step back. “What’s the matter with you?”
“How else would you know? Gerry seems to be all you can talk about.”
“Fuck you.”
Maddox shot to his feet, tearing off the cape.
“You know what,” he said, seizing the scissors, “I’ll cut my own fucking hair and do a better job of it. At least I won’t have to listen to you going on about
He started to hack at his own hair, grabbing handfuls and cutting away. Linzi recoiled in horror, unable to look away, as if she were watching a road accident.
“Maybe I should tell you about all the women at the
It wasn’t until he jabbed the scissors threateningly in her direction that she snatched up her bag and ran out.
The next day he sent flowers. He didn’t call, didn’t push it. Just flowers and a note: “Sorry.”
Then he called. Told her he didn’t know what had come over him. It wouldn’t happen again. He knew he’d be lucky if she forgave him, but he hoped he’d be lucky. He hadn’t felt like this about anyone before and he didn’t want to lose her. The irony was, he told her, he’d been thinking his flat was getting a bit small and maybe they should look for a place together. He’d understand if she wanted to kick it into touch, but hoped she’d give him another chance.
She said to give her some time.
He shaved his head.
He drove down to Finsbury Park and watched from across the street as she worked on clients. Bobbing left and right. Holding their hair in her hands. Eye contact in the mirror. Gerry fussing around, sharing a joke, trailing an arm. As she’d implied, though, he was distributing his attentions equally among Linzi and the two other girls.
Mornings and evenings, he kept a watch on her flat in Finchley. She left and returned on her own. He chose a route between his flat and hers that took in Cranley Gardens in Muswell Hill. He parked outside No.23 and watched the darkened windows of the top flat. He wondered if any of the neighbours had been Nilsen’s contemporaries. If this man passing by now with a tartan shopping trolley had ever nodded good morning to the mass murderer. If that woman leaving her house across the street had ever smiled at him. Maddox got out of the car and touched the low wall outside the property with the tips of his fingers.
Linzi agreed to meet up. Maddox suggested the Wisteria Tea Rooms. It was almost like starting over. Cautious steps. Shy smiles. His hair had grown back.
“What got into you?”
“I don’t know. I thought we’d agreed to draw a line under it.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
At the next table a woman was feeding a baby.
“Do you ever think about having children?” Linzi asked, out of the blue.
“A boy,” Maddox said straightaway. “I’d call him Jack.”
Maddox didn’t mention Gerry. He took on extra shifts. Slowly, they built up trust again. One day, driving back to his place after dropping Linzi off at hers, he saw that a board had gone up outside 23 Cranley Gardens. For sale. He rang the agents. Yes, it was the top flat, second floor. It was on at £64,950, but when Maddox dropped by to pick up a copy of the details (DELIGHTFUL TOP FLOOR ONE BEDROOM CONVERSION FLAT), they’d reduced it to £59,950. He made an appointment, told Linzi he’d arranged a surprise. Picked her up early, drove to Cranley Gardens. He’d never brought her this way. She didn’t know whose flat it had been.
A young lad met them outside. Loosely knotted tie, shiny shoes. Bright, eager.
Linzi turned to Maddox. “Are you thinking of moving?”
“It’s bigger and it’s cheap.”
Linzi smiled stiffly. They followed the agent up the stairs. He unlocked the interior door and launched into his routine. Maddox nodded without listening as his eyes greedily took everything in, trying to make sense of the flat, to match what he saw to the published photographs. It didn’t fit.
“The bathroom’s gone,” he said, interrupting the agent.
“There’s a shower room,” the boy said. “And a washbasin across the hall. An unusual arrangement.”
Nilsen had dissected two bodies in the bathroom.
“This is a lovely room,” the agent said, moving to the front of the flat.
Maddox entered the room at the back and checked the view from the window.
“At least this is unchanged,” he said to Linzi, who had appeared alongside.
“What do you mean?”
He looked at her and realised what he’d said.
“This flat’s all different. I’ve seen pictures of it.”
The story came out later, back at Maddox’s place.
“You took me round Dennis Nilsen’s flat?”
He turned away.
“You didn’t think to mention it first? You thought we might live there together? In the former home of a serial killer? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“It’s cheap,” he said, to the closing door.
He watched from the window as she ran off towards West Green Road. He stayed at the window for a time and then pulled down the ladder and went up into the loft. He pulled up the ladder and closed the trap door. He opened the big brown suitcase. It was like getting a fix. He studied the dimensions of the suitcase. It was not much smaller than Tony Mancini’s trunk.
Christine was at work. Maddox read a note she’d left in the kitchen: “We need milk and bread.”
He went into the living room and took down the
He skipped forward. He kept watching.
Frank and Julia in the second-floor room, top of the house. She’s just killed the guy from the bar and Frank has drained his body. Julia re-enters the room after cleaning herself up and as she walks towards the window we see it comprises four lights in a row. Four windows. Four windows in a row. Not six. Four.
Maddox wielded the remote.
Looking up at the house as Julia leaves it to go to the bar. Second floor, six windows. Inside the same room on the second floor, looking towards the windows. Four, not six.
So what? The transformation scenes, which take place in that second-floor room at the front of the house, weren’t shot on Dollis Hill Lane. Big deal. That kind of stuff would have to be done in the studio. The arrival of the Cenobites, the transformation of Frank, his being torn apart. It wasn’t the kind of stuff you could shoot on location. But how could they make such a glaring continuity error as the number of lights in a window? Six from outside, four from within. It couldn’t be a mistake. It was supposed to mean something. But what?
“Daddy?”
Maddox jumped.
“What is it, Jack?”
“What are you watching?”
Maddox looked at the screen as he thought about his response.
“This film, the one shot in that house.”
“The house with the windows?”
“Yes.”
“Why is it important?”
“I don’t know. No, I do know.” His shoulders slumped. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s not.”
He drove to the supermarket. Jack was quiet in the back. They got a trolley. Maddox stopped in front of the newspapers. He looked at the
Maddox looked around to check that Jack was still in tow, then moved on.
He stood silently in cold meats, swaying very gently.
“Gone,” he said quietly. “All gone. Disappeared.”
“What, Daddy? What’s gone?”
“Wait there, Jack. I’ll be back. Don’t move.”
He walked to the end of the aisle and turned the corner. He walked to the end of the next aisle and then the next, looking at the items on the shelves, familiar brands, labels he’d seen a thousand times. All meaningless. He recognised nothing. What was he looking for? Bread and milk? Where were they? He couldn’t remember. He went back to where he’d left the trolley. It was there, but Jack wasn’t.
He looked up and down the aisle. The brand names that had meant nothing to him a moment ago now leapt out at him, shouting, screaming for attention. It was as if the two sides of the aisle had suddenly shifted inward. Jack was nowhere to be seen.
“Jack!”
Maddox ran to the end of the aisle and looked both ways. He looked up the next aisle, then up the next and the one after. He kept calling Jack’s name. Shoppers stopped and stared, but Maddox moved faster and shouted louder. He looked at the line of tills and wondered if Jack had gone that way. He could already be out of the store, wandering around the car park, about to be run over or abducted. He told himself to calm down, that he would find him, but at the same time another voice suggested that sometimes the worst thing imaginable did happen. It had before, after all. Would this be the next case heard about on the news? A half-page in the paper. London man loses child in supermarket. Brian Maddox, 42, took his eyes off his son for one moment and he was gone. But he hadn’t taken his eyes off him for just one moment. He’d gone to the next aisle, or the one after. He’d gone away. He could have been gone five minutes. Ten, fifteen.
“Jack!”
“Sir?”
A young lad, a shelf stacker, was standing in front of him. Maddox told him his son had disappeared. The shelf stacker asked for a description. Maddox gave him one and the lad said he would start from the far end of the store and advised Maddox to start from the other. They would meet in the middle and most likely one of them would have found Jack. Maddox did as he was told and neither of them found Jack. Maddox was short of breath, dry in the mouth, his chest rising and falling, unbearable pressure being exerted on his temples. He could no longer call out Jack’s name without his voice breaking. More staff were on hand now. They took Maddox’s arms and led him to an office where he was sat down and given a drink of water.
“Maybe the boy’s with his mother?” someone suggested.
Maddox shook his head.
“Do you have a number for her?”
Maddox produced Christine’s number. He was dimly aware of a phone call being made. The office was full of people. Managers, security, cashiers. They swopped remarks, observations. Some expressions hardened. “What did she say?” a voice asked. “There is no son,” another one answered. “No kids at all, apparently.” A security guard replayed videotape on a monitor. Grainy, vivid. Maddox entering the store on his own with a trolley. Standing in front of the newspapers, on his own. Leaving the trolley in cold meats. No unattached children.
They gave Maddox another glass of water while waiting for the police to arrive. The store didn’t want to press charges. “What would be the point?” Maddox was free to go. “Has this happened before?” Shake of the head. “If it were to happen again, the store would have to consider taking action . . . Very upsetting for other shoppers . . . You
Maddox sat in the car park, behind the wheel of the car. He hadn’t got what he’d come for. The milk and the bread. Maybe it didn’t matter any more. He sat in the car for a long time and only turned the key in the ignition when he realised the sky over central London was beginning to get dark.
He didn’t go to the house. He didn’t imagine Christine would be there, but it was kind of irrelevant either way. Instead, he drove to South Tottenham. He drove through the top of the congestion charge zone. It didn’t matter any more. It was rush hour. It took an hour and a half to get to N15. The street door was open. He walked up, entered the flat. Thump-thump-thump from downstairs. He took out his phone and sent a text message, then stood by the window for a while watching the street. He left the phone on the window ledge and pulled down the ladder and climbed into the loft, retrieving the ladder and closing the trap door behind him. Stooping, he walked over to the suitcase, which smelled strongly of formalin. He knelt in front of it for several minutes, resting his hands on the lid, then touching the clasps.
He released the clasps and opened the case.
It was empty.
He frowned, then sat and stared at the empty case for some time, listening to the creaks of the beams and the muffled basslines from the downstairs flat. He wondered if Karen would come, how long she might be. He wasn’t sure what he would do when she arrived.
Slowly, he rose, then lowered the upper half of his body into the case, folding his legs in afterwards. Inside the case, the smell of formalin was very strong. He stared at the pine beams, the cobwebs, the shadows clinging to the insulating material. He could still faintly hear his neighbour’s loud music, which Karen had been unable to hear, and then, rising above it, the clear and unmistakeable chime of his phone, down in the flat, announcing the arrival of a text message. He started to uncurl his body and the lid of the case fell forward.
He had twisted his body far enough that the hump of his shoulder caught the closing lid.
He climbed out and lay down next to the suitcase.
A minute later his phone chimed a reminder.
He thought about Linzi. Linzi had been good for him, until things went bad. He wondered where she was. He looked at the empty suitcase again and plucked a long fine strand of fair hair from the lining. He thought about Karen and her need, unacknowledged, to be looked after. He remembered how vulnerable Linzi had seemed when he saw her for the first time.
Karen would be along soon. Probably. She hadn’t let him down yet.
He still had options.
MICHAEL BISHOP
Dr Prida’s Dream-Plagued Patient
MICHAEL BISHOP HAS PUBLISHED seventeen novels in his nearly thirty years as a freelance writer, including the Nebula Award-winning
His short-fiction collections include
He has published numerous essays and reviews, including a collection from PS Publishing,
He lives in Pine Mountain, Georgia, with his wife Jeri, an elementary-school counsellor, and he is currently Writer in Residence at LaGrange College in LaGrange, Georgia.
“I’m not very keen on vampire fiction,” Bishop admits, “although I recognise this bias as a form of bigotry, based on stereotypes, and know that any theme or subject matter admits of excellent work if the writer focuses, rethinks, and eschews cliché. Have I done that here? I hope so.
“My inspiration for the story was an invitation from the editors of a relatively new magazine,
“When January came, then, and I had my first free day in a long time, I wrote ‘Dr Prida’s Dream-Plagued Patient’ at our kitchen table in longhand with a fine felt-tipped pen in four or five hours of concentrated work. Careful readers will note that I afflicted my narrator with a devilish horror of the mundane and conventional, and that aberrant dreams play a significant, moody role in my quasi-Lovecraftian piece because I was writing for a magazine with that provocative name.”
WELL, OF COURSE, I sleep during the day, Dr Prida – in a storm pit or canning cellar (whichever term you prefer) beneath the pantry of a country Victorian home in an aggressively modernizing county in a Southern state whose denizens display little belief in and even less tolerance for creatures of my ilk. I lie in a rotting wooden johnboat on a slab of plywood atop a pair of stumpy-legged sawhorses, and my diurnal companions – in the clayey darkness beneath the prosaic brightness of day – include spiders of several species, spotted camel crickets, and bewildered moths. (The moths’ wings often fleck my lips and forehead with their chalky powder.) The darkness attracts and soothes, I guess, not only these unlovely insects but also the rarely sated longings of my forfeited soul. Selah.
I’m here this evening, Dr Prida, at the urging of an early mentor and under protest, but must admit that your gracious couchside manner and delicate bone-china complexion – is that last observation sexist? – have considerably palliated my initial prejudice against this visit. Perhaps it will in fact lessen my anxiety, counteract my depression, and give me the necessary incentive to explore those perilous extremities of night – dawn and dusk – with a bravado heretofore alien to me. By the way, I like your chignon. And the flush at your throat derives, I feel sure, from the lamp beside your wing-back rather than from the somatic manifestations of a quickened pulse. After all, with that Chopin nocturne playing almost inaudibly in the background, your office has a truly calming ambience – indeed, the security of my canning cellar without the attendant dankness.
Ah, how charmingly you chuckle. All right, then,
My dreams? You want to know what sort of aberrant dreams I have lying in my great-grandfather’s johnboat in my great-grandmother’s canning cellar? What would any sane and cogent professional expect? They appal me, my dreams. They make the plush beneath my fingernails engorge and the flesh of my scrotum tighten. My languid heart accelerates, my flaccid lungs assume the groaning liveliness of bellows, my back arches, and my agitated body balances on the sensitive points of my shoulder blades, coccyx, and heels. A low-level galvanic current crisscrosses my chest and abdomen and streams discontinuously, maddeningly, from a shifting locus in my brain to my fingertips and toes. An onlooker would no doubt suppose me electrified: an epileptic suffering a fit at once disruptive and shackling. If only I could awaken.
Their substance? Relate the substance of these dreams? Specificity? Of course. You want from me only what I pride myself on providing: namely, facts: namely, details; namely, the distillation of the synaptic impulses informing my visions into words that narrate and evoke. Very well. How can I deny you? How can I transgress against the eminence who made me this way – and who sent me to you – by withholding that which, fully aired and processed, could perhaps end my torment? But, Dr Prida, I hesitate – out of conscience as well as shame – to subject you, a respectable professional woman, to the specifics, to the dreadful aberrance of these subterranean sleep-engendered imaginings. I hesitate to alarm, repel, violate, and, ultimately, estrange you. I cringe from disclosing the heinous constructs of my id, whose depravity only a god or a child could visit without life-altering damage.
You scoff? Well, go ahead. As young as you look, you claim to have practiced a decade and a half? You’ve heard – as confessions – the laments of anorexics, adulterers, pederasts, fools, bigots, self-mutilators, poltroons, traitors, murderers, and blasphemers? Nothing I can say – no shameful act I might reveal – could possibly dent your therapist’s armor, much less pierce it and render you, the queen of unshakable aplomb, a gibbering parody of your degree-bearing self? Very well, then, I’ll speak. Remember that I warned you. Remember that I hold in higher regard that kernel of innocence at your venerable core than you do yourself . . .
Three days ago, in my johnboat coffin amid the pseudo-foetuses of canned squash and tomatoes in their ill-shelved Mason jars, I had three devastatingly aberrant dreams in a row. That I survived even one of them – that I outlasted all three – even yet astonishes me, Dr Prida. The first alone would have unmanned nine-tenths of the diurnal sleepers of my unhappy persuasion – indeed, shocked them to utter insentience and left them the unresisting prey of brown recluses, camel crickets, and mice. Forgive what must sound like unmitigated boasting, but I know the Achilles’ heels of my colleagues, as well as my own, and that first dream let fly its pernicious arrow at that highly vulnerable portion of my psychic anatomy, and struck it square on.
The dream: get to the dream. I’ll recount it as starkly as it inflicted itself upon me: I awoke – not in reality, but in the washed-out opalescent landscape of my vision – and struggled out of bed into a chamber of undivided white: white ceiling, white floor, white walls, white bedstead, white clothes-tree, and, upon this clothes-tree, an assortment of white clothes for the ten-year-old boy that, in dreaming, I had become. I had to garb myself, for I had awakened naked and the stinging brightness of the chamber required an immediate adjustment on my part to prevent my going blind. Shuddering at the touch of each item, I donned a pair of schoolboy briefs, a ribbed white wife-beater undershirt, a pair of white-duck trousers, a starched white dress shirt, and a hooded white sweatshirt, whose hood allowed me some small shelter from the overweening brightness. Head down, I groped my way back to the bed, found a pair of white cotton sweat socks on the white feather pillow, and pulled one of these socks onto my pallid toes, over my albino’s instep, and up and over my leprous left ankle. The sock had no end. It covered my calf, knee, thigh, groin, and, by some inexplicable geometric convolution, my midriff, torso, and neck, so that I was finally imprisoned in a snowy full-body strait-stocking that clung to nearly every square inch of me, mercilessly. When I screamed, still sleeping, this first dream unraveled – without, however, releasing me to the dank but comforting reality of my great-grandmother’s canning cellar.
Ah, my recitation has left you speechless, Dr Prida. I understand. What could more reliably silence a psychiatrist than the indelible image of an ignorant child wrapped in a tenacious white strait-stocking? You smile – no doubt to solace me, to convey by a compassionate look that not even this horror estranges you, that I may speak freely, with no inhibiting fear of your outrage or censure. All right, then, my second dream, which followed the first after an interval of chaotic blankness and erupted into my apprehensive consciousness in the workaday vicinity of noon.
Not surprisingly, this daymare centered on eating.
As a young man of twenty-five or -six, I sat in a rustic Victorian kitchen before an immense porcelain tureen of potato soup. Beside this tureen resided a large white platter hosting a grilled sandwich of mozzarella or possibly provolone cheese, a hardboiled egg, and a scoop of macaroni pasta with almond slices, buttons of watercress, and shards of sun-bleached celery. From the table’s white Formica surface a tumbler of skin milk rose up like a small Doric pillar. Nauseated, I spooned soup, nibbled at the sandwich, bit off tatters of egg, sampled the pasta, and sipped the milk in a predictably ceaseless repeating sequence that my dream self had no power to halt. The peristaltic action of my throat continued without hindrance or interruption until white tears began falling into my soup and a muffling lambency-shot fog filled the kitchen, putting a gauzy clamp on both my esophagus and my second dream.
You smile again? More comfort for a troubled client? More compassion for a deviant dreamer? Of course, of course. What else do we pay you for, Dr Prida? Who else can we turn to? But you see now why shame mantles me and my conscience gnaws. But if I’ve gone this far, how may I refrain from unburdening myself of my final dream, my third and most ruthlessly aberrant horror show?
Listen, then, Dr Prida. Listen as you have listened to the others, and withhold your condemnation – your outrage and its inevitable articulation – until I have wholly purged myself of this psychic poison. Know, though, that it has a narrative arc absent from the first two dreams and an additional character: a story as opposed to the static imagery of those inchoate earlier visions. Know, too, that had my mentor not found me in the throes of an abreactive post-dream spasm and stepped in to help me, I might have died forever. The word
Listen:
As a man of forty or so (my apparent age this evening, Dr Prida), I stand at an altar in a white tuxedo and exchange vows with a woman twelve years my junior clad in a traditional white bridal gown. She gazes upon me with a nonjudgmental gentleness as rare as midsummer sleet. After the wedding and a grand reception in a country Victorian house appointed ivory and cream – from interior dome to transoms to louvered shutters to wainscoting to balusters – we ride in a bone-hued limousine to a marble villa on the crest of a mountain of quartz and milky chalcedony. Here, in the last light of the afternoon in a high-windowed room overlooking a valley carpeted with white mums and pale gardenias, we consummate with neither bites nor strangle marks the promise of our vows and lie in each other’s arms until we move again in the same tender way and so traverse the entire self-negating night to the doorstep of morning . . . at which point my real body, the one in the pit, began to thrash in dread-stricken protest against the conventional harmoniousness of such a wholesome union. And, as I’ve already said, I might have died forever but for the timely intercession of Gregor, your undying father.
Yes, smile: smile wider. And approach me smiling in your black-velvet slippers. What big pretty teeth you have, such incisive incisors, my dear Dr Prida, and such a way with wordlessness that perhaps we need never speak again . . .
MARK CHADBOURN
The Ones We Leave Behind
A WINNER OF THE BRITISH FANTASY AWARD, Mark Chadbourn is the author of eleven novels and one non-fiction book. His current fantasy sequence, “Kingdom of the Serpent”, continues with
A former journalist, he is now a screenwriter for BBC television drama. His other jobs have included running an independent record company, managing rock bands, working on a production line and as an engineer’s “mate”. He lives in a forest in the English Midlands.
“A few years ago,” recalls Chadbourn, “I had the pleasure of spending time in several conversations with the acclaimed Vietnam War photographer Tim Page for a magazine article I was writing.
“Tim’s pictures helped define that war, but his own personal story illustrated the horrors of the conflict just as clearly. Torn apart by an explosion, losing a significant part of his brain to shrapnel, he spent agonising years reclaiming his health and his life. His recovery was so amazing these days it’s hard to tell how much he suffered.
“He is the inspiration behind ‘The Ones We Leave Behind’.”
THE PAST CAN’T BE TRUSTED. Our memories play tricks with us, whispering lies to make us feel better or haunting us with images half-glimpsed in the shadows of our heads. I used to think photographs were different. They captured the moment so perfectly, more real than real because they saw things you never did. Subtle expressions barely noticed, a fugitive smile or nascent tear, rare light, odd juxtapositions, nature’s secret ironies. In photographs, old friends lived forever, just as you always knew them.
Or so I thought.
Outside the sound of the shells hitting the suburbs are almost lost beneath the screams of panic. A woman, face contorted by grief, throws herself off the building opposite. One of those who fled the north twenty years ago. Better death at her own hand than the slow killing of an unforgiving revenge.
I never thought I would see Saigon like this. The City of Smiles. The eye of optimism and tranquillity at the heart of the Vietnam storm. Everyone is running. For escape, for shelter. For food, for drink, for love and money. No point. The city is encircled by sixteen divisions – 140,000 men. In his resignation speech, President Thieu blamed the US for paying for the war in money while the Vietnamese paid in blood. He tried to get his betrayal in first, but he’d missed the boat by several years.
Anyone with half a brain would be attempting to buy their way out on one of the Hercules transports leaving the airport. As a photo-journalist and integral part of the Imperialist propaganda machine, I should be first in the queue. Once the Communists get here, they’ll have my head on a spike at the Presidential Palace faster than you can say Tan Son Nhut.
But in a way, I’m just like that poor woman committing suicide. Sometimes it’s not just about life or death; there are occasions when worse things enter the equation. I have to find an old man with a bitter heart before the past catches up with me. Before I fall off the edge of existence and can’t even claim a memory to my name.
The first time I saw Van Diemen was in the back of a tent, glowing with the seething light of a hissing lamp while shadows of jungle moths passed across his face. I remember the stickiness of the night, the way my shirt clung to my back, the sickening taste of fear that never left my dry mouth. You lived with all those things back then, and they are still as real as anything I know.
It was 7 January 1967, the evening before Operation Cedar Falls. The regular grunts had no idea they were on the brink of a KO punch into VC strongholds, designed to stop the Communists in their tracks and provide a springboard for US victory. At least that was the plan.
The Pack knew no more, cared even less. We saw ourselves as old-style adventurers, relishing the adrenaline rush of any danger zone. The scent of napalm or Agent Orange on the breeze was enough to get us grabbing our cameras. There were four of us, all in our twenties, young enough not to know the distinction between bravery and stupidity. Chet was from some dusty Arizona town; a lazy accent, a love of grass and a nice little commission from
And then there was Justin and myself, childhood friends from the same dorm in some second-rate public school no one had ever heard of, both with too-rich parents and no real need to earn a living. Brits abroad with Empire-borne arrogance that neither of us recognised. Justin was brash, revelling in his aristocrat links, however far removed. I was quieter. And in the arrogance of our youth and our background and our job, we thought nothing could touch us.
That night we’d been smoking some grass, drinking a little bourbon, talking about where we would go once the current mess had blown over. The Middle East, maybe. Always good for a little mayhem. Or Africa, a leaking steam pipe waiting to blow.
The sound of the chopper coming in low over the tree-tops stirred us from our debate. We watched with stoned fascination as it landed in the camp to release a flurry of wild activity, soldiers free of the sweat and grime of the jungle coalescing around a smaller group, at the core a shock of silver hair shimmering in the glare of the lights. They ducked low beneath the whirring blades and hurried as one into the heart of the camp.
“Something is afoot,” Alain said.
“What do you say, Will?” Justin asked me. “Too high to creep down there to see if we’ve had a secret visit from the Prez himself?”
“Go yourself. I’m not your lackey.” I felt obliged to offer the lip service protest, but we both knew it would be me. I was too curious by far and everyone else always took advantage of it.
“The Prez,” Chet said dreamily. “Now that would be a picture. Maybe . . . maybe it’s Ann-Margret.” He drifted off into a reverie.
“Are we going to do this or not?” I said before I lost them further. With foul-mouthed protest, they shuffled into a seated position, Alain propping up Chet. I made Justin stop skinning up and then checked the camera. Through the lens they looked like a bunch of idiots on holiday. I set the timer and threw myself into the middle of them. In the white flash, the whole world disappeared.
I slipped away a few minutes later, past the stinking latrines, skirting the tent where Love were singing that “Seven and Seven Is”, until I found myself at Ops, where the officers regularly pored over their maps, drinking beer and reminiscing about life before they went In Country and mutated into a different species.
The coterie of guards in pristine fatigues had melted away. Through the tent flaps I could see three officers, two men in civilian clothes – spooks, I guessed – and that shock of silver hair. It was on a man with a face like an Easter Island statue, impenetrable, mysterious, aloof. He must have been in his seventies, but he didn’t look frail; there was a gravity to him that turned all the others into satellites. He wore small, wire-framed glasses that reflected the light like flares as he examined a map spread out on the trestle table.
“Where, exactly?” His voice had European precision, jarring to hear among all the lazy speech and expletives.
One of the spooks leaned over and tapped the map. “Intelligence says here. Whatever happened, they’re scared.”
“And you are certain my presence is justified?” The silver-haired guy didn’t look up from the map.
“Absolutely Professor Van Diemen. If there’s any truth at all to the reports we’re getting back, you’re probably the only one who could help,” the spook replied.
“The Pentagon said you were the man for the job after you consulted the State Department on that San Francisco business.” A general I’d never seen before.
“You know how serious things are, Professor,” the spook continued. “If things fall apart here, the entire world will be next. We need to stamp our authority on the situation, and anything that can help us is absolutely justified.”
Van Diemen nodded slowly. Finally he did look up at the faces turned towards him. “Tomorrow, then?”
“Operation Cedar Falls begins at eight hundred hours,” the General said. “The 1st Infantry Division’s 2nd Brigade will move into Ben Sue. It will distract the VC so we can fly you along the Saigon River to the heart of the triangle with the 242nd Chemical Detachment. There’s a small window of opportunity before the 173rd Airborne move in from Ben Cat.”
Back with the others I could barely conceal my excitement. “Who is it?” Justin had shaken off the dope haze with the speed of someone who always keeps his eye on the main chance.
“A professor. Sounded like he was from the Netherlands or Belgium.”
“Not Ann-Marget?” Chet said wistfully.
“Come on, Will,” Justin urged. His eyes had that hungry gleam he always developed when he sensed an opportunity – for good pictures, good sex or any kind of drugs.
“There’s something big kicking off tomorrow.” I hunkered in among them, whispering. “A push into the Iron Triangle. Operation Cedar Falls. But that’s not the interesting thing.”
I proceeded to tell them what little I had overheard, but it was enough to get their news senses tingling. Not knowing what lay ahead, we were very excited.
Back then we’d never have imagined Saigon falling. Or a lot of things that happened since. I’m tempted to take out the photo from that night, but I know it’s just a nervous habit, imbued with the desperate wishful thinking of a child. It’s taken me weeks to get to this point, following a trail that was not only two years out of date but had also been obscured by the old man himself.
He didn’t want to be found. Maybe he felt guilty.
From the outside the room looks non-descript. BLACKWALL IMPORTS-EXPORTS, the sign says. A front for the secret service and their employees. I never used to care about any of the grubby games the’ ‘adults” played; it had no bearing on my life. Now I’m building up a hard core of hatred in my heart for the lengths to which people will go. Yet I still can’t decide if I want to save myself or if I just want revenge.
My first glimpse of the room is a shock. Religious symbols everywhere: crucifixes, Stars of David, a Buddha, a shrine, the Bible, the Koran. But no Van Diemen. I don’t allow myself to get disappointed, not after everything I’ve been through.
I never took Van Diemen to be a spiritual man. Far from it. What I’d seen of him suggested he was completely mired in the stinking mud of the real world.
This is the room of someone obsessed. Beyond the religious artefacts are other, more disturbing items: occult books, signs scrawled on the walls in a frantic hand. The distant echoes of what we found that day in the Iron Triangle.
I remember, I remember . . . I spent a couple of hours that night developing the roll of film. The photo taken earlier that evening perfectly captured the moment, carefree grins, lazy, king-of-the-world expressions. Nature’s secret ironies.
We woke to a dawn of fiery reds and hateful purples. Justin was already up, loading his camera bag, checking lenses and stashing film. Alain helped me drag Chet out of his crib; he was bad-tempered and sluggish and it took a shot of Jack in a stained mug to get him moving.
At a five-minute briefing, the captain told us we could accompany the troops into Ben Sue. It was a big day, the start of the war’s turning, and we were there to capture the moment the US became the winning side.
We’d already made our plans, bribed the right people with a small sack of prized grass, and slipped into the back of the chopper just before it took off. Ben Sue was far behind us when we were discovered, and by then what could they do? We were threatened with losing our accreditation, told we’d be shipped out of ‘Nam the minute we got back to camp, ordered to remain with the chopper ready for dust-off. We made the correct contrite noises and then laughed among ourselves when the Captain went back to his seat.
Van Diemen sat with the brass and the spooks as if they were afraid of allowing him contact with the regular grunts. I watched him carefully, thought how troubled he looked, how deeply sad; wondered what he had done in San Francisco that made him such a vital resource for the Government.
We came down in a clearing not far from the silver-gleaming river. The troops fanned out to clear the area; there were about twenty of them, with a further twenty Tunnel Rats from the 242nd Chemical Detachment, for whom I had the ultimate respect. In a country of nightmares, theirs was the worst, crawling into the Viet Cong tunnel system with nothing more than a hand gun, a knife and a flashlight to flush out the enemy.
Finally Van Diemen and his shiny, stiff shadows ventured out and we followed close behind. Nobody told us to get back, and we knew why the minute we were on solid ground and the chopper’s engines were stifled.
When you’d been In Country for a while, you started to develop what the grunts called “Jungle Sense”. You knew when danger was rolling towards you like a tropical storm on the horizon. This was worse than that feeling. I could see it in everyone’s faces the same: an expression of distaste overlaying dread.
The air was dead. No birdsong. No animal sounds. No evidence of human life. It felt like we were trapped in a bubble.
“Is this part of it?” the spook said to Van Diemen ahead of us.
“I think it possibly is.” Something odd had happened to the old man. Once he stepped into that disturbing atmosphere he appeared to come alive with strength and purpose in his movements.
The point man followed the Captain’s directions deep into the trees. It was already growing hot and humid. Nobody spoke. All eyes remained on the green world pressing tight on every side.
After fifteen minutes we reached a makeshift shelter. Smoke drifted up from the embers of a small fire over which hung a pot of water. In the shelter a rifle lay on a blanket next to an oily rag as if it had been dropped in the process of cleaning. A dead radio stood on a splintered fruit crate.
“Where’s the resistance?” The Captain looked like a surfer, sun-bleached blond hair, blue eyes, still younger but ageing faster than time allowed.
“Maybe they ran when they heard us coming,” Chet ventured.
The spook whirled as if he’d only just realised we were there. “No pictures! Of anything! This is a top-secret mission! Any problems and you’ll be shot for treason.”
That sounded a little extreme, even for ‘Nam. The Captain suggested we be escorted back to the chopper, but the spook’s attention had already wandered uneasily back to the shelter.
“The entrance should be around here somewhere.” He motioned to the zone around the shelter. The Captain ordered his men to scour the area and the trapdoor was found within a minute.
“How good is your intelligence?” Van Diemen peered into the hole despite the attempts of those around to drag him back.
“As good as can be expected from within the Iron Triangle,” the spook said. “We have details . . . but there are gaps.”
“So you are not sure if there is a degree of control?”
“We
“You
The spook’s jaw tightened. “That’s your area, not mine.”
Van Diemen turned to the surfer. “Captain, you plan to have your men secure these tunnels?”
“That’s the general idea.”
“But what if the source of our mission is down there?”
The captain looked blank for a moment. “I’m not aware of the source of our mission, sir.”
Van Diemen glanced at the spook. “Need to know basis,” the spy replied.
“Then I suggest I go in with you,” Van Diemen said to the captain.
You have to admire the professor’s balls. Half the grunts in ‘Nam wouldn’t have willingly ventured into that hole with the Tunnel Rats.
They tried to talk him out of it with lots of gruesome descriptions of booby-traps and hidden snipers, but he was having none of it.
“If he’s going in there, we should too,” I whispered to Justin.
“Are you mad?”
“Will is right,” Alain said. “Whatever they’re looking for, must be down there.”
“Well, why don’t we just wait here until they bring it out?” Justin said as if we were both stupid.
“Under a blanket or in a box?” I replied. “Nice photo. Make the cover of
Two of the Tunnel Rats dropped down the hole before Van Diemen shouldered his way forward to go third. I steeled myself and jumped in immediately afterwards. It felt ludicrously dangerous, but I told myself that was what we were about.
A horizontal tunnel barely big enough for a dog ran out about six feet below ground level. I almost turned back then, but with another Tunnel Rat behind me I had no choice but to proceed. It was oppressively hot, the air thin and filled with the choking smell of soil and vegetation. Vermin scurried in the dark ahead of us.
Claustrophobia mounted quickly, fired by the knowledge that some booby trap could bring the whole thing down upon me. The tunnel roof pressed down against my back. My elbows were constricted against the walls on either side so that I had to drag myself along like an animal. With each foot I crawled, it felt like my throat constricted another half inch.
And then Van Diemen was pulling himself out and up. I followed so frantically I almost knocked the old man over. We were in an underground room big enough to stand, with a makeshift table, a stubby candle, still alight, and more guns.
“I don’t get it,” one of the Rats said uneasily. “They wouldn’t leave their weapons lying around like this.”
“Unless the whole place is a trap,” the other Rat mused. He shrugged, did eeny-meeny between the two tunnels that ran off from the room, then ducked into the one he had selected, knife clenched between his teeth.
“What are we looking for, Professor?” I ventured.
He smiled, quite warmly I thought, but knew what I was attempting. “Secrets.” He waved one long, delicate finger in my face. “And mysteries.”
The tunnel system was a maze, switching back and forth and cross-cutting, with room after room that looked exactly like the last one. We could have crawled for miles for all I knew. And the ever-present threat never lessened, so that by the end my chest burned and my muscles ached from the constant alertness. I felt queasy from the feeling that each movement could be my last. I thought about explosions in that confined area, the heat, the ripping shrapnel. I thought about the soil coming down hard, into my mouth, my throat. I thought about a gun emerging from a shadow to blast into my temple. Poison gas. Burning chemicals. I thought about everything. But I didn’t believe the Professor considered any of them. He was calm and focused on the matter at hand, as though these things held no fear for him at all.
I don’t quite know how it happened, but at some point the Professor and I got separated from the Tunnel Rats and the other snappers. We’d been warned against this happening and I thought we’d been taking special care. Maybe not; or maybe the Professor, who was ahead of me, wanted it that way.
We found ourselves in one of those rooms carved out of the earth. In the light of the Professor’s torch it appeared empty, but I caught a glimpse of a doorway to other rooms beyond.
“We should wait.” The pounding of the blood in my brain made me dizzy. “Let the experts clear the place out before we go stumbling around.”
“They will not find anything.” His voice was distracted.
“How can you be so sure?”
“It is my job to be certain.”
“The Government must be paying you a lot of money to take these kinds of risks.”
“I am not here for money.”
“Love, then.” I laughed, trying to ease my tension.
He moved ahead, the light dancing around. I caught sight of something white in the room beyond.
“Are you interested in politics . . . ?” He paused, waiting for me to fill in my name.
“Will Kennet. Politics is for old guys who’ve forgotten how to have fun.”
“There are many your age – and younger – who would disagree, Mr Kennet. Across America, in Australia, Europe, protests against this war are growing. The season is changing. Polarities are coming into opposition.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” We’d reach the doorway into the rooms beyond. There was that white shape again. And another. But he was moving the torch around too quickly for me to get a handle on it.
“The young and the old. The West and the East. Authority and the forces of rebellion.”
He stopped in the doorway. The light fell on the white shapes fully, and I could see it was stone: blocks that appeared to have been exposed in the digging of the tunnels, twin columns, with a doorway between them.
“Order and chaos.” He pointed the torch into my face, blinding me. “Which side are you on, Mr Kennet?”
I knocked his hand down, annoyed by his disrespect. “My own side. I told you, I’m not interested in any of that.” I’d half started to like him, but now I could see something I’d come across before, in the politicians, and the generals, and all the ones fighting to maintain their place in the world. Not something that was bad, particularly, but a hardness. A recognition that if you wanted to keep the world the way you felt comfortable with, you’d have to go one step further than the next guy. I’d decided it came from fear. Some people just didn’t like change.
“There is only one side or the other.” He was moving again; the light painted a path to the door between the stone columns. “If you have not decided yet, you will be forced to do so soon. That is knowledge for you, Mr Kennet, given freely, earned by age. Take a short cut to wisdom and choose your path now.”
I was more interested in the stone. I could see it carried on into a corridor beyond.
“What is this place?”
He carefully examined some carvings thrown up by the play of light and shade. They appeared to be illustrations of some kind, and writing; it didn’t look like any Vietnamese script I recognised. “Great age,” he mused to himself.
“Is this what you were sent to find?”
“I did not know what I was going to find. The reports were vague. But it appeared to be related to my particular sphere of expertise.”
As we stepped into the corridor, the temperature dropped several degrees. Maybe it was the stone, but it didn’t
“What is that?”
“Metaphysics. The imposition of the rules of logic and reason on the illogical and irrational.”
“You see, Professor, this is why Americans think Europeans come from a different planet. Same words, different language. I come from there and I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
He held an arm across my chest to stop me.
“What is it?”
He hushed me urgently. I peered into the dark ahead; for some reason he had covered the torch with his hand.
“Did you hear something?” I hissed.
“Go cautiously,” he said, as if I was thinking of doing anything else.
I should have gone back. Every sense was telling me to do that; everything I knew about Vietnam warned me about venturing into the unknown. But I was in the grip of the moment and my own fabulous self-image.
We moved ahead together. Chambers lay on either side of the corridor, bare stone boxes that I would have taken for prison cells if they had any doors. Van Diemen placed the torch on the flags to half-light the whole area before proceeding to examine one of the small rooms. I carried on along the corridor and was disappointed to find it came up against a bare stone wall. That was all it was, a corridor with a few rooms on either side. No buried city from Vietnam’s ancient past. No hidden “secrets and mysteries”. As dull as the rest of the tunnel complex. The whole expedition was turning into a damp squib.
“There’s nothing here,” I said. “Let’s get back to the others.” Van Diemen mumbled some distracted reply from the depths of one of the chambers. And then my eyes fell on something out of the ordinary. Hanging from the lintel of the final chamber on the right was what at first looked like a wind-chime. It was a mixture of stones of varying sizes and hard wood, carved into unusual shapes, hung on pieces of wire that showed no signs of corrosion. I carefully lifted it down from its hook and carried it back to Van Diemen.
“What do you make of this?” I was surprised that it was quite robust despite its appearance of fragility.
Van Diemen emerged from the chamber, still distracted. But when he saw what I was holding he became animated. “For God’s sake, put it back!”
“What’s the big deal?”
He snatched it from me and attempted to push past, then stopped in his tracks, his face rigid.
At first I thought it was my eyes adjusting from the torchlight to the gloom, but pin-pricks of luminescence were coalescing in the dark, like fireflies coming together. A definite shape, its outline indistinct.
With surprising strength, Van Diemen grabbed my shirt and threw me behind him. I went down hard on the stone flags and as I hauled myself back to my feet he was already forcing me out of the corridor.
“Get away from here,” he rasped. “Back to the helicopter. Tell the others.”
The tiny, flickering lights were now moving towards us. I didn’t know what I was seeing, but the Professor’s anxiety was catching. I ran across the outer room and dived into the first tunnel.
In the hi-tension atmosphere my panic flared easily. Barely thinking, I scrambled, the claustrophobia fuelling my rising emotions. When I finally burst out into the light, I must have looked like some wild man.
Justin, Chet and Alain were sitting around drinking water from a canteen while a few of the grunts ensured the area remained secure. The spook, the General and the other officers stood to one side, talking conspiratorially. “Get out of here!” I yelled. “Back to the chopper!”
The Pack knew me well enough to heed my warning. Justin grabbed me and pulled me with him as we ran towards the tree-line.
The men surrounded the tunnel entrance, guns pointing into the dark hole. That was the last I saw of them.
We didn’t stop until we made it back to the chopper, crashing to our knees breathless before breaking into anxious laughter.
“You idiot!” Justin roared. “I bet there was nothing down there!”
“There was!” I protested. “Some kind of . . . some kind . . .”
Justin laughed some more at my disorientation; to be honest, I really didn’t know why I had run so hard. Imagination; or instinct?
Yet Chet was growing agitated. “What is wrong, brother?” Alain asked.
“It doesn’t make any sense.” Chet pointed a wavering finger at the chopper. “How could that get here if there weren’t any pilots?”
As I stared into the empty chopper, I knew exactly what Chet meant, though it was only later when understanding came.
Justin ran his hand through his long hair, puzzled. “He’s right. There were no pilots on board. Who was flying it?”
“I can’t remember . . .” Alain tapped his temple. “How many came with us? Twenty-five?”
“Twenty-four,” I corrected.
“Twenty-three,” Justin said.
Chet collapsed into a seated position, holding his head in his hands.
“Definitely, twenty-two,” I said. My head was hurting. Had I breathed in some gas? Had we all been affected? I stumbled away from the chopper, trying to get a hold of myself. The sound of running came from the tree-line and I hurried towards it to usher the others back to the chopper.
And that was when the blast stopped my world.
I’ve turned Van Diemen’s room over, but there’s no sign to suggest whether he was there today or a week ago. But as I sit amid the chaos of his Saigon life, a frightened young Vietnamese man appears at the door. I jump up, grab him by the shoulders.
“Professor Van Diemen?” I bark.
He shakes his head, his eyes wondering if it would be better if I killed him before the Communists get here.
“Old man, silver hair?”
“Mr Harker?”
“If that’s what he’s calling himself.”
“Gone. To the airport.”
Typical of his kind. Work their magic, stir up their brew of misery, and then get out when everything starts to fall apart rather than face the repercussions of their actions. I push my way out of the door and run into the crazed city.
Feeble memories. The illusion we construct with our consciousness is such a fragile thing, easily disrupted, altered, warped. But the body on the other hand is a remarkably hardy piece of engineering. One of the grunts coming back to the chopper had stepped on a mine; apparently there were hundreds in that area and it was a miracle we’d all avoided them on the way to the tunnel system.
Talking of miracles . . . Shrapnel took me apart. I was split open from groin to chest. Another piece hit me in the head and went straight out of the back, taking with it a third of my brain. Now you may think it’s impossible to survive having lost that much grey matter, but I can assure you that is not the case. I could cite cases of people who led fulfilling lives only for an autopsy to discover they had malformed brains the size of a walnut, but suffice to say that I did survive, though it was touch and go for a long time.
Only fragments of the subsequent weeks come back to me. Lying on a bed in a field hospital with corpses stacked up all around, jazzed on pain and morphine. People saying, “He’ll never make it,” over and over in easy earshot as if I were already gone.
I remember Justin at the bedside, crying, saying something about being forced to go back home, but he’d keep in touch, check up on me.
And at one point I recall a wrinkled face leaning over me, a shock of silver hair. Van Diemen; I’m pretty sure I wasn’t dreaming. He said he was sorry in a way that, too, suggested I was already dead. I think he sat by my bed for a while, just talking to himself. Snippets come back. Something about fighting chaos . . . winning the war . . . Who cares?
My recovery was a long, slow and agonising process. The drugs became a constant friend. I had to re-learn how to speak, how to hold a pen, write. The physical therapy was excruciating. My brain had to re-wire itself, shifting the functions from the part that was missing to what remained, nestled under the metal plate. Just to cap things, the nice zipper scar up my stomach itched like hell.
They let me leave the hospital two years later and it was another year before I could rejoin the world. Things had moved on – rockets on the moon, bands I’d loved long gone – but the Vietnam War ploughed on regardless. The Americans hadn’t won. Nobody had as far as I could see. But I still had one thing to give me comfort: the photo of that happy, drugged-up night before I fell off the ride, reminding me of the best friends a man could ever have. It was time to look them up.
England was nothing like Vietnam: wet, cold, quiet, safe. I’d only heard from Justin once in all the time of my recovery. That upset me; we’d been so close for so long and when I really needed his support he was no longer around. The one letter I did get from him didn’t sound like Justin at all. He told me he’d given up photojournalism and had gone back to living with his parents in their rambling old pile in Surrey, but there was an undercurrent to all the banal statements that suggested he was scared. I’m not stupid. Someone had got to him, and it had to be one of the spooks. The mission we’d muscled our way in on was top secret and those kind of people had long memories. I’d probably been written off because of my injuries – nobody expected me to be thinking never mind walking around. But Justin and the others had probably all been warned off.
I turned up at his parents’ house late one Saturday night. It took a few seconds for his mother to recognise me – my injuries had made me haggard – but she welcomed me warmly.
She’d heard about what happened to me in ‘Nam from my own family and I spent a few minutes making small talk about my recovery. Then I asked her if I could see Justin and she grew puzzled and then agitated.
“Who’s Justin?” she said, kneading the palm of one hand insistently.
I laughed. “Justin. Come on! Your son!”
Her uneasy gaze ranged across my face. “I have no son, you know that Will. Derek and I never had children.”
I laughed again, but it dried up when I saw she was deathly serious. You can tell when someone is pretending, especially if it’s something as big and obvious as that. My first thought was that she was covering for him. He was hiding out after the spooks’ threat, making a new life for himself.
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll go along with you. But let me show you this.” I dipped into my worn backpack that had followed me halfway round the world. The photo was crumpled after months of travelling. I handed it over. “Far right.”
She glanced at it, shook her head, handed it back. “That’s you.”
My stomach knotted when I looked at the picture. She was correct – I was on the far right of the group. Of three young men. Chet, Alain and me. No Justin. My head spun; I was still shaky after the injuries and the sheer act of comprehending made me feel queasy.
“I have no son,” she repeated in a strained voice. Another thought broke on her face. “An old man was round here a few weeks ago asking the same question. What is going on, Will?”
I looked around the antique-stuffed study. Photos were everywhere, on the sideboard, the mantelpiece, the wall. They showed Mr and Mrs Glendenning, Justin’s aunts and uncles, family gatherings. But no Justin in any of them. There was one photo taken on our last day of school; in it, I now stood alone. It made no sense that a photo of me alone would be hanging on the Glendenning’s study wall, but when I pointed that out to Mrs Glendenning she became even more agitated.
I went out into the rain with a shattering sense of dread and the desperate feeling that my mind was falling apart.
I visited my father, but he didn’t recall Justin at all. None of my own photos showed him. Every reference to him in my childhood diaries no longer existed. They hadn’t been erased – the writing was mine, the content too, but whenever I had done anything with Justin, I had now experienced it alone. It was as though Justin had never existed.
Frantically, I booked a flight to Paris to see Alain. I held the photo in sweating hands all the way, staring at it so hard my head hurt. If only I could pierce the illusion and Justin would materialise in his familiar place.
Just before we touched down in Paris-Orly, I looked out over the rooftops of the City of Lights and when I looked back at the photo Alain was gone too.
The story was the same. At Alain’s flat and in every one of his familiar haunts, no one had heard of him.
I slipped into a deep depression for a month during which I was convinced my so-called recovery had been a lie and my brain had been damaged irreparably. I tried not to think about what was happening, but it haunted my every moment. Finally, I could bear it no more. Chet was my last hope for some kind of understanding.
At least he was still on the photo: the two of us, arms around each other’s shoulders. The best way to get to him was through his work, so I rang the Picture Editor on
I mentioned Chefs name again, but this time I only got a blank silence. The Picture Editor had never commissioned Chet, had never even heard of him. I asked a secretary to check particular issues that I knew featured Chefs work, but all the pictures were now different to what I remembered, all by other photographers. And when I hung up and examined my snap, I saw only my own face staring back at me.
Beyond everything that was happening, one other thing disturbed me immensely: why was I the only one to remember these people? But that wasn’t true, I realised. At least one other person knew. He had visited Justin’s parents, and with a little digging around I found he’d asked questions in Paris and called
Over time it came to me. Somehow it was linked to whatever had been uncovered in that mysterious stone corridor in the heart of the Iron Triangle. Van Diemen knew what it was: I think he had always known. When we ran from the tunnels for the chopper and we couldn’t understand why there were no pilots . . . failed to get a handle on the number of troops that came with us . . . they had all been wiped out like Justin, Alain and Chet. We couldn’t remember them because they never existed.
A sizeable portion of my US dollars buys me a trip to the airport in a ten-year-old car loaded with chicken coops. Somehow we make our way through streets packed with people carrying beds from the houses of the rich, or siphoning petrol, or making fluttering paper rain with their now-useless South Vietnamese money.
I fight my way through the crush at the airport gates – people screaming for blood, shouting for help, wanting to know why they’re being abandoned. The MPs let me by when they see my press accreditation, and I run across the tarmac amid the stink of fuel and the hell of engine noise, wondering when I’ll wink out like a star at dawn. Will I feel something coming for me? Cold talons on my neck? Will there be something beyond that instant? Or just a nothing and a never-having-been?
Searching back and forth along the ranks of men in short-sleeved white shirts and black ties and the very few women, make-up free and tear-stained, I start to think Van Diemen has already made good his escape. But then I see that silver hair shining in the sun and he turns and sees me as if I’d shouted him. But he doesn’t run. Instead his face grows briefly bright, and he smiles before becoming deeply sad. He holds out his arms for me.
Away from the crowds, we face each other. I try to stop myself shaking. For some reason, the words won’t come.
“My boy,” he said with surprising gentleness. “They told me you were dying.” He read my face and added quickly, “Of course. You want answers.”
“I want to be saved.” My voice sounded so pathetic, like a child’s.
He rested a paternal hand on my shoulder. “I came to you to explain. Eventually I tracked down your friends too. For one I was too late. But I spoke to the Frenchman and the American before the end.”
“You killed them.”
“No. I tried to make amends.” He looked away to a plane slowly filling with people;
“They took Justin . . .” I gulped in air to stop myself shaking.
“They can remove a life from existence itself, so that not only does it not exist, it never existed, and never will exist.”
“Then how can I remember them?”
“Your injuries . . .” He shrugged; we both knew it didn’t matter.
“And you?”
He dipped into his jacket and removed the charm I’d found hanging from the doorway of the stone cell. “It keeps me safe, and lets me see the truth. These hung from all the chambers. The Viet Cong removed them when they found that place and freed what had been imprisoned within.”
I recall the reports of how Operation Cedar Falls had failed so badly, because once the US troops went into the Iron Triangle for the climactic battle they found no enemy. It was as if they had melted away, retreated long before the assault began. But I could see now that wasn’t true.
“When intelligence reported that something unbelievable and dangerous had been discovered by the Communists in the heart of the Iron Triangle it was decided to seize this potential weapon for the benefit of the West.”
“A weapon?” I said, dumbfounded. “Something with the kind of power that you’re talking about?”
“We are all for turning, given the right impetus,” he continued in a flat voice. “I am not a stupid man. Yet I am affected by the weaknesses that shape us all. Petty fears make idiots of even the wisest. I wanted to see order imposed on the world. With youth in open rebellion in our homelands, with the forces of chaos sweeping across East Asia, I was prepared to go to great lengths to hold back the tide.” He removed his glasses to wipe his eyes. “But I never realised there were others prepared to go to even greater lengths.”
Another glance at the plane on the runway, nearly full now. I wanted to hit him for his heartlessness and insensitivity.
“Yes, I helped them contain the power. I thought I was doing the right thing, you see? But the use of it, that was down to them. In the end, they only needed so much of me.” He took a deep juddering breath. “Did you know Kissinger planned to use nuclear weapons here? Can you imagine the loss of civilian life? Those things did not matter to the people I worked for. It was all about order, at any cost. Hard men.” He shook his head as if he still couldn’t quite comprehend. “I heard what happened at Kent State University in America. What was happening all over in the name of order. Hard, hard men. They didn’t know how to direct the power. They had to learn to control it. They needed a test before time ran out here in Vietnam . . .”
Realisation dawned on me. We were the test.
“Once I learned what they planned, I attempted to stop it. Naturally, I became an unacceptable burden. I was forced to stay one step ahead.”
“You changed sides?”
“You are talking about politics. I am speaking about moral absolutes. I did not go over to the
I eased a little. Perhaps there was hope after all. “So you’re going to kill it? Drive a stake through its heart or something.”
“It cannot be killed. It is part of the universe, beyond you or I or the things we see around us. It can be guided. A little. But not controlled how my former partners wanted to control it.”
The plane was now taxiing up the runway. I could see he hadn’t been anxious to get on board. He’d only come here to watch.
Van Diemen held up the mysterious charm once more. “The key,” he said with smile. “They used to have it . . . and now they do not. Soon those who wanted to do terrible things in the names of their politics will be gone. Indeed, they will never have existed. And the world will be a better place. Yes, Vietnam will be lost. But in the end, is that such a bad thing?”
He was right – there are worse things than failing to impose order. When you confront all the horrors thrown up by reality, all the great spiritual questions, the terrors of the never-ending night, politics seems faintly ridiculous. Who cares about this territory or that? Who cares about money and taxes? Moral absolutes, he said. Rules of existence that should never be transgressed.
“What about me?” I could see the answer in his eyes, had known from the moment I’d spoken to him.
“I am sorry,” he said. “Truly. There is no turning back what is set in motion. But know this: I will remember you. I will never forget.”
He holds out his arms and I collapse into them, crying silently for what is about to happen, for what I have lost. My tears are insubstantial, moisture-ghosts that will soon fade and be gone. Like the past. Like the present.
Like the future.
JOEL LANE
Mine
JOEL LANE IS THE AUTHOR of two collections of supernatural horror stories,
“ ‘Mine’ was one of a batch of stories that I wrote for
“I’ve been reassured by the amount of offence it has caused.”
NIGHT WAS FALLING as he found the place. He’d have liked to wait until dark, but there wasn’t time. He had a gig that evening. It was a ritual: the first night of every tour. Once that had meant small towns in the Black Country; now it meant cities scattered across Europe. But always, for him, it started with this visit. His songs needed it. His voice needed it. He supposed most punters told themselves something similar. And it was always the same time of year: late autumn, as the trees burnt themselves out like cigarettes and dropped traces of frost on the pavement.
It was the same in every town, in every inner-city district. A shuttered window with a sign above it, lit up so as to be visible from the road at night. Always on a main road, close to other shops: being discreet was less important than ease of parking and access. The front door open, leading to a short entry passage; then a hermetically sealed inner door with a bell. As Mark got out of the car, the fading daylight made the buildings seem older: a modern street became grey and close-built, like the terraces he’d grown up in. He shivered and pulled at the collar of his black jacket.
The door was opened by a thin, pale-faced woman in a mauve gown. “Come in, darling,” she whispered. The sodium light caught her cheekbones for a moment before she turned away. Her hair was tied in a long pony-tail. Her feet made no sound on the vinyl floor of the hallway.
The reception lounge had two sofas, a table with a cash desk, and a blue mercury strip light that was just beginning to flicker. Another three men were waiting, their faces blank with a studied anonymity. “Have you been here before?” the receptionist said. Something in her voice and her blue-lit face made him realise that she was a man. He wondered if he’d come to the wrong kind of place.
“Yes.” It was always easier to say that. He leaned forward. “Is Carole here tonight?”
The receptionist’s sleeves rustled as he flicked through a leather-bound diary. “Yes, darling, she is. And she’s free just now. That’ll be ten pounds for the room.” He tucked the note into the cash-box with a movement like striking a match. “I’ll take you to her.”
Beyond the fringed curtain of the reception room, stairs led down into a basement corridor with several doors. The thin man walked a pace ahead of him, his slipper-clad feet and long gown making him almost seem to float. It was evidently a bigger place than the frontage suggested. They walked on to the end of the corridor, and down another set of stairs. He could smell incense and smoke in the air. It was colder down here, and the wall-set lights were the dead white of a smile in a magazine. These places were rarely strong on ambience. A draught made the receptionist’s sleeves tremble as he stopped at the last door.
The room inside was clearly not a bedroom. It had bare stone walls, and a ceiling that glistened with moisture. Mark couldn’t see where the light was coming from. His own breath was a pale smoke in the air. He could hear a distant echo of a woman’s voice crying out, only the rhythm allowing any distinction between pleasure and pain. So faint, it could have been an overdub from his own memory.
The receptionist gestured to an alcove on the left-hand side. Carole was sitting on a narrow white bed, wearing a silvery dress. She was brushing her long dark hair. The light of a smoky oil lamp picked out the individual strands like the strings inside a piano. The thin man went up to her and bent to whisper something in her ear. She smiled at Mark, then held out her left hand. “That’ll be sixty pounds, please.”
He fumbled with his wallet as the receptionist made himself scarce. As he placed the three twenties in her perfectly white palm, he noticed that the gash in her wrist was still open. Ice crystals were forming in it. He cupped his hands to his mouth and breathed into them. Carole stood up and pulled off her dress. He stared at her like a peeping Tom as she unfastened her bra and slipped off her black knickers. She smiled. “Are you going to undress as well?” His hands shook as he unbuttoned his shirt, unable to look away from her.
They lay on the bed and caressed each other. Mark remembered the first nights they’d spent together, in her basement flat on the edge of the park. She still looked about nineteen; only her eyes were older. The skin of her face was pale and neutral, like scar tissue. His mouth crept across her body, kissing the bony ridges of her shoulders, then moving down to touch her injuries. The cuts she’d made on herself, where the ice had formed like salt. The bruises he’d given her long ago, still blooming like ink blots on the white skin. His tongue made her shiver. She turned in his arms to face the wall, and he spread her legs gently. The voices in the wall cried out to him, trapped echoes of need and release. The rhythm track. His fingers probed her, stirred warmth in her passive flesh.
It was time for the bridge. Carole turned again, reached down by the lamp, tore open a foil packet. Her thin fingers sheathed him, then guided him into her. Just as it had always been. There’d be no need to change positions. He kissed her lightly on the mouth, then pressed his lips to the side of her neck. His fingers gripped her ribs, pressing hard where the bruises were. She cried out with pain. “Sorry,” he whispered. There were tears in her eyes. He reached up and stroked her forehead, running his fingers through the soft dark hair. It felt dry, almost brittle. He bent over her and placed a slow kiss in the hollow of her throat. She moved against him and dug her nails into his back. The final chorus.
Submission wasn’t enough for him: he needed her response. It always took time to get her warmed up. Her soft cries rang in his head, where all the lights were going out. His back arched, and he stared at the side of her face. She looked peaceful. She could almost have been asleep. He’d found her like this.
Still out of breath, Mark pulled on his clothes. The sweat glued him to his shirt; but it didn’t matter, he’d be changing soon enough. Carole sat on the edge of the bed, putting on her underclothes, then stood up to pull on her dress. The flickering oil lamp made the silver fabric look grainy, like ash. He reached out to take her hand. “Come with me.”
She stepped towards him, hesitantly. He looked into her eyes. “Will you follow me?” She nodded. He felt a quiet pang of joy, a tenderness mingled with the November ache of loss. Fire in the dead leaves. He gripped her hand, feeling the bones under the smooth skin. Then he let go and slowly walked towards the doorway. He thought he could hear footsteps behind him.
As he climbed the dark stairs, fatigue began to tug at him. It would be easier to stay down here, sleep for a while. Never mind the gig. But he kept walking. In the hallway, the cries of pleasure from behind the closed doors were a coda to accompany the two of them into the starlit night. He shivered. The moisture in his eyes blurred his vision. He stumbled up the second staircase to the lounge. There was no one there but the receptionist, who looked at Mark, then looked at the doorway behind him. He seemed about to say something, but instead just waved them on.
Mark took a deep breath and turned the handle on the inner door, then stepped through. The night was a blue-black curtain at the end of the passageway. He walked on until he could feel the cold air on his face, then turned around. His parting gesture was almost a wave. It could even have been a touch, if she’d been close enough to feel it. But she was already backing off, her face a mask the funeral parlour had been unable to make lifelike. The inner door closed behind her, and Mark was alone on the narrow street.
He waited to cross to where his car was parked. A line of vehicles was crawling past in both directions. Somewhere in the distance, a siren was caught up in the rush hour traffic. The air was stale with exhaust fumes. Mindful of the time, he began to walk between the slowly moving cars. It would be disastrous to be late on the first night of his tour. If you wanted to build a life in music, you had to observe these superstitions. They were part of what it meant to belong.
DAVID J. SCHOW
Obsequy
DAVID J. SCHOW IS A short story writer, novelist, screenwriter (teleplays and features), columnist, essayist, editor, photographer and winner of the World Fantasy and International Horror Guild awards (for short fiction and non-fiction, respectively).
His association with New Line Cinema began with horror icons Freddy Kreuger (
For the premiere season of Showtime Network’s
Schow also wrote forty-one instalments of his popular “Raving & Drooling” column for
He is currently on the verge of his next book, script, or chaotic house renovation.
“ ‘Obsequy’ was originally written to demonstrate the difference between a ‘half-hour’s worth of story’ versus an hour for the benefit of several TV executives,” reveals the author.
“Now, I know what you’re thinking:
“As American re-takes of foreign horror movies are mandated to provide
“Horror fiction seems to spawn more dumbass ‘rules’ than any other kind of writing, and one of the dumbest is the assumed ‘requirement’ of a twist ending, going all the way back to H. H. Munro. This story is also the result of a long rumination on how stories are sometimes scuttled or diminished by succumbing to such ‘rules’.
“Another landmine is use of the zombie archetype, which has become polluted with extra-stupid assumptions derived from an endless mudslide of movies featuring resurrected corpses who want to eat your brain. That’s fine, but it’s not what I wanted to explore here.”
DOUG WALCOTT’S NEED for a change of perspective seemed simple:
He grimly considered the shovel in his grasp, clotted with mulchy grave dirt. Spades, right. It was the moment Doug knew he could not go on digging up dead people, and it was only his first day on the job. Once he had been a teacher, with a teacher’s penchant for seeing structure and symbols in everything.
“I’ve got to go,” he said, almost mumbling, his conviction still tentative.
Jacky Tynan had stepped down from his scoop-loader and ambled over, doffing his helmet and giving his brow a mop. Jacky was a simple, basically honest guy; a spear carrier in the lives of others with more personal color. Content with burgers and beer, satellite TV and dreams of a someday-girlfriend, Jacky was happy in Triple Pines.
“Yo, it’s Douglas, right?” Jacky said. Everybody had been introduced shortly after sunrise. “What up?” He peeled his work gloves and rubbed his hands compulsively until tiny black sweatballs of grime dropped away like scattered grains of pepper.
“I’ve got to go,” Doug repeated. “I think I just quit. I’ve got to tell Coggins I’m done. I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Graves and stuff getting to ya, huh?” said Jacky. “You should give it another day, at least. It ain’t so bad.”
Doug did not meet Jacky’s gaze. His evaluation of the younger man harshened, more in reaction against the locals, the natives, the people who fit into a white trash haven such as Triple Pines. They would hear the word “cemetery” and conclude “huge downer”. They would wax prosaic about this job being perverse, therefore unhealthy. To them, digging up long-deceased residents would be that sick stuff. They all acted and reacted strictly according to the playbook of cliché. Their retinue of perception was so predictable that it was almost comically dull. Jacky’s tone suggested that he was one of those people with an almost canine empathy to discord; he could smell when something had gone south.
Doug fought to frame some sort of answer. It was not the funereal atmosphere. The stone monuments, the graves, the loam were all exceptionally peaceful. Doug felt no connection to the dearly departed here . . . with one exception, and one was sufficient.
“It’s not the work,” Doug said. “It’s me. I’m overdue to leave this place. The town, not the cemetery. And the money doesn’t matter to me any more.”
Jacky made a face as though he had whiffed a fart. “You don’t want the money, man? Hell, this shit is easier than workin’ the paper mill or doin’ stamper time at the plant, dude.” The Triple Pines aluminum plant had vanished into Chapter Eleven a decade ago, yet locals still talked about it as if it were still a functioning concern.
The people in Triple Pines never saw what was right in front of them. Or they refused to acknowledge anything strange. That was the reason Doug had to eject. He had to jump before he became one of them.
One of them . . .
A week ago, Doug had not been nearly so philosophical. Less than a week from now, and he would question his own sanity.
Craignotti, the job foreman, had seen Jacky and Doug not working – that is to say, not excavating – and already he was humping his trucker bulk over the hilltop to yell at them. Doug felt the urge to just pitch his tools and helmet and run, but his rational side admitted that there were protocols to be followed and channels to be taken. He would finish out his single day, then do some drinking with his workmates, then try to decide whether he could handle one more day. He was supposed to be a responsible adult, and responsible adults adhered to protocol and channels as a way of reinforcing the gentle myth of civilisation.
A week ago, things had been different. Less than a week from now, these exhumations would collide with every one of them, in ways they could not possibly predict.
Frank Craignotti was one of those guys who loved their beer, Doug had observed. The man had a
Callahan’s presented a nondescript face to the main street of Triple Pines, its stature noted solely by a blue neon sign that said BAR filling up most of a window whose sill probably had not been dusted since 1972. There was a roadhouse fifteen miles to the north, technically “out of town”, but its weak diversions were not worth the effort. Callahan’s flavor was mostly clover-colored Irish horse apples designed to appeal to all the usual expectations. Sutter, the current owner and the barman on most weeknights, had bought the place when the original founders had wised up and gotten the hell out of Triple Pines. Sutter was easy to make up a story about. To Doug he looked like a career criminal on the run who had found his perfect hide in Triple Pines. The scar bisecting his lower lip had probably come from a knife fight. His skin was like mushrooms in the fridge the day before you decide to throw them out. His eyes were set back in his skull, socketed deep in bruise-colored shadow.
Nobody in Triple Pines really knew anything bona fide about anybody else, Doug reflected.
Doug’s first time into the bar as a drinker was his first willful act after quitting his teaching job at the junior high school which Triple Pines shared with three other communities. All pupils were bussed in from rural route pickups. A year previously, he had effortlessly scored an emergency credential and touched down as a replacement instructor for History and Geography, though he took no interest in politics unless they were safely in the past. It was a rote gig that mostly required him to ramrod disinterested kids through memorising data that they forgot as soon as they puked it up on the next test. He had witnessed firsthand how the area, the towns, and the school system worked to crush initiative, abort insight, and nip talent. The model for the Triple Pines secondary educational system seemed to come from some early 1940s playbook, with no imperative to change anything. The kids here were all white and mostly poor to poverty level, disinterested and leavened to dullness. Helmets for the football team always superceded funds for updated texts. It was the usual, spirit-deflating story. Doug spent the term trying to kick against this corpse, hoping to provoke life signs. Past the semester break, he was just hanging on for the wage. Then, right as summer vacation loomed, Sheila Morgan had deposited herself in the teacher’s lounge for a conference.
Doug had looked up from his newspaper. The local rag was called the
“Sheila,” he said, acknowledging her, not really wanting to. She was one of the many hold-backs in his classes. Hell, many of Triple Pines’ junior high schoolers already drove their own cars to battle against the citadel of learning.
“Don’t call me that,” Sheila said. “My name’s
Doug regarded her over the top of the paper. They were alone in the room. “Really.”
“Totally,” she said. “I can have my name legally changed. I looked it up. I’m gonna do it, too. I don’t care what anybody says.”
Pause, for bitter fulfillment: One of his charges had actually
Further pause, for dismay: Sheila had presented herself to him wearing a shiny vinyl mini as tight as a surgeon’s glove, big-heeled boots that laced to the knee, and a leopard top with some kind of boa-like fringe framing her breasts. There was a scatter of pimples between her collarbones. She had ratty black hair and too much eye kohl. Big lipstick that had tinted her teeth pink. She resembled a hillbilly’s concept of a New York streetwalker, and she was all of 14 years old.
Chorus girl and pinup turned B-movie femme fatale, Mara Corday had decorated some drive-in low-budgeters of the late 1950s.
Sheila wanted to be looked at, and Doug avoided looking. At least her presentation was a relief from the third-hand, Sears & Roebuck interpretation of banger and skatepunk styles that prevailed among most of Triple Pines’ other adolescents. In that tilted moment, Doug realised what he disliked about the dunnage of rap and hip-hop: all those super-badasses looked like they were dressed in gigantic baby clothes. Sheila’s ass was broader than the last time he had not-looked. Her thighs were chubbing. The trade-off was bigger tits. Doug’s heartbeat began to accelerate.
“Sheila—”
“
“None of the other students get that luxury, and you know that.”
She fretted, shifting around in her seat, her skirt making squeaky noises against the school-issue plastic chair. “I know, I know, like, right? That’s like, totally not usual, I know, so that’s why I thought I’d ask you about it first?”
Sheila spent most of her schooling fighting to maintain a low C-average. She had won a few skirmishes, but the war was already a loss.
“I mean, like, you could totally do a new test, and I could like study for it, right?”
“You should have studied for the original test in the first place.”
She wrung her hands. “I know, I know that, but . . . well let’s just say it’s a lot of bullshit, parents and home and alla that crap, right? I couldn’t like do it then but I could now. My Mom finds out I blew off the test, she’ll beat the shit outta me.”
“Shouldn’t you be talking to a counselor?”
“Yeah, right? No thanks. I thought I’d like go right to the source, right? I mean, you like me and stuff, right?” She glanced toward the door, revving up for some kind of Big Moment that Doug already dreaded. “I mean, I’m flexible; I thought that, y’know, just this one time. I’d do anything. Really. To fix it. Anything.”
She uncrossed her legs, from left on right to right on left, taking enough time to make sure Doug could see she had neglected to factor undergarments into her abbreviated ensemble. The move was so studied that Doug knew exactly which movie she had gotten it from.
There are isolated moments in time that expand to gift you with a glimpse of the future, and in that moment Doug saw his tenure at Triple Pines take a big centrifugal swirl down the cosmic toilet. The end of life as he knew it was embodied in the bit of anatomy that Sheila referred to as her “cunny”.
“You can touch it if you want. I won’t mind.” She sounded as though she was talking about a bizarre pet on a leash.
Doug had hastily excused himself and raced to the bathroom, his four-page newspaper folded up to conceal the fact that he was strolling the hallowed halls of the school, semi-erect. He rinsed his face in a basin and regarded himself in a scabrous mirror.
He flunked Sheila, and jettisoned himself during summer break, never quite making it to the part where he actually
Which, naturally, was mostly hearsay anyway. Bar talk. Doug had become a regular at Callahan’s sometime in early July of that year, and by mid-August he looked at himself in another mirror and thought,
That was when Craignotti had eyeballed him. Slow consideration at reptile brain-speed. He bombed his glass at a gulp and rose; he was a man who always squared his shoulders when he stood up, to advise the talent of the room just how broad his chest was. He stumped over to Doug without his walking stick, to prove he didn’t really need it. He signaled Sutter, the cadaverous bartender, to deliver his next pitcher of brew to the stool next to Doug’s.
After some preliminary byplay and chitchat, Craignotti beered himself to within spitting distance of having a point. “So, you was a teacher at the junior high?”
“Ex-teacher. Nothing bad. I just decided I had to relocate.”
“Ain’t what I heard.” Every time Craignotti drank, his swallows were half-glass capacity. One glassful, two swallows, rinse and repeat. “I heard you porked one of your students. That little slut Sheila Morgan.”
“Not true.”
Craignotti poured Doug a glass of beer to balance out the Black Jack he was consuming, one slow finger at a time. “Naah, it ain’t what you think. I ain’t like that. Those little fucking whores are outta control anyway. They’re fucking in goddamned grade school, if they’re not all crackheads by then.”
“The benefits of our educational system.” Doug toasted the air. If you drank enough, you could see lost dreams and hopes, swirling there before your nose, demanding sacrifice and tribute.
“Anyhow, point is that you’re not working, am I right?”
“That is a true fact.” Doug tasted the beer. It chased smooth.
“You know Coggins, the undertaker here?”
“Yeah.” Doug had to summon the image. Bald guy, ran the Triple Pines funeral home and maintained the Hollymount Cemetery on the outskirts of town. Walked around with his hands in front of him like a preying mantis.
“Well, I know something a lotta people around here don’t know yet. Have you heard of the Marlboro Reservoir?” It was the local project that would not die. It had last been mentioned in the
“I didn’t think that plan ever cleared channels.”
“Yeah, well, it ain’t for you or me to know. But they’re gonna build it. And there’s gonna be a lotta work. Maybe bring this shithole town back to life.”
“But I’m leaving this shithole town,” said Doug. “Soon. So you’re telling me this because—?”
“Because you look like a guy can keep his trap shut. Here’s the deal: this guy Coggins comes over and asks me to be a foreman. For what, I say. And he says – now get this – in order to build the reservoir, for some reason I don’t know about, they’re gonna have to move the cemetery to the other side of Pine Grove – six fucking
Long story short, that’s how Doug wound up manning a shovel. The money was decent and frankly, he needed the bank. “Answer me one question, though,” he said to Craignotti. “Where did you get all that shit about Sheila Morgan, I mean, why did you use that to approach me?”
“Oh, that,” said Craignotti. “She told me. Was trying to trade some tight little puddy for a ride outta town.” Craignotti had actually said
Honor and ethics, thought Doug. Wonderful concepts, those were.
There were more than a thousand graves in Hollymount Cemetery, dating back to the turn of the 19th century. Stones so old that names had weathered to vague indentations in granite. Plots with no markers. Minor vandalism. The erosion of time and climate. Cog-gins, the undertaker, had collated a master name sheet and stapled it to a gridded map of the cemetery, presenting the crew picked by Craignotti with a problem rather akin to solving a huge crossword puzzle made out of dead people. Doug paged through the list until he found Michelle Farrier’s name. He had attended her funeral, and sure enough – she was still here.
After his divorce from Marianne (the inevitable ex-wife), he had taken to the road, but had read enough Kerouac to know that the road held nothing for him. A stint as a blackjack dealer in Vegas. A teaching credential from LA; he was able to put that in his pocket and take it anywhere. Four months after his arrival in Triple Pines, he attended the funeral of the only friend he had sought to develop locally – Michelle Farrier, a runner just like him.
In the afterblast of an abusive and ill-advised marriage, Michelle had come equipped with a six-year-old daughter named Rochelle. Doug could easily see the face of the mother in the child, the younger face that had taken risks and sought adventure and brightened at the prospect of sleeping with rogues. Michelle had touched down in Triple Pines two months away from learning she was terminally ill. Doug had met them during a seriocomic bout of bathroom-sharing at Mrs Ives’ rooming house, shortly before he had rented a two-bedroom that had come cheap because there were few people in town actively seeking better lodgings, and fewer who could afford to move up. Michelle remained game, as leery as Doug of getting involved, and their gradually kindling passion filled their evenings with a delicious promise. In her kiss lurked a hungry romantic on a short tether, and Doug was working up the nerve to invite her and Rochelle to share his new home when the first talk of doctor visits flattened all other concerns to secondary status. He watched her die. He tried his best to explain it to Rochelle. And Rochelle was removed, to grandparents somewhere in the Bay area. She wept when she said goodbye to Doug. So had Michelle.
He knew enough about mortuary tradition to know it was unusual for an undertaker like Coggins to also be in charge of the cemetery. However, small, remote towns tend not to view such a monopoly on the death industry as a negative thing. Coggins was a single stranger for the populace to trust, instead of several. Closer to civilisation, the particulars of chemical supply, casket sales, and the mortician’s craft congregated beneath the same few conglomerate umbrellas, bringing what had been correctly termed a “Tru-Value hardware” approach to what was being called the “death industry” by the early 1990s. Deceased Americans had become a cash crop at several billion dollars per annum . . . not counting the flower arrangements. Triple Pines still believed in the mom-and-pop market, the corner tavern, the one-trade-fits-all handyman.
Doug had been so appalled at Michelle’s perfunctory service that he did a bit of investigative reading-up. He discovered that most of the traditional accoutrements of the modern funeral were aimed at one objective above all – keeping morticians and undertakers in business. Not, as most people supposed, because of obscure health imperatives, or a misplaced need for ceremony, or even that old favorite, religious ritual. It turned out to be one of the three or four most expensive costs a normal citizen could incur during the span of an average, conventional life – another reason weddings and funerals seemed bizarrely similar. It was amusing to think how simply the two could be confused. Michelle would have been amused, at least. She had rated one of each, neither very satisfying.
Doug would never forget Rochelle’s face, either. He had gotten to play the role of father to her for about a week and change, and it had scarred him indelibly. Given time, her loss, too, was a strangely welcome kind of pain.
Legally, disinterment was a touchy process, since the casket containing the remains was supposed to be technically “undamaged” when removed from the earth. This meant Jacky and the other backhoe operators could only skim to a certain depth – the big scoops – before Doug or one of his co-workers had to jump in with a shovel. Some of the big concrete grave liners were stacked three deep to a plot; at least, Craignotti had said something about three being the limit. They looked like big, featureless refrigerators laid on end, and tended to crumble like plaster. Inside were the burial caskets. Funeral publicists had stopped calling them coffins about forty years ago. “Coffins” were boxes shaped to the human form, wide at the top, slim at the bottom, with the crown shaped like the top half of a hexagon. “Coffins” evoked morbid assumptions, and so were replaced in the vernacular with “caskets” – nice, straight angles, with no Dracula or Boot Hill associations. In much the same fashion, “cemeteries” had become “memorial parks”. People did everything they could, it seemed, to deny the reality of death.
Which explained the grave liners. Interment in coffins, caskets, or anything else from a wax-coated cardboard box to a shroud generally left a concavity in the lawn, once the body began to decompose, and its container, to collapse. In the manner of a big, mass-produced, cheap sarcophagus, the concrete grave liners prevented the depressing sight of . . . er, depressions. Doug imagined them to be manufactured by the same place that turned out highway divider berms; the damned things weighed about the same.
Manning his shovel, Doug learned a few more firsthand things about graves. Like how it could take eight hours for a single digger, working alone, to excavate a plot to the proper dimensions. Which was why Craignotti had been forced to locate operators for no fewer than three backhoes on this job. Plus seven “scoopers” in Doug’s range of ability. The first shift, they only cleared 50 final resting places. From then on, they would aim for a hundred stiffs per working day.
Headstones were stacked as names were checked off the master list. BEECHER, LEE, 1974–2002 – HE PROTECTED AND SERVED. GUDGELL, CONROY, 1938–2003 – DO NOT GO GENTLY. These were newer plots, more recent deaths. These were people who cared about things like national holidays or presidential elections, archetypal Americans from fly-over country. But in their midst, Doug was also a cliché – the drifter, the stranger. If the good folk of Triple Pines (the living ones, that is) sensed discord in their numbers, they would actively seek out mutants to scotch. Not One of Us.
He had to get out. Just this job, just a few days, and he could escape. It was better than being a mutant, and perhaps getting lynched. He moved on to STOWE, DORMAND R., 1940–1998 — LOVING HUSBAND, CARING FATHER. Not so recent. Doug felt a little bit better.
They broke after sunset. That was when Doug back-checked the dig list and found a large, red X next to Michelle Farrier’s name.
“This job ain’t so damned secret,” said Joe Hopkins, later, at Callahan’s. Their after-work table was five: Joe, Jacky, Doug, and two more guys from the shift, Miguel Ayala and Boyd Cooper. Craignotti sat away from them, at his accustomed roost near the end of the bar. The men were working on their third pitcher. Doug found that no amount of beer could get the taste of grave dirt out of the back of his throat. Tomorrow, he’d wear a bandana.
“You working tomorrow, or not, or what?” said Craignotti. Doug gave him an if-come answer, and mentioned the bandana. Craignotti had shrugged. In that moment, it all seemed pretty optional, so Doug concentrated on becoming mildly drunk with a few of the crew working the – heh – graveyard shift.
Joe was a musclebound ex-biker type who always wore a leather vest and was rarely seen without a toothpick jutting from one corner of his mouth. He had cultivated elaborate moustaches which he waxed. He was going grey at the temples. His eyes were dark, putting Doug in mind of a gypsy. He continued: “What I mean is, nobody’s supposed to know about this little relocation. But the guys in here know, even if they don’t talk about it. The guys who run the Triple Pines bank sure as shit know. It’s a public secret. Nobody talks about it, is all.”
“I bet the mayor’s in on it, too,” said Miguel. “All in, who cares? I mean, I had to pick mushrooms once for a buck a day. This sure beats the shit out of that.”
“Doesn’t bother you?” said Boyd Cooper, another of the backhoe jockeys. Older, pattern baldness, big but not heavy. Bull neck and cleft chin. His hands had seen a lifetime of manual labor. It had been Boyd who showed them how to cable the lids off the heavy stone grave liners, instead of bringing in the crane rig used to emplace them originally. This group’s unity as mutual outcasts gave them a basic common language, and Boyd always cut to the gristle. “Digging up dead people?”
“Nahh,” said Jacky, tipping his beer. “We’re doing them a favor. Just a kind of courtesy thing. Moving ’em so they won’t be forgotten.”
“I guess,” said Joe, working his toothpick. He burnished his teeth a lot with it. Doug noticed one end was stained with a speck of blood, from his gums.
“You’re the teacher,” Boyd said to Doug. “You tell us. Good thing or bad thing?”
Doug did not want to play arbiter. “Just a job of work. Like resorting old files. You notice how virtually no one in Triple Pines got cremated? They were all buried. That’s old-fashioned, but you have to respect the dead. Laws and traditions.”
“And the point is . . . ?” Boyd was looking for validation.
“Well, not everybody is entitled to a piece of property when they die, six by three by seven. That’s too much space. Eventually we’re going to run out of room for all our dead people. Most plots in most cemeteries are rented, and there’s a cap on the time limit, and if somebody doesn’t pay up, they get mulched. End of story.”
“Wow, is that true?” said Jacky. “I thought you got buried, it was like, forever.”
“Stopped being that way about a hundred years ago,” said Doug. “Land is worth too much. You don’t process the dead and let them use up your real estate without turning a profit.”
Miguel said, “That would be un-American.” He tried for a chuckle but it died.
“Check it out if you don’t believe me,” said Doug. “Look it up. Behind all that patriotic rah-rah-rah about community brotherhood and peaceful gardens, it’s all about capital gains. Most people don’t like to think about funerals or cemeteries because, to them, it’s morbid. That leaves funeral directors free to profiteer.”
“You mean Coggins?” said Joe, giving himself a refill.
“Look, Coggins is a great example,” said Doug. “In the outside world, big companies have incorporated most aspects of the funeral. Here, Coggins runs the mortuary, the cemetery, everything. He can charge whatever he wants, and people will pay for the privilege of shunting their grief and confusion onto him. You wouldn’t believe the markup on some of this stuff. Caskets are three times wholesale. Even if they put you in a cardboard box – which is called an ‘alternative container’, by the way – the charge is a couple of hundred bucks.”
“Okay, that settles it,” said Miguel. When he smiled big, you could see his gold tooth. “We all get to live forever, because we can’t afford to die.”
“There used to be a riddle,” said Doug. “What is it: the man who made it didn’t want it, the man who bought it had no use for it, and the man who used it didn’t know it. What is it?”
Jacky just looked confused.
His head honeycombed with domestic beer, Doug tried not to lurch or slosh as he navigated his way out of Callahan’s. The voice coming at him out of the fogbound darkness might well have been an aural hallucination. Or a wish fulfillment.
“Hey stranger,” it said. “Walk a lady home?”
The night yielded her to him. She came not as he had fantasised, nor as he had seen her in dreams. She wore a long-sleeved, black, lacy thing with a neck-wrap collar, and her hair was up. She looked different but her definitive jawline and frank, grey gaze were unmistakable.
“That’s not you,” he said. “I’m a tiny bit intoxicated, but not enough to believe it’s you.”
She bore down on him, moving into focus, and that made his grief worse. “Sure it’s me,” she said. “Look at me. Take a little bit of time to get used to the idea.”
He drank her in as though craving a narcotic. Her hair had always been long, burnished sienna, deftly razor-thinned to layers that framed her face. Now it was pinned back to exhibit her gracile neck and bold features. He remembered the contour of her ears. She smiled, and he remembered exactly how her teeth set. She brought with her the scent of night-blooming jasmine. If she was a revenant, she had come freighted with none of the corruption of the tomb. If she was a mirage, the light touch of her hand on his wrist should not have felt so corporeal.
Her touch was not cold.
“No,” said Doug. “You died. You’re gone.”
“Sure, darling – I don’t deny that. But now I’m back, and you should be glad.”
He was still shaking his head. “I
“And today, you helped ww-bury me. Well, your buddies did.”
She had both hands on him, now. This was the monster movie moment when her human visage melted away to reveal the slavering ghoul who wanted to eat his brain and wash it down with a glass of his blood. Her sheer
“How?”
“Beats me,” she said. “We’re coming back all over town. I don’t know exactly how it all works, yet. But that stuff I was buried in – those
“I think about you every day,” he said. It was still difficult to meet her gaze, or to speed-shift from using the accustomed past tense.
“Come on,” she said, linking arms with him.
“Where?” Without delay his guts leaped at the thought that she wanted to take him back to the cemetery.
“Wherever. Listen, do you recall kissing me? See if you can remember how we did that.”
She kissed him with all the passion of the long-lost, regained unexpectedly. It was Michelle, all right – alive, breathing, returned to him whole.
No one had seen them. No one had come out of the bar. No pedestrians. Triple Pines tended to roll up the sidewalks at 7:00 p.m.
“This is . . . nuts,” he said.
She chuckled. “As long as you don’t say it’s distasteful.” She kissed him again. “And of course you remember that other thing we never got around to doing?”
“Antiquing that rolltop desk you liked, at the garage sale?” His humor was helping him balance. His mind still wanted to swoon, or explode.
“Ho, ho, very funny. I am so glad to see you right now that I’ll spell it out for you, Doug.” She drew a tiny breath of consideration, working up nerve, then puffed it out. “Okay: I want to hold your cock in my hand and feel you get hard,
“I didn’t think that,” Doug fibbed. Suddenly his breath would not draw.
“Yes you did,” Michelle said. “I did, too. But I was too chicken to act. That’s all in the past.” She stopped and smacked him lightly on the arm. “Don’t give me that lopsided look, like
“Well, there was Rochelle,” said Doug, remembering how cautiously they had behaved around her six-year-old daughter.
“My little darling is not here right now,” she said. “I’d say it’s time to fulfill the fantasy, Doug. Mine, if not yours. We’ve wasted enough life, and not everybody gets a bonus round.”
“But—” Doug’s words, his protests had bottlenecked between his lungs. (And for-crap-sake
“I know what you’re trying to say. I
“Jesus . . .” he said.
“Not Jesus. Neither Heaven nor Hell. Not God. Not Buddha, not Allah, not Yahweh. Nothing. That’s what waits on the other side of that headstone. No pie in the sky by and by when you die. No Nirvana. No Valhalla. No Tetragrammaton. No Zeus or Jove or any of their buddies. Nothing. Maybe that’s why we’re coming back – there’s nothing out there, beyond. Zero. Not even an echo. So kiss me again. I’ve been cold and I’ve been still, and I need to make love to you. Making love; that sounds like we’re manufacturing something, doesn’t it? Feel my hand. There’s living blood in there. Feel my heart; it’s pumping again. I’ve felt bad things moving around inside of me. That happens when you’re well and truly dead. Now I’m back. And I want to feel
Tomorrow, Doug would get fired as a no-show after only one day on the job. Craignotti would replace him with some guy named Dormand R. Stowe, rumored to be a loving husband and a caring father.
One of the most famous foreign pistols used during the Civil War was the Le Mat Revolver, a cap and ball weapon developed by a French-born New Orleans doctor, unique in that it had two barrels – a cylinder which held nine .40 caliber rounds fired through the upper barrel, and revolved around the lower, .63 caliber barrel, which held a charge of 18 or 20-gauge buckshot. With a flick of the thumb, the shooter could realign the hammer to fall on the lower barrel, which was essentially a small shotgun, extremely deadly at close range, with a kick like an enraged mule. General J. E. B. Stuart had carried one. So had General P. G. T. Beauregard. As an antique firearm, such guns in good condition were highly prized. Conroy Gudgell cherished his; it was one of the stars of his modest home arsenal, which he always referred to as his “collection”. His big mistake was showing his wife how to care for it. How to clean it. How to load it. How to fire it, you know, “just in case”. No one was more surprised than Conroy when his loving wife, a respected first-grade teacher in Triple Pines, blew him straight down to Hell with his own collectible antique.
Ellen Gudgell became a widow at sixty-one years of age. She also became a Wiccan. She was naked, or “sky-clad”, when she burned the braided horsehair whip in her fireplace after murdering Conroy. Firing the Le Mat had broken her right wrist; she’d had to make up a story about that. With her left hand she had poured herself a nice brandy, before working herself up into enough lather to phone the police, in tears, while most of Conroy’s head and brains were cooling in various corners of his basement workshop. A terrible accident, oh my lord, it’s horrible, please come. She kept all the stuff about Earth Mother religious revelations to herself.
She treated Constable Dickey (Triple Pines’ head honcho of law enforcement) as she would one of her elementary school charges. Firm but fair. Matronly, but with just the right salting of manufactured hysteria. Conroy had been working with his gun collection in the basement when she heard a loud boom, she told the officer. She panicked and broke her wrist trying to move what was left of him, and now she did not know what to do, and she needed help.
And the local cops had quite neatly taken care of all the rest. Ellen never had to mention the beatings she had suffered under the now-incinerated whip, or that the last fifteen years of their sex life had consisted mostly of rape. When not teaching school, she used her free time – that is, her time free of Conroy’s oppression – to study up on alternate philosophies, and when she found one that made sense to her, it wasn’t long before she decided to assert her new self.
After that, the possibilities seemed endless. She felt as though she had shed a chrysalis and evolved to a form which made her happier with herself.
Therefore, no one was more surprised than Ellen when her husband Conroy thumped up the stairs, sundered head and all, to come a-calling more than a year after she thought she had definitively killed the rotten sonofabitch. His face looked exactly as it had when Coggins, the undertaker, had puttied and waxed it back into a semblance of human, dark sub-dermal lines inscribing puzzle pieces in rough assembly. The parts did not move in correct concert when Conroy spoke to her, however. His face was disjointed and broken, his eyes, oddly fixed.
“Time for some loving,” is what Conroy said to her first.
Ellen ran for the gun cabinet, downstairs.
“Already thought of that,” said Conroy, holding up the Le Mat.
He did not shoot her in the head.
Despite the fact that Lee Beecher’s death had been inadvertent, one of those Act of God things, Constable Lon Dickey had always felt responsible. Lee had been a hometown boy, Dickey had liked him, and made him his deputy; ergo, Lee had been acting as a representative of the law on Dickey’s behalf, moving a dead deer out of the middle of the road during a storm. Some local asshole had piled into the animal and left it for dead, which constituted Triple Pines’ only known form of hit and run. If you’d had to guess the rest of the story, Dickey thought, you’d say
Lee had been buried in his uniform. A go-getter, that kid. Good footballer. Instead of leaving Triple Pines in his rearward dust, as so many youngsters ached to do, Lee had stuck close to home, and enthusiastically sought his badge. It was worth it to him to be called an “officer”, like Dickey. Death in Triple Pines was nearly always accidental, or predictable – no mystery. This was not the place where murderers or psychos lived. In this neck of the woods, the worst an officer might have to face would be the usual rowdiness – teenagers, or drunks, or drunk teenagers – and the edict to act all authoritative if there was a fire or flood or something naturally disastrous.
Beecher’s replacement was a guy named James Trainor, shit-hot out of the academy in Seattle and fulminating to enforce. Too stormtrooper for Triple Pines; too ready to pull his sidearm for a traffic stop. Dickey still had not warmed up to him, smelling the moral pollution of citified paranoia.
Feeling like a lazy lion surveying his domain, Dickey had sauntered the two blocks back to the station from the Ready-Set Dinette, following feeling his usual cheeseburger late-lunch. (The food at Callahan’s, a block further, was awful – the burgers as palatable as pucks sliced off a Duraflame log.) Time to trade some banter with RaeAnn, who ran the police station’s desk, phones and radios. RaeAnn was a stocky chunk of bottle-blonde business with multiple chins and an underbite, whose choice of corrective eyewear did not de-emphasise her Jimmy Durante nose. In no way was RaeAnn a temptation, and Dickey preferred that. Strictly business. RaeAnn was fast, efficient, and did not bring her problems to work. Right now she was leaning back at her station with her mouth wide open, which seemed strange. She resembled a gross caricature of one of those mail-order blowjob dolls.
Before he could ask what the hell, Dickey saw the bullet hole in the center of her forehead. Oh.
“Sorry I’m a little bit late, Chief,” said Lee Beecher. He had grave dirt all over his moldy uniform, and his face was the same flash-fried nightmare that had caused Coggins to recommend a closed-casket service. Beecher had always called Dickey “Chief”.
Deputy Trainor was sprawled behind Dickey’s desk, his cap over his eyes, his tongue sticking out, and a circlet of five .357 caliber holes in his chest. Bloodsmear on the bulletin board illustrated how gracelessly he had fallen, hit so hard one of his boots had flown off. The late Lee Beecher had been reloading his revolver when Dickey walked in.
“I had to shoot RaeAnn, she was making too much bother,” said Beecher. His voice was off, dry and croaky, buzzing like a reed.
Dickey tried to contain his slow awe by muttering the names of assorted deities. His hand wanted to feel the comfort of his own gun.
“How come you replaced me, Chief?” said the late Lee Beecher. “Man, I didn’t quit or nothing. You replaced me with some city boy. That wasn’t our deal. I thought you liked me.”
“I—” Dickey stammered. “Lee, I . . .” He just could not force out words. This was too wrong.
“You just put me in the dirt.” The late Lee Beecher shook his charred skull with something akin to sadness. He snapped home the cylinder on his pistol, bringing the hammer back to full cock in the same smooth move. “Now I’m gonna have to return the favor. Sorry, Chief.”
Constable Dickey was still trying to form a whole sentence when the late Lee Beecher gave him all six rounds. Up at RaeAnn’s desk, the radio crackled and the switchboard lit up with an influx of weird emergency calls, but there was no one to pay any attention, or care.
Doug’s current home barely fit the definition. It had no more character than a British row flat or a post-war saltbox. It was one of the basic, ticky-tacky clapboard units thrown up by the Triple Pines aluminum plant back when they sponsored company housing, and abandoned to fall apart on its own across slow years once the plant folded. It had a roof and indoor plumbing, which was all Doug had ever required of a residence, because addresses were disposable. It had storm shutters and a rudimentary version of heat, against rain and winter, but remained drafty. Its interior walls were bare and still the same vague green Doug had always associated with academia. The bedroom was sort of blue, in the same mood.
He regretted his cheap sheets, his second-hand bed, his milk-crate nightstand. He had strewn some candles around to soften the light, and fired up a portable, radiant oil heater. The heat and the light diffused the stark seediness of the room, just enough. They softened the harsh edges of reality.
There had been no seduction, no ritual libations, no teasing or flirting. Michelle had taken him the way the Allies took Normandy, and it was all he could muster to keep from gasping. His pelvis felt hammered and his legs seemed numb and far away. She was alive, with the warm, randy needs of the living, and she had plundered him with a greed that cleansed them both of any lingering recriminations.
No grave rot, no mummy dust. Was it still necrophilia when the dead person moved and talked back to you?
“I have another blanket,” he said. His left leg was draped over her as their sweat cooled. He watched candle-shadows dance on the ceiling, making monster shapes.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Really.”
They bathed. Small bathtub, lime-encrusted shower head. It permitted Doug to refamiliarise himself with the geometry of her body, from a perspective different than that of the bedroom. He felt he could never see or touch
There was nothing to eat in the kitchen, and simply clicking on the TV seemed faintly ridiculous. They slept, wrapped up in each other. The circumstance was still too fragile to detour into lengthy, dissipate conversations about need, so they slept, and in sleeping, found a fundamental innocence that was already beyond logic – a
Doug awoke, his feet and fingertips frigid, in the predawn. He added his second blanket and snuggled back into Michelle. She slept with a nearly beatific expression, her breath – real, living – coming in slow tidal measures.
The next afternoon Doug sortied to the market to stock up on some basics and find some decent food that could be prepared in his minimal kitchen. In the market, he encountered Joe Hopkins, from the digging crew. Doug tried unsuccessfully to duck him. He wanted to do nothing to break the spell he was under.
But Joe wanted to talk, and cornered him. He was holding a fifth of bourbon like he intended to make serious use of it, in due course.
“There was apparently a lot of activity in the cemetery last night,” he said, working his toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other. Both ends were wet and frayed. “I mean, after we left. We went back this morning, things were moved around. Some graves were disrupted. Some were partially refilled. It was a mess, like a storm had tossed everything. We had to spend two hours just to get back around to where we left off.”
“You mean, like vandalism?” said Doug.
“Not exactly.” Joe had another habit, that of continually smoothing his upper lip with his thumb and forefinger, as though to keep his moustache in line when he wasn’t looking. To Doug, it signaled nervousness, agitation, and Joe was too brawny to be agitated about much for very long. “I tried to figure it, you know – what alla sudden makes the place not creepy, but threatening in a way it wasn’t, yesterday. It’s the feeling you’d have if you put on your clothes and alla sudden thought that, hey, somebody
Doug thought of what Michelle had said, about the dead hearing every footfall of the living above them.
“What I’m saying is, I don’t blame you for quitting. After today, I’m thinking the same thing. Every instinct I have tells me to just jump on my bike and ride the fuck out of here as fast as I can go. And, something else? Jacky says he ran into a guy last night, a guy he went to high school with. They were on the football team together. Jacky says the guy died four years ago in a Jeep accident. But the he
“Brad Ballinger,” said Doug.
“Yeah. I been here long enough to remember that. But here’s the thing: Craignotti checked, and today Ballinger was nowhere to be found, and he ain’t on vacation or nothing. And Ballinger is in bed with Coggins, the undertaker, somehow. Notice how that whole Marlboro Reservoir thing went into a coma when Champion was mayor? For a minute I thought Ballinger had, you know, had him whacked or something. But now Champion’s back in town – a guy Craignotti swears isn’t a lookalike, but
“What does this all come to?” Doug really wanted to get back to Michelle. She might evaporate or something if left alone too long.
“I don’t know, that’s the fucked up thing.” Joe tried to shove his busy hands into his vest pockets, then gave up. “I’m not smart enough to figure it out, whatever it is . . . so I give it to you, see if any lightbulbs come on. I’ll tell you one thing. This afternoon I felt scared, and I ain’t felt that way since I was paddy humping.”
“We’re both outsiders, here,” said Doug.
“Everybody on the dig posse in an outsider, man. Check
“Not Jacky.”
“Jacky don’t pose any threat because he don’t know any better. And even him, he’s having fucking hallucinations about his old school buddies. Listen: I ain’t got a phone at my place, but I got a mobile. Do me a favor – I mean, I know we don’t know each other that well – but if you figure something out, give me a holler?”
“No problem.” They traded phone numbers and Joe hurried to pay for his evening’s sedation. As he went, he said, “Watch your ass, cowboy.”
“You, too.”
Doug and Michelle cooked collaboratively. They made love. They watched a movie together both had seen separately. They made more love. They watched the evening sky for several hours until chilly rain began to sheet down from above, then they repaired inside and continued to make love. The Peyton Place antics of the rest of the Triple Pines community, light years away from their safe, centered union, could not have mattered less.
The trick, as near as Billy Morrison could wrassle it, was to find somebody and pitch them into your hole as soon as you woke up. Came back. Revived. Whatever.
So he finished fucking Vanessa Billings. “Bill-ing” her, as his cohort Vance Thompson would crack, heh. Billy had stopped “billing” high school chicks three years ago, when he died. Now he was billing a Billings, wotta riot.
Billy, Vance, and Donna Christiansen had perished inside of Billy’s Boss 302 rebuild, to the tune of Black Sabbath’s “Mob Rules” on CD. The car was about half grey primer and fender-fill, on its way back to glory. The CD was a compilation of metal moldies. No one ever figured out how the car had crashed, up near a trailer suburbia known as Rimrock, and no one in authority gave much of a turd, since Billy and his fellow losers hailed from “that side” of town, rubbing shoulders an open-fire garbage dump, an auto wrecking yard, and (although Constable Dickey did not know it) a clandestine crack lab. The last sensation Billy experienced as a living human was the car sitting down hard on its left front as the wheel flew completely off. The speed was ticketable and the road, wet as usual, slick as mayonnaise. The car flipped and tumbled down an embankment. Billy dimly recalled seeing Donna snap in half and fly through the windshield before the steering column punched into his chest. The full tank ruptured and spewed a meandering piss-line of gasoline all the way down the hill. Vance’s cigarette had probably touched it off, and the whole trash-compacted mess had burned for an hour before new rain finally doused it and a lumber yard worker spotted the smoke.
Their plan for the evening had been to destroy a bottle of vodka in the woods, then Billy and Vance would do Donna from both ends. Donna dug that sort of thing when she was sufficiently wasted. When they awoke several years later in their unearthed boxes, they renewed their pleasure as soon as they could scare up some more liquor. They wandered into a roadside outlet known as the 1-Stop Brew Shoppe and Vance broke bottles over the head of the proprietor until the guy stopping breathing. Then Donna lit out for the Yard, a quadrangle of trees and picnic benches near most of the churches in town. The Yard was Triple Pines’ preferred salon for dropouts fond of cannabis, and Donna felt certain she could locate an old beau or two lingering among the waistoids there. Besides, she could bend in interesting new ways, now.
Billy had sought and duly targeted Vanessa Billings, one of those booster/cheerleader bitches who would never have anything to do with his like. She had graduated in ’02 and was still –
Ultimately, the trio racked up so many new corpses to fill their vacant graves they needed to steal a pickup truck to ferry them all back to Hollymount. Their victims would all be back soon enough, and the fun could begin again.
None of them had a precise cognition of what they needed to do. It was more along the lines of an ingrained need – like a craving – to take the heat of the living to avoid reverting to the coldness of death. That, and the idea of refreshing their grave plots with new bodies. Billy had always had more cunning than intelligence, but the imperatives were not that daunting. Stupid dogs learned tricks in less time.
Best of all, after he finished billing Billings, Billy found he
The sun came up. The sun went down. Billy thought of that rhyme about how the worms
As day and night blended and passed, Triple Pines continued to mutate.
Over at the Ready-Set Dinette, a pink neon sign continued to blink the word EAT, just as it had before things changed in Triple Pines.
Deputy Lee Beecher (the late) and RaeAnn (also the late) came in for lunch as usual. The next day, Constable Dickey (recently deceased) and the new deputy, James Trainor (ditto), joined them.
Vanessa Billings became Billy Morrison’s main squeeze, and what with Vance and Donna’s hangers-on, they had enough to form a new kind of gang. In the next few days, they would start breaking windows and setting fires.
Over at Callahan’s, Craignotti continued to find fresh meat for the digging crew as the original members dropped out. Miguel Ayala had lasted three days before he claimed to have snagged a better job. Big Boyd Cooper stuck – he was a rationalist at heart, not predisposed to superstitious fears or anything else in the path of Getting the Job Done. Jacky Tynan had apparently taken sick.
Joe had packed his saddlebags and gunned his panhead straight out of town, without calling Doug, or anyone.
In the Gudgell household, every day, a pattern commenced. In the morning, Conroy Gudgell would horsewhip his treacherous wife’s naked ass, and in the evening, Ellen Gudgell would murder her husband, again and again, over and over. The blood drenching the inside of their house was not ectoplasm. It continued to accrete, layer upon layer, as one day passed into another.
In the middle of the night, Doug felt askew on the inside, and made the mistake of taking his own temperature with a thermometer.
Eighty-seven point-five degrees.
“Yeah, you’ll run a little cold,” said Michelle, from behind him. “I’m sorry about that. It’s sort of a downside. Or maybe you caught something. Do you feel sick?”
“No, I—” Doug faltered. “I just feel shagged. Weak.”
“You’re not a weak man.”
“Stop it.” He turned, confrontational. He did not want to do anything to alienate her. But. “This is serious. What if I start losing core heat? Four or five degrees is all it takes, then I’m as dead as a Healthy Choice entrée. What the hell is happening, Michelle? What haven’t you told me?”
“I don’t
Panic cinched his heart. “What’s the next thing?!”
“I was avoiding it. I was afraid to bring it up. Maybe I was enjoying this too much, what we have right now, in this isolated bubble of time.”
He held her. She wanted to reject simple comfort, but succumbed. “Just . . . tell me. Say it, whatever it is. Then it’s out in the world and we can deal with it.”
“It’s about Rochelle.”
Doug nodded, having prepared for this one. “You miss her. I know. But we can’t do anything about it. There’d be no way to explain it.”
“I want her back.” Michelle’s head was down, the tears coursing freely now.
“I know, baby, I know . . . I miss her, too. I wanted you guys to move in with me. Both of you. From here we could move anywhere, so long as it’s out of this deathtrap of a town. Neither of us likes it here very much. I figured, in the course of time—”
She slumped on the bed, hands worrying each other atop her bare legs. “It was my dream, through all those hours, days, that things had happened differently, and we had hooked up, and we all got to escape. It would be great if you were just a means to an end; you know – just another male guy-person, to manipulate. Great if I didn’t care about you; great if I didn’t actually love you.”
“I had to explain your death to Rochelle. There’s no going back from that one. Look at it this way: she’s with your mother, and she seemed like a nice lady.”
When her gaze came up to meet his, her eyes were livid. “You don’t know anything,” she said, the words constricted and bitter. “Sweet, kindly old Grandma Farrier? She’s a fucking sadist who has probably shot pornos with Rochelle by now.”
“What?!” Doug’s jaw unhinged.
“She is one sick piece of shit, and her mission was always to get Rochelle away from me, into her clutches. I ran away from home as soon as I could. And when I had Rochelle, I swore that bitch would never get her claws on my daughter. And you just . . . handed her over.”
“Now, wait a minute, Michelle . . .”
She overrode him. “No – it’s not your fault. She always presented one face to the world. Her fake face. Her human masque. Inside the family with the doors closed, it was different. You saw the masque. You dealt with the masque. So did Rochelle. Until Grandma could actually strap the collar on, she had to play it sneaky. Her real face is from a monster who needed to be inside a grave decades ago. I should know – she broke me in with a heated glass dildo when I was nine.”
“Holy shit. Michelle, why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Which ‘before?’ Before now? Or before I died? Doug, I died not knowing you were as good as you are. I thought I could never make love to anybody, ever again. I concentrated on moving from place to place to keep Rochelle off the radar.”
Doug toweled his hands, which were awash in nervous perspiration, yet irritatingly cold. Almost insensate. He needed to assauge her terror, to fix the problem, however improbable; like Boyd Cooper, to Get the Job Done. “Okay. Fine. I’ll just go get her back. We’ll figure something out.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“Better yet, how about we
“That’s the problem, Doug. It’s been the problem all along.
“You don’t mean ‘us’ as in you-and-me. You’re talking about us as in the former occupants of Hollymount Cemetery, right?”
She nodded, more tears spilling. “I need you to fuck me. And I need you to love me. And I was hoping that you could love me enough so that I didn’t have to force you to take my place in that hole in the ground, like all the rest of the goddamned losers and dim bulbs and fly-over people in Triple Pines. I want you to go to San Francisco, and get my daughter back. But if you stay here – if you go away and come back here – eventually I’ll use you up anyway. I’ve been taking your heat, Doug, a degree at a time. And eventually you would die, and then resurrect, and then you would be stuck here too. An outsider, stuck here. And no matter what anyone’s good intentions are, it would also happen to Rochelle. I can’t kill my little girl. And I can’t hurt you any more. It’s killing me, but – what a joke – I can’t die.” She looked up, her face a raw, aching map of despair. “You see?”
Michelle had not been a local, either. But she had died here, and become a permanent resident in the Triple Pines boneyard. The population of the town was slowly shifting balance. The dead of Triple Pines were pushing out the living, seeking that stasis of small town stability where once again, everyone would be the same. What happened in Triple Pines had to stay in Triple Pines, and the Marlboro Reservoir was no boon to the community. It was going to service coastal cities; Doug knew this in his gut, now. In all ways, for all concerned, Triple Pines was the
With one grating exception. Which suggested one frightening solution.
“Don’t you see?” she said. “If you don’t get out now, you’ll never get out. Get out, Doug. Kiss me one last time and get out. Try to think of me fondly.”
His heart smashed to pieces and burned to ashes, he kissed her. Her tears lingered on his lips, the utterly real
He could retrieve Rochelle, kidnap her if that was what was required. He could bring her back here to die, and be reunited with her mother. Then he could die, too. But at least he would be with them, in the end. Or he could put it behind him, and just keep on driving.
The further he got from Triple Pines, the warmer he felt.
DON TUMASONIS
Thrown
FRESH FROM AN EVENING of overindulgence on the island of Anafi some years ago, Don Tumasonis awoke with a story in his head, and immediately wrote it down.
Encouraged by fellow orgy survivors, to whom he shyly showed the fragment, he realised that honour, power, riches, fame, and the love of women were within his grasp. He acquired a Muse, as is recommended, having already been provided with that
His longish tale “The Swing” was recently published in the Ash-Tree Press anthology
“Once, I dreamed of becoming an anthropologist,” Tumasonis recalls. “I had, after all, got stinking drunk on cheap plonk with Sir Edmund Leach, so I thought myself eminently qualified. Fired with explorers’ tales, I fixated on northern Nepal. Months of struggle with Tibetan put paid to that fantasy and, suddenly more realistic, I settled for Crete.
“Field work in the glorious mountains of Sfakia produced little of academic value. Penitent, I vowed to cross the Great Island by foot, east to west. As may now be suspected, even that last project was somehow thwarted short of completion. Not all was lost – the narrative of ‘Thrown’ draws largely on events that occurred during several legs of that journey.”
IT WAS STRANGE COUNTRY, cast into tumult by disaster.
Signs of this were everywhere, from the seaside city in the south where they first stayed, to the northern village from whence they would start their walk. Across the neck of the island, debris was visible all over, through the dusty windows of their ageing Mercedes bus, running late. The delay was a result of the massive flood of several days past, with traffic still detoured around the washed-out main highway bridge, to the old road a bit further inland.
When Martin and Marline had first come to Crete two days after the deluge, quasi-urban Ierapetra was drying out from the rampageous torrent that had wrecked its streets and invaded buildings. The branch Agricultural Bank’s records and documents were spread out on sidewalks and streets, stones and bricks neatly pinning papers in place, the sun wrinkling and baking fibres. Nearby, a flower-filled Roman sarcophagus doubling as a sidewalk planter lent white Parian cachet to an adjacent telephone booth.
Floods came often enough on this island of canyons and gorges, but this one had been a monster, by every local estimation. It was the usual chain of events. Heavy autumn rains washed broken trees and branches down a ravine, compacting with clay and gravel at a pinched slot, forming a natural dam. Before anyone even knew, or had time to react, millions of tons of water had built up, until the sudden giving way, and catastrophic release.
A couple had been taken out to sea, drowned in their Volkswagen beetle. Excepting these, and one old woman at an isolated farm, there was no other loss of human life, amazing as that seemed in the aftermath.
But the water, gaining speed, spewing like a jet from the mouth of the deep cleft above the cultivated plain, took all else living with as it ripped through the countryside, crashing to the sea in a few calamitous minutes.
Some short hours after having checked into their room – the cheapest they could find, with a bare concrete floor, the two followed the lead of everyone else: they promenaded, taking in the chaos and damage, trying to assimilate the monstrous extent of the wreckage about them.
Crowds of foreigners from the large tourist complex near the shore mingled with the local Greeks, walking east out of town. Hundreds, clumped together in their scores, their pairs, were heading along the beach, where the detritus of the flooding was spread. All were silent and stunned, even two days after, and talked, if at all, in hushed voices, in the descending light of the sun.
Past the hotels, a new river channel had torn through the shore road, destroying it, and people waded across, past a parked bulldozer there for the clean-up. On the other side, all over the long broad beach, lay hundreds of animal corpses, wild and domestic. Lizards rotted promiscuously with goats. Pathetic lambs, wool matted and muddy, strewn broken amid snapped tree limbs. Snakes, and above all, chickens, were everywhere, half-buried in the sand. Let this their memorial be.
Back at their rundown hotel room, the couple made love. Rattled by what they had seen, they drank to excess, and things ran wilder than usual between them, married ten years.
Marline sat at an angle leaning forward, hands on Martin’s ankles, facing his feet, as he lay on his back, in the
A single red light bulb, forming the sole illumination, bare, dangled on its brown plastic wire from the ceiling, casting a garish glow throughout the room. The double shutters were closed, and the chamber, already damp from their showering, became even more so, heating up.
The entire tawdriness of the situation inspired Marline to a totally uncharacteristic frenzy. Replying in the dialogue of the flesh, Martin grew enormous, larger than ever inside her, and imagined himself in the cheapest of houses of prostitution, some bold and promiscuous whore working him for all his money’s worth. The red light added to the fantastic aspect, that of being in a Fellini film, or a Turkish camp of ill-fame, where poor young widows, respectable and married the one day, the next, with no one to protect them, are thrown headlong into the wildest of debaucheries, with no escape.
Marline’s face was invisible as Martin clenched her smoothly sculpted, heaving buttocks. Perfectly rounded, they were starting to fleck with pigment from the hours in the Cretan sun, complementing the rest of her freckled body, now writhing like a snake, as she and he both gasped for breath. He held those nether spheres tightly from behind, as it seemed otherwise she would rocket off him in her now fierce motion.
Her short red hair was like a helmet, and under the crimson bulb, dark. At the moment of ecstasy, she turned for the first time to face him, from over her shoulder. Her sharp jaw was distended –
The more he looked at her frenzied eyes, the more strange she appeared, until he conceived her a demon, the devil itself, no woman, no wife he knew. At their mutual orgasm, a chill of irrational fright ran through him, but he closed his eyes, taking in air in huge gulping heaves, uncaring.
Flush fading, consciousness revived, Martin saw Marline collapsed forward across his legs. He was still inside her, the sticky wetness draining down from his crotch and then his buttocks, turning cold on the sheet beneath him. She rolled off, and resting on her side, eyes closed, a smile across her mouth, murmured something about going out again, a night-cap. Then she yawned.
“Napoleon slept here, did you know? Ierapetra’s ‘holy rock’ in Greek,” he said.
Marline was already putting on her clothes.
Dropped off past the lines of delayed traffic still waiting to cross the old narrow bridge, they had gone more or less straight up from the sea, from the small settlement clinging to steep slope above coastal highway.
At the upper end of the little hamlet, by the trailhead, they tipped their heads back to see the inland range hanging above. It had been his idea to go up it and explore its interior, part of a larger plan to walk the island from east to west. This day’s march would link together sections done previous seasons, thus completing eastern Crete, an opportunity provided by doctor’s orders, after a second, work-related breakdown.
Old women, bent nearly double and swathed in black, assured them they were on the right way, no guarantee in itself, as Greeks would rather die than admit to ignorance of any subject, no matter how far removed from their normal competence. Enormous cliff faces towered to the east; they had come down from there two years back, an epic struggle to find a disappearing track.
Village noise was soon below them, growing ever more faint and distant, replaced by the always present susurrant wind. The trail, an old respectable Cretan path, wound steadily upwards in large or smaller switches. After an hour’s trudge or more in the expanding sunlight, they stopped on a shoulder, the site of some stronghold of Minoan refugees, driven to the heights after their civilisation had collapsed. While Marline put together a picnic, Martin puttered about on the partially excavated ruins above.
There was not much more to see than dry stone walls, crumbling remnants of some ’20s dig, German or Italian, he did not remember what the guidebook said. The overwhelming vista looked north over the Ægean, with Thera somewhere volcanically looming, invisible in the slight haze, on the horizon distant before him.
Only one thing distinguished the fast decaying ruins from any modern wreckage of local revolution: a flat, carved stone bowl, cut into the living rock, like some small birdbath. Cracked in several places, stains covered one side of the interior.
They ate, and before wrapping up after their little meal, Martin looked out over the scene in front of them, and without preamble, spoke out.
“You know, when I grew up in Rochester, I never felt comfortable with the sky.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, there was always something, something about it that never
“Not really . . .”
“At first I thought it was the colour. Summers were warmer then, or so it seems now. I’d lie back, on the grass of a lawn in July, and stretch out, looking up at the sky. It would be cloudless, and the heavens so deep when I concentrated, I felt I was plunging into them.
“It was then I began to get a strange impression, that the vast inverted bowl I was falling into was somehow
“What do you mean?”
He paused, and all was silent but for the wind. “I’m not quite sure how to express it – alien, perhaps?” he continued.
“I thought perhaps it was just the flatness of hue the sky can attain on a clear day in the middle of the year. But with the notion established in my mind – I was only eleven or twelve the first time I conceived it – or rather, made it articulate, since I later realised it was a perception I had had all along, that I was only then putting into words – I came to the conclusion that the feeling was more general.
“It could come upon me other seasons of the year, when the sky had a different colour, under other conditions of time and temperature. For a while, I thought something was wrong with me.
“I developed the odd notion that I was
He paused. “I mean, some animals have iron in their brains, they’ve found out, onboard compasses that always point north, so . . .” His voice trailed off, and they were silent for a lingering moment.
“You’ve never mentioned that before. If you want to know,” she said with a slight smile, “I think it’s all a load of rubbish.” She flicked out playfully with her foot at his leg, as they sat.
He smiled back weakly, and continued: “I began to think so too, especially after I got older, and started travelling about, first locally, then, around the Continent, and further. I suppose I was always, at some unconscious level, thinking that if I found the right spot, the sky would brighten, things would look up, and all would be right in God’s world.”
She gave him a friendly smirk, hearing that, but he did not react.
“Y’know, at one point the whole idea came back to me, and I started to think, what if we really came from somewhere else, even from off the planet? A spaceship crashes here eons ago, seeds the place with its offspring – it would explain our exceptional place in the world.”
“But DNA.”
“Right you are, dead on. Common kinship. Once the implications of
They set about packing the remains of their picnic lunch; he wrapped the water bottle in towelling to keep it cool, while she cleaned the knife and stowed the food in her sack. Gear ready, they hoisted their packs, and stood a moment in the boiling sun, adjusting their straps and buckles.
Martin rested on his walking stick, a
“It has to do with a feeling, more than anything else, a feeling of not belonging here at all. As if . . .”
“What?”
“As if I were some kind of object, something hurled here unwittingly, against its will, like that German philosopher used to claim. To a place not my true home.”
“Oh.”
Martin did not dare mention or even hint at the experience of the night before – that, during their making love, alienation had triggered this memory of an old idea, up to now all but half-forgotten.
They started up the hill.
They reached, an hour or two later, the upper verge of the cliff, a flat ridge separating two peaks. Stalky anisette plants, tall invaders from another dimension, stood all around. Martin and Marline stopped to rest and admire the tremendous view before them.
The sea was far below; ahead lay a vast bowl, surrounded by bare and rugged peaks. The depression was partly cultivated, and they could see a few tiny dark-clad figures taking in the harvest, and few more working the vines. A dirt track threaded through it.
Martin gave Marline a hug, spontaneously, and it felt like he was hugging the air.
The trail descended into the sere arena below, desiccate but for the few irrigated plots chequering its innermost concavities. Small lizards scurried off the path. Marline and Martin headed down, pointing themselves towards the biggest of the summer houses, a massive white-washed affair with a shaded porch.
There were huge rust-coloured plastic barrels with black lids in the shadows; commonly used for storing wine, these gave promise of a kafenion. This hope was bolstered by a few rucksacks, obviously alien, resting above the steps, the bright colours an evidence of foreign wanderers or customers nearby. A peasant woman, middle-aged, in black with a grubby grey apron, walked out from inside, her cheap plastic flip-flops slapping against the concrete floor of the patio. She smiled pleasantly, shaking her head from side to side, the Balkan gesture of query. A trace of concern was in her eyes.
“
Thus invited, the couple seated themselves on a couple of rundown chairs with worn-through wicker seats.
“
Martin nodded, and the woman shuffled off to get water, and glasses. While she was inside, Martin looked at the nearby packs leaning on a pillar, and recognised a German marque.
The woman came out again, bearing a tray loaded with pumpkin seeds and shelled hazelnuts, a few garishly wrapped boiled sweets mixed in. Two glasses filled with water completed the ensemble.
They were careful to toast the woman’s health in Greek, before swallowing the cool water. There followed the inevitable questions: Where do you come from? What work do you do? Why are you here? Have you any children? followed by clucks of sympathy at the answer “none”.
It was a formula, probably being repeated dozens of times that same moment across the island, wherever tourists and Greeks were meeting for the first time. Were a man the interrogator, topics would have drifted over to money earned, and yearly wages. A delicate little probing, performed with overt politeness, with always the undercurrent of gaining information, reaping some advantage; the pull, the tug, with little exception always towards:
Her questions tapered off once it was established that the couple were ordinary people doing the familiar if incomprehensible act of travel for its own sake. Martin then took his opportunity, with his kitchen Greek.
No, there was no kafenion. No place to overnight. The mountain over there was Effendis Christos. The people here were all from the village below, and were up to tend their summer gardens and trees; they would go down in the evening. Yes, there were other strangers here, Germans, up on the mountain.
Marline, with better eyes, saw them first. A red spot, a yellow, and two blues – chemical colours of the jackets or jerseys, up near the summit, stretched out along a fairly vertiginous route.
They’ve been up there all day, the woman said.
At which point, as if to confirm her statement, the sounds of a distant yodel echoed from far up the hill.
At length, having questioned the woman about the track to the next village, the two set off again, early evening approaching. They went uphill through the dry landscape, east, sun to their backs, up a low pass, then up to another and finally a third, the watershed. No one had been by, and the enveloping silence was profound.
They could see down, back to the brink crossed hours before, at the foot of the northern massif. On either side of the dusty way where they stood, two ranges, here close, ran parallel. To the right, the flat ridgeline of Effendis now sat low, a hundred metres above them. The road had climbed up almost level with the long spine of the peak; it would be an easy walk to the top from here.
“They are the passersby,” Martin said aloud.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing, just a thought about the mountain.”
Marline laughed, her voice echoing with a strange tinny tone.
“Effendis Christos – Jesus! They’re probably all Turks here!” she giggled.
“She didn’t even know the word is from her neighbours to the east, or is it maybe cousins?”
Still laughing, Marline suggested setting up camp. If they went on down a few minutes more, they could still see both ways, but would be shielded from the eyes of any loitering villagers behind them. The deep empty valley, next morning’s walk, opened out long ahead before turning right; beyond, they could see a fair stretch of the south coast.
Going a few metres off the rutted track that now ran over patches of bare rock, they unfurled their sleeping mats and bags. Cooking up a brew on a small gas stove, they drank it with bread and cheese, sitting wordlessly on the inflated cushions.
The view was extraordinarily clear, with every object sharp and definite in the limpid air. Objects that must have been miles off seemed close enough to touch. Shadows were being magnified and thrown vast distances. Clarity imagined, but seldom seen.
Martin felt a gnawing unease, but unable to find words to express it, remained silent.
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s just – I can’t say it.”
Another long pause, and then Martin said, “It’s really nothing,” and felt his eyes for no reason suddenly fill with tears. Standing up quickly, so Marline would not see, he turned to face the way they had come.
“I’m going up back a little bit,” he said to her. “I just want to see how long the shadows actually are.” She did not reply, so he began to slowly move through the low bushes, sole cover to the treeless earth, through the infinite symphonic tones of yellows and browns and black-greens that reeked of spice and animal excreta. The sky was absolutely cloudless.
Some paces uphill, back on the unmetalled track, he turned to look. The north slopes of Effendis to the right were now in shadow, but every object in the imperfect dark was still visible. He could almost hear the rocks, dusty purple in the shade, crack as they started to cool from the day’s impartible heat.
The rest of the hills, ahead and to the left, and the valley between, were filled with light that tore the heart, obsidian sharp, crystalline, clear. Marline, small and distant below, had packed the few pieces of mess gear, and was now smoking a cigarette, seated arms around her knees, looking the same direction as Martin, setting sun to their backs.
And then he saw the shadow, his own. At first he was not sure, until he moved, and the shadow moved with him. It was enormous, occluding acres of hillside below the horizon up to the valley’s end, beyond, miles away. He felt dizzy, and to steady himself, turned round and stumbled further up, hugging himself with his arms, gulping great breaths, gasping after air.
Coming to a halt, he slowly turned again.
His shadow, since he was higher, had of course moved upward with him. In the flat light, it was now taller than the lofty ridgeline of the farthest range, and covered a reasonably large part of the sky above, darkening the air, which still remained transparent.
Stunned, Martin slowly lifted an arm, and its umbra eclipsed the blue, almost to the zenith.
He began to hyperventilate sharply, and with vertigo and nausea washing over him, panic took hold. He ran down to his wife, stumbling once, falling, cutting open a pant leg at the knee, so he bled, but paid no heed.
She was waiting, with her arms stretched wide, waiting to catch him, to enfold him. He wept, eyes closed, as she held him, crooning, soothing her lost child.
“Don’t be afraid, there’s nothing wrong, you’re here, with me, there now . . .” she said.
“But you saw it, didn’t you?” he repeated over and over again, without her any reply, only the soft caress. Eventually, shaking still, he left her embrace, and stood up.
The shadows were gone now, the sun down at last behind them. At the spot where the world had turned to the dimensions of a shoe box minutes before, the sky was evenly shaded.
Speechless, mouth hanging open in supplication, he looked back at Marline. But it was no longer her, but the grinning thrust-jawed demon of the night before who looked back at him. Teeth gleaming, this creature shook her head in quick small jerks from side to side, like someone palsied, and small, brilliant blade-like rays of green and blue outlined her silhouette, streaming off her.
Despairing, Martin turned round a last time, and faced the now motionless protuberance. Its hue, he noted on the abstract, complemented, but did not match, that of the air. He heard
Reaching out, using his nails, he worried the limp thing loose, except for one solidly emplaced end, embedded in the air.
With a firm grip and a single wrap around his fist, using great force, he jerked the cool and wet object straight down, ripping open – to the applause of his wife behind him, with the satisfying roar of torn canvas and rock-broken waves in his ears – the mountains to their root, and the sky, the traitor sky he always knew was wrong.
CAITLÍN R. KIERNAN
Houses Under the Sea
CAITLÍN R. KIERNAN IS A FOUR-TIME recipient of the International Horror Guild Award and a World Fantasy Award finalist.
Her novels include
“ ‘Houses Under the Sea’ was written in February and March 2004, and was only my third attempt to write a short story as a first-person narrative,” Kiernan reveals. “For many years, I’d avoided fp, for a number of reasons, some perfectly valid and some admittedly questionable. But beginning with ‘Riding the White Bull’ and
“When I finished ‘Houses Under the Sea’ on March 5th, I was still somewhat sceptical, though, as evidenced by this comment from my online journal entry from March 6th regarding the difficulty I was having finding a title for the piece: ‘If I had my druthers, it would have no title at all. In most cases, giving titles to first-person narratives only compounds the problems of disbelief. Not only am I to believe that Character X sat down and wrote this story for me to read, I’m to believe that she gave it a title.
“ ‘And if she didn’t, then who did? The author? No, Character X
I
WHEN I CLOSE MY EYES, I see Jacova Angevine.
I close my eyes, and there she is, standing alone at the end of the breakwater, standing with the foghorn as the choppy sea shatters itself to foam against a jumble of grey boulders. The October wind is making something wild of her hair, and her back’s turned to me. The boats are coming in.
I close my eyes, and she’s standing in the surf at Moss Landing, gazing out into the bay, staring towards the place where the continental shelf narrows down to a sliver and drops away to the black abyss of Monterey Canyon. There are gulls, and her hair is tied back in a ponytail.
I close my eyes, and we’re walking together down Cannery Row, heading south towards the aquarium. She’s wearing a gingham dress and a battered pair of Doc Martens that she must have had for fifteen years. I say something inconsequential, but she doesn’t hear me, too busy scowling at the tourists, at the sterile, cheery absurdities of the Bubba Gump Shrimp Company and Mackerel Jack’s Trading Post.
“That used to be a whorehouse,” she says, nodding in the direction of Mackerel Jack’s. “The Lone Star Café, but Steinbeck called it the Bear Flag. Everything burned. Nothing here’s the way it used to be.”
She says that like she remembers, and I close my eyes.
And she’s on television again, out on the old pier at Moss Point, the day they launched the ROV
And she’s at the Pierce Street warehouse in Monterey; men and women in white robes are listening to every word she says. They hang on every syllable, her every breath, their many eyes like the bulging eyes of deep-sea fish encountering sunlight for the first time. Dazed, terrified, enraptured, lost.
All of them lost.
I close my eyes, and she’s leading them into the bay.
All these divided moments, disconnected, or connected so many different ways, that I’ll never be able to pull them apart and find a coherent narrative. That’s my folly, my conceit, that I can make a mere
I close my eyes, and “Fire from the sky, fire on the water,” she says and smiles; I know that this time she’s talking about the fire of September 14, 1924, the day lightning struck one of the 55,000-gallon storage tanks belonging to the Associated Oil Company and a burning river flowed into the sea. Billowing black clouds hide the sun, and the fire has the voice of a hurricane as it bears down on the canneries, a voice of demons, and she stops to tie her shoes.
I sit here in this dark motel room, staring at the screen of my laptop, the clean liquid-crystal light, typing irrelevant words to build meandering sentences, waiting, waiting, waiting, and I don’t know what it is that I’m waiting for. Or I’m only afraid to admit that I know exactly what I’m waiting for. She has become my ghost, my private haunting, and haunted things are forever waiting.
“In the mansions of Poseidon, she will prepare halls from coral and glass and the bones of whales,” she says, and the crowd in the warehouse breathes in and out as a single, astonished organism, their assembled bodies lesser than the momentary whole they have made. “Down there, you will know nothing but peace, in her mansions, in the endless night of her coils.”
“
I close my eyes again.
“November 5, 1936,” she says, and
There’s moonlight through the drapes, and I imagine for a moment that her skin has become iridescent, mother-of-pearl, the shimmering motley of an oil slick. I reach out and touch her naked thigh, and she lights a cigarette. The smoke hangs thick in the air, like fog or forgetfulness.
My fingertips against her flesh, and she stands and walks to the window.
“Do you see something out there?” I ask, and she shakes her head very slowly.
I close my eyes.
In the moonlight, I can make out the puckered, circular scars on both her shoulder blades and running halfway down her spine. Two dozen or more of them, but I never bothered to count exactly. Some are no larger than a dime, but several are at least two inches across.
“When I’m gone,” she says, “when I’m done here, they’ll ask you questions about me. What will you tell them?”
“That depends what they ask,” I reply and laugh, still thinking it was all one of her strange jokes, the talk of leaving, and I lie down and stare at the shadows on the ceiling.
“They’ll ask you everything,” she whispers. “Sooner or later, I expect they’ll ask you everything.”
Which they did.
I close my eyes, and I see her, Jacova Angevine, the lunatic prophet from Silinas, pearls that were her eyes, cockles and mussels, alive, alive-o, and she’s kneeling in the sand. The sun is rising behind her and I hear people coming through the dunes.
“I’ll tell them you were a good fuck,” I say, and she takes another drag off her cigarette and continues staring at the night outside the motel windows.
“Yes,” she says. “I expect you will.”
II
The first time that I saw Jacova Angevine – I mean, the first time I saw her in
It was a bright Wednesday afternoon, a warm day for November in Monterey County, and I decided to come up for air. I showered for the first time in a week and had a late lunch at the Sardine Factory on Wave Street – Dungeness crab remoulade, fresh oysters with horseradish, and grilled sand-dabs in a lemon sauce that was a little heavy on the thyme – then decided to visit the aquarium and walk it all off. When I was a kid in Brooklyn, I spent a lot of my time at the aquarium on Coney Island, and, three decades later, there were few things a man could do sober that relaxed me as quickly and completely. I put the check on my MasterCard and followed Wave Street south and east to Prescott, then turned back down Cannery Row, the glittering bay on my right, the pale blue autumn sky stretched out overhead like oil on canvas.
I close my eyes, and that afternoon isn’t something that happened three years ago, something I’m making sound like a goddamn travelogue. I close my eyes, and it’s happening now, for the first time, and there she is, sitting alone on a long bench in front of the kelp forest exhibit, her thin face turned up to the high, swaying canopy behind the glass, the dapple of fish and seaweed shadows drifting back and forth across her features. I recognise her, and that surprises me, because I’ve only seen her face on television and in magazine photos and on the dust jacket of the book she wrote before she lost the job at Berkeley. She turns her head and smiles at me, the familiar way you smile at a friend, the way you smile at someone you’ve known all your life.
“You’re in luck,” she says. “It’s almost time for them to feed the fish.” And Jacova Angevine pats the bench next to her, indicating that I should sit down.
“I read your book,” I say, taking a seat because I’m still too surprised to do anything else.
“Did you? Did you really?” and now she looks like she doesn’t believe me, like I’m only saying that I’ve read her book to be polite, and from her expression I can tell that she thinks it’s a little odd, that anyone would ever bother to try and flatter her.
“Yes,” I tell her, trying too hard to sound sincere. “I did really. In fact, I read some of it twice.”
“And why would you do a thing like that?”
“Truthfully?”
“Yes, truthfully.”
Her eyes are the same color as the water trapped behind the thick panes of aquarium glass, the color of the November sunlight filtered through saltwater and kelp blades. There are fine lines at the corners of her mouth and beneath her eyes that make her look several years older than she is.
“Last summer, I was flying from New York to London, and there was a three-hour layover in Shannon. Your book was all I’d brought to read.”
“That’s terrible,” she says, still smiling, and turns to face the big tank again. “Do you want your money back?”
“It was a gift,” I reply, which isn’t true and I have no idea why I’m lying to her. “An ex-girlfriend gave it to me for my birthday.”
“Is that why you left her?”
“No, I left her because she thought I drank too much and I thought she drank too little.”
“Are you an alcoholic?” Jacova Angevine asks, as casually as if she were asking me whether I liked milk in my coffee or if I took it black.
“Well, some people say I’m headed in that direction,” I tell her. “But I did enjoy the book, honest. It’s hard to believe they fired you for writing it. I mean, that people get fired for writing books.” But I know that’s a lie, too; I’m not half that naive, and it’s not at all difficult to understand how or why
“They didn’t fire me for writing it,” she says. “They politely asked me to resign because I’d seen fit to publish it.”
“Why didn’t you fight them?”
Her smile fades a little, and the lines around her mouth seem to grow the slightest bit more pronounced. “I don’t come here to talk about the book, or my unfortunate employment history,” she says.
I apologise, and she tells me not to worry about it.
A diver enters the tank, matte-black neoprene trailing a rush of silver bubbles, and most of the fish rise expectantly to meet him or her, a riot of kelp bass and sleek leopard sharks, sheephead and rockfish and species I don’t recognise. She doesn’t say anything else, too busy watching the feeding, and I sit there beside her, at the bottom of a pretend ocean.
I open my eyes. There are only the words on the screen in front of me.
I didn’t see her again for the better part of a year. During that time, as my work sent me back to Pakistan, and then to Germany and Israel, I reread her book. I also read some of the articles and reviews, and a brief online interview that she’d given Whitley Strieber’s
And I wondered, too, if perhaps she might have been one of them from the start.
III
I woke up this morning from a long dream of storms and drowning and lay in bed, very still, sizing up my hangover and staring at the sagging, water-stained ceiling of my motel room. And I finally admitted to myself that this isn’t going to be what the paper has hired me to write. I don’t think I’m even trying to write it for them any more. They want the dirt, of course, and I’ve never been shy about digging holes. I’ve spent the last twenty years as a shovel-for-hire. I don’t think it matters that I may have loved her, or that a lot of this dirt is mine. I can’t pretend that I’m acting out of nobility of soul or loyalty or even some selfish, belated concern for my own dingy reputation. I would write exactly what they want me to write if I could. If I knew how. I need the money. I haven’t worked for the last five months and my savings are almost gone.
But if I’m not writing it for them, if I’ve abandoned all hope of a paycheck at the other end of this thing, why the hell then am I still sitting here typing? Am I making a confession? Bless me, Father, I can’t forget? Do I believe it’s something I can puke up like a sour belly full of whiskey, that writing it all down will make the nightmares stop or make it any easier for me to get through the days? I sincerely hope I’m not as big a fool as that. Whatever else I may be, I like to think that I’m not an idiot.
I don’t know why I’m writing this, whatever this turns out to be. Maybe it’s only a very long-winded suicide note.
Last night I watched the tape again.
I have all three versions with me – the cut that’s still being hawked over the internet, the one that ends right after the ROV was hit, before the lights came back on; the cut that MBARI released to the press and the scientific community in response to the version circulating online; and I have the “raw” footage, the copy I bought from a robotics technician who claimed to have been aboard the
We met at a Motel 6 in El Cajon, and I played it all the way through before I handed him the money. He sat with his back to the television while I watched the tape, rewound and started it over again.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, literally wringing his hands and gazing anxiously at the heavy drapes. I’d pulled them shut after hooking up the rented VCR that I’d brought with me, but a bright sliver of afternoon sunlight slipped in between them and divided his face down the middle. “Jesus, man. You think it’s not gonna be the exact same thing every time? You think if you keep playing it over and over it’s gonna come out any different?”
I’ve watched the tape more times than I can count, a couple hundred, at least, and I still think that’s a good goddamned question.
“So why didn’t MBARI release this?” I asked the kid, and he laughed and shook his head.
“Why the fuck do you think?” he replied.
He took my money, reminded me again that we’d never met and that he’d deny everything if I attempted to finger him as my source. Then he got back into his ancient, wheezy VW Microbus and drove off, leaving me sitting there with an hour and a half of unedited color video recorded somewhere along the bottom of the Monterey Canyon. Everything the ROV
Last night I got drunk, more so than usual, a
Even drunk, I’m still a coward.
The ocean floor starkly illuminated by the ROV’s six 480-watt HMI lights, revealing a velvet carpet of grey-brown sediment washed out from Elkhorn Slough and all the other sloughs and rivers emptying into the bay. And even at this depth, there are signs of life: brittlestars and crabs cling to the shit-coloured rocks, sponges and sea cucumbers, the sinuous, smooth bodies of big-eyed rattails. Here and there, dark outcroppings jut from the ooze like bone from the decaying flesh of a leper.
My asshole editor would laugh out loud at that last simile, would probably take one look at it and laugh and then say something like, “If I’d wanted fucking purple I’d have bought a goddamn pot of violets.” But my asshole editor hasn’t seen the tape I bought from the tech.
My asshole editor never met Jacova Angevine, never listened to her talk, never fucked her, never saw the scars on her back or the fear in her eyes.
The ROV comes to a rocky place where the seafloor drops away suddenly, and it hesitates, responding to commands from the control room of the
Almost.
“It’s a little bit of everything,” I heard Jacova say, though she never actually said anything of the sort to me. “Silt, phytoplankton and zooplankton, soot, mucus, diatoms, fecal pellets, dust, grains of sand and clay, radioactive fallout, pollen, sewage. Some of it’s even interplanetary dust particles. Some of it fell from the stars.”
And
“We’d been over that stretch more than a dozen times, at least,” Natalie Billington, chief ROV pilot for
For a while – exactly 15.34 seconds – there’s only the darkness and marine snow and a few curious or startled fish. According to MBARI, the ROV’s vertical speed during this part of the dive is about 35 meters per minute, so by the time it finds the bottom again, depth has increased by some five hundred and twenty-five feet. The sea-floor comes into view again, and there’s not so much loose sediment here, just a jumble of broken boulders, and it’s startling how clean they are, almost completely free of the usual encrustations and muck. There are no sponges or sea cucumbers to be seen, no starfish, and even the omnipresent marine snow has tapered off to only a few stray, drifting flecks. And then the wide, flat rock that is usually referred to as “the Delta stone” comes into view. And this isn’t like the face on Mars or Von Daniken seeing ancient astronauts on Mayan artifacts. The lowercase δ carved into the slab is unmistakable. The edges are so sharp, so clean that it might have been done yesterday.
The
I counted to eleven before I switched off the television, and then sat listening to the wind, and the waves breaking against the beach, waiting for my heart to stop racing and the sweat on my face and palms to dry. When I was sure that I wasn’t going to be sick, I pressed EJECT and the VCR spat out the tape. I returned it to its navy-blue plastic case and sat smoking and drinking, helpless to think of anything but Jacova.
IV
Jacova Angevine was born and grew up in her father’s big Victorian house in Salinas, only a couple of blocks from the birthplace of John Steinbeck. Her mother died when she was eight. Jacova had no siblings, and her closest kin, paternal and maternal, were all back east in New Jersey and Pennsylvania and Maryland. In 1960, her parents relocated to California, just a few months after they were married, and her father took a job teaching high-school English in Castroville. After six months, he quit that job and took another, with only slightly better pay, in the town of Soledad. Though he’d earned a doctorate in comparative literature from Columbia, Theo Angevine seemed to have no particular academic ambitions. He’d written several novels while in college, though none of them had managed to find a publisher. In 1969, his wife five months pregnant with their daughter, he resigned from his position at Soledad High and moved north to Salinas, where he bought the old house on Howard Street with a bank loan and the advance from his first book sale, a mystery novel titled
To date, none of the three books that have been published about Jacova, the Open Door of Night sect, and the mass drownings off Moss Landing State Beach, have made more than a passing mention of Theo Angevine’s novels. Elenore Ellis-Lincoln, in
Likewise, in
During the two years I knew her, Jacova only mentioned her father’s writing once that I can recall, and then only in passing, but she had copies of all his novels, a fact that I’ve never seen mentioned anywhere in print. I suppose it doesn’t seem very significant, if you haven’t bothered to read Theo Angevine’s books. Since Jacova’s death, I’ve read every one of them. It took me less than a month to track down copies of all seventeen, thanks largely to online booksellers, and even less time to read them. While William West was certainly justified in calling the novels “entirely unremarkable,” even a casual examination reveals some distinctly remarkable parallels between the fiction of the father and the reality of the daughter.
I’ve spent the whole afternoon, the better part of the past five hours, on the preceding four paragraphs, trying to fool myself into believing that I can actually write
Her father wrote books, books that were never very popular, and though they’re neither particularly accomplished nor enjoyable, they might hold clues to Jacova’s motivation and to her fate. And they might not. It’s as simple and contradictory as that. Like everything surrounding the “Lemming Cult” – as the Open Door of Night has come to be known, as it has been labeled by people who find it easier to deal with tragedy and horror if there is an attendant note of the absurd – like everything else about
Excerpt from
Edward Horton smiled and tapped the ash from his cigar into the large glass ashtray on the table. “I don’t like the sea,” he said and nodded at the window. “Frankly, I can’t even stand the sound of it. Gives me nightmares.”I listened to the breakers, not taking my eyes off the fat man and the thick grey curlicues of smoke arranging and rearranging themselves around his face. I’d always found the sound of waves to have a welcomed tranquilising effect upon my nerves and wondered which one of Horton’s innumerable secrets was responsible for his loathing of the sea. I knew he’d done a stint in the Navy during Korea, but I was also pretty sure he’d never seen combat.“How’d you sleep last night?” I asked, and he shook his head.“For shit,” he replied and sucked on his cigar.“Then maybe you should think about getting a room farther inland.”Horton coughed and jabbed a pudgy finger at the window of the bungalow. “Don’t think I wouldn’t, if the choice were mine to make. But she wants me
Excerpt from
Vicky had never told anyone about the dreams, just like she’d never told anyone about Mr. Barker or the yellow Corvette. The dreams were her secret, whether she wanted them or not. Sometimes they seemed almost wicked, shameful, sinful, like something she’d done that was against God, or at least against the law. She’d almost told Mr. Barker once, a year or so before she left Los Angeles. She’d gone so far as to broach the subject of mermaids, and then he’d snorted and laughed, so she’d thought better of it.“You got some strange notions in that head of yours,” he’d said. “Someday, you’re gonna have to grow out of crap like that, if you want people round here to start taking you seriously.”So she kept it all to herself. Whatever the dreams meant or didn’t mean, it wasn’t anything she would ever be able to explain or confess. Sometimes, nights when she couldn’t sleep, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about the ruined castles beneath the waves and beautiful, drowned girls with seaweed tangled in their hair.
Excerpt from
“This was way the hell back in the fifties,” Foster said and lit another cigarette. His hands were shaking and he kept looking over his shoulder. “Fifty-eight, right, or maybe early fifty-nine. I know Eisenhower was still president, though I ain’t precisely sure of the year. But I was still stuck in Honolulu, right, still hauling lousy tourists around the islands in the
These are only a few examples of what anyone will find, if he or she should take the time to look. There are many more, I assure you. The pages of my copies of Theo Angevine’s novels are scarred throughout with yellow highlighter.
And everything leaves more questions than answers.
You make of it what you will. Or you don’t. I suppose that a Freudian might have a proper field day with this stuff. Whatever I knew about Freud I forgot before I was even out of college. It would be comforting, I suppose, if I could dismiss Jacova’s fate as the end result of some overwhelming Oedipal hysteria, the ocean cast here as that Great Ur-Mother savior-being who finally opens up to offer release and forgiveness in death and dissolution.
V
I begin to walk down some particular, perhaps promising, avenue and then, inevitably, I turn and run, tail tucked firmly between my legs. My memories. The MBARI video. Jacova and her father’s whodunits. I scratch the surface and then pull my hand back to be sure that I haven’t lost a fucking finger. I mix metaphors the way I’ve been mixing tequila and scotch.
If, as William Burroughs wrote, “Language is a virus from outer space,” then what the holy hell were you supposed to be, Jacova?
An epidemic of the collective unconscious. The black plague of belief. A vaccine for cultural amnesia, she might have said. And so we’re right back to Velikovsky, who wrote “Human beings, rising from some catastrophe, bereft of memory of what had happened, regarded themselves as created from the dust of the earth. All knowledge about the ancestors, who they were and in what interstellar space they lived, was wiped away from the memory of the few survivors.”
I’m drunk, and I’m not making any sense at all. Or merely much too little sense to matter. Anyway, you’ll want to pay attention to this part. It’s sort of like the ghost story within the ghost story within the ghost story, the hard nugget at the unreachable heart of my heart’s infinitely regressing babooshka, matryoshka, matrioska, matreshka, babushka. It might even be the final straw that breaks the camel of my mind.
Remember, I am wasted, and so that last inexcusable paragraph may be forgiven. Or it may not.
“When I become death, death is the seed from which I grow.” Burroughs said that, too. Jacova, you will be an orchard. You will be a swaying kelp forest. There’s a log in the hole in the bottom of the sea with your name on it.
Yesterday afternoon, puking sick of looking at these four dingy fucking walls, I drove down to Monterey, to the warehouse on Pierce Street. The last time I was there, the cops still hadn’t taken down all the yellow CRIME SCENE–DO NOT CROSS tape. Now there’s only a great big for-sale sign and an even bigger no-trespassing sign. I wrote the name and number of the realty company on the back of a book of matches. I want to ask them what they’ll be telling prospective buyers about the building’s history. Word is the whole block is due to be rezoned next year and soon those empty buildings will be converted to lofts and condos. Gentrification abhors a void.
I parked in an empty lot down the street from the warehouse, hoping that no one happening by would notice me, hoping, in particular, that any passing police would not notice me. I walked quickly, without running, because running is suspicious and inevitably draws the attention of those who
When I finally reached the warehouse – the warehouse become a temple to half-remembered gods become a crime scene, now on its way to becoming something else – I ducked down the narrow alley that separates it from the abandoned Monterey Peninsula Shipping and Storage Building (established 1924). There’d been a door around that way with an unreliable lock. If I was lucky, I thought, no one would have noticed, or if they had noticed, wouldn’t have bothered fixing it. My heart was racing and I was dizzy (I tried hard to blame that on the sickening color of the sky) and there was a metallic taste in the back of my mouth, like a freshly filled tooth.
It was colder in the alley than it had been out on Pierce, the sun having already dropped low enough in the west that the alley must have been in shadow for some time. Perhaps it is always in shadow and never truly warm there. I found the side door exactly as I’d hoped to find it, and three or four minutes of jiggling about with the wobbly brass knob was enough to coax it open. Inside, the warehouse was dark and even colder than the alley, and the air stank of mould and dust, bad memories and vacancy. I stood in the doorway a moment or two, thinking of hungry rats and drunken bums, delirious crack addicts wielding lead pipes, the webs of poisonous spiders. Then I took a deep breath and stepped across the threshold, out of the shadows and into a more decided blackness, a more definitive chill, and all those mundane threats dissolved. Everything slipped from my mind except Jacova Angevine, and her followers (if that’s what you’d call them) dressed all in white, and the thing I’d seen on the altar the one time I’d come here when this had been a temple of the Open Door of Night.
I asked her about that thing once, a few weeks before the end, the last night that we spent together. I asked where it had come from, who had made it, and she lay very still for a while, listening to the surf or only trying to decide which answer would satisfy me. In the moonlight through the hotel window, I thought she might have been smiling, but I wasn’t sure.
“It’s very old,” she said, eventually. By then I’d almost drifted off to sleep and had to shake myself awake again. “No one alive remembers who
“It’s fucking hideous,” I mumbled sleepily. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but so is the Crucifixion. So are bleeding statues of the Virgin Mary and images of Kali. So are the animal-headed gods of the Egyptians.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t bow down to any of them, either,” I replied, or something to that effect.
“The divine is always abominable,” she whispered and rolled over, turning her back to me.
Just a moment ago I was in the warehouse on Pierce Street, wasn’t I? And now I’m in bed with the Prophet from Salinas. But I will not despair, for there is no need here to stay focused, to adhere to some restrictive illusion of the linear narrative. It’s coming. It’s been coming all along. As Job Foster said in Chapter Four of
That’s horseshit, of course. I suspect luckless Job Foster knew it was horseshit, and I suspect that I know it’s horseshit, too. It is not the task of the writer to “tell all,” or even to decide what to leave in, but to decide what to leave
A damned man in an empty warehouse.
I left the door standing open, because I hadn’t the nerve to shut myself up in that place. And I’d already taken a few steps inside, my shoes crunching loudly on shards of glass from a broken window, grinding glass to dust, when I remembered the Maglite hidden inside my jacket. But the glare of the flashlight did nothing much to make the darkness any less stifling, nothing much at all but remind me of the blinding white beam of
“It’s an empty warehouse,” I whispered, breathing the words aloud. “That’s all, an empty warehouse.” I knew it wasn’t the truth, not anymore, not by a long sight, but I thought that maybe a lie could be more comforting than the comfortless illumination of the Maglite in my hand. Joseph Campbell wrote, “Draw a circle around a stone and the stone will become an incarnation of mystery.” Something like that. Or it was someone else said it and I’m misremembering. The point is, I knew that Jacova had drawn a circle around that place, just as she’d drawn a circle about herself, just as her father had somehow drawn a circle about her—
Just as she’d drawn a circle around me.
The door wasn’t locked, and beyond it lay the vast, deserted belly of the building, a flat plain of cement marked off with steel support beams. There was a little sunlight coming in through the many small windows along the east and west walls, though not as much as I’d expected, and it seemed weakened, diluted by the musty air. I played the Maglite back and forth across the floor at my feet and saw that someone had painted over all the elaborate, colorful designs put there by the Open Door of Night. A thick grey latex wash to cover the intricate interweave of lines, the lines that she believed would form a bridge, a
Perhaps someone should put a bullet through her head.
People said the same thing about Jacova Angevine. But assassination is almost always unthinkable to moral, thinking men until
I left that door open, as well, and walked slowly towards the center of the empty warehouse, towards the place where the altar had been, the spot where that divine abomination of Jacova’s had rested on folds of velvet the colour of a massacre. I held the Maglite gripped so tightly that the fingers of my right hand had begun to go numb.
Behind me, there was a scuffling, gritty sort of noise that might have been footsteps, and I spun about, tangling my feet and almost falling on my ass, almost dropping the flashlight. The child was standing maybe ten or fifteen feet away from me, and I could see that the door leading back to the alley had been closed. She couldn’t have been more than nine or ten years old, dressed in ragged jeans and a T-shirt smeared with mud, or what looked like mud in the half light of the warehouse. Her short hair might have been blonde, or light brown, it was hard to tell. Most of her face was lost in the shadows.
“You’re too late,” she said.
“Jesus
“You’re too late,” she said again.
“Too late for what? Did you follow me in here?”
“The gates are shut now. They won’t open again, for you or anyone else.”
I looked past her at the door I’d left open, and she looked back that way, too.
“Did you close that door?” I asked her. “Did it ever occur to you that I might have left it open for a reason?”
“I waited as long I dared,” she replied, as though that answered my question, and turned to face me again.
I took one step towards her, then, or maybe two, and stopped. And at that moment, I experienced the sensation or sensations that mystery and horror writers, from Poe on down to Theo Angevine, have labored to convey – the almost painful prickling as the hairs on the back of my neck and along my arms and legs stood erect, the cold knot in the pit of my stomach, the goose across my grave, a loosening in my bowels and bladder, the tightening of my scrotum. My blood ran cold. Drag out all the fucking clichés and there’s still nothing that comes within a mile of what I felt standing there, looking down at that girl, her looking up at me, the feeble light from the windows glinting off her eyes.
Looking into her face, I felt
And suddenly I knew that the girl hadn’t followed me in from the alley, or closed the door, that she’d been here all along. I also knew that a hundred coats of paint wouldn’t be enough to undo Jacova’s labyrinth.
“You shouldn’t be here,” the girl said, her minotaur’s voice lost and faraway and regretful.
“Then where
“All the answers were here,” she replied. “Everything that you’re asking yourself, the things that keep you awake, that are driving you insane. All the questions you’re putting into that computer of yours. I offered all of it to you.”
And now there was a sound like water breaking against stone, and something heavy and soft and wet, dragging itself across the concrete floor, and I thought of the thing from the altar, Jacova’s Mother Hydra, that corrupt and bloated Madonna of the abyss, its tentacles and anemone tendrils and black, bulging squid eyes, the tubeworm proboscis snaking from one of the holes where its face should have been.
I smelled rot and mud, saltwater and dying fish.
“You have to go now,” the child said urgently, and she held out a hand as though she meant to show me the way. Even in the gloom, I could see the barnacles and sea lice nestled in the raw flesh of her palm. “You are a splinter in my soul, always. And she would drag you down to finish my own darkness.”
And then the girl was gone. She did not vanish, she was simply not
VI
I know
VII
Yesterday, two days after my trip to the warehouse, I watched the MBARI tape again. This time, when it reached the twelve-second gap, when I’d counted down to eleven, I continued on to twelve, and I didn’t switch the television off, and I didn’t look away. Surely, I’ve come too far to allow myself that luxury. I’ve seen so goddamn much – I’ve seen so much that there’s no reasonable excuse for looking away, because there can’t be anything left that’s more terrible than what has come before.
And, besides, it was nothing that I hadn’t seen already.
Orpheus’ mistake wasn’t that he turned and looked back towards Eurydice and Hell, but that he ever thought he could
After the static, the picture comes back and at first it’s just those boulders, same as before, those boulders that ought to be covered with silt and living things – the remains of living things, at least – but aren’t. Those strange, clean boulders. And the lines and angles carved deeply into them that cannot be the result of any natural geological or biological process, the lines and angles that can be nothing but what Jacova said they were. I think of fragments of the Parthenon, or some other shattered Greek or Roman temple, the chiseled ornament of an entablature or pediment. I’m seeing something that was
After the gap, I know that there’s only 52.2 seconds of video remaining before the starboard camera shuts down for good. Less than a minute, and I sit there on the floor of my hotel room, counting – one-one thousand, two-two thousand – and I don’t take my eyes off the screen.
The MBARI robotics tech is dead, the nervous man who sold me – and whoever else was buying – his black-market dub of the videotape. The story made the Channel 46 evening news last night and was second page in the
Twenty-three seconds to go.
Almost two miles down,
Eighteen seconds.
Sixteen.
Twelve.
Ten.
And the first time, I thought that I was only seeing something carved into the stone or part of a broken sculpture. The gentle curve of a hip, the tapering line of a leg, the twin swellings of small breasts. A nipple the colour of granite.
Eight.
But there’s her face – and there’s no denying that it’s
Four.
I bite my lip so hard that I taste blood. It doesn’t taste so different from the ocean.
Two.
She opens her eyes, and they are
And then there’s only static, and I sit staring into the salt-and-pepper roar.
Later – an hour or only five minutes – I pressed EJECT and the cassette slid obediently from the VCR. I read the label, aloud, in case I’d read it wrong every single time before, in case the timestamp on the video might have been mistaken. But it was the same as always, the day before Jacova waited on the beach at Moss Landing for the supplicants of the Open Door of Night. The day before she led them into the sea. The day before she drowned.
VIII
I close my eyes.
And she’s here again, as though she never left.
She whispers something dirty in my ear, and her breath smells like sage and toothpaste.
I tell her that I have to go to New York, that I have to take this assignment, and she replies that maybe it’s for the best. I don’t ask her what she means; I can’t imagine that it’s important.
And she kisses me.
Later, when we’re done and I’m too exhausted to sleep, I lie awake, listening to the sea and the small, anxious sounds she makes in her dreams.
I close my eyes, and I’m in the old warehouse on Pierce Street again; Jacova’s voice thunders from the PA speakers mounted high on the walls around the cavernous room. I’m standing in the shadows all the way at the back, apart from the true believers, apart from the other reporters and photographers and camera men who have been invited here. Jacova leans into the microphone, angry and ecstatic and beautiful –
“We can’t remember where it began,” she says, “where
None of it seems the least bit real, not the ridiculous things that she’s saying, or all the people dressed in white, or the television crews. This scene is not even as substantial as a nightmare. It’s very hot in the warehouse, and I feel dizzy and sick and wonder if I can reach an exit before I vomit.
I close my eyes and I’m sitting in a bar in Brooklyn, watching them wade into the sea, and I’m thinking,
I blink, and I’m sitting in an office in Manhattan, and the people who write my checks are asking me questions I can’t answer.
“Good god, you were fucking the woman, for Christ’s sake, and you’re sitting there telling me you had no
“Come on. You had to have known
“They all worshipped some sort of prehistoric fish god, that’s what I heard. No one’s going to buy that you didn’t see this coming—”
“People have a right to know. You still believe that, don’t you?”
And my clumsy hands move uncertainly across her bare shoulders, my fingertips brushing the chaos of scar tissue there, and she smiles for me.
On my knees in an alley, my head spinning, and the night air stinks of puke and saltwater.
“Okay, so I first heard about this from a woman I interviewed who knew the family,” the man in the Radiohead T-shirt says. We’re sitting on the patio of a bar in Pacific Grove, and the sun is hot and glimmers white off the bay. His name isn’t important, and neither is the name of the bar. He’s a student from LA, writing a book about the Open Door of Night, and he got my e-mail address from someone in New York. He has bad teeth and smiles too much.
“This happened back in 76, the year before Jacova’s mother died. Her father, he’d take them down to the beach at Moss Landing two or three times every summer. He got a lot of his writing done out there. Anyway, apparently the kid was a great swimmer, like a duck to water, but her mother never let her to go very far out at that beach because there are these bad rip currents. Lots of people drown out there, surfers and shit.”
He pauses and takes a couple of swallow of beer, then wipes the sweat from his forehead.
“One day, her mother’s not watching and Jacova swims too far out and gets pulled down. By the time the lifeguards get her back to shore, she’s stopped breathing. The kid’s turning blue, but they keep up the mouth-to-mouth and CPR and she finally comes around. They get Jacova to the hospital up in Watsonville and the doctors say she’s fine, but they keep her for a few days anyhow, just for observation.”
“She drowned,” I say, staring at my own beer. I haven’t taken a single sip. Beads of condensation cling to the bottle and sparkle like diamonds.
“Technically, yeah. She wasn’t breathing. Her heart had stopped. But
Whatever’s coming next, I don’t want to hear it. I know that I don’t
“They’d drowned, both of them. Their lungs were full of saltwater. Five miles from the goddamn ocean, but these two women drowned right there in a
“And you’re going to put this in your book?” I ask him, not taking my eyes of the bay and the little boat.
“Hell yeah,” he replies. “I am. It fucking happened, man, just like I said, and I can prove it.”
I close my eyes, shutting out the dazzling, bright day, and wish I’d never agreed to meet with him.
I close my eyes.
“Down there,” Jacova whispers, “you will know nothing but peace, in her mansions, in the endless night of her coils.”
I close my eyes. Oh, God, I’ve closed my eyes.
She wraps her strong, suntanned arms tightly around me and takes me down, down, down, like the lifeless body of a child caught in an undertow. And I’d go with her, like a flash I’d go, if this were anything more than a dream, anything more than an infidel’s sour regret, anything more than eleven thousand words cast like a handful of sand across the face of the ocean. I would go with her, because, like a stone that has become an incarnation of mystery, she has drawn a circle around me.
DAVID MORRELL
They
DAVID MORRELL IS THE AUTHOR of
“The mild-mannered professor with the bloody-minded visions,” as one reviewer called him, Morrell has written numerous best-selling thrillers that include
His short stories have appeared in many of the major horror and fantasy anthologies and periodicals, including the
Two of his novellas received Bram Stoker Awards from the Horror Writers Association, while his non-supernatural horror novel
“A lot of my fiction deals with struggling to keep one’s identity,” observes Morrell, “about the fear of walking down the wrong corridor and entering the wrong room, only to discover a dangerously different version of reality. Often, these themes are dramatised against large landscapes.
“Years ago, reading a history book about the settlement of the American West, I learned that in spring, as the ground thawed, snakes sometimes fell from the sod roofs of farmhouses, landing inside, startling the inhabitants. That image stayed with me, insisting to be used in a story. The original text didn’t specify what kind of snakes, but I knew they needed to be rattlesnakes, and I knew they’d appear at the beginning of the story, the prelude to something worse that the story’s pioneer family would encounter. But what would that further horror be?
“As the decades passed, the answer kept eluding me until a recent December when a snow storm hit the New Mexico valley where I live. Normally, I see mountains in every direction. But on that blizzard-swept evening, visibility was reduced to almost nothing. With a fireplace crackling next to me, I peered out my living-room window. As dusk made the snowfall seem thicker, I suddenly saw quick movement outside, a fleeting shadow, then another and another. At once, the movement was gone.
“Perhaps I’d only imagined it. Even so, the experience unnerved me, and at that instant, a complex chain of association inspired me to imagine the further horror that my pioneer family – and especially a brave little girl – would face.”
PAPA WAS CLEVER. In the spring, when the sod roof thawed and the snakes fell through, he hooked blankets to the ceiling and caught them. Usually, they were bull snakes, but sometimes, they were rattlers. They sounded like somebody shaking a package of seeds. Papa said they were still sleepy from hibernating, which was why he wasn’t worried about going near them. He made a sack out of each blanket and carried their squirming weight to the far edge of the pasture, where he dumped them into our creek. The snowmelt from the mountains made the water high and swift and took them away. Just to be safe, papa warned us never to go downstream past where he dumped them. Mama wanted to kill them, but papa said they were too sleepy to mean us harm and we shouldn’t kill what we didn’t need to.
The snakes dropped from the ceiling because papa dug the back of the cabin into a slope. He piled the dirt over the sod on the roof beams. It kept us cool in the summer and warm in the winter, and shielded us from the wind that shrieked through the valley during bad weather. In time, grass grew up there, but while the dirt was soft, snakes burrowed into it. We always heard them moving before they fell, so we had warning, and it wasn’t many, and it was only for a few weeks in the spring.
Papa was so clever, he made the best soap in the valley. Everybody knew how to make the soft kind. Pour water over wood ashes to dissolve the potash in them. Strain the water through a layer of straw to get rid of dirt. Add the potash water to boiling animal fat. Let the two of them cool and use the scummy stuff at the top. That was the soap. But we had an outcrop of salt on our property, and papa experimented by adding salt to the boiling water and fat. When the mixture cooled, it got hard. Papa also put sand in his soap, and everybody thought that was his secret, but they could never get their soap hard because his real secret was the salt, and he made us promise not to tell.
We had ten chickens, a horse, a cow, a sheep, a dog, and a cat. The dog was a collie. It and the cat showed up a day apart. We never knew where they came from. We planted lettuce, peas, carrots, beans, potatoes, tomatoes, corn, and squash. We had to build a solid fence around the garden to keep rabbits away. But birds kept trying to eat the seed, so papa traded his hard soap for sheets and tented them over the ground. The birds got discouraged. The rabbits that kept trying, papa shot them. He said they needed to be killed to save the garden and besides they made a good stew.
We were never hungry. Papa dug a root cellar under the cabin. It kept the carrots, potatoes, and squash through the winter. Mama made preserves of the peas and beans, using wax to seal the lids the way papa showed her. We even had an old apple tree that was there when we came, and mama made the best pies, and we stored the apples, too. All of us worked. Papa showed us what to do.
Hot summer nights, while he and mama taught us how to read from the Bible, we sometimes heard them howling in the hills.
What do they look like? Daniel asked. Silly, I said. If only God can see them, how can anybody know what they look like? Well, a couple of times people have seen them, papa said. They’re brown. They’ve got pointy ears and black tips on their tails.
How big are they? Judith asked, snuggling in his arms. A little bigger than Chester, papa said. Chester was our dog. They weigh about thirty pounds, papa said. They look a little like a dog, but you can tell them from a dog because they run with their tails down while a dog runs with its tail
Sure sounds like
Were you scared? Daniel asked. Time for you to go to sleep, mama said. She gave papa a look. No, papa said, I wasn’t scared.
The harvest moon was full. They howled in the hills for several hours.
The next year, the rains held off. The other farmers lost their wells and had to move on. But the drainage from the snow in the mountains kept water in our creek, enough for the garden. The aspens on the slopes had it hard, though. They got so dry, lightning sparked fires. At night, parts of the hills shimmered. Smoke drifted into the valley. Judith had trouble breathing.
At last, we had a storm. God’s mercy, mama said, watching the rain chase the smoke and put out the flames in the hills. The morning after the first hard freeze, Daniel ran into the cabin. His face was white. Papa, come quick, he said.
Our sheep lay in the middle of the pasture. Its neck was torn. Its stomach was chewed. Blood and chunks of wool lay everywhere. The other animals shivered, keeping a distance.
I saw the veins in papa’s neck pulse as he stared toward the hills. At night, we’ll fence the cow and the horse next to the cabin, he said. There’s meat on the carcass. Ruth, he told me, get the axe and the knife. Daniel and I need to butcher the sheep. Get the shears, he told mama. We’ll take the wool that’s left.
The morning after that, papa made us stay inside while he went outside to check the rest of the animals. He was gone quite awhile. Mama kept walking to the only window we had. I heard papa digging. When he came back, his face looked tight. The chickens, he said. They’re all killed. He turned toward mama. Heads and feathers. Nothing else left. Not enough meat for you even to make soup from. I buried it all. What about eggs? mama asked. No, he said.
That night, papa loaded his rifle, put on his coat, and went out to the shed beside where the horse and cow were fenced.
By noon, it was colder. Clouds capped the mountains. Looks like an early winter, papa said. Thank God, mama said. As dry as it’s been, the mountains need moisture. The creek needs snowmelt, she said. At supper, we heard wood snapping outside, the horse whinnying. Papa dropped his fork and grabbed his rifle, which he hadn’t unloaded. Mama handed him a lantern. From the window, we watched his light jerk this way and that as papa rushed toward the corral next to the shed.
He kept running. He passed the fence. The light from the lantern got smaller until I couldn’t see it in the darkness. I listened to the wind. I flinched when I heard a shot. Then all I heard was the wind again. Snow was in the air. Mama whispered something as she stared through the window toward the night. I think she said, Please God. We waited. Ruth, get Daniel his coat and a lantern, mama told me. He needs to go out and see if papa wants help.
But Daniel didn’t need to. Look, Judith said, standing on tiptoes, pointing. Through the window, we saw a speck of light. It got bigger, moving with the wind and papa’s arm. Cold filled the room as he came in. Judith coughed. Papa locked the door and set down the lantern. Something scared the horse so bad it broke through the fence and tried to run off, he said. Tried? Daniel asked. Papa looked toward the window. Whatever scared the horse took it down. Didn’t get much to eat, though. When I shot, they ran into the dark.
They? I asked. No need to alarm the children, mama told him. But everybody has to know so you can all be careful, papa said. We’re already careful, mama said. Need to be even more, papa said.
Nobody moved. Judith, get the axe and the knife, papa told me. Daniel and I need to butcher the horse before they come back. Butcher? Judith said. We’re going to eat
With the dark around us, mama and I shivered and held lanterns that swung in the wind while papa and Daniel cut up the horse. Papa told us to keep staring toward the night, to watch in case
Look at the paw prints in the snow, Daniel said. I know, papa said. Not natural. I took my gaze away from the darkness and frowned at the prints. I’d never seen anything like them. They were like huge blobs of melted wax, none of them the same size, all big and grotesque and misshapen. Ruth, keep watching the night, papa warned me.
We put big chunks of horsemeat in burlap bags and carried them to the storage pit papa had dug next to the cabin. That’s where the meat from the sheep was. Papa set planks over the hole and put rocks on them. The cold will freeze the meat all winter, he said. At least, we won’t starve. But what about the cow? mama asked. We’ll put her in the shed at night, papa said.
In the cabin, we found Judith coughing in a chair by the fire. Even though the logs roared, she couldn’t get warm. Her face was red. Has anybody seen Chester? she asked. I thought a moment. I hadn’t seen the dog since the morning. And where’s the cat? Judith asked. I looked at the others, who frowned. Did they smell what was out there and run off? mama asked. They’d need to be awfully scared to do that, Daniel said. Maybe they didn’t run off, I thought.
Dawn was only a few hours away. The morning light was grey from the clouds and the blowing snow. As Judith coughed, I peered through the frosted window and saw papa step from the shed, which was large enough to hold him, the cow, and bales of alfalfa stacked at one end. He looked pale. Stiff. His shoulders were hunched. It was the first time I thought of him as old. He peered around, ready with his rifle. Then he motioned for me to come out and start my chores and milk the cow.
The day was busy as we raced against the night. Daniel went with papa to the woods at the edge of the valley, rigged ropes to logs, and dragged them back for more firewood. They had the rifle. I washed clothes and helped make mutton stew while mama used snow water for a sponge bath to try to lower Judith’s fever.
The only smoke in the valley is from our chimney, papa said when he and Daniel got back. Through the window, I saw it snowing again, flakes hitting the pane. Mama turned from wiping Judith’s brow. I guess more people moved on than we thought, she said. Maybe that’s why those things are coming here. After the drought and the fires, there’s no game in the mountains. And all the other farms are deserted, papa said. There’s no other livestock in the valley.
After supper, Daniel put on his coat. He took the rifle off the shelf. You spent the last two nights in the shed, papa. Tonight, it’s my turn.
Just before dawn, I jerked awake when I heard a shot.
I’m okay! Daniel yelled from the shed. The moon came out! I saw them coming! Five like you said! One was limping! Probably the one you shot, papa! I put a bullet into it! The others ran off!
In the morning, we all dressed warm, except for Judith, and went out to see what Daniel shot. The sky was cold blue. The sun glinted off the snow, making me squint. A breeze numbed my cheeks. We let the cow into the pen next to the shed and fed her. Then we walked a hundred yards, following more blobby, mis-shaped paw prints. We came to something in the snow. Fine shot, papa said. At night, with no sleep, at this distance. Daniel looked pleased. I had the moon to help me, but thank you, papa, he said.
The snow was red. The thing was brown with pointy ears and a black tip on its tail, just like papa described. Its sharp teeth were bared, as if it died snarling. The cold wind blew snow across the ground. Hard to tell, Daniel said, but that looks like a bullet wound in its right front leg. Probably
The reason it was hard to tell is that the animal had been chewed on. Its stomach was gnawed open. Its left flank was raw. Damned things ate one of their own, papa said. That’s how hungry they are, mama said. I didn’t know they got this big, papa said. It was five feet from the tip of its nose to the end of its tail. Must have bred with something else.
But the mutilation isn’t just from being eaten, Daniel said. What happened to its paws, its ears, and the snout? From the fires in the mountains, papa said. I couldn’t make myself look at it any longer. Its paws had awful scars as if a fire had melted the pads. Its fur was singed. Its ears had ragged edges. Its snout was deformed from having been burned. This one got trapped up there in the flames, papa said.
We turned toward the nearby hills. In daylight? papa asked. They’re howling in daylight? I never heard of that.
That night, as Judith coughed, I used the knife to scrape the last of the meat from the pelt. Then I stretched it on a frame, the way papa taught me, and put it just close enough to the fire so it would dry without shrinking. Mama gave Judith more of the bark tea. Daniel sharpened the knife and the axe. As their metal scraped on the stone, I went to the window and looked toward the lamplight in the shed, where papa guarded the cow.
Judith died in the night. She kept coughing, and her chest heaved, and she couldn’t catch her breath. Her cheeks were scarlet, but she kept fighting to breathe. Then her lips got blue, and her face, and after two hours, she died. Mama held her, sobbing. Daniel kept looking at the floor. I stood at the window and stared at the dark of the shed.
A shadow ran between the cabin and the shed. Another shadow, dark against the snow on the ground. The howls were very close. I heard a shot, but mama didn’t react. She just kept sobbing. I’m all right! Papa yelled. They’re running away! But just in case, don’t open the door!
Then the night was silent, except for a rising wind and mama’s sobbing. We need to tell papa, I said. When it’s light, Daniel said. It won’t help Judith if we bring him in now. Mama started murmuring, In the valley of the shadow. I went over and took her hand. I’m sorry, mama, I said. Her eyes were red. Fear no evil, she murmured, holding Judith.
When papa came in at dawn, he stopped in the doorway and knew immediately what had happened. His face looked heavy. He closed the door and crossed the room. He knelt in front of mama, who was still holding Judith. Lord, give us strength, he said. Through the window, I saw more tracks in the snow. Papa sobbed. I wanted him to know I was brave. I’ll do my chores, papa, I said. I’ll take care of the cow.
My coat barely kept me warm as I milked the cow, then fed her in the pen. I took a pitchfork to the manure in the shed, throwing it in a pile at the side of the pen. Four brown specks watched from the rim of a hill.
Mama dressed Judith in her best clothes, her “church clothes”, mama called them, although we hadn’t see a church in two years. Papa set Judith on the kitchen table. We took turns reading from the Bible. About Job and Lazarus and Jesus on Easter morning. Except mama. She sobbed and couldn’t bring herself to read. Then papa and Daniel put on their coats and went to the shed, where they got the shovel and the pickaxe. They spent the rest of the day digging. I was reminded of when they buried my other brother and sister when we lived in another valley. This grave was in a nice spot near the apple tree. Judith would like that. Judith loved apples. The ground was frozen hard, and Daniel and papa were soaked with sweat when they came back to the cabin.
Daniel spent the night in the shed with the cow. Papa and I stayed up with mama as she held Judith’s hand. We prayed more. Eternal life, papa said. I expected to hear them howling, but there wasn’t any sound, not even a wind. Daniel came in at dawn. I’ve never seen him look so exhausted. I went out and took care of the cow.
Then we said our last prayers. Judith’s face was grey now. She seemed a little swollen. Papa carried her outside into the cold. The rest of us followed. Mama sobbed as Daniel and I guided her. When papa set Judith into the ground, mama murmured, Not even a coffin. Don’t have the wood, papa said. She’ll be so cold, mama said.
Papa and Daniel took turns shoveling dirt. Mama couldn’t bear to look. I took her back to the cabin. Papa carried stones from a fence he was making and put them on the grave. Daniel went to the shed. I heard hammering, and Daniel came out with two branches nailed to form a cross. Papa pounded it into the ground.
Papa stayed in the shed that night. At dawn, we heard him wailing. Daniel and I ran to the window. No! papa screamed. He charged toward the apple tree. No! he kept screaming. Daniel and I raced out to see what was wrong. Dirt was scattered over the snow. Rocks were shoved aside. The grave was empty. Papa’s voice broke. Fell asleep! No! Didn’t mean to fall asleep!
Eternal life, mama said. I didn’t hear her come up behind us. She wasn’t wearing boots or a coat. Judith has risen, she said. A swath in the snow went across a field and into the woods. Monstrous paw prints were on each side. The sons of bitches dragged her that way, papa said. I never heard him speak that way before. Daniel hurried to the cabin to put on his coat. He and papa followed the tracks. Risen, mama said. I helped her back to the cabin. From the window, I saw papa and Daniel disappear into the woods.
It snowed again. I stood at the window, straining to see. I leaned against the wall and must have dozed. The gust woke me. The door was open. Snow blew in. Papa! I cried. Daniel! Thank God, you’re back! You had me so worried! But no one came in. The wind blew more snow. Mama? I swung toward the chair by the fire. The chair was empty. Mama! I rushed to the open door and saw footprints going away. I grabbed my coat and hurried outside. The snow filled the footprints. I tugged the door shut. The quickly vanishing footprints led me toward the apple tree. They went past the apple tree. Then I couldn’t see them any longer in the gusting snow. Mama! I screamed. But the wind shoved the word back into my mouth.
The snow swirled thicker. The air got darker. I stumbled forward but didn’t know which direction to take. Then I realised that I didn’t know how to go back even if I found her. I couldn’t see the cabin. My tracks were almost full. I followed them as best I could. The wind seemed to push me to the ground. I thought I saw a low moving shadow. I struggled to my feet and ran, only to bang into the corral near the shed. But I knew where I was now and stumbled forward, whispering Thank God when I bumped into the cabin. Inside, I sank to the ground before the fire.
I woke in the dark and heard them. I heard the cow panicking. Then the only sound was the wind. In the morning, there was two feet of snow. It took me a long time to stamp through it to get to the shed. Somehow they got the latch open. The cow was all over the inside. Mostly blood, hide, and bones. Hooves. The head. Its eyes were wide with shock. I saw where the tracks went off in the snow in single file. The first one made it easier for the second, and the second made it easier for the third and fourth. Oh, they’re smart, all right, papa had said.
They’ll eat mama next, I thought. They’re probably already eaten papa and Daniel. When there’s nothing else left in the valley, they’ll come for
I dug my way down through the snow to the boards across the storage pit. Unlike the rocks on Judith’s grave, the ones on the boards were still there, maybe because they were heavier. I pried two parcels of horsemeat from the frozen pile. The rest was stuck together so solid, I couldn’t get at the lamb meat under it. I stacked the parcels in a corner of the cabin. I planned to stuff myself on it before it rotted. I carried tools from the shed – the shovel, the pickaxe, the hammer, and the pitchfork. I spent the day bringing in wood. I kept looking over my shoulder as I split logs. My arms ached. Too soon, it was dark. I went in, cut away a slice of thawing meat, and cooked it over the fire. It was tough and bitter, but I didn’t care. I ate it in a frenzy and fell asleep.
In the night, I needed to relieve myself. I used a pail in a corner. In the morning, the smell was so bad that I wanted to carry the pail outside and dump it. But it stormed in the night, and now there was three feet of snow. I was only a foot taller. Besides, I knew it wasn’t safe to go out. There were animal tracks in the snow. Across from the cabin, eyes glared from the shed’s open door. I was forced to relieve myself in the pail again, and the stench got worse. I knew I wouldn’t be able to bear it for a whole winter.
What would papa do? I thought. I got the pickaxe, went to a corner, and chopped the dirt floor. I got the shovel and scooped out the dirt. I kept chopping and scooping. My arms ached worse. But eventually I had a hole deep enough. I dumped the pail of waste into it, covered the waste with dirt, and still had plenty of space to dump more.
I heard scratching on the other side of the wall. They must have heard me digging and burrowed down through the snow to the bottom of the wall. I put my ear against the logs. I heard them out there trying to dig under. But clever papa had built the wall with two logs below ground to guard against flooding. I listened to them working to claw through the frozen ground. But it was too deep. They clawed and clawed, and at last I no longer heard them.
Again it snowed. In the morning, the drifts were close to the window sill. Deformed paws scraped glass. One of the things stared through the window, its dark eyes, scarred ears, and teeth-bared, misshaped snout making me think of the devil. In a rush, I closed the inside shutter. I was frightened and sickened, yes, but I also closed the shutter because the thing was so smart I didn’t want it to see what I was doing. I went to the shelf where papa kept the box of poison he used on prairie dogs. We need to kill them so our animals don’t break a leg in one of their holes, he said. I cut off a slab of horse meat, sliced it open, filled the cavity with poison, and squeezed the meat together. As I went toward the door, I heard wood creaking above me. I saw that the beams were bent from the weight of the snow and dirt.
Need to be quick, I thought. While the thing scratched at the window, I went over to the door. I lifted the latch as quiet as could be. Then I said a prayer, jerked the door open, hurled the meat over the top of the snow, and slammed the door shut. Or tried to. Some of the snow fell, blocking the door. Panicking, I scooped frantically at the snow. I heard one of them straining to run through the drifts toward the open door. My heart beat so fast, I thought I’d be sick as I scooped the rest of the snow away and slammed the door. Something banged against the top and growled.
I trembled. Then I opened the shutter. Sunlight off snow almost blinded me as I saw three of them fighting over the meat. They had burn scars all over them. One didn’t have a tail. Another didn’t have lips on the left side of its jaw. The fourth, the biggest, was the most deformed of them all. Its scars made it seem it had huge warts all over its snout. It glared from the door to the shed. When it snarled, the others stopped fighting and turned to it. With another snarl, it moved forward, its mashed paws finding purchase in the snow. It sniffed the meat and growled for the others to leave the meat alone. Two stepped back. But the one without a tail took its chance, bit into the slab, and ran off. At a distance, it gobbled the meat and sat contentedly. In a while, it squirmed. In a while longer, it writhed, vomited blood, and died. This took a long time.
Gathering clouds brought darkness swiftly. As snowy wind shrieked past the cabin, I cooked horsemeat, but not before I used papa’s soap to wash my hands. Make yourself clean, he often said. It’s the difference between us and animals. I pushed the blanket from the wall at the back of the cabin and went down the sloped floor to the root cellar, from where I brought back potatoes and carrots. I set them on a clean spot next to the fire. I listened to the shriek of the wind and the creak of the roof beams.
After a while, I had an idea. I filled a lantern with coal oil and lit it. Certain that the storm was too fierce for the things to be prowling out there, I went to the door. I had a moment’s doubt. Then I knew that papa would be proud of me for being so clever. Breathing quickly, I put on my coat, opened the door, closed it behind me, and crawled up through the snow to the top of the drift. The wind was so cold, it made my face feel burned. Shielding the lantern, I squirmed through the gusts. When I saw the dark outline of the shed, I hurled the lantern through the front door and raced toward the cabin. Glass broke. Behind me, flames whooshed as I slid down the trough I had made. I fumbled at the latch, shoved the door open, kicked fallen snow away, and slammed the door.
Outside, one of them wailed. So numb I didn’t feel the cabin’s warmth, I ran to the shutter, opened it, and saw the fiery shed. A thing raced from the door, its fur ablaze. Yelping in agony, it fled into the darkness. The flames on it got smaller in the distance as it raced away. The alfalfa in the shed ignited. The fire grew larger, the shed’s walls and roof collapsing, sparks erupting. Soon, the wind and the snow killed the blaze. I closed the shutter and went to the fireplace, where I discovered the potatoes and carrots were getting soft. The horsemeat tasted better as I got used to it. I dozed on a blanket near the hearth. Sometimes, the creak of the roof beams wakened me.
Then silence wakened me. I raised my head and saw cracks of sunlight through the boards of the shutter. It was the first quiet morning in several days. I went to the pit in the corner, relieved myself, shoveled dirt down, and washed my hands with papa’s soap. I nibbled on a piece of leftover potato, the skin crusty, the silence encouraging me that the fire had killed the remaining three. I went to the shutter, swung it open, and one of them charged through the window. The crash of glass, the rage in its eyes made me scream and stumble away, knocking against the table. The force of its attack carried it two-thirds through the window. Spit flying, it dangled, thrusting with its paws to get all the way through, and suddenly yelped, blood spurting, a shard of glass in its stomach holding it in place.
It squirmed, determined to reach me, the hate on its face giving it strength. Its snout had fresh blisters and burns. I grabbed the pitchfork. As the thing broke free from the window, landing on the floor, I charged with the pitchfork. A tine caught its throat. But the thing was as big as I was. Wrenching free, it snarled and lunged. I stabbed with the pitchfork, piercing one of its eyes. Twisting away, leaving a trail of blood, it braced itself, leapt, and caught the pitchfork straight in its chest. The force against the pitchfork’s handle knocked me down. The handle twisted this way and that as the thing snarled and writhed and bled.
A noise brought me to my feet. I staggered and barely reached the shutter in time to slam it shut before something crashed against it, almost breaking the shutter’s hinges. The thing out there growled like the devil’s creature it was. Hearing a scrape behind me, I turned and saw the thing on the floor struggling to stand despite the pitchfork in it. I stepped back as it tried to crawl. Its eyes were red with fury, dimming, going blank. I vomited.
For a time, I didn’t move. Then I went to the water pail, where I rinsed my mouth, spat into the fireplace, and drank. The water soothed my throat which was raw from screaming. Four dead, I thought. But I knew the last one was the smartest, and I decided it didn’t want me only for food now. I’d killed its companions. I’d destroyed its den. It hated me.
Without shelter, it’ll freeze out there, I thought. I seemed to hear papa say, No. It’ll dig a cave in the snow.
But if I don’t go out again, it’ll need to move somewhere else to find food, I thought. Again, I heard papa say, The stench of the decaying carcass will poison you. You’ll need to open the shutter to breathe. It’ll charge in.
No, I told papa. I can stand anything. The shutter stays closed.
I cooked more horsemeat. It tasted delicious. As shadows gathered beyond the cracks in the shutter, I decided that the thing on the floor was truly dead. I lit the lantern on the table, edged toward the carcass, and tugged the pitchfork from its chest.
The roof creaked. Be clever, I heard papa say. I pushed away the rug on the wall and hurried to take the axe and the knife down the ramp to the root cellar. I carried down a pail of water. I rushed back to get the lamp and the rest of the tools, but I never got that far. With a massive
For a moment, colors swirled inside my mind. Then my vision cleared, and I saw that the top of the ramp was almost entirely blocked by wood, dirt, and snow. Dust made me cough, but as it settled, I saw a gap behind which flames rose. The collapsed roof had knocked the lamp over. The table was on fire.
The flames will suck the air from the cellar, I thought. I climbed to the top. Because the shovel was still in the cabin, I had to use my hands to push dirt into the gap. As the space got small, I saw the flames grow brighter. Smoke filled the opening. Frantic, I pushed dirt until the space was closed. Surrounded by darkness, I retreated to the bottom, sat, and tried to calm myself. My breathing echoed. I shivered.
Hunger woke me. I had no way of telling how long I’d slept. I was slumped against potatoes. My back ached. The cellar, which was about five feet wide and high had wood across the top to keep earth from falling. It smelled damp and like rotted leaves. Darkness continued to surround me. My hunger insisted. Papa used to say that raw carrots were bad for digestion. But it was either them or raw potatoes or squash, so after waiting as long as I could, I felt for a carrot and bit into it, its hardness making my teeth hurt. I didn’t choose the apples because they felt soft and wormy. I was afraid they would give me the runs. Continuing to shiver, I chewed until the piece of carrot was mush in my mouth. Only then did I swallow. I did that for a long time, hoping I wouldn’t get sick.
I tried to count the passing seconds, but my mind drifted in the stale air. For all I knew, it was now day outside. I needed to relieve myself but forced myself to wait. Finally, I crawled up the ramp. About to dig through the blockade of dirt and snow, I heard noises beyond it. Where the gap had been, dirt began to shift. Stomach tightening, I backed away.
At once, I saw a speck of daylight. A snout poked through, clustered with whorls and outcrops of scars and blisters. The thing growled. As the light widened and the head thrust into view, its ears merely nubs, I grabbed a potato, hurling it as hard as I could. It thudded off the creature’s snout. I threw a second potato and heard a snarl. The creature clawed to widen the hole, shoving its neck through as I grabbed the pail of water and threw its contents. Water splashed over the raging head but made no difference. Its eyes burned. I banged the empty pail against the head, but the creature was halfway through. The handle on the pail broke. The creature’s hind legs were almost free. I raised the axe but didn’t have room to swing, so I jabbed, but the thing kept coming, and abruptly it wailed.
It snapped its head to the side, staring wildly behind it. Its wail became a savage yelp as it whirled and bit at something. The fierce motion widened the hole, allowing it to turn and bite harder. Daylight blazed in. I heard a noise like someone shaking a package of seeds. As the creature spun, the snake came into view, flopping like a whip, rattling, its fangs buried in the creature’s haunch. The snake must have fallen when the roof collapsed. The heat of the fire wakened it. It kept its fangs sunk in as the creature whirled and yelped. The poison made the creature falter. Breathing heavily, it steadied itself, as if it knew it was dying and had to concentrate on unfinished business. It took a step toward me. It opened its mouth to bite. I shoved the axe handle between its jaws and leaned forward, thrusting the handle down its throat.
Choking, the creature thrashed. I struggled with the axe, pressing harder, feeling vibrations through the handle. Gagging, the thing frothed, wavered, slumped, trembled, and after a while lay still. Only then did the snake stop rattling. It released its fangs and dropped to the ground. Papa said, Its poison sacks are empty. For a while, it can’t hurt you. But I didn’t believe papa. As the snake slithered down the ramp, I pressed against the wall, trying to keep a distance. The snake crawled over the pile of squash and disappeared behind it.
I edged around the carcass, fearing that any moment it would spring to life. The cold air smelled sweet. Wary of other snakes, I stood among the dirt and snow and surveyed the wreckage. Clouds hovered. Knowing I needed shelter before the next storm, I saw that beams had fallen on an angle in front of the fireplace, forming a kind of lean-to. I found the pelt that papa had cut from the creature he and Daniel shot. I secured the pelt over a hole between beams. I tugged down the scorched blanket from the entrance to the root cellar and hooked it over another hole between beams. I found other blankets and did more of the same.
But there were still holes, and the blankets wouldn’t keep moisture out, so I clenched my teeth, went into the root cellar, found the knife, and skinned the creature. Damn you, I said all the time I cut away its pelt. I stuck it over other holes between beams. Then I skinned the carcass of the thing that had come through the window, and I crammed that pelt between beams. In time, I would look for the creature I had poisoned and use
As the snow thickened, I went down to the root cellar and carried as many potatoes and carrots as I could, all the time keeping a wary eye on the pile of squash. While a potato cooked next to the fire, I bit a chunk from a carrot. Papa was wrong that uncooked carrots would make me sick. Maybe papa was wrong about a lot of things. Darkness settled, but despite the falling snow, my shelter felt secure. Tomorrow, I planned to make it stronger. I chewed another carrot and watched the potato sizzle. I thought about papa, about the many valleys in which we lived and how he was never satisfied and we always had to move past every town. I thought of the brother and sister who were buried in one of those valleys. I thought about the bark tea papa gave Judith for her fever. Papa always told us how clever he was, but maybe he didn’t know as much as he thought about bark, and it made her sicker. Maybe papa wasn’t so clever when he and Daniel chased after the things that took Judith. Maybe he should have kept control and stayed home and mama wouldn’t be dead and he and Daniel wouldn’t be dead.
I think about that a lot. I sit in this tiny room and listen to motor cars rattling by outside. Eighty-eight years is a long time to remember back. You ask me what it was like living in the valley when I was twelve. The old days as you call them. For me, the young days, although I was never really young. Streets and houses and schools and churches are now where our farm was, where everyone died, where I spent the winter eating carrots, potatoes, and horsemeat. But never the squash. I never went near the squash. Damned stupid papa.
F. GWYNPLAINE MACINTYRE
The Clockwork Horror
F. GWYNPLAINE MACINTYRE IS A NATIVE of Perthshire, Scotland, but spent his formative years in the Outback as one of the thousands of “child migrants” who were expatriated from post-war Britain to rural Australia. He now divides his time between homes in New York City and in Gwynedd, North Wales.
Macintyre is the author of several novels (some of them published under pseudonyms) and dozens of science fiction, horror and mystery stories published in British and American periodicals. An artist as well as an author, he has illustrated number of his own works as well as some of Ron Goulart’s stories in
He is currently working on the illustrations for his next science fiction novel, which has the intriguing title
Although “The Clockwork Horror” is fiction, in writing the story Macintyre made a genuine addition to the known facts of the life of Edgar Allan Poe, as he reveals: “In 1836, while editing the
“In his essay, Poe used observation and deduction to build a convincing case that the Automaton was a hoax, containing a human chess-player. Oddly, Poe’s essay does not reveal precisely when and where he witnessed the performance of Maelzel’s Automaton. His 1836 essay merely states that the machine was exhibited in Richmond ‘a few weeks ago’, giving neither a precise date nor an address for the exhibition.
“When I started the research for this story, I was astounded to discover that no existing biography of Edgar Allan Poe gave a date or a location for Poe’s encounter with Maelzel’s Automaton. Determined to solve this mystery, I went to Virginia in search of further clues. In the archives of the
“I also tracked down advertisements for Maelzel’s touring exhibition, verifying that the Chess-Player was exhibited in Richmond’s city museum from December 15th, 1835 through January 2nd, 1836. Somewhere within those eighteen days, the real Edgar Allan Poe encountered the authentic (fake) Automaton . . . although presumably not with the same results described in the story!”
JANUARY 6TH, 1836
RICHMOND! Unholy citadel, which both condemns me and exalts me! Grotesque city of the perverse, where black men’s bodies are sold at auction in Capitol Square, and white men’s souls are flung into the gutter. I am fettered to this Richmond: its destiny is enchained with my own, and both our fates are inescapable.
As my name opens no doors and purchases no ease, I render it for your inspection. I am Edgar A. Poe, latterly a native of Richmond, now returned once more within this city’s gates. True! I was not born here, and I have been known to call myself a Bostonian. Yet it is Richmond, the resplendent carbuncle on Virginia’s hindquarters, that holds the mortgage to my flesh. The city of Richmond holds the pawnbroker’s ticket upon which I have pledged my immortal soul . . . and I no longer dare to hope that this pledge may be redeemed.
My mother was English by birth, and my father a Baltimore scoundrel: Richmond held no claim upon the one nor the other. Still, it was Richmond where my parents conjoined in holy wedlock, although my father clearly saw fit not to honour the nuptial vows. My sainted mother was the ingenue Elizabeth Arnold. My alleged father was David Poe: son of the war hero General Poe who was quartermaster to Lafayette in the late War of Independence. Improvident actors, my mother and father were “starring” respectively as the heroine Sophia Woodbine and the scapegrace Villars in “The Blind Bargain” at the Haymarket Theatre, here in Richmond. I will show you their notices, if you like. The Easter weekend is always a slow season for actors, so between engagements – on Easter Monday, the seventh of April, 1806 – my father and mother got married in a Clay Street lodging-house.
My parents found no outlet for their thespian endeavours in Richmond, so they soon joined Alexander Placide’s touring company in Boston, where I had the dubious privilege to be born. My actress mother was renowned for her talent and beauty. My father, aggrieved that his own theatrick talents were vastily inferior, abandoned us in the spring of 1811, during a repertory season in Philadelphia. Finding no compassion there, my mother returned with me to Virginia’s capital, where she briefly won acclaim at the Richmond Theatre on Shockoe Hill at East Broad Street . . . in a tragedian role as Angela in “The Castle Spectre”, dancing a hornpipe while disguised as a boy in “The Curfew”, and displaying her musical skills as the ingenue Letitia Hardy in “The Belle’s Stratagem”.
Richmond murdered my mother. As she became too ill to travel with the departing troupe of actors, my mother Elizabeth Poe gained some meagre employment in the old Indian Queen tavern, at the northwest corner of Ninth and Grace Streets, engaged as the assistant to a Scots-born milliner. It was in this tavern’s cellar that my mother squandered her eyesight, stitching together the piecework of ladies’ shovel-bonnets by candelight. When I was scantly two years old – on Sunday morning, the eighth of December 1811 – my half-blind mother was carried off by an infectious fever, in the milliner’s room.
Yet this dark city was not finished with me. My godparents, John and Frances Allan, took me into their home in Richmond, in rooms at Thirteenth and East Main Streets, abovestairs from the counting-house of my foster father’s business: the merchant firm Ellis & Allan. My mother, meantime, was buried nearby, in an unmarked grave in the eastern section of St John’s Episcopal churchyard. It was in this very church that Patrick Henry uttered his famous words – “Give me liberty, or give me death!” – while neglecting to mention that he was a slaveholder. I have visited this churchyard often, yet I cannot know the sure location of my mother’s grave.
Richmond baptised me. Three days after my mother’s demise, with my own beliefs never consulted, I was conscripted into the Protestant faith in the Richmond home of Mr and Mrs John Richard. On this same day, rumours arrived of my father’s death in Baltimore.
By long tradition, the night after Christmas is when theatres are most profusely attended. Eighteen nights after my mother’s death – December twenty-sixth, 1811 – the Richmond Theatre was utterly destroyed in a fire of unexplained source, while an audience of six hundred souls beheld Placide & Green’s tragedians in a performance of “The Bleeding Nun”. Seventy-three persons died, including Virginia’s governor. The scene of my mother’s greatest triumphs was burnt to ashes.
Richmond was the place of my breeching: I refer to the ritual transition of early boyhood, when a lad is deemed at last mature enough to exchange his childish skirts for honest trousers. In the inexorable torrent of my helpless boyhood years, my adoptive parents the Allans compelled me to attend services with them at Monumental Church. By a perverse whim of the fates, this church had been erected on the very site of the burning ruins of the Richmond Theatre. Where the stage had once been consecrated to the gods of drama, now stood an altar. Where bright lamps illumined in calcium carbonate gleamings had once served as footlights, now the guttering tongues of candelabra stood sentry-post. Oh! Sacred reader! I implore you to imagine the stark outline of my thoughts in 1815, as a sensitive lad of six years, huddled in Pew #80 of the Monumental Church, and aware that on this same spot – adjacent in space, separated in time – my mother had once danced upon the stage, singing her popular tune “Nobody Coming to Marry Me”, scarcely a month before her tragic demise.
An exact
Richmond clutches to me still, like a suckling leech that will not relinquish its prey. I have lived elsewhere – Baltimore, West Point, South Carolina, even London – yet it is incessantly to Richmond that my blood returns, drawing me along as if by Mesmer’s animal magnetism.
In 1824 – when I was fifteen years of age – my paternal grandfather’s distinguished war record fetched me a place in the junior Morgan Riflemen, where I served as a member of the honour guard at Richmond’s Capitol Square, during the grand reception for the triumphal return of the Marquis de Lafayette. That noble Frenchman shook my hand before the vast assemblage, and in the presence of the throng he praised my grandfather whom I had never known: the war hero whose son was my cowardly father, the scoundrel who abandoned my mother.
I deem, then, that my credentials as a resident of Richmond are satisfactory. This city and I are in each other’s pocket. If I unbosom myself in these pages, it is Richmond’s dark soul as well as my own that gains the shrift of my confession.
Last summer, at twenty-six years of age and unable to sustain my mortal needs by the craft of my pen and inkwell, I took employment in a brickyard in West Fayette Street in Baltimore, at the firm of the partners Merryman & Young – although neither partner was a merry man, and most assuredly neither was young. During my unsupervised hours at the brickyard, while my employers thought me engaged in the urgent task of distinguishing one brick from another, I discreetly penned several poems and trifles which Mr Thomas Willis White of Richmond saw fit to publish in his
Now the Automaton arrives. On a recent Tuesday morning – December 15, 1835 – I was at my editorial desk, reloading my inkwell for a fresh assault upon the barbarian squadrons, when Mr White came to my stool with that day’s edition of the
In the extreme lower corner of the leftmost column of the front page, I discerned this tiny “squib” advertisement:MAELZEL’S CONFLAGRATION OF MOSCOW, &c., – Now exhibiting at the Museum. – Exhibition every evening. Doors open at a quarter before 7 o’clock. Exhibition to commence at half past seven o’clock precisely.
And so forth. “Might be a few agate lines’ worth of story here, Eddy,” said White. “Saddle up Shank’s mare this evening, and go fetch a look.”
The Museum of Richmond stands at Franklin and Eighteenth Streets. I arrived promptly that evening, just lacking the quarter-hour of seven. The price of admission was fifty cents: one-twentieth of my weekly stipend at the
The museum is gas-fitted, so the rooms were well-lighted. Most of the permanent exhibits are devoted to Richmond’s history, especially this city’s ordeals in the two British wars. In a glass bell-jar, a ragged headdress of turkey-cock’s feathers summarised the advanced civilisation of Virginia’s aboriginal inhabitants. A few keepsakes of Europe, China, and the slave-coast of Dahomey are exhibited as well.
The momentary chief attraction proved to be a sequence of tableaux and dioramas, crafted by one Johann Nepomuk Maelzel of Vienna, and now touring America. These images depicted the bloodied events of September 1812, when Russia’s capital city was put to the firebrands to thwart its capture by Bonaparte’s advancing legions. The singular architecturings of Moscow – Saint Basil’s Cathedral, and so forth – were displayed here in exquisite miniature.
The front seats of the Museum’s auditorium were reserved for children and their wet-nurses, although I have no notion as to why suckling babes would show interest in the atrocities of Bonaparte’s hordes. I took care to seat myself out of pabulum’s range, in the third row. A sheet of linen, as white and blank as foolscap, had been stretched upon the rear wall.
From behind a claret-coloured velvet curtain, Professor Maelzel stepped forth. He bowed, introducing himself to our assemblage and proclaiming his credentials. Speaking in stiff Teutonic accents, he announced himself as the inventor of the metronome and the panharmonicon, and vouched that he had been Beethoven’s teacher. Now there was a strong odour of the new-fashioned paraffin oil, as one of the professor’s attendants lighted a magic-lantern. The gas-jets were snuffed, and then the evening’s revels commenced.
The audience gasped in astonishment as the room erupted in flames. Then, of a sudden, their cries transmuted into applause as it was discerned that this was a conjuror’s illusion. By some ingenious means of projecting and amplification, Professor Maelzel had enlarged the image of a single candle-flame, and was projecting this upon the white screen confronting us. A further stage-effect made it appear that these flames were
In the darkness, a sound:
In the flame-lit auditorium around me, the good citizens of Richmond applauded Moscow’s death . . . for one city’s tragedy is ever another city’s entertainment.
In the seat at my left-hand side, a waistcoated gentleman nudged me. “This isn’t in it, you know,” he declared. “I’ve only come for the afterpiece, but that’s a better show than this. Maelzel’s brought his Chess-Player.”
As the gentleman pronounced this phrase, it seemed to be typeset with its own capitalisations in the boldface font of his voice: MAELZEL’S CHESS-PLAYER. I nodded my comprehension. “A chess-master, you mean?” I asked.
“Well . . . some say it, and others suspect as much. Stay after with me, and see it yourself.”
By now the principal audience had begun to disperse, for the burning of Moscow was completed. All the peasants had been slaughtered, and – as there would be no further atrocities – the entertainment was ended. A few
The thing was set on wheels, and these of such a height that a gap of several inches transpired between the auditorium’s floor and the underside of the box. The box itself was carpentered of dark wood, three feet six inches in length, two feet four inches in depth, and two feet six inches in height. I will lay wager to those admeasurements. To be sure of them, I visually compared the proportions of the oblong box against the breadth and height of one of Maelzel’s attendants. Afterwards, I took care to pass closely by this man, comparing his stature to my own. I am five feet eight inches tall – my height has not changed since my West Point days – and so by this ruse I divined the oblong box’s dimensions. In the front of the cabinet were four cupboard panels with brass fittings: three tall vertical doors, and a long horizontal drawer beneath.
The peculiar feature of the oblong box was a large excrescence of irregular shape, rising from the cabinet’s rear portion. I could not discern this thing properly, for it was draped in a shroud of red sailcloth.
Professor Maelzel greeted the surviving remnants of the audience, and thanked us for awaiting the afterpiece. “Before we inspect the Chess-Player,” he said, “let us consider its cabinet.” He rapped the top and sides of the oblong box, proclaiming these to be made of stoutest maple. By their soundings, I believed him.
A liveried attendant brought forth a small table, placing this between the cabinet and the audience, and to one side. A single candlestick was placed on this. A second attendant was affixing six more candlesticks to the top of the Chess-Player’s cabinet: three either side, with an unlighted beeswax candle in each.
“Behold the Automaton,” said Herr Professor Maelzel. With a flourish, he whisked away the shroud.
Once more, the audience gasped. Seated on the rear portion of the oblong box was a replica of a man. This was garbed in the likeness of a Turk, sitting cross-legged, with a large turban atop his counterfeit head, and a high plume rising from the turban. The turban and plume made it difficult – intentionally, I suspect – to reckon the figure’s height, but my previous stratagem made clear that the Automaton was slightly larger than a typical man. The counterfeit Turk was dressed in a long coat of unknown cloth, in Oriental design. At its waist was a
The Automaton’s gloved hands were extended. The left hand brandished a long Turkish smoking-pipe. On the topmost surface of the cabinet was a chessboard.
Two attendants seized the upper corners of the cabinet, and trundled it around so that the audience could view its hindquarters. The rear side of the Turk was somewhat more crudely fashioned than the front portions. The cabinet’s wheels, I repeat, were of sufficient diameter to raise the cabinet well clear of the floor, so there could be no suspicion of any human confederate entering or leaving the Automaton’s box by means of a trap-door underneath.
“There is naturally much curiosity,” said Herr Maelzel, “as to the clockwork mechanisms of the Automaton. These were crafted by Baron von Kempelen of Presbourg in 1769, and I have improved their design.” By now the cabinet had completed its ambulation, and once more the Turk confronted the audience. “It will be observed,” Maelzel resumed, “that both the cabinet, and the Automaton itself, are entirely filled with clockworks.”
From his swallow-tail coat, Maelzel took a ring of keys. As an attendant lighted a taper, Maelzel with much ceremony unlocked the leftmost of the cupboard’s three doors. He opened this fully. In the gaslight, and by the dint of one small candle, I beheld a mass of gears, pinions, levers and half-seen enginery. Leaving the cupboard door open, Maelzel went to the cabinet’s rear and unlocked another panel. Stooping, he held the burning candle behind the unlocked panel, so that its glowing flame penetrated entirely through the cupboard’s interior to the seated audience in front. Holding the candle quite near, Maelzel reached with his other hand into the cabinet and gripped one of the levers. He worked this back and forth, all the while propounding a lecture upon the history of the Automaton. The shifting lever in its turn rotated gears, which moved wheels, which turned pinions. I heard a clacketing noise, as the gears engaged at their tasks. I observed that the space between these mechanisms was too small to admit of any occupant much larger than a well-nourished rat.
Maelzel closed the rear panel, locked it, and came back to the front with his candle. The leftmost cupboard door beneath the Automaton was still wide open. Now Maelzel unlocked the long slender drawer at the base of the cabinet. Two attendants flung this drawer open to its full length. Within the drawer were a small green cushion, one chessboard, and four sets of chessmen: two white sets, two black. These were fixed in a framework to support them perpendicularly. I could not anticipate why so many chessmen were required for a single game.
As Maelzel continued his lecture, he gently placed the cushion beneath the left-hand elbow of the Automaton. At the same time, he removed the long tobacco-pipe from the Automaton’s left hand, and placed this pipe carefully in the drawer beneath the cabinet. “Is there any lady or gentleman here,” Maelzel asked, “who is a superlative player of chess?”
I made ready to volunteer, but the waistcoated gentleman anticipated me. “I am Mr Clarence Hall, proprietor of the Barque bookshop in Grace Street,” he announced. “I am known throughout Virginia as an honest man and a tolerable chess-gamer. Perhaps I will serve.” As he spoke, Mr Hall indicated a trinket on his watch-fob: the sign of the Freemason’s compass. “There is a term, long used in the Masonic craft, which I have lately heard applied to chess-players of superior skill,” Mr. Hall resumed. “Some of my opponents are pleased to call me a
Surely, in any chess-match, the two antagonists ought to sit at the same board?
The leftmost of the three cupboard doors beneath the Automaton was still wide open. Maelzel now unlocked its two brethren, throwing these wide as well. The rightmost and the central door opened into a single compartment. This contained no enginery at all, save for two steel quadrants of uncertain utility. Beneath these, in the floor of the cabinet, was a pedestal about eight inches square, and covered in dark cloth. Such a pedestal might have served as an admirable stool for a human tenant. I could see no reason for its presence in a clockwork mechanism.
Maelzel’s attendants now whirled the Automaton around once more, so that again its rear portions were afforded to us. All three of the front cupboard doors were still open. Maelzel unlocked another panel at the rear – not the one he had previously opened, which was now locked – and again we had a view of unknown gears and pinions. Again, the business with the candle was repeated, so that the light of the flame pierced the entire cabinet from front to back – or the other way, as the cabinet was now reversed – and again the light of the candle gave token that there was no hiding-space within for even a modest homunculus.
The wooden figure of the Turk was slightly larger than man-sized. Maelzel now lifted the Turk’s coat, to reveal the replication’s nether portions. A door about ten inches square was in the loins of the figure, and a smaller door in the left thigh. I perceived that the Turk’s cummerbund was not genuine, for it did not truly encircle the Automaton’s waist in the manner of such garments. The edges of the sash terminated at either side of the figure, so that the Turk’s cummerbund was merely a false ornamentation on the front half of the likeness.
Unlocking and opening the doors within the Automaton, Professor Maelzel permitted the spectators to view what lurked within. I beheld a network of cogs, mainsprings, and enginery: all dormant and still. Maelzel rapped the upper portions of the figure, producing a solid heavy sounding with no rumours of hollowness.
Maelzel now closed and locked all the apertures, and the cabinet was trundled once more to its previous position, with the eyes of the Turk gazing outward, confronting the spectators. An attendant had set up the remaining chessmen on the board in front of the cross-legged Turk, with the black pieces facing the Automaton.
I have mentioned six candles upon the Automaton’s board. These a footman now hastened to light, with a taper. No two of these six candles were of a like height. They varied in stature by as much as twelve inches. This is unremarkable, as candles consume their wax at differing rates, and so dwindle unequally. I assumed that, in pursuit of thrift, Herr Maelzel would save the stubs of candles previously lighted, and make use of them again until their wicks were spent.
With another flourish, Maelzel inserted one of his keys into an aperture in the left side of the cabinet: the Automaton’s right side. I heard the snicketing sound of a mainspring winding taut within the clockwork engine.
Professor Maelzel withdrew the key, and bowed: “Let the chess-match begin.”
Mr Hall, playing white, made the first move: a simple pawn’s gambit. He was seated in profile, so that the spectators had a fair view of both the white and black positions at his chessboard. Professor Maelzel thanked him, then strode to the cabinet of the Automaton. Swiftly, Maelzel grasped the corresponding white pawn on the Automaton’s chessboard, and copied Hall’s move.
I saw no profit in this duplication. Surely it made more thrift for the machine and its antagonist to do battle across opposite ranks of the same chessboard. True, by seating Mr Hall to one side, Maelzel assured the spectators an unchallenged view of the Automaton and its chess pieces. And yet – by means of mirrors, during his makeshift conflagration of Moscow – Maelzel had already displayed his ingenuity in amplifying and translocating flames so that they burnt at one position in space while being perceived entirely elsewhere. Could not a man of such genius likewise project his Automaton’s progress so that the chess-match was visible from all quarters of the room?
As I thought of this, there was a sharp intake of breath from several spectators.
The Automaton raised its left arm. The limb moved upward, forward, downward, jerking in stiff right-angled gesticulations. The Automaton’s head moved slightly, the plumed turban shifting. The eyes rolled, in grotesque parody of human eyes.
The Automaton’s hand lifted the black queen’s pawn, advanced it slightly, and set it down in the square of the fourth rank. Then, releasing its prize, the Automaton’s arm reversed its movements precisely, once more resting its elbow on the cushion.
Maelzel declaimed to the assemblage this movement of the queen’s pawn, while he crossed to Mr Hall’s board and advanced a black chessman in like fashion.
So the chess-match proceeded, each antagonist’s move in duplicate.
The match, in fine, was a superior one: Mr Hall was an excellent gamer, yet the Automaton surpassed him. Several white chessmen were rapidly captured. The Automaton achieved this by lowering a black piece into the square already occupied by a white piece, clumsily knocking it askew. An attendant confiscated the taken piece. On the rarer occasions when Mr Hall captured a black piece, Maelzel removed its counterpart from the Automaton’s display.
There was silence in the hall, utmost silence, as the game was prosecuted: this stillness being broken only by the audience’s occasional cries of admiration at a clever gambit, or dismay at an ill-chosen manoeuvre.
The turbaned head of the Automaton shifted at intervals, yet these movements appeared to be random. More disconcerting were the mechanical eyes. The Turk was just above man-sized, and his eyes were slightly enlarged beyond that proportion, so they were perhaps twice as large as a living man’s organs of sight. They appeared to be sightless, and ornamental, for the eyes of the Automaton never once bent towards the chessboard. Yet they moved. The eyelids blinked, the eyes shifted sidelong as if weighted with the guilt of unknown crimes. At the eleventh move, when Mr Hall made an especially maladroit gambit, the Automaton’s eyes positively rolled in their sockets, arousing laughter from the spectators.
On the thirteenth move, the Automaton responded to Mr Hall’s
“
Several spectators gasped as the machine spoke. I was less impressed. It is easy enough, by means of bellows, to equip a mechanism so as to voice a bird’s call or a spoken word. One is put in mind of cuckoo-clocks. Indeed, the
I arose from my chair, and stepped into the avenue between the seats.
“I have unriddled this mystery,” I said loudly. “The game is over, and it ends in a fool’s mate. Maelzel’s Automaton is a fraud.”
There was a huzzbuzz, as the heads of spectators turned to confront my intrusion. Even the blind eyes of the Automaton seemed to swivel in their sockets, to behold me.
Herr Maelzel gestured for silence. “Who are you, sir?” he asked me.
“I am Edgar Poe, chief reviewer for the
“I do not know you, Mr Poe,” ventured Maelzel.
“The Automaton is a fraud whether you know me or not,” I went on. “Five months ago, I might have hailed your clockwork Chess-Player as the greatest hoax of the century. But you have been outdistanced and out-hoaxed this past August by the
The spectators’ murmuring grew louder.
“Those gears were only stage-props,” I continued, “to persuade us that the Automaton’s cabinet is entirely filled with machinery, leaving no space for a man,. Yet why is Mr Hall obliged to distance himself from his opponent the Automaton, with the nuisance of two separate chessboards for a single game? The answer: if the Chess-Player’s antagonist were to sit nearer the board, he would hear
The murmuring loudened, and some of the spectators began drumming their feet against the floorboards.
“Furthermore, look to the candles,” I spoke. “One candle gives sufficient light for Mr Hall to distinguish his chessmen. The Automaton’s eyes are sightless and ornamental, needing no light whatever . . . yet Herr Maelzel has set
I heard the shifting of chairs in the rows behind me, as several spectators now stood, to have a better vantage of the Automaton.
I gestured for silence. “Pray compare the six candles at the Automaton’s chessboard. The four candles farthest from the Automaton burn steadily. There is no draught in this room. Yet the two candle-flames nearest the Turk are seen to flicker, as if caught in a current of air that oscillates back and forth. Only one manner of air current moves back and forth steadily: that of
By now, the spectators were demanding a chance to open the Automaton’s casing. Once more, I bade them remain silent while I resumed:
“The gears and pinions in the Chess-Player’s cabinet are merest stage-dressing. I will wager that among them are
Then I turned and strode up the corridor, and made good my departure.
As I left the Museum’s vestibule, and turned homeward for Mrs Yarrington’s rooming-house, once more the grotesque image of
My encounter with Maelzel’s Chess-Player occurred three weeks ago. This afternoon – the sixth of January, 1836 – I was again busying myself at my desk in the
EDGAR POE. Maelzel’s troupe have finished their engagement in Richmond, and depart on the morrow for their next booking. If you will come alone to the Monumental Church tonight, after the vesper-service, you will learn something to your advantage.
That was all. I flung the letter into a waste-paper receptacle, and resumed my duties. But the missive, and its mysteries, held hostage my curiosity. Thus, at eventide tonight, guided by a bright moon nearly full, I made my way through Richmond’s cobblestoned streets to Shockoe Hill.
The Monumental Church is octagonal, surmounted by a dome of peculiar shape and modest convexity. Within the front portico, between the Doric pillars flanking the church’s entrance, stands a white marble tablet commemorating the unfortunates who were lost in the fire of 1811. Stepping past this, I was surprised to find the door-bolt of the entranceway set ajar . . . perhaps by someone anticipating my arrival. Pushing the door open, I stepped within.
I have been here before. This was the church of my childhood. The place was dark now, yet I have been here so often and so intimately that I knew each detail of the church’s interior by embittered memory. Before me was the chancel. I knew by heart the inscription carved in gilt uncial script above the chancel-frame: GIVE EAR, O LORD.
My footsteps echoed on the tiling as I proceeded down the aisle towards the altar. Two candle-frames stood there, either side. Some few of the candles were lighted, and by their faint gleam I beheld a dim shape placed in front of the altar, like some sacrificial offering. A shape like an oblong box, surmounted by an effigied resemblance of a man.
It was the chess-player. Maelzel’s Automaton.
The unseeing eyes of the Turk were downturned, regarding me silently. On top of the cabinet, a few chessmen stood vigil on the gameboard in front of the cross-legged effigy. As I approached, I saw that the chessmen on the board were positioned for the gambit known as an
With a sudden right-angled convulsion, the Automaton’s left hand jerked sidelong, and nudged the black queen’s rook to the bishop’s file.
I responded in kind, grasping the solitary white knight, and placing this so as to endanger the Automaton’s king.
“
“
I kept standfast. “I have proved through rational deduction that the cabinet is fashioned to contain a human operator.”
“
There came a sound of gears meshing within the oblong box. The rightmost door of the cabinet swung faintly ajar. From within the cupboard of the Automaton, a hand emerged . . . beckoning.
By candlelight, I beheld the hand of the unseen Chess-Player. There was a discrepancy of fingers, three digits being entirely absent. The remaining thumb and forefinger were scarred and fractured, bent into appendages more nearly resembling claws than any human flesh.
“
I could just barely perceive, within the shadowed cabinet, a human face.
“
The patchworked face within the cabinet paused, as if each word required immense effort. Then it spoke again: “
“You did this?” I asked. “Why?”
“
The Chess-Player moved within the cabinet. I beheld his face now from a fresh angle. The thick scarrings and disfigurements were less numerous here. In utter revulsion, I discerned in his mutilated countenance a grotesque parody of
“
“Wretch!” I said. “You speak concern for my mother, yet she might never have died in poverty if you had not abandoned her.”
“
“You succeeded in that last particular.”
“
“
“How does Herr Maelzel enter this conundrum?” I asked.
“
The Automaton fell silent.
“What about my mother?” I asked.
A faint rustling within the oblong box.
“You spoke of my mother,” I persisted.
The thing in the box uttered a profane oath.
From that instant, I found myself overcome by a grotesque phrensy. It felt precisely as if my arms and legs were suspended on wires, and I became a marionette whose movements were governed by an unseen puppet-master. Confronting me was a man who masqueraded as an Automaton. True! But now I became an Automaton in the guise of a man . . . for my soul no longer captained my flesh, and I found myself moving and gesticulating as if by clockwork: no more the master of my actions, but compelled as if by gears and levers unseen. As a puppet moves on jointed limbs, so I sprang to the altar.
Just as a chesspiece, with no soul of its own, is manipulated by a grandmaster who cares not for the pawn’s ultimate fate, so I was controlled now by
On the chancel’s wall was a wrought-iron sconce, holding three lighted candles. My hands grasped it, obeying the whispered commands of some unseen clockmaker – perhaps it was Maelzel – as I seized this heavy implement, tore it loose of the wall and smashed it squarely into the carved wooden head of the Turkish chess-player, knocking aside the plumed turban and shattering the face. As the Automaton’s face burst open, I saw the articulated eyes tumble forth; they were fashioned of Vienna-glass, and for one instant my own mind was freed from the clockmaker’s grasp long enough for me to admire the workmanship of the counterfeit eyes. Then the mind of the clockmaker seized me again, bidding me to strike the hour. I brought the sconce down – again! again! – upon the cabinet of Maelzel.
The Automaton was headless, for I had decapitated the figure of the Turk. Now a low groan emerged from the figure’s abdomen, and I recalled that the monstrous figure within the chess-player was concealed in that portion. I fractured this with the sconce. I had the fierce pleasure of seeing blood upon the wrought-iron flange in my grasp. I brought it down again . . .
There was an odour of burning cloth. I turned, and perceived that in my phrensy I had scattered the candles. One of these had ignited the drapes behind the altar. And now the chancel was afire.
Inside the cabinet of Maelzel, some scuttling thing – an abridged edition of a man – was struggling desperately to free itself. I brought the sconce down once more, full in the patch-quilt face of the inhuman occupant. The thing groaned, and went slack. I saw the two remaining fingers of its fragmented hand fall open. A single chessman – a carved wooden pawn – tumbled out of the maimed grasp, and it fell upon the burning altar-cloth.
The nameless grandmaster released my soul from the endgame. The unseen puppeteer unloosed my strings. I was no longer clockworked.
I turned, and fled the Memorial Church as it burst into flame. In the portico, I was confronted by a tall white apparition. It was the marble tablet, commemorating the names of the dead who perished on this site amidst the burning Richmond Theatre. I was tempted to add one more soul to the death-list: the name of my father, David Poe.
I awoke to the strong vapours of distilled spirits. I found myself sprawled on the floor of my room in Mrs Yarrington’s lodging-house The door is latched. The derangement of my clothes, and the spasmodic trembling of my limbs, give token that once more I have succumbed to intemperance. My shirtfront is soaked with bourbon, and a shattered bottle lies nearby.
On the table in front of me is an unproofed manuscript, its ink still wet. The handwriting I recognise as my own, but the penmanship is wild and abandoned, and the ink has spattered several passages where the pen-nibs have torn entirely through the paper.
Reading the pages, I find that they contain the above narrative . . . excepting these last paragraphs. But have I written fiction, or reportage? This manuscript is filled with incident, yet my memory is a blank page. I remember nothing of these recent hours.
Are these words on the page truth, or falsehood? Have I nightmared all of this, or some portion? Or is all of it real, in cold sanity? Did I go to Memorial Church tonight? Have I confronted Maelzel’s Automaton? Is the man inside that clockwork hoax the unmourned David Poe? Have I murdered my father?
There are shouts in the hall. Someone is pounding on the door, and there are voices.
I must see what they require of me.
RICHARD CHRISTIAN MATHESON
Making Cabinets
RICHARD CHRISTIAN MATHESON IS A NOVELIST, short story writer and screenwriter/producer. He has written and produced hundreds of episodes of television, for over thirty dramatic and comedic primetime network series and, at nineteen, was the youngest writer ever put under contract by Universal Studios.
He has written feature film and television projects for Richard Donner, Mel Brooks, Joel Silver, Ivan Reitman, Steven Spielberg and many others. To date, Matheson has written and sold twelve original, spec feature scripts; considered a record. He has also written over twenty pilots for comedy and dramatic series for Showtime, Fox, NBC, ABC, Spike and CBS.
Matheson recently wrote three scripts for Showtime’s
Thirty stories are collected in Matheson’s
“In a culture intoxicated by extreme,” observes Matheson, “serial killers, inevitably, are fabled. In their ghastly, photogenic wakes, are collateral victims; those, still living, who knew the killer as routine participant in life – children, co-workers, friends, wives. Once news coverage, funerals and death penalties are eclipsed by fresher abduction and atrocity, the serial killer’s inner circle must continue, despite betrayal which inverts their world.
“ ‘Making Cabinets’ spends time with such a person. Its first draft was fleshless outline. Details were added, though few. In all, I wanted the feelings of aftermath to be a traumatised void.”
ICE WATER; a diamond stalk on white linen.
The clearness tastes warm, red. The thin woman chokes, covers mouth with napkin.
One table over, a boy eats pie, eyes unblinking. Watches her hold menu in pale hands.
She scans gourmet adjectives. Imagines soups, meats. Their dark succulence, piquant sauces.
She searches more dishes, stomach a sick pit.
Maybe a salad, no dressing.
The waitress approaches. Perhaps the Special of the Day? Lamb. Unspiced; a meticulous blank.
The thin woman’s stomach twists. She imagines the dead flesh using her mouth like a coffin; fights nausea.
The waitress tilts head. The thin woman needs another minute. The waitress nods; the same conversation everyday.
A couple, at the next table, excavate lobster, amused by lifeless claws. The busboy sweeps; a metronome.
The thin woman sees the boy eating pie, his lips berry-blue like a corpse.
Maybe the vermicelli. Plain.
She tries to sip water, again. But the cubes have melted; water like dread-warm saliva.
The waitress reminds her she must eat. She loses more weight every day. She’s so pretty. It was almost a year ago. She must move on. The thin woman listens, nods. Tries not to look at the boy.
The thin woman looks up at the waitress. The young woman’s lipstick resembles a tortured mouth.
The thin woman tells the waitress she’s lost her appetite.
Maybe tomorrow.
The boy’s smile falls as he watches her leave, bones and veins visible through her starved skin.
GEOFF RYMAN
Pol Pot’s Beautiful Daughter (Fantasy)
GEOFF RYMAN WAS BORN in Canada, but he has lived most of his life in Britain. The author has won the British Science Fiction Award, the World Fantasy Award, the British Fantasy Award, the Arthur C. Clarke Award, the John W. Campbell Memorial Award, the James Tiptree, Jr. Award and the Nebula Award.
Ryman’s science fiction and fantasy books include
“In 1975 I read a from-the-scene dispatch in
One of those long stories was “Pol Pot’s Beautiful Daughter (Fantasy)”, which was nominated for a science fiction Hugo Award. “Didn’t they realise it was a ghost story?” asks the author.
IN CAMBODIA PEOPLE ARE used to ghosts. Ghosts buy newspapers. They own property.
A few years ago, spirits owned a house in Phnom Penh, at the Tra Bek end of Monivong Boulevard. Khmer Rouge had murdered the whole family and there was no one left alive to inherit it. People cycled past the building, leaving it boarded up. Sounds of weeping came from inside.
Then a professional inheritor arrived from America. She’d done her research and could claim to be the last surviving relative of no fewer than three families. She immediately sold the house to a Chinese businessman, who turned the ground floor into a photocopying shop.
The copiers began to print pictures of the original owners.
At first, single black and white photos turned up in the copied dossiers of aid workers or government officials. The father of the murdered family had been a lawyer. He stared fiercely out of the photos as if demanding something. In other photocopies, his beautiful daughters forlornly hugged each other. The background was hazy like fog.
One night the owner heard a noise and trundled downstairs to find all five photocopiers printing one picture after another of faces: young college men, old women, parents with a string of babies, or government soldiers in uniform. He pushed the big green off-buttons. Nothing happened.
He pulled out all the plugs, but the machines kept grinding out face after face. Women in beehive hairdos or clever children with glasses looked wistfully out of the photocopies. They seemed to be dreaming of home in the 1960s, when Phnom Penh was the most beautiful city in Southeast Asia.
News spread. People began to visit the shop to identify lost relatives. Women would cry, “That’s my mother! I didn’t have a photograph!” They would weep and press the flimsy A4 sheets to their breasts. The paper went limp from tears and humidity as if it too were crying.
Soon, a throng began to gather outside the shop every morning to view the latest batch of faces. In desperation, the owner announced that each morning’s harvest would be delivered direct to
Then one morning he tried to open the house-door to the shop and found it blocked. He went round to the front of the building and rolled open the metal shutters.
The shop was packed from floor to ceiling with photocopies. The ground floor had no windows – the room had been filled from the inside. The owner pulled out a sheet of paper and saw himself on the ground, his head beaten in by a hoe. The same image was on every single page.
He buried the photocopiers and sold the house at once. The new owner liked its haunted reputation; it kept people away. The FOR SALE sign was left hanging from the second floor.
In a sense, the house had been bought by another ghost.
This is a completely untrue story about someone who must exist.
Pol pot’s only child, a daughter, was born in 1986. Her name was Sith, and in 2004, she was eighteen years old.
Sith liked air conditioning and luxury automobiles. Her hair was dressed in cornrows and she had a spiky piercing above one eye. Her jeans were elaborately slashed and embroidered. Her pink T-shirts bore slogans in English: CARE KOOKY. PINK MOLL.
Sith lived like a woman on Thai television, doing as she pleased in lip-gloss and Sunsilked hair. Nine simple rules helped her avoid all unpleasantness.1. Never think about the past or politics.2. Ignore ghosts. They cannot hurt you.3. Do not go to school. Hire tutors. Don’t do homework. It is disturbing.4. Always be driven everywhere in either the Mercedes or the BMW.5. Avoid all well-dressed Cambodian boys. They are the sons of the estimated 250,000 new generals created by the regime. Their sons can behave with impunity.6. Avoid all men with potbellies. They eat too well and therefore must be corrupt.7. Avoid anyone who drives a Toyota Viva or Honda Dream motorcycle.8. Don’t answer letters or phone calls.9. Never make any friends.
There was also a tenth rule, but that went without saying.
Rotten fruit rinds and black mud never stained Sith’s designer sports shoes. Disabled beggars never asked her for alms. Her life began yesterday, which was effectively the same as today.
Every day, her driver took her to the new Soriya Market. It was almost the only place that Sith went. The colour of silver, Soriya rose up in many floors to a round glass dome.
Sith preferred the 142nd Street entrance. Its green awning made everyone look as if they were made of jade. The doorway went directly into the ice-cold jewellery rotunda with its floor of polished black and white stone. The individual stalls were hung with glittering necklaces and earrings.
Sith liked tiny shiny things that had no memory. She hated politics. She refused to listen to the news. Pol Pot’s beautiful daughter wished the current leadership would behave decently, like her dad always did. To her.
She remembered the sound of her father’s gentle voice. She remembered sitting on his lap in a forest enclosure, being bitten by mosquitoes. Memories of malaria had sunk into her very bones. She now associated forests with nausea, fevers, and pain. A flicker of tree-shade on her skin made her want to throw up and the odour of soil or fallen leaves made her gag. She had never been to Angkor Wat. She read nothing.
Sith shopped. Her driver was paid by the government and always carried an AK-47, but his wife, the housekeeper, had no idea who Sith was. The house was full of swept marble, polished teak furniture, iPods, Xboxes, and plasma screens.
Please remember that every word of this story is a lie. Pol Pot was no doubt a dedicated communist who made no money from ruling Cambodia. Nevertheless, a hefty allowance arrived for Sith every month from an account in Switzerland.
Nothing touched Sith, until she fell in love with the salesman at Hello Phones.
Cambodian readers may know that in 2004 there was no mobile phone shop in Soriya Market. However, there was a branch of Hello Phone Cards that had a round blue sales counter with orange trim. This shop looked like that.
Every day Sith bought or exchanged a mobile phone there. She would sit and flick her hair at the salesman.
His name was Dara, which means Star. Dara knew about deals on call prices, sim cards, and the new phones that showed videos. He could get her any call tone she liked.
Talking to Dara broke none of Sith’s rules. He wasn’t fat, nor was he well dressed, and far from being a teenager, he was a comfortably mature twenty-four years old.
One day, Dara chuckled and said, “As a friend I advise you, you don’t need another mobile phone.”
Sith wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like this one anymore. It’s blue. I want something more feminine. But not frilly. And it should have better sound quality.”
“Okay, but you could save your money and buy some more nice clothes.”
Pol Pot’s beautiful daughter lowered her chin, which she knew made her neck look long and graceful. “Do you like my clothes?”
“Why ask me?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s good to check out your look.”
Dara nodded. “You look cool. What does your sister say?”
Sith let him know she had no family. “Ah,” he said and quickly changed the subject. That was terrific. Secrecy and sympathy in one easy movement.
Sith came back the next day and said that she’d decided that the rose-coloured phone was too feminine. Dara laughed aloud and his eyes sparkled. Sith had come late in the morning just so that he could ask this question. “Are you hungry? Do you want to meet for lunch?”
Would he think she was cheap if she said yes? Would he say she was snobby if she said no?
“Just so long as we eat in Soriya Market,” she said.
She was torn between BBWorld Burgers and Lucky7. BBWorld was big, round, and just two floors down from the dome. Lucky7 Burgers was part of the Lucky Supermarket, such a good store that a tiny jar of Maxwell House cost US$2.40.
They decided on BBWorld. It was full of light and they could see the town spread out through the wide clean windows. Sith sat in silence.
Pol Pot’s daughter had nothing to say unless she was buying something.
Or rather she had only one thing to say, but she must never say it.
Dara did all the talking. He talked about how the guys on the third floor could get him a deal on original copies of
Suddenly he stopped. “You don’t need to be afraid of me, you know.” He said it in a kindly, grownup voice. “I can see, you’re a properly brought up girl. I like that. It’s nice.”
Sith still couldn’t find anything to say. She could only nod. She wanted to run away.
“Would you like to go to K-Four?”
K-Four, the big electronics shop, stocked all the reliable brand names: Hitachi, Sony, Panasonic, Philips, or Denon. It was so expensive that almost nobody shopped there, which is why Sith liked it. A crowd of people stood outside and stared through the window at a huge home entertainment centre showing a DVD of
Sith finally found something to say. “If I had one of those, I would never need to leave the house.”
Dara looked at her sideways and decided to laugh.
The next day Sith told him that all the phones she had were too big. Did he have one that she could wear around her neck like jewelry?
This time they went to Lucky7 Burgers, and sat across from the Revlon counter. They watched boys having their hair layered by Revlon’s natural beauty specialists.
Dara told her more about himself. His father had died in the wars. His family now lived in the country. Sith’s Coca-Cola suddenly tasted of anti-malarial drugs.
“But . . . you don’t want to
“No. I have to live in Phnom Penh to make money. But my folks are good country people. Modest.” He smiled, embarrassed.
Sith couldn’t finish her drink. She sighed and smiled and said abruptly, “I’m sorry. It’s been cool. But I have to go.” She slunk sideways out of her seat as slowly as molasses.
Walking back into the jewellery rotunda with nothing to do, she realised that Dara would think she didn’t like him.
And that made the lower part of her eyes sting.
She went back the next day and didn’t even pretend to buy a mobile phone. She told Dara that she’d left so suddenly the day before because she’d remembered a hair appointment.
He said that he could see she took a lot of trouble with her hair. Then he asked her out for a movie that night.
Sith spent all day shopping in K-Four.
They met at six. Dara was so considerate that he didn’t even suggest the horror movie. He said he wanted to see
The cinema on the top floor opened out directly onto the roof of Soriya. Graffiti had been scratched into the green railings. Why would people want to ruin something new and beautiful? Sith put her arm through Dara’s and knew that they were now boyfriend and girlfriend.
“Finally,” he said.
“Finally what?”
“You’ve done something.”
They leaned on the railings and looked out over other people’s apartments. West toward the river was a building with one huge roof terrace. Women met there to gossip. Children were playing toss-the-sandal. From this distance, Sith was enchanted.
“I just love watching the children.”
The movie, from Thailand, was about a woman whose face turns blue and spotty and who eats men. The blue woman was yucky, but not as scary as all the badly dubbed voices. The characters sounded possessed. It was though Thai people had been taken over by the spirits of dead Cambodians.
Whenever Sith got scared, she chuckled.
So she sat chuckling with terror. Dara thought she was laughing at a dumb movie and found such intelligence charming. He started to chuckle too. Sith thought he was as frightened as she was. Together in the dark, they took each other’s hands.
Outside afterward, the air hung hot even in the dark and 142nd Street smelled of drains. Sith stood on tiptoe to avoid the oily deposits and cast-off fishbones.
Dara said, “I will drive you home.”
“My driver can take us,” said Sith, flipping open her Kermit-the-Frog mobile.
Her black Mercedes Benz edged to a halt, crunching old plastic bottles in the gutter. The seats were upholstered with tan leather and the driver was armed.
Dara’s jaw dropped. “Who . . .
“He’s dead.”
Dara shook his head. “Who was he?”
Normally Sith used her mother’s family name, but that would not answer this question. Flustered, she tried to think of someone who could be her father. She knew of nobody the right age. She remembered something about a politician who had died. His name came to her and she said it in panic. “My father was Kol Vireakboth.” Had she got the name right? “Please don’t tell anyone.”
Dara covered his eyes. “We – my family, my father – we fought for the KPLA.”
Sith had to stop herself asking what the KPLA was.
Kol Vireakboth had led a faction in the civil wars. It fought against the Khmer Rouge, the Vietnamese, the King, and corruption. It wanted a new way for Cambodia. Kol Vireakboth was a Cambodian leader who had never told a lie and or accepted a bribe.
Remember that this is an untrue story.
Dara started to back away from the car. “I don’t think we should be doing this. I’m just a villager, really.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
His eyes closed. “I would expect nothing less from the daughter of Kol Vireakboth.”
Oh for gosh sake, she just picked the man’s name out of the air, she didn’t need more problems. “Please!” she said.
Dara sighed. “Okay. I said I would see you home safely. I will.” Inside the Mercedes, he stroked the tan leather.
When they arrived, he craned his neck to look up at the building. “Which floor are you on?”
“All of them.”
Colour drained from his face.
“My driver will take you back,” she said to Dara. As the car pulled away, she stood outside the closed garage shutters, waving forlornly.
Then Sith panicked. Who was Kol Vireakboth? She went online and Googled. She had to read about the wars. Her skin started to creep. All those different factions swam in her head: ANS, NADK, KPR, and KPNLF. The very names seemed to come at her spoken by forgotten voices.
Soon she had all she could stand. She printed out Vireakboth’s picture and decided to have it framed. In case Dara visited.
Kol Vireakboth had a round face and a fatherly smile. His eyes seemed to slant upward toward his nose, looking full of kindly insight. He’d been killed by a car bomb.
All that night, Sith heard whispering.
In the morning, there was another picture of someone else in the tray of her printer.
A long-faced, buck-toothed woman stared out at her in black and white. Sith noted the victim’s fashion lapses. The woman’s hair was a mess, all frizzy. She should have had it straightened and put in some nice highlights. The woman’s eyes drilled into her.
“Can’t touch me,” said Sith. She left the photo in the tray. She went to see Dara, right away, no breakfast.
His eyes were circled with dark flesh and his blue Hello trousers and shirt were not properly ironed.
“Buy the whole shop,” Dara said, looking deranged. “The guys in K-Four just told me some girl in blue jeans walked in yesterday and bought two home theatres. One for the salon, she said, and one for the roof terrace. She paid for both of them in full and had them delivered to the far end of Monivong.”
Sith sighed. “I’m sending one back.” She hoped that sounded abstemious. “It looked too metallic against my curtains.”
Pause.
“She also bought an Aido robot dog for fifteen hundred dollars.”
Sith would have preferred that Dara did not know about the dog. It was just a silly toy; it hadn’t occurred to her that it might cost that much until she saw the bill. “They should not tell everyone about their customers’ business or soon they will have no customers.”
Dara was looking at her as if thinking:
“I had fun last night,” Sith said in a voice as thin as high clouds.
“So did I.”
“We don’t have to tell anyone about my family. Do we?” Sith was seriously scared of losing him.
“No. But Sith, it’s stupid. Your family, my family, we are not equals.”
“It doesn’t make any difference.”
“You lied to me. Your family is not dead. You have famous uncles.”
She did indeed – Uncle Ieng Sary, Uncle Khieu Samphan, Uncle Ta Mok. All the Pol Pot clique had been called her uncles.
“I didn’t know them that well,” she said. That was true, too.
What would she do if she couldn’t shop in Soriya Market anymore? What would she do without Dara?
She begged. “I am not a strong person. Sometimes I think I am not a person at all. I’m just a space.”
Dara looked suddenly mean. “You’re just a credit card.” Then his face fell. “I’m sorry. That was an unkind thing to say. You are very young for your age and I’m older than you and I should have treated you with more care.”
Sith was desperate. “All my money would be very nice.”
“I’m not for sale.”
He worked in a shop and would be sending money home to a fatherless family; of course he was for sale!
Sith had a small heart, but a big head for thinking. She knew that she had to do this delicately, like picking a flower, or she would spoil the bloom. “Let’s . . . let’s just go see a movie?”
After all, she was beautiful and well brought up and she knew her eyes were big and round. Her tiny heart was aching.
This time they saw
Dara offered to drive her home again and that’s when Sith found out that he drove a Honda Dream. He proudly presented to her the gleaming motorcycle of fast young men. Sith felt backed into a corner. She’d already offered to buy him. Showing off her car again might humiliate him.
So she broke rule number seven.
Dara hid her bag in the back and they went soaring down Monivong Boulevard at night, past homeless people, prostitutes, and chefs staggering home after work. It was late in the year, but it started to rain.
Sith loved it, the cool air brushing against her face, the cooler rain clinging to her eyelashes.
She remembered being five years old in the forest and dancing in the monsoon. She encircled Dara’s waist to stay on the bike and suddenly found her cheek was pressed up against his back. She giggled in fear, not of the rain, but of what she felt.
He dropped her off at home. Inside, everything was dark except for the flickering green light on her printer. In the tray were two new photographs. One was of a child, a little boy, holding up a school prize certificate. The other was a tough, wise-looking old man, with a string of muscle down either side of his ironic, bitter smile. They looked directly at her.
As she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, she heard someone sobbing, far away, as if the sound came from next door. She touched the walls of the staircase. They shivered slightly, constricting in time to the cries.
In her bedroom she extracted one of her many iPods from the tangle of wires and listened to
She was woken up in the sun-drenched morning by the sound of her doorbell many floors down. She heard the housekeeper Jorani call and the door open. Sith hesitated over choice of jeans and top. By the time she got downstairs she found the driver and the housemaid joking with Dara, giving him tea.
Like the sunshine, Dara seemed to disperse ghosts.
“Hi,” he said. “It’s my day off. I thought we could go on a motorcycle ride to the country.”
But not to the country. Couldn’t they just spend the day in Soriya? No, said Dara, there’s lots of other places to see in Phnom Penh.
He drove her, twisting through back streets. How did the city get so poor? How did it get so dirty?
They went to a new and modern shop for CDs that was run by a record label. Dara knew all the cool new music, most of it influenced by Khmer-Americans returning from Long Beach and Compton: Sdey, Phnom Penh Bad Boys, Khmer Kid.
Sith bought twenty CDs.
They went to the National Museum and saw the beautiful Buddha-like head of King Jayavarman VII. Dara without thinking ducked and held up his hands in prayer. They had dinner in a French restaurant with candles and wine, and it was just like in a karaoke video, a boy, a girl, and her money all going out together. They saw the show at Sovanna Phum, and there was a wonderful dance piece with sampled 1940s music from an old French movie, with traditional Khmer choreography.
Sith went home, her heart singing,
In the bedroom, a mobile phone began to ring, over and over. CALL I said the screen, but gave no name or number, so the person was not on Sith’s list of contacts.
She turned off the phone. It kept ringing. That’s when she knew for certain.
She hid the phone in a pillow in the spare bedroom and put another pillow on top of it and then closed the door.
All forty-two of her mobile phones started to ring. They rang from inside closets, or from the bathroom where she had forgotten them. They rang from the roof terrace and even from inside a shoe under her bed.
“I am a very stubborn girl!” she shouted at the spirits. “You do not scare me.”
She turned up her iPod and finally slept.
As soon as the sun was up, she roused her driver, slumped deep in his hammock.
“Come on, we’re going to Soriya Market,” she said.
The driver looked up at her dazed, then remembered to smile and lower his head in respect.
His face fell when she showed up in the garage with all forty-two of her mobile phones in one black bag.
It was too early for Soriya Market to open. They drove in circles with sunrise blazing directly into their eyes. On the streets, men pushed carts like beasts of burden, or carried cascades of belts into the old Central Market. The old market was domed, art deco, the colour of vomit, French. Sith never shopped there.
“Maybe you should go visit your Mom,” said the driver. “You know, she loves you. Families are there for when you are in trouble.”
Sith’s mother lived in Thailand and they never spoke. Her mother’s family kept asking for favours: money, introductions, or help with getting a job. Sith didn’t speak to them any longer.
“My family is only trouble.”
The driver shut up and drove.
Finally Soriya opened. Sith went straight to Dara’s shop and dumped all the phones on the blue countertop. “Can you take these back?”
“We only do exchanges. I can give a new phone for an old one.” Dara looked thoughtful. “Don’t worry. Leave them here with me, I’ll go sell them to a guy in the old market, and give you your money tomorrow.” He smiled in approval. “This is very sensible.”
He passed one phone back, the one with video and email. “This is the best one, keep this.”
Dara was so competent. Sith wanted to sink down onto him like a pillow and stay there. She sat in the shop all day, watching him work. One of the guys from the games shop upstairs asked, “Who is this beautiful girl?”
Dara answered proudly, “My girlfriend.”
Dara drove her back on the Dream and at the door to her house, he chuckled. “I don’t want to go.” She pressed a finger against his naughty lips, and smiled and spun back inside from happiness.
She was in the ground-floor garage. She heard something like a rat scuttle. In her bag, the telephone rang. Who were these people to importune her, even if they were dead? She wrenched the mobile phone out of her bag and pushed the green button and put the phone to her ear. She waited. There was a sound like wind.
A child spoke to her, his voice clogged as if he was crying. “They tied my thumbs together.”
Sith demanded. “How did you get my number?”
“I’m all alone!”
“Then ring somebody else. Someone in your family.”
“All my family are dead. I don’t know where I am. My name is . . .”
Sith clicked the phone off. She opened the trunk of the car and
tossed the phone inside it. Being telephoned by ghosts was so . . .
She stormed up into the salon. On top of a table, the $1500, no-mess dog stared at her from out of his packaging. Sith clumped up the stairs onto the roof terrace to sleep as far away as she could from everything in the house.
She woke up in the dark, to hear thumping from downstairs.
The sound was metallic and hollow, as if someone were locked in the car. Sith turned on her iPod. Something was making the sound of the music skip. She fought the tangle of wires, and wrenched out another player, a Xen, but it too skipped, burping the sound of speaking voices into the middle of the music.
Had she heard a ripping sound? She pulled out the earphones, and heard something climbing the stairs.
A sound of light, uneven lolloping. She thought of crippled children. Frost settled over her like a heavy blanket and she could not move.
The robot dog came whirring up onto the terrace. It paused at the top of the stairs, its camera nose pointing at her to see, its useless eyes glowing cherry red.
The robot dog said in a warm, friendly voice, “My name is Phalla. I tried to buy my sister medicine and they killed me for it.”
Sith tried to say, “Go away,” but her throat wouldn’t open.
The dog tilted its head. “No one even knows I’m dead. What will you do for all the people who are not mourned?”
Laughter blurted out of her, and Sith saw it rise up as cold vapour into the air.
“We have no one to invite us to the feast,” said the dog.
Sith giggled in terror. “Nothing. I can do nothing!” she said, shaking her head.
“You laugh?” The dog gathered itself and jumped up into the hammock with her. It turned and lifted up its clear plastic tail and laid a genuine turd alongside Sith. Short brown hair was wound up in it, a scalp actually, and a single flat white human tooth smiled out of it.
Sith squawked and overturned both herself and the dog out of the hammock and onto the floor. The dog pushed its nose up against hers and began to sing an old-fashioned children’s song about birds.
Something heavy huffed its way up the stairwell toward her. Sith shivered with cold on the floor and could not move. The dog went on singing in a high, sweet voice. A large shadow loomed out over the top of the staircase, and Sith gargled, swallowing laughter, trying to speak.
“There was thumping in the car and no one in it,” said the driver.
Sith sagged toward the floor with relief. “The ghosts,” she said. “They’re back.” She thrust herself to her feet. “We’re getting out now. Ring the Hilton. Find out if they have rooms.”
She kicked the toy dog down the stairs ahead of her. “We’re moving now!”
Together they all loaded the car, shaking. Once again, the house was left to ghosts. As they drove, the mobile phone rang over and over inside the trunk.
The new Hilton (which does not exist) rose up by the river across from the Department for Cults and Religious Affairs. Tall and marbled and pristine, it had crystal chandeliers and fountains, and wood and brass handles in the elevators.
In the middle of the night only the Bridal Suite was still available, but it had an extra parental chamber where the driver and his wife could sleep. High on the twenty-first floor, the night sparkled with lights and everything was hushed, as far away from Cambodia as it was possible to get.
Things were quiet after that, for a while.
Every day she and Dara went to movies, or went to a restaurant. They went shopping. She slipped him money and he bought himself a beautiful suit. He said, over a hamburger at Lucky7, “I’ve told my mother that I’ve met a girl.”
Sith smiled and thought: and I bet you told her that I’m rich.
“I’ve decided to live in the Hilton,” she told him.
The rainy season ended. The last of the monsoons rose up dark grey with a froth of white cloud on top, looking exactly like a giant wave about to break.
Dry cooler air arrived.
After work was over Dara convinced her to go for a walk along the river in front of the Royal Palace. He went to the men’s room to change into a new luxury suit and Sith thought: he’s beginning to imagine life with all that money.
As they walked along the river, exposed to all those people, Sith shook inside. There were teenage boys everywhere. Some of them were in rags, which was reassuring, but some of them were very well dressed indeed, the sons of Impunity who could do anything. Sith swerved suddenly to avoid even seeing them. But Dara in his new beige suit looked like one of them, and the generals’ sons nodded to him with quizzical eyebrows, perhaps wondering who he was.
In front of the palace, a pavilion reached out over the water. Next to it a traditional orchestra bashed and wailed out something old fashioned. Hundreds of people crowded around a tiny wat. Dara shook Sith’s wrist and they stood up to see.
People held up bundles of lotus flowers and incense in prayer. They threw the bundles into the wat. Monks immediately shovelled the joss sticks and flowers out of the back.
Behind the wat, children wearing T-shirts and shorts black with filth rootled through the dead flowers, the smouldering incense, and old coconut shells.
Sith asked, “Why do they do that?”
“You are so innocent!” chuckled Dara and shook his head. The evening was blue and gold. Sith had time to think that she did not want to go back to a hotel and that the only place she really felt happy was next to Dara. All around that thought was something dark and tangled.
Dara suggested with affection that they should get married.
It was as if Sith had her answer ready. “No, absolutely not,” she said at once. “How can you ask that? There is not even anyone for you to ask! Have you spoken to your family about me? Has your family made any checks about my background?”
Which was what she really wanted to know.
Dara shook his head. “I have explained that you are an orphan, but they are not concerned with that. We are modest people. They will be happy if I am happy.”
“Of course they won’t be! Of course they will need to do checks.”
Sith scowled. She saw her way to sudden advantage. “At least they must consult fortunetellers. They are not fools. I can help them. Ask them the names of the fortunetellers they trust.”
Dara smiled shyly. “We have no money.”
“I will give them money and you can tell them that you pay.”
Dara’s eyes searched her face. “I don’t want that.”
“How will we know if it is a good marriage? And your poor mother, how can you ask her to make a decision like this without information? So. You ask your family for the names of good professionals they trust, and I will pay them, and I will go to Prime Minister Hun Sen’s own personal fortuneteller, and we can compare results.”
Thus she established again both her propriety and her status.
In an old romance, the parents would not approve of the match and the fortuneteller would say that the marriage was ill-omened. Sith left nothing to romance.
She offered the family’s fortunetellers whatever they wanted – a car, a farm – and in return demanded a written copy of their judgment. All of them agreed that the portents for the marriage were especially auspicious.
Then she secured an appointment with the Prime Minister’s fortuneteller.
Hun Sen’s
She was the kind of fortuneteller who is possessed by someone else’s spirit. She sat at a desk and looked at Sith as unblinking as a fish, both her hands steepled together. After the most basic of hellos, she said. “Dollars only. Twenty-five thousand. I need to buy my son an apartment.”
“That’s a very high fee,” said Sith.
“It’s not a fee. It is a consideration for giving you the answer you want. My fee is another twenty-five thousand dollars.”
They negotiated. Sith liked the Kru Taey’s manner. It confirmed everything Sith believed about life.
The fee was reduced somewhat but not the consideration.
“Payment upfront now,” the Kru Taey said. She wouldn’t take a check. Like only the very best restaurants she accepted foreign credit cards. Sith’s Swiss card worked immediately. It had unlimited credit in case she had to leave the country in a hurry.
The Kru Taey said, “I will tell the boy’s family that the marriage will be particularly fortunate.”
Sith realised that she had not yet said anything about a boy, his family, or a marriage.
The Kru Taey smiled. “I know you are not interested in your real fortune. But to be kind, I will tell you unpaid that this marriage really is particularly well favoured. All the other fortunetellers would have said the same thing without being bribed.”
The Kru Taey’s eyes glinted in the most unpleasant way. “So you needn’t have bought them farms or paid me an extra twenty-five thousand dollars.”
She looked down at her perfect fingernails. “You will be very happy indeed. But not before your entire life is overturned.”
The back of Sith’s arms prickled as if from cold. She should have been angry but she could feel herself smiling. Why?
And why waste politeness on the old witch? Sith turned to go without saying good-bye.
“Oh, and about your other problem,” said the woman.
Sith turned back and waited.
“Enemies,” said the Km Taey, “can turn out to be friends.”
Sith sighed. “What are you talking about?”
The Kru Taey’s smile was a wide as a tiger-trap. “The million people your father killed.”
Sith went hard. “Not a million,” she said. “Somewhere between two hundred and fifty and five hundred thousand.”
“Enough,” smiled the Kru Taey. “My father was one of them.” She smiled for a moment longer. “I will be sure to tell the Prime Minister that you visited me.”
Sith snorted as if in scorn. “I will tell him myself.”
But she ran back to her car.
That night, Sith looked down on all the lights like diamonds. She settled onto the giant mattress and turned on her iPod.
Someone started to yell at her. She pulled out the earpieces and jumped to the window. It wouldn’t open. She shook it and wrenched its frame until it reluctantly slid an inch and she threw the iPod out of the twenty-first-floor window.
She woke up late the next morning, to hear the sound of the TV. She opened up the double doors into the salon and saw Jorani, pressed against the wall.
“The TV . . . ,” Jorani said, her eyes wide with terror.
The driver waited by his packed bags. He stood up, looking as mournful as a bloodhound.
On the widescreen TV there was what looked like a pop music karaoke video. Except that the music was very old fashioned. Why would a pop video show a starving man eating raw maize in a field? He glanced over his shoulder in terror as he ate. The glowing singalong words were the song that the dog had sung at the top of the stairs. The starving man looked up at Sith and corn mash rolled out of his mouth.
“It’s all like that,” said the driver. “I unplugged the set, but it kept playing on every channel.” He sompiahed but looked miserable. “My wife wants to leave.”
Sith felt shame. It was miserable and dirty, being infested with ghosts. Of course they would want to go.
“It’s okay. I can take taxis,” she said.
The driver nodded, and went into the next room and whispered to his wife. With little scurrying sounds, they gathered up their things. They sompiahed, and apologised.
The door clicked almost silently behind them.
It will always be like this, thought Sith. Wherever I go. It would be like this with Dara.
The hotel telephone started to ring. Sith left it ringing. She covered the TV with a blanket, but the terrible, tinny old music kept wheedling and rattling its way out at her, and she sat on the edge of her bed, staring into space.
At the market, Dara looked even more cheerful than usual. The fortunetellers had pronounced the marriage as very favourable. His mother had invited Sith home for the Pchum Ben festival.
“We can take the bus tomorrow,” he said.
“Does it smell? All those people in one place?”
“It smells of air freshener. Then we take a taxi, and then you will have to walk up the track.” Dara suddenly doubled up in laughter. “Oh, it will be good for you.”
“Will there be dirt?”
“Everywhere! Oh, your dirty Nikes will earn you much merit!”
But at least, thought Sith, there will be no TV or phones.
Two days later, Sith was walking down a dirt track, ducking tree branches. Dust billowed all over her shoes. Dara walked behind her, chuckling, which meant she thought he was scared too.
She heard a strange rattling sound. “What’s that noise?”
“It’s a goat,” he said. “My mother bought it for me in April as a present.”
A goat. How could they be any more rural? Sith had never seen a goat. She never even imagined that she would.
Dara explained. “I sell them to the Muslims. It is Agricultural Diversification.”
There were trees everywhere, shadows crawling across the ground like snakes. Sith felt sick.
The house was tiny, on thin twisting stilts. She had pictured a big fine country house standing high over the ground on concrete pillars with a sunburst carving in the gable. The kitchen was a hut that sat directly on the ground, no stilts, and it was made of palm-leaf panels and there was no electricity. The strip light in the ceiling was attached to a car battery and they kept a live fire on top of the concrete table to cook. Everything smelled of burnt fish.
Sith loved it.
Inside the hut, the smoke from the fires kept the mosquitoes away. Dara’s mother, Mrs Non Kunthea, greeted her with a smile. That triggered a respectful sompiah from Sith, the prayer-like gesture leaping out of her unbidden. On the platform table was a plastic sack full of dried prawns.
Without thinking, Sith sat on the table and began to pull the salty prawns out of their shells.
Sith suddenly remembered the enclosure in the forest, a circular fenced area. Daddy had slept in one house, and the women in another. Sith would talk to the cooks. For something to do, she would chop vegetables or shell prawns. Then Daddy would come to eat and he’d sit on the platform table and she, little Sith, would sit between his knees.
Dara’s older brother Yuth came back for lunch. He was potbellied and drove a taxi for a living, and he moved in hard jabs like an angry old man. He reached too far for the rice and Sith could smell his armpits.
“You see how we live,” Yuth said to Sith. “This is what we get for having the wrong patron. Sihanouk thought we were anti-monarchist. To Hun Sen, we were the enemy. Remember the Work for Money program?”
No.
“They didn’t give any of those jobs to us. We might as well have been the Khmer Rouge!”
Mrs Non Kunthea chuckled with affection. “My eldest son was born angry,” she said. “His slogan is ‘ten years is not too late for revenge.’ ”
Yuth started up again. “They treat that old monster Pol Pot better than they treat us. But then, he was an important person. If you go to his
He crumpled his green, soft, old-fashioned hat back onto his head and said, “Nice to meet you, Sith. Dara, she’s too high class for the likes of you.” But he grinned as he said it. He left, swirling disruption in his wake.
The dishes were gathered. Again without thinking, Sith swept up the plastic tub and carried it to the blackened branches. They rested over puddles where the washing-up water drained.
“You shouldn’t work,” said Dara’s mother. “You are a guest.”
“I grew up in a refugee camp,” said Sith. After all, it was true.
Dara looked at her with a mix of love, pride, and gratitude for the good fortune of a rich wife who works.
And that was the best Sith could hope for. This family would be fine for her.
In the late afternoon, all four brothers came with their wives for the end of Pchum Ben, when the ghosts of the dead can wander the Earth. People scatter rice on the temple floors to feed their families. Some ghosts have small mouths so special rice is used.
Sith never took part in Pchum Ben. How could she go the temple and scatter rice for Pol Pot?
The family settled in the kitchen chatting and joking, and it all passed in a blur for Sith. Everyone else had family they could honour. To Sith’s surprise one of the uncles suggested that people should write names of the deceased and burn them, to transfer merit. It was nothing to do with Pchum Ben, but a lovely idea, so all the family wrote down names.
Sith sat with her hands jammed under her arms.
Dara’s mother asked, “Isn’t there a name you want to write, Sith?”
“No,” said Sith in a tiny voice. How could she write the name Pol Pot? He was surely roaming the world let loose from hell. “There is no one.”
Dara rubbed her hand. “Yes there is, Sith. A very special name.”
“No, there’s not.”
Dara thought she didn’t want them to know her father was Kol Vireakboth. He leant forward and whispered. “I promise. No one will see it.”
Sith’s breath shook. She took the paper and started to cry.
“Oh,” said Dara’s mother, stricken with sympathy. “Everyone in this country has a tragedy.”
Sith wrote the name Kol Vireakboth.
Dara kept the paper folded and caught Sith’s eyes.
Thunder slapped a clear sky about the face. It had been sunny, but now as suddenly as a curtain dropped down over a doorway, rain fell. A wind came from nowhere, tearing away a flap of palm-leaf wall, as if forcing entrance in a fury.
The family whooped and laughed and let the rain drench their shoulders as they stood up to push the wall back down, to keep out the rain.
But Sith knew. Her father’s enemy was in the kitchen.
The rain passed; the sun came out. The family chuckled and sat back down around or on the table. They lowered dishes of food and ate, making parcels of rice and fish with their fingers. Sith sat rigidly erect, waiting for misfortune.
What would the spirit of Kol Vireakboth do to Pol Pot’s daughter? Would he overturn the table, soiling her with food? Would he send mosquitoes to bite and make her sick? Would he suck away all her good fortune, leaving the marriage blighted, her new family estranged?
Or would a kindly spirit simply wish that the children of all Cambodians could escape, escape the past?
Suddenly, Sith felt at peace. The sunlight and shadows looked new to her and her senses started to work in magic ways.
She smelled a perfume of emotion, sweet and bracing at the same time. The music from a neighbour’s cassette player touched her arm gently. Words took the form of sunlight on her skin.
The sunlight smiled with an old man’s stained teeth.
All the air swelled with the scent of the food, savoring it. The trees sighed with satisfaction.
The sunlight stood up to go. It whispered.
The world faded back to its old self.
That night in a hammock in a room with the other women, Sith suddenly sat bolt upright. Clarity would not let her sleep. She saw that there was no way ahead. She couldn’t marry Dara. How could she ask him to marry someone who was harassed by one million dead? How could she explain I am haunted because I am Pol Pot’s daughter and I have lied about everything?
The dead would not let her marry; the dead would not let her have joy. So who could Pol Pot’s daughter pray to? Where could she go for wisdom?
The darkness was sterner than the sunlight.
What lies had Sith told? She knew the facts. Her father had been the head of a government that tortured and killed hundreds of thousands of people and starved the nation through mismanagement. I know the truth.
I just never think about it.
I’ve never faced it.
She had read books – well, the first chapter of books – and then dropped them as if her fingers were scalded. There was no truth for her in books. The truth ahead of her would be loneliness, dreary adulthood, and penance.
The palm-leaf panels stirred like waiting ghosts.
All through the long bus ride back, she said nothing. Dara went silent too, and hung his head.
In the huge and empty hotel suite, darkness awaited her. She’d had the phone and the TV removed; her footsteps sounded hollow. Jorani and the driver had been her only friends.
The next day she did not go to Soriya Market. She went instead to the torture museum of Tuol Sleng.
A cadre of young motoboys waited outside the hotel in baseball caps and bling. Instead, Sith hailed a sweet-faced older motoboy with a battered, rusty bike.
As they drove she asked him about his family. He lived alone and had no one except for his mother in Kompong Thom.
Outside the gates of Tuol Sleng he said, “This was my old school.”
In one wing there were rows of rooms with one iron bed in each with handcuffs and stains on the floor. Photos on the wall showed twisted bodies chained to those same beds as they were found on the day of liberation. In one photograph, a chair was overturned as if in a hurry.
Sith stepped outside and looked instead at a beautiful house over the wall across the street. It was a high white house like her own, with pillars and a roof terrace and bougainvillaea, a modern daughter’s house. What do they think when they look out from that roof terrace? How can they live here?
The grass was tended and full of hopping birds. People were painting the shutters of the prison a fresh blue-grey.
In the middle wing, the rooms were galleries of photographed faces. They stared out at her like the faces from her printer. Were some of them the same?
“Who are they?” she found herself asking a Cambodian visitor.
“Their own,” the woman replied. “This is where they sent Khmer Rouge cadres who had fallen out of favour. They would not waste such torture on ordinary Cambodians.”
Some of the faces were young and beautiful men. Some were children or dignified old women.
The Cambodian lady kept pace with her. Company? Did she guess who Sith was? “They couldn’t simply beat party cadres to death. They sent them and their entire families here. The children too, the grandmothers. They had different days of the week for killing children and wives.”
An innocent looking man smiled out at the camera as sweetly as her aged motoboy, directly into the camera of his torturers. He seemed to expect kindness from them, and decency.
The face in the photograph moved. It smiled more broadly and was about to speak.
Sith eyes darted away. The next face sucked all her breath away.
It was not a stranger. It was Dara, her Dara, in black shirt and black cap. She gasped and looked back at the lady. Her pinched and solemn face nodded up and down. Was she a ghost too?
Sith reeled outside and hid her face and didn’t know if she could go on standing. Tears slid down her face and she wanted to be sick and she turned her back so no one could see.
Then she walked to the motoboy, sitting in a shelter. In complete silence, she got on his bike feeling angry at the place, angry at the government for preserving it, angry at the foreigners who visited it like a tourist attraction, angry at everything.
The motoboy slipped onto his bike, and Sith asked him: What happened to your family? It was a cruel question. He had to smile and look cheerful. His father had run a small shop; they went out into the country and never came back. He lived with his brother in a
She was going to tell the motoboy, drive me back to the Hilton, but she felt ashamed. Of what? Just how far was she going to run?
She asked him to take her to the old house on Monivong Boulevard.
As the motorcycle wove through back streets, dodging red-earth ruts and pedestrians, she felt rage at her father. How dare he involve her in something like that! Sith had lived a small life and had no measure of things so she thought:
She remembered that she had never felt any compassion for her father. She had been twelve years old when he stood trial, old and sick and making such a show of leaning on his stick. Everything he did was a show. She remembered rolling her eyes in constant embarrassment. Oh, he was fine in front of rooms full of adoring students. He could play the
Her old house looked abandoned in the stark afternoon light, closed and innocent. At the doorstep she turned and thrust a fistful of dollars into the motoboy’s hand. She couldn’t think straight; she couldn’t even see straight, her vision blurred.
Back inside, she calmly put down her teddy-bear rucksack and walked upstairs to her office. Aido the robot dog whirred his way toward her. She had broken his back leg kicking him downstairs. He limped, whimpering like a dog, and lowered his head to have it stroked.
To her relief, there was only one picture waiting for her in the tray of the printer.
Kol Vireakboth looked out at her, middle-aged, handsome, worn, wise. Pity and kindness glowed in his eyes.
The land line began to ring.
“
She picked up the receiver and waited.
A man spoke. “My name was Yin Bora.” His voice bubbled up brokenly as if from underwater.
A light blinked in the printer. A photograph slid out quickly. A young student stared out at her looking happy at a family feast. He had a Beatle haircut and a striped shirt.
“That’s me,” said the voice on the phone. “I played football.”
Sith coughed. “What do you want me to do?”
“Write my name,” said the ghost.
“Please hold the line,” said Sith, in a hypnotised voice. She fumbled for a pen, and then wrote on the photograph
“None of us have anyone left alive to mourn us,” said the ghost.
Then there was a terrible sound down the telephone, as if a thousand voices moaned at once.
Sith involuntarily dropped the receiver into place. She listened to her heart thump and thought about what was needed. She fed the printer with the last of her paper. Immediately it began to roll out more photos, and the land line rang again.
She went outside and found the motoboy, waiting patiently for her. She asked him to go and buy two reams of copying paper. At the last moment she added pens and writing paper and matches. He bowed and smiled and bowed again, pleased to have found a patron.
She went back inside, and with just a tremor in her hand picked up the phone.
For the next half hour, she talked to the dead, and found photographs and wrote down names. A woman mourned her children. Sith found photos of them all, and united them, father, mother, three children, uncles, aunts, cousins and grandparents, taping their pictures to her wall. The idea of uniting families appealed. She began to stick the other photos onto her wall.
Someone called from outside and there on her doorstep was the motoboy, balancing paper and pens. “I bought you some soup.” The broth came in neatly tied bags and was full of rice and prawns. She thanked him and paid him well and he beamed at her and bowed again and again.
All afternoon, the pictures kept coming. Darkness fell, the phone rang, the names were written, until Sith’s hand, which was unused to writing anything, ached.
The doorbell rang, and on the doorstep, the motoboy sompiahed. “Excuse me, Lady, it is very late. I am worried for you. Can I get you dinner?”
Sith had to smile. He sounded motherly in his concern. They are so good at building a relationship with you, until you cannot do without them. In the old days she would have sent him away with a few rude words. Now she sent him away with an order.
And wrote.
And when he came back, the aged motoboy looked so happy. “I bought you fruit as well, Lady,” he said, and added, shyly. “You do not need to pay me for that.”
Something seemed to bump under Sith, as if she was on a motorcycle, and she heard herself say, “Come inside. Have some food too.”
The motoboy sompiahed in gratitude and as soon as he entered, the phone stopped ringing.
They sat on the floor. He arched his neck and looked around at the walls.
“Are all these people your family?” he asked.
She whispered. “No. They’re ghosts who no one mourns.”
“Why do they come to you?” His mouth fell open in wonder.
“Because my father was Pol Pot,” said Sith, without thinking.
The motoboy sompiahed. “Ah.” He chewed and swallowed and arched his head back again. “That must be a terrible thing. Everybody hates you.”
Sith had noticed that wherever she sat in the room, the eyes in the photographs were directly on her. “I haven’t done anything,” said Sith.
“You’re doing something now,” said the motoboy. He nodded and stood up, sighing with satisfaction. Life was good with a full stomach and a patron. “If you need me, Lady, I will be outside.”
Photo after photo, name after name.
She looked at the faces and realised.
The City around her went quiet and she became aware that it was now very late indeed. Perhaps she should just make sure the motoboy had gone home.
He was still waiting outside.
“It’s okay. You can go home. Where do you live?”
He waved cheerfully north. “Oh, on Monivong, like you.” He grinned at the absurdity of the comparison.
A new idea took sudden form. Sith said, “Tomorrow, can you come early, with a big feast? Fish and rice and greens and pork: curries and stir-fries and kebabs.” She paid him handsomely, and finally asked him his name. His name meant Golden.
“Good night, Sovann.”
For the rest of the night she worked quickly like an answering service. This is like a cleaning of the house before a festival, she thought. The voices of the dead became ordinary, familiar. Why are people afraid of the dead? The dead can’t hurt you. The dead want what you want: justice.
The wall of faces became a staircase and a garage and a kitchen of faces, all named. She had found Jorani’s coloured yarn, and linked family members into trees.
She wrote until the electric lights looked discoloured, like a headache. She asked the ghosts, “Please can I sleep now?” The phones fell silent and Sith slumped with relief onto the polished marble floor.
She woke up dazed, still on the marble floor. Sunlight flooded the room. The faces in the photographs no longer looked swollen and bruised. Their faces were not accusing or mournful. They smiled down on her. She was among friends.
With a whine, the printer started to print; the phone started to ring. Her doorbell chimed, and there was Sovann, white cardboard boxes piled up on the back of his motorcycle. He wore the same shirt as yesterday, a cheap blue copy of a Lacoste. A seam had parted under the arm. He only has one shirt, Sith realised. She imagined him washing it in a basin every night.
Sith and Sovann moved the big tables to the front windows. Sith took out her expensive tablecloths for the first time, and the bronze platters. The feast was laid out as if at New Year. Sovann had bought more paper and pens. He knew what they were for. “I can help, Lady.”
He was old enough to have lived in a country with schools, and he could write in a beautiful, old-fashioned hand. Together he and Sith spelled out the names of the dead and burned them.
“I want to write the names of my family too,” he said. He burnt them weeping.
The delicious vapours rose. The air was full of the sound of breathing in. Loose papers stirred with the breeze. The ash filled the basins, but even after working all day, Sith and the motoboy had only honoured half the names.
“Good night, Sovann,” she told him.
“You have transferred a lot of merit,” said Sovann, but only to be polite.
He left and the printers started, and the phone. She worked all night, and only stopped because the second ream of paper ran out.
The last picture printed was of Kol Vireakboth.
In the morning, she called him. “Can we meet at lunchtime for another walk by the river?”
Sith waited on top of the marble wall and watched an old man fish in the Tonlé Sap river and found that she loved her country. She loved its tough, smiling, uncomplaining people, who had never offered her harm, after all the harm her family had done them. Do you know you have the daughter of the monster sitting here among you?
Suddenly all Sith wanted was to be one of them. The monks in the pavilion, the white-shirted functionaries scurrying somewhere, the lazy bones dangling their legs, the young men who dress like American rappers and sold something dubious, drugs, or sex.
She saw Dara sauntering toward her. He wore his new shirt, and smiled at her but he didn’t look relaxed. It had been two days since they’d met. He knew something was wrong, that she had something to tell him. He had bought them lunch in a little cardboard box. Maybe for the last time, thought Sith.
They exchanged greetings, almost like cousins. He sat next to her and smiled and Sith giggled in terror at what she was about to do.
Dara asked, “What’s funny?”
She couldn’t stop giggling. “Nothing is funny. Nothing.” She sighed in order to stop and terror tickled her and she spurted out laughter again. “I lied to you. Kol Vireakboth is not my father. Another politician was my father. Someone you’ve heard of . . .”
The whole thing was so terrifying and absurd that the laughter squeezed her like a fist and she couldn’t talk. She laughed and wept at the same time. Dara stared.
“My father was Saloth Sar. That was his real name.” She couldn’t make herself say it. She could tell a motoboy, but not Dara? She forced herself onward. “My father was Pol Pot.”
Nothing happened.
Sitting next to her, Dara went completely still. People strolled past; boats bobbed on their moorings.
After a time Dara said, “I know what you are doing.”
That didn’t make sense. “Doing? What do you mean?”
Dara looked sour and angry. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.” He sat, looking away from her. Sith’s laughter had finally shuddered to a halt. She sat peering at him, waiting. “I told you my family were modest,” he said quietly.
“Your family are lovely!” Sith exclaimed.
His jaw thrust out. “They had questions about you too, you know.”
“I don’t understand.”
He rolled his eyes. He looked back round at her. “There are easier ways to break up with someone.”
He jerked himself to his feet and strode away with swift determination, leaving her sitting on the wall.
Here on the riverfront, everyone was equal. The teenage boys lounged on the wall; poor mothers herded children; the foreigners walked briskly, trying to look as if they didn’t carry moneybelts. Three fat teenage girls nearly swerved into a cripple in a pedal chair and collapsed against each other with raucous laughter.
Sith did not know what to do. She could not move. Despair humbled her, made her hang her head.
The sunlight seemed to settle next to her, washing up from its reflection on the wake of some passing boat.
The river water smelled of kindly concern. The sounds of traffic throbbed with forbearance.
There is no forgiveness in Cambodia. But there are continual miracles of compassion and acceptance.
Sith appreciated for just a moment the miracles. The motoboy buying her soup. She decided to trust herself to the miracles.
Sith talked to the sunlight without making a sound.
Sith stood up and from nowhere, the motoboy was there. He drove her to the Hello Phone shop.
Dara would not look at her. He bustled back and forth behind the counter, though there was nothing for him to do. Sith talked to him like a customer. “I want to buy a mobile phone,” she said, but he would not answer. “There is someone I need to talk to.”
Another customer came in. She was a beautiful daughter too, and he served her, making a great show of being polite. He complimented her on her appearance. “Really, you look cool.” The girl looked pleased. Dara’s eyes darted in Sith’s direction.
Sith waited in the chair. This was home for her now. Dara ignored her. She picked up her phone and dialled his number. He put it to his ear and said, “Go home.”
“You are my home,” she said.
His thumb jabbed the C button.
She waited. Shadows lengthened.
“We’re closing,” he said, standing by the door without looking at her.
Shamefaced, Sith ducked away from him, through the door.
Outside Soriya, the motoboy played dice with his fellows. He stood up. “They say I am very lucky to have Pol Pot’s daughter as a client.”
There was no discretion in Cambodia, either. Everyone will know now, Sith realised.
At home, the piles of printed paper still waited for her. Sith ate the old, cold food. It tasted flat, all its savour sucked away. The phones began to ring. She fell asleep with the receiver propped against her ear.
The next day, Sith went back to Soriya with a box of the printed papers.
She dropped the box onto the blue plastic counter of Hello Phones.
“Because I am Pol Pot’s daughter,” she told Dara, holding out a sheaf of pictures toward him. “All the unmourned victims of my father are printing their pictures on my printer. Here. Look. These are the pictures of people who lost so many loved ones there is no one to remember them.”
She found her cheeks were shaking and that she could not hold the sheaf of paper. It tumbled from her hands, but she stood back, arms folded.
Dara, quiet and solemn, knelt and picked up the papers. He looked at some of the faces. Sith pushed a softly crumpled green card at him. Her family ID card.
He read it. Carefully, with the greatest respect, he put the photographs on the countertop along with the ID card.
“Go home, Sith,” he said, but not unkindly.
“I said,” she had begun to speak with vehemence but could not continue. “I told you. My home is where you are.”
“I believe you,” he said, looking at his feet.
“Then . . .” Sith had no words.
“It can never be, Sith,” he said. He gathered up the sheaf of photocopying paper. “What will you do with these?”
Something made her say, “What will
His face was crossed with puzzlement.
“It’s your country too. What will you do with them? Oh, I know, you’re such a poor boy from a poor family, who could expect anything from you? Well, you have your whole family and many people have no one. And you can buy new shirts and some people only have one.”
Dara held out both hands and laughed. “Sith?”
“You own them too.” Sith pointed to the papers, to the faces. “You think the dead don’t try to talk to you, too?”
Their eyes latched. She told him what he could do. “I think you should make an exhibition. I think Hello Phones should sponsor it. You tell them that. You tell them Pol Pot’s daughter wishes to make amends and has chosen them. Tell them the dead speak to me on their mobile phones.”
She spun on her heel and walked out. She left the photographs with him.
That night she and the motoboy had another feast and burned the last of the unmourned names. There were many thousands.
The next day she went back to Hello Phones.
“I lied about something else,” she told Dara. She took out all the reports from the fortunetellers. She told him what Hun Sen’s fortuneteller had told her. “The marriage is particularly well favoured.”
“Is that true?” He looked wistful.
“You should not believe anything I say. Not until I have earned your trust. Go consult the fortunetellers for yourself. This time you pay.”
His face went still and his eyes focused somewhere far beneath the floor. Then he looked up, directly into her eyes. “I will do that.”
For the first time in her life Sith wanted to laugh for something other than fear. She wanted to laugh for joy.
“Can we go to lunch at Lucky7?” she asked.
“Sure,” he said.
All the telephones in the shop, all of them, hundreds all at once began to sing.
A waterfall of trills and warbles and buzzes, snatches of old songs or latest chart hits. Dara stood dumbfounded. Finally he picked one up and held it to his ear.
“It’s for you,” he said and held out the phone for her.
There was no name or number on the screen.
“Who is this?” Sith asked. The options were severely limited.
A thousand thousand voices said at once,
In Cambodia, you share your house with ghosts in the way you share it with dust. You hear the dead shuffling alongside your own footsteps. You can sweep, but the sound does not go away.
On the Tra Bek end of Monivong there is a house whose owner has given it over to ghosts. You can try to close the front door. But the next day you will find it hanging open. Indeed you can try, as the neighbours did, to nail the door shut. It opens again.
By day, there is always a queue of five or six people wanting to go in, or hanging back, out of fear. Outside are offerings of lotus or coconuts with embedded josh sticks.
The walls and floors and ceilings are covered with photographs. The salon, the kitchen, the stairs, the office, the empty bedrooms, are covered with photographs of Chinese-Khmers at weddings, Khmer civil servants on picnics, Chams outside their mosques, Vietnamese holding up prize catches of fish; little boys going to school in shorts; cyclopousse drivers in front of their odd, old-fashioned pedalled vehicles; wives in stalls stirring soup. All of them are happy and joyful, and the background is Phnom Penh when it was the most beautiful city in Southeast Asia.
All the photographs have names written on them in old-fashioned handwriting.
On the table is a printout of thousands of names on slips of paper. Next to the table are matches and basins of ash and water. The implication is plain. Burn the names and transfer merit to the unmourned dead.
Next to that is a small printed sign that says in English HELLO.
Every Pchum Ben, those names are delivered to temples throughout the city. Gold foil is pressed onto each slip of paper, and attached to it is a parcel of sticky rice. At 8:00 am food is delivered for the monks, steaming rice and fish, along with bolts of new cloth. At 10:00 a.m. more food is delivered, for the disabled and the poor.
And most mornings a beautiful daughter of Cambodia is seen walking beside the confluence of the Tonlé Sap and Mekong rivers. Like Cambodia, she plainly loves all things modern. She dresses in the latest fashion. Cambodian R&B whispers in her ear. She pauses in front of each new waterfront construction whether built by improvised scaffolding or erected with cranes. She buys noodles from the grumpy vendors with their tiny stoves. She carries a book or sits on the low marble wall to write letters and look at the boats, the monsoon clouds, and the dop-dops. She talks to the reflected sunlight on the river and calls it Father.
GLEN HIRSHBERG
Devil’s Smile
GLEN HIRSHBERG’S MOST RECENT collection,
Hirshberg is also the author of the novels
His fiction has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies, including multiple appearances in
“This story grew out of a delicious winter evening spent reading my children a book by Donald J. Sobol called
“But the whole piece coalesced during my visit to New Bedford, Massachusetts, which still feels grim and blubber-soaked and strange even before you stick your head in the Whaling Museum and see the wall of implements for carving up whales at sea – as terrifying and poignant in their shapes as the gynaecological instruments for working on ‘mutant women’ in David Cronenberg’s
“
– Herman Melville
TURNING IN HIS SADDLE, Selkirk peered behind him through the flurrying snow, trying to determine which piece of debris had lamed his horse. All along what had been the carriage road, bits of driftwood, splintered sections of hull and harpoon handle, discarded household goods – pans, candlesticks, broken-backed books, empty lanterns – and at least one section of long, bleached-white jaw lay half-buried in the sand. The jaw still had baleen attached, and bits of blown snow had stuck in it, which made it look more recently alive than it should have.
Selkirk rubbed his tired eyes against the grey December morning and hunched deeper into his inadequate long coat as the wind whistled off the whitecaps and sliced between the dunes. The straw hat he wore more out of habit than hope of protection did nothing to warm him, and stray blond curls kept whipping across his eyes. Easing himself from the horse, Selkirk dropped to the sand.
He should have conducted his business here months ago. His surveying route for the still-fledgling United States Lighthouse Service had taken him in a crisscrossing loop from the tip of the Cape all the way up into Maine and back. He’d passed within fifty miles of Cape Roby Light and its singular keeper twice this fall, and both times had continued on. Why? Because Amalia had told him the keeper’s tale on the night he’d imagined she loved him? Or maybe he just hated coming back here even more than he thought he would. For all he knew, the keeper had long since moved on, dragging her memories behind her. She might even have died. So many did, around here. Setting his teeth against the wind, Selkirk wrapped his frozen fingers in his horse’s bridle and led her the last down-sloping mile and a half into Winsett.
Entering from the east, he saw a scatter of stone and clapboard homes and boarding houses hunched against the dunes, their windows dark. None of them looked familiar. Like so many of the little whaling communities he’d visited during his survey, the town he’d known had simply drained away into the burgeoning, bloody industry centers at New Bedford and Nantuckett.
Selkirk had spent one miserable fall and winter here fourteen years ago, sent by his drunken father to learn candle-making from his drunken uncle. He’d accepted the nightly open-fisted beatings without comment, skulking afterward down to the Blubber Pike tavern to watch the whalers: the Portuguese swearing loudly at each other and the negroes – so many Negroes, most of them recently freed, more than a few newly escaped – clinging in clumps to the shadowy back tables and stealing fearful glances at every passing face, as though they expected at any moment to be spirited away.
Of course, there’d been his cousin, Amalia, for all the good that had ever done him. She’d just turned eighteen at the time, two years his senior. Despite her blond hair and startling fullness, the Winsett whalers had already learned to steer clear, but for some reason, she’d liked Selkirk. At least, she’d liked needling him about his outsized ears, his floppy hair, the crack in his voice he could not outgrow. Whatever the reason, she’d lured him away from the pub on several occasions to stare at the moon and drink beside him. And once, in a driving sleet, she’d led him on a midnight walk to Cape Roby Point. There, lurking uncomfortably close but never touching him, standing on the rocks with her dark eyes cocked like rifle sites at the rain, she’d told him the lighthouse keeper’s story. At the end, without any explanation, she’d turned, opened her heavy coat and pulled him to her. He’d had no idea what she wanted him to do, and had wound up simply setting his ear against her slicked skin, all but tasting the water that rushed into the valley between her breasts, listening to her heart banging way down inside her.
After that, she’d stopped speaking to him entirely. He’d knocked on her door, chased her half out of the shop one morning and been stopped by a chop to the throat from his uncle, left notes he hoped she’d find peeking out from under the rug in the upstairs hallway. She’d responded to none of it, and hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye when he left. And Selkirk had steered clear of all women for more than a decade afterward, except for the very occasional company he paid for near the docks where he slung cargo, until the Lighthouse Service offered him an unexpected escape.
Now, half-dragging his horse down the empty main street, Selkirk found he couldn’t even remember which grim room the Blubber Pike had been. He passed no one. But at the western edge of the frozen, cracking main thoroughfare, less than a block from where his uncle had kept his establishment, he found a traveler’s stable and entered.
The barn was lit by banks of horseshoe-shaped wall sconces – apparently, local whale oil or no, candles remained in ready supply – and a coal fire glowed in the open iron stove at the rear of the barn. A dark-haired stable lad with a clam-shaped birthmark covering his left cheek and part of his forehead appeared from one of the stables in the back,
“Still a horse doctor here?” Selkirk asked.
The boy nodded. He was almost as tall as Selkirk, and spoke with a Scottish burr. “Still good business. Got to keep the means of getting out healthy.”
“Not many staying in town anymore, then?”
“Just the dead ones. Lot of those.”
Selkirk paid the boy and thanked him, then wandered toward the stove and stood with his hands extended to the heat, which turned them purplish red. If he got about doing what should have been done years ago, he’d be gone by nightfall, providing his horse could take him. From his memory of the midnight walk with Amalia, Cape Roby Point couldn’t be more than three miles away. Once at the lighthouse, if its longtime occupant did indeed still live there, he’d brook no romantic nonsense – neither his own, nor the keeper’s. The property did not belong to her, was barely suitable for habitation, and its lack of both updated equipment and experienced, capable attendant posed an undue and unacceptable threat to any ship unlucky enough to hazard past. Not that many bothered anymore with this particular stretch of abandoned, storm-battered coast.
Out he went into the snow. In a matter of minutes, he’d left Winsett behind. Head down, he burrowed through the gusts. With neither buildings nor dunes to block it, the wind raked him with bits of shell and sand that clung to his cheeks like the tips of fingernails and then ripped free. When he looked up, he saw beach pocked with snow and snarls of seaweed, then the ocean thrashing about between the shore and the sandbar a hundred yards or so out.
An hour passed. More. The tamped-down path, barely discernible during Winsett’s heyday, had sunk completely into the shifting earth. Selkirk stepped through stands of beach heather and sand bur, pricking himself repeatedly about the ankles. Eventually, he felt blood beneath one heavy sock, but he didn’t peel the sock back, simply yanked out the most accessible spines and kept moving. Far out to sea, bright, yellow sun flickered in the depths of the cloud cover and vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. Devil’s smile, as the Portuguese sailors called it. At the time, it hadn’t occurred to Selkirk to ask why the light would be the devil, instead of the dark or the gathering storm. Stepping from the V between two leaning dunes, he saw the lighthouse.
He’d read the report from the initial Lighthouse Service survey three years ago, and more than once. That document mentioned rot in every beam, chips and cracks in the bricks that made up the conical tower, erosion all around the foundation. As far as Selkirk could see, the report had been kind. The building seemed to be crumbling to nothing before his eyes, bleeding into the pool of shorewater churning at the rocks beneath it.
Staring into the black tide racing up the sand to meet him, Selkirk caught a sea-salt tang on his tongue and found himself murmuring a prayer he hadn’t planned for Amalia, who’d reportedly wandered into the dunes and vanished one winter night, six years after Selkirk left. Her father had written Selkirk’s father that the girl had never had friends, hated him, hated Winsett, and was probably happier wherever she was now. Then he’d said, “
On another night than the one they’d spent out here, somewhere closer to town but similarly deserted, he and Amalia once found themselves beset by gulls that swept out of the moonlight all together, by the hundreds, as though storming the mainland. Amalia had pitched stones at them, laughing as they shrieked and swirled nearer. Finally, she’d hit one in the head and killed it. Then she’d bent over the body, calling Selkirk to her. He’d expected her to cradle it or cry. Instead, she’d dipped her finger in its blood and painted a streak down Selkirk’s face. Not her own.
Looking down now, Selkirk watched the tide reach the tips of his boots again. How much time had he wasted during his dock-working years imagining – hoping – that Amalia might be hidden behind some stack of crates or in a nearby alley, having sought him out after leaving Winsett?
Angry now, Selkirk picked his way between rocks to the foot of the tower. A surge of whitewater caught him off guard and pasted his trousers to his legs, and the wind promptly froze them with a gust.
Up close, the tower looked even worse. Most of the bricks had crumbled and whitened, the salt air creating blotchy lesions like leper spots all over them. The main building still stood straight enough, but even from below, with the wind whipping the murky winter light around, Selkirk could see filth filming the windows that surrounded the lantern room, and cracks in the glass.
The keeper’s quarters squatted to the left of the light tower, and looked, if possible, even more disheveled. Along the base, lime had taken hold, sprouting up the wooden walls like algae. Or maybe it was algae. This would not be somewhere the Service salvaged. Cape Roby Light would have to come down, or simply be abandoned to the sea.
Selkirk rapped hard on the heavy oak door of the tower. For answer, he got a blast of wind nearly powerful enough to tip him off the rocks. Grunting, he rapped harder. Behind him, the water gurgled, the way spermaceti oil sometimes did as it bubbled, and though he knew it wasn’t possible, Selkirk would have sworn he could smell it, that faint but nauseating reek his uncle swore was imaginary, because that was the glory of spermaceti oil, the whole goddamn point: it had no significant odor. Every day of that dismal fall, though, Selkirk’s nostrils had filled anyway. Blood, whale brain, desiccated fish. He began to pound.
Just before the door opened, he became aware of movement behind it, the slap of shoed feet descending stone steps. But he didn’t stop knocking until the oak swung away from him, the light rushing not out from the lighthouse but in from the air.
He knew right away this was her, though he’d never actually seen her. Her black hair twisted over her shoulders and down her back in tangled strands like vines, just as Amalia had described. He’d expected a wild, white-haired, wind-ravaged thing, bent with age and the grief she could not shake. But of course, if Amalia’s story had been accurate, this woman had been all of 20 during Selkirk’s year here, and so barely over 18 when she’d been widowed. She gazed at him now through royal blue eyes that seemed set into the darkness behind her like the last sunlit patches in a blackening sky.
“Mrs Marchant,” he said. “I’m Robert Selkirk from the Lighthouse Service. May I come in?”
For a moment, he thought she might shut the door in his face. Instead, she hovered, both arms lifting slightly from her sides, as though she were considering taking wing. Her skirt was long, her blouse pale yellow, clinging to her square and powerful shoulders.
“Selkirk,” she said. “From Winsett?”
Astonished, Selkirk started to raise his hand. Then he shook his head. “From the lighthouse service. But yes, I was nephew to the Winsett Selkirks.”
“Well,” she said, the Portuguese tilt to her words stirring memories of the Blubber Pike whalers, the smoke and the smell in there. Abruptly, she grinned. “Then you’re welcome here.”
“You may not feel that way in a few minutes, Mrs Marchant. I’m afraid I’ve come to . . .”
But she’d stepped away from the door, starting back up the stairs and beckoning him without turning around. Over her shoulder, he heard her say, “You must be frozen. I have tea.”
In he went, and stood still in the entryway, listening to the whistling in the walls, feeling drafts rushing at him from all directions. If it weren’t for the roof, the place would hardly qualify as a dwelling anymore, let alone a lifesaving beacon and refuge. He started after the woman up the twisting stairs.
Inside, too, the walls had begun to flake and mold, and the air flapped overhead, as though the whole place were full of nesting birds. Four steps from the platform surrounding the lantern room, just at the edge of the spill of yellow candlelight from up there, Selkirk slowed, then stopped. His gaze swung to his right and down toward his feet.
Sitting against the wall with her little porcelain ankles sticking out of the bottom of her habit and crossed at the ankle, sat a doll of a nun. From beneath the hood of the doll’s black veil, disconcertingly blue eyes peered from under long lashes. A silver crucifix lay in the doll’s lap, and miniature rosary beads trailed back down the steps, winking pale yellow and pink in the flickering light like seashells underwater. And in fact, they were bits of shell.
Glancing behind him, Selkirk spotted the other dolls he’d somehow missed. One for every other stair, on alternating walls. These were made mostly from shell, as far as he could tell. Two of them were standing, while a third sat with her legs folded underneath her and a stone tucked against her ear, as though she were listening. At the top of the steps, still another nun dangled from her curved, seashell hands on the decaying wooden banister. Not only were her eyes blue, but she was grinning like a little girl. Momentarily baffled to silence, Selkirk stumbled the rest of the way up to the lantern room. This time, he froze completely.
Even on this dark day, even through the dust and salt that caked the window glass inside and out, light flooded the chamber. None of it came from the big lamp, which of course lay unlit. Assuming it still worked at all. Across the platform, a pair of white wicker chairs sat side by side, aimed out to sea. Over their backs, the keeper had draped blankets of bright red wool, and beneath them lay a rug of similar red. And on the rug stood a house.
Like most of the dolls, it had been assembled entirely from shells and seaweed and sand. From its peaked roof, tassels of purple flowers hung like feathers, and all around the eves, gull feathers hung like the decorative flourishes on some outrageous society woman’s hat. On the rug – clearly, it served as a yard – tiny nuns prowled like cats. Some lay on their backs with their arms folded across their crucifixes, soaking up the light. One was climbing the leg of one of the wicker chairs. And a group – at least five – stood at the base of the window, staring out to sea.
And that is what reminded Selkirk of his purpose, and brought him at least part way back to himself. He glanced around the rest of the room, noting half a dozen round wooden tables evenly spaced around the perimeter. On each, yellow beeswax candles blazed in their candlesticks, lending the air a misleading tint of yellow and promising more heat than actually existed here. Mostly, the tables held doll-making things. Tiny silver crosses, multi-colored rocks, thousands of shells. The table directly to Selkirk’s right had a single place setting laid out neatly upon it. Clean white plate, fork, spoon, one chipped teacup decorated with paintings of leaping silver fish.
Selkirk realised he was staring at a crude sort of living sundial. Each day, Mrs Marchant began with her tea and breakfast, proceeded around the platform to assemble and place her nuns, spent far too long sitting in one or the other of the wicker chairs and staring at the place where it had all happened, and eventually retired, to do it all over again when daybreak came. In spite of himself, he felt a surprisingly strong twinge of pity.
“That hat can’t have helped you much,” Mrs Marchant said, straightening from a bureau near her dining table where she apparently kept her tea things. The cup she brought matched the one on her breakfast table, flying fish, chips and all, and chattered lightly on its saucer as she handed it to him.
More grateful for its warmth than he realised, Selkirk rushed the cup to his mouth and winced as the hot liquid scalded his tongue. The woman stood a little too close to him. Loose strands of her hair almost tickled the back of his hand like the fringe on a shawl. Her blue eyes flicked over his face. Then she started laughing.
“What?” Selkirk took an uncertain half-step back.
“The fish,” she said. When he stared, she laughed again and gestured at the cup. “When you drank, it looked like they were going to leap right into your teeth.”
Selkirk glanced at the side of the cup, then back to the woman’s laughing face. Judging by the layout and contents of this room, he couldn’t imagine her venturing anywhere near town, but she clearly got outside to collect supplies. As a result, her skin had retained its dusky continental coloration. A beautiful creature, and no mistake.
“I am sorry,” she said, meeting his eyes. “It’s been a long time since anyone drank from my china but me. It’s an unfamiliar sight. Come.” She started around the left side of the platform. Selkirk watched, then took the opposite route, past the seaweed table, and met the woman in the center of the seaward side of the platform, at the wicker chairs. Without waiting for him, she bent, lifted a tiny nun whose bandeau hid most of her face like a bandit’s mask off the rug, and settled in the right-hand chair. The nun wound up tucked against her hip like a rabbit.
For whom, Selkirk wondered, was the left-hand chair meant, on ordinary days? The obvious answer chilled and also saddened him, and he saw no point in wasting further time.
“Mrs Marchant—”
“Manners, Mr Selkirk,” the woman said, and for the second time smiled at him. “The sisters do not approve of being lectured to.”
It took him a moment to understand she was teasing him. And not like Amalia had, or not exactly like. Teasing him hadn’t made Amalia any happier. He sat.
“Mrs Marchant, I have bad news. Actually, it isn’t really bad news, but it may feel that way at first. I know – that is, I really think I have a sense – of what this place must mean to you. I did live in town here once, and I do know your story. But it’s not good for you, staying here. And there are more important considerations than you or your grief here, anyway, aren’t there? There are the sailors still out there braving the seas, and . . .”
Mrs Marchant cocked her head, and her eyes trailed over his face so slowly that he almost thought he could feel them, faintly, like the moisture in the air but warmer.
“Would you remove your hat, Mr Selkirk?”
Was she teasing now? She wasn’t smiling at the moment. Increasingly flustered, Selkirk settled the teacup on the floor at his feet and pulled his sopping hat from his head. Instantly, his poodle’s ruff of curls spilled onto his forehead and over his ears.
Mrs Marchant sat very still. “I’d forgotten,” she finally said. “Isn’t that funny?”
“Ma’am?”
Sighing, she leaned back. “Men’s hair by daylight.” Then she winked at him, and whispered, “The nuns are scandalised.”
“Mrs Marchant. The time has come. The Lighthouse Service – perhaps you’ve heard of it – needs to—”
“We had a dog, then,” Mrs Marchant said, and her eyes swung toward the windows.
Selkirk closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the tea unfurling in his guts, hearing the longing underneath the play in the keeper’s voice. When he opened his eyes again, he found Mrs Marchant still staring toward the horizon.
“We named the dog Luis. For my father, who died at sea while my mother and I were on our way here from Lisbon. Charlie gave him to me.”
After that, Selkirk hardly moved. It wasn’t the story, which Amalia had told him, and which he hadn’t forgotten. It was the way this woman said her husband’s name.
“He didn’t have to work, you know. Charlie. His family built half the boats that ever left this place. He said he just wanted to make certain his friends got home. Also, I think he liked living in the lighthouse. Especially alone with me. And my girls.”
“Smart fellow,” Selkirk murmured, realised to his amazement that he’d said it aloud, and blushed.
But the keeper simply nodded. “Yes. He was. Also reckless, in a way. No, that is wrong. He liked . . . playing at recklessness. In storms, he used to lash himself to the railing out there.” She gestured toward the thin band of metal that encircled the platform outside the windows. “Then he would lean into the rain. He said it was like sailing without having to hunt. And without leaving me.”
“Was he religious like you?” Selkirk hadn’t meant to ask anything. And Mrs Marchant looked completely baffled. “The . . .” Selkirk muttered, and gestured at the rug, the house. Sand-convent. Whatever it was.
“Oh,” she said. “It is a habit, only.” Again, she grinned, but unlike Amalia, she waited until she was certain he’d gotten the joke. Then she went on. “While my father lived here, my mother and I earned extra money making dolls for the Sacred Heart of Mary. They gave them to poor girls. Poorer than we were.”
The glow from Mrs Marchant’s eyes intensified on his cheek, as though he’d leaned nearer to a candle flame. Somehow, the feeling annoyed him, made him nervous.
“But he did leave you,” he said, more harshly than he intended. “Your husband.”
Mrs Marchant’s lips flattened slowly. “He meant to take me. The Kendall brothers – Kit was his best and oldest friend, and he’d known Kevin since the day Kevin was born – wanted us both to come sail with them, on the only beautiful January weekend I have ever experienced here. 1837. The air was so warm, Mr Selkirk, and the whales gone for the winter. I didn’t realise until then that Charlie had never once, in his whole life, been to sea. I’d never known until that weekend that he wanted to go. Of course I said yes. Then Luis twisted his foreleg in the rocks out there, and I stayed to be with him. And I made Charlie go anyway. He was blonde like you. Did you know that?”
Shifting in his seat, Selkirk stared over the water. The sky hung heavy and low, its color an unbroken blackish grey, so that he no longer had any idea what time it was. After noon, surely. If he failed to conclude his business here soon, he’d never make it out of Winsett before nightfall, horse or no. At his feet, the nuns watched the water.
“Mrs Marchant.”
“He wasn’t as tall as you are, of course. Happier, though.”
Selkirk swung his head toward the woman. She took no notice.
“Of course, why wouldn’t he be? He had so much luck in his short life. More than anyone deserves or has any right to expect. The Sacred Heart of Mary sisters always taught that it was bad luck to consort with the lucky. What do you make of that, Mr Selkirk?”
It took Selkirk several seconds to sort the question, and as he sat, Mrs Marchant stood abruptly and put her open palm on the window. For a crazy second, just because of the stillness of her posture and the oddly misdirected tilt of her head – toward land, away from the sea – Selkirk wondered if she were blind, like her dolls.
“I guess I’ve never been around enough luck to say,” Selkirk finally said.
She’d been looking down the coast, but now she turned to him, beaming once more. “The sisters find you an honest man, sir. They invite you to more tea.”
Returning to the bureau with his cup, she refilled it, then sat back down beside him. She’d left the nun she’d had before on the bureau, balancing in the center of a white plate like a tiny ice skater.
“The morning after they set sail,” she said, “Luis woke me up.” In the window, her eyes reflected against the grey. “He’d gotten better all through the day, and he’d been out all night. He loved to be. I often didn’t see him until I came outside to hang the wash or do the chores. But that day, he scratched and whined against the door. I thought he’d fallen or hurt himself again and hurried to let him in. But when I did, he raced straight past me up the stairs. I hurried after, and found him whimpering against the light there. I was so worried that I didn’t even look at the window for the longest time. And when I did . . .”
All the while, Mrs Marchant had kept her hands pressed together in the folds of her dress, but now she opened them. Selkirk half-expected a nun to flap free of them on starfish wings, but they were empty. “So much whiteness, Mr Selkirk. And yet it was dark. You wouldn’t think that would be possible, would you?”
“I’ve lived by the sea all my life,” Selkirk said.
“Well, then. That’s what it was like. A wall of white that shed no light at all. I couldn’t even see the water. I had the lamp lit, of course, but all that did was emphasise the difference between
Selkirk stood. If he were Charlie Marchant, he thought, he would never have left the Convent, as he’d begun to think of the whole place. Not to go to sea. Not even to town. He found himself remembering the letters he’d sent Amalia during his dock-working years. Pathetic, clumsy things. She’d never responded to those, either. Maybe she’d been trying, in her way, to be kind.
“I’ve often wondered if Luis somehow sensed the ship coming,” Mrs Marchant said. “We’d trained him to bark in the fog, in case a passing captain could hear but not see us. But maybe that day Luis was just barking at the whiteness.
“The sound was unmistakable when it came. I heard wood splintering. Sails collapsing. A mast smashing into the water. But there wasn’t any screaming. And I thought . . .”
“You thought maybe the crew had escaped to the lifeboats,” Selkirk said, when it was clear Mrs Marchant was not going to finish her sentence.
For the first time in several minutes, Mrs Marchant turned her gaze on him. Abruptly, that luminous smile crept over her lips. “You would make the most marvelous stuffed giraffe,” she said.
Selkirk stiffened. Was he going to have to carry this poor, gently raving woman out of here? “Mrs Marchant, it’s already late. We need to be starting for town soon.”
If she understood what he meant, she gave no sign. “I knew what ship it was.” She sank back into her wicker chair, the smile gone, and crossed her legs. “What other vessel would be out there in the middle of winter? I started screaming, pounding the glass. It didn’t take me long to realise they wouldn’t have gone to the rowboats. In all likelihood, they’d had no idea where they were. The Kendall boys were experienced seamen, excellent sailors, Mr Selkirk. But that fog had dropped straight out of the heart of the sky, or maybe it had risen from the dead sea bottom, and it was solid as stone.
“And then – as if it were the fogbank itself, and not Charlie’s boat, that had run aground on the sandbar out there – all that whiteness just shattered. The whole wall cracked apart into whistling, flying fragments. Just like that, the blizzard blew in. How does that happen, Mr Selkirk? How does the sea change its mind like that?”
Selkirk didn’t answer. But for the first time, he thought he understood why the sailors in the Blubber Pike referred to those teasing, far-off flickers of light the way they did.
“I rushed downstairs, thinking I’d get the rowboat and haul myself out there and save them. But the waves . . . they were snarling and snapping all over themselves, and I knew I’d have to wait. My tears were freezing on my face. I was wearing only a dressing gown, and the wind whipped right through me. The door to the lighthouse was banging because I hadn’t shut it properly, and I was so full of fury and panic I was ready to start screaming again. I looked out to sea, and all but fell to my knees in gratitude.
“It was there, Mr Selkirk. I could see the ship. Some of it, anyway. Enough, perhaps. I could just make it out. The prow, part of the foredeck, a stump of mast. I turned around and raced back inside for my clothes.
“Then I ran all the way to town. We never kept a horse here, Charlie didn’t like them. The strangest thing was this sensation I kept having, this feeling that I’d gotten lost. It was impossible; that path out there was well-traveled in those days, and even now, you had no trouble, did you? But I couldn’t feel my skin. Or . . . it was as though I had come out of it. There was snow and sand flying all around, wind in the dunes. So cold. My Charlie out there. I remember thinking,
Pursing his lips, Selkirk stirred from the daze that had settled over him. “Brucka?”
“
Was it his imagination, or had the dark outside deepened toward evening? If he didn’t get this finished, neither one of them would make it out of here tonight. “Mrs Marchant, perhaps we could continue this on the way back to town.”
Finally, as though he’d slapped her, Mrs Marchant blinked. “What?”
“Mrs Marchant, surely you understand the reason for my coming. We’ll send for your things. You don’t
“When I finally reached Winsett,” Mrs Marchant said, her stare returning as that peculiar, distant smiled played across her mouth, “I went straight for the first lit window I saw. Selkirk’s. The candle-maker. Your uncle.”
Selkirk cringed, remembering those hard, overheated hands smashing against the side of his skull.
“He was so kind,” she said, and his mouth quivered and fell open as she went on. “He rushed me inside. It was warm in his shop. At the time, it literally felt as though he’d saved my life. Returned me to my body. I sat by his fire, and he raced all over town through the blizzard and came back with whalers, sailing men. Charlie’s father, and the Kendalls’ older brother. There were fifteen of them, at least. Most set out immediately on horseback for the point. Your uncle wrapped me in two additional sweaters and an overcoat, and he walked all the way back out here with me, telling me it would be all right. By the time we reached the lighthouse, he said, the sailors would already have figured a way to get the boys off that sandbar and home.”
To Selkirk, it seemed this woman had reached into his memories and daubed them with colors he knew couldn’t have been there. His uncle had been kind to no one. His uncle had hardly spoken except to complete business. The very idea of his using his shop fire to warm somebody, risking himself to rouse the town to some wealthy playboy’s rescue . . .
But of course, by the time Selkirk had come here, the town was well on its way to failing, and his aunt had died in some awful, silent way no one spoke about. Maybe his uncle had been different, before. Or maybe, he thought with a sick quivering deep in his stomach, he was just an old lecher, on top of being a drunk.
“By the time we got back here, it was nearly dusk,” Mrs Marchant said. “The older Kendall and four of the sailors had already tried four different times to get the rowboat away from shore and into the waves. They were all tucked inside my house, now, trying to stave off pneumonia.
“ ‘Tomorrow,’ one of the sailors told me. ‘Tomorrow, please God, if they can just hold on. We’ll find a way to them.’
“And right then, Mr Selkirk. Right as the light went out of that awful day for good, the snow cleared. For one moment. And there they were.”
A single tear crept from the lashes of her right eye. She was almost whispering, now. “It was like a gift. Like a glimpse of him in heaven. I raced back outside, called out, leapt up and down, we all did, but of course they couldn’t hear, and weren’t paying attention. They were scrambling all over the deck. I knew right away which was Charlie. He was in the bow, all bundled up in a hat that wasn’t his and what looked like three or four coats. He looked like one of my nuns, Mr Selkirk.” She grinned again. “The one with the bandeau that hides her face? I was holding her in my lap before. I made her in memory of this one moment.”
Selkirk stared. Was the woman actually celebrating this story?
“I could also see the Kendall boys’ hair as they worked amidships. So red, like twin suns burning off the overcast.
“ ‘Bailing,’ Charlie’s father told me. ‘The ship must be taking on water. They’re trying to keep her where she is.’ ”
Again, Mrs Marchant’s smile slid, but didn’t vanish entirely. “I asked how long they could keep doing that. But what I really wondered was how long they’d already been at it. Those poor, beautiful boys.
“Our glimpse lasted two minutes. Maybe even less. I could see new clouds rising behind them. Like a sea-monster rearing right out of the waves. But at the last, just before the snow and the dark obliterated our sight of them, they all stopped as one, and turned around. I’m sorry, Mr Selkirk.”
She didn’t wipe her face, and there weren’t any tears Selkirk could see. She simply sat in her chair, breathing softly. Selkirk watched her with some relief.
“I remember the older Kendall boy standing beside me,” she finally said. “He was whispering.
“And what was that?”
“The Kendalls had given up. Less than 100 yards from shore, they’d given up. Or decided that they weren’t going to make it through the night. Either rescue would come before dawn, or it would no longer matter. The ship would not hold. Or the cold would overwhelm them. So they were hastening the end, one way or another.
“But not Charlie. Not my Charlie. He didn’t jump in the air. He just slumped against the railing. But I know he saw me, Mr Selkirk. I could feel him. Even under all those hats. I could always feel him. Then the snow came back. And night fell.
“The next time we saw them, they were in the rigging.”
Silently, Selkirk gave up the idea of escaping Winsett until morning. The network of functioning lights and functional keepers the Service had been toiling so hard to establish could wait one more winter evening.
“This was midday, the second day. That storm was a freak of nature. Or perhaps not natural at all. How can that much wind blow a storm nowhere? It was as though the blizzard itself had locked jaws on those boys – on my boy – and would not let go. The men who weren’t already racked by coughs and fever made another five attempts with the rowboat, and never got more than fifteen feet from shore. The ice in the air was like arrows raining down.
“Not long after the last attempt, when almost everyone was indoors and I was rushing about making tea and caring for the sick and trying to shush Luis, who had been barking since dawn, I heard Charlie’s father cry out and hurried outside.
“I’d never seen light like that, Mr Selkirk, and I haven’t since. Neither snow nor wind had eased one bit, and the clouds hadn’t lifted. But there was the ship again, and there were our boys. Up in the ropes, now. The Kendalls had their hats back on and their coats around them, tucked up tight together with their arms through the lines. Charlie had gone even higher, crouching by himself, looking down at the brothers or maybe the deck. I hoped they were talking to each other, or singing, anything to keep their spirits up and their breath in them. Because the ship . . . have you ever seen quicksand, Mr Selkirk? It was almost like that. This glimpse lasted a minute, maybe less. But in that time, the hull dropped what looked like another full foot underwater. And that was the only thing we saw move.”
“I don’t understand,” Selkirk said. “The sandbar was right there. It’s what they hit, right? Or the rocks right around it? Why not just climb down?”
“If they’d so much as put their feet in that water, after all they’d been exposed to, they would have frozen on the spot. All they could do was cling to the ropes.
“So they clung. The last healthy men came out behind Charlie’s father and me to watch. And somehow, just the clear sight of the ship out there inspired us all. And the way the mast was tilting toward the surface got us all angry and active again.
“We got close once, just at dark. The snow hadn’t cleared, but the wind had eased. It had been in our ears so long, I’m not sure we even realised it at first. The sickest men, including the older Kendall boy, had been run back to town on horseback, and we hoped other Winsett whalers might be rigging up a brig in the harbor to try reaching Charlie’s ship from the sea-side, rather than from land, the moment the weather permitted. I kept thinking I’d heard new sounds out there, caught a glimpse of the mast of a rescue vessel. But of course it was too soon, and we couldn’t really hear or see anything but the storm, anyway. And in the midst of another round of crazy, useless running about, Charlie’s father grabbed my wrist and whirled me around to face the water and said, ‘Stop. Listen.’
“And I understood finally that I heard nothing. Sweet, beautiful nothing. Right away I imagined that I should be able to hear Charlie and the Kendalls through the quiet. Before anyone could stop me, I was racing for the shore, my feet flying into the frozen water and my dress freezing against my legs, but I could hardly feel it. I was already so cold, so numb. We all were. I started screaming my husband’s name. It was too shadowy and snowy to see. But I went right on screaming, and everyone else that was left with us held still.
“But I got no answer. If it weren’t for the swirling around my feet, I might have thought even the water had had its voice sucked from it.
“And then.”
Finally, for the first time, Mrs Marchant’s voice broke. In a horrible way, Selkirk realised he envied her this experience. No single hour, let alone day, had ever impressed itself on him the way these days had on her, except perhaps for those few fleeting, sleet-drenched moments with Amalia. And those had cast an uglier, darker shadow.
When Mrs Marchant continued, the quaver had gone, as though she’d swallowed it. “It was to be the last time I heard his real voice, Mr Selkirk. I think I already knew that. And when I remember it now, I’m not even certain I really did hear it. How could I have? It was a croak, barely even a whisper. But it was Charlie’s voice. I’d still swear to it, in spite of everything, even though he said just the one word. ‘
“The last two remaining men from Winsett needed no further encouragement. In an instant, they had the rowboat in the water. Charlie’s dad and I shoved off while they pulled with all their might against the crush of the surf. For a minute, no more, they hung up in that same spot that had devilled all our efforts for the past thirty-six hours, caught in waves that beat them back and back. Then they just sprung free. All of a sudden, they were in open water, heaving with all their might toward the sandbar. We were too exhausted to clap or cheer. But my heart leapt so hard in my chest I thought it might break my ribs.
“As soon as they were twenty feet from shore, we lost sight of them, and later, they said all they saw was blackness and water and snow, so none of us knows how close they actually got. They were gone six, maybe seven minutes. Then, as if a dyke had collapsed, sound came rushing over us. The wind roared in and brought a new, hard sleet. There was a one last, terrible pause that none of us mistook for calm. The water had simply risen up, you see, Mr Selkirk. It lifted our rescue rowboat in one giant black wave and hurled it halfway up the beach. The two men in the boat got slammed to the sand. Fortunately – miraculously, really – the wave hadn’t crested until it was nearly on top of the shore, so neither man drowned. One broke both wrists, the other his nose and teeth. Meanwhile, the water poured up the beach, soaked us all, and retreated as instantaneously as it had come.”
For the first time, Selkirk realised that the story he was hearing no longer quite matched the one Amalia had told him. Even more startling, Amalia’s had been less cruel. No rescues had been attempted because none had been possible. No real hope had ever emerged. The ship had simply slid off the sandbar, and all aboard had drowned.
“Waves don’t just rise up,” he said.
Mrs Marchant tilted her head. “No? My father used to come home from half a year at sea and tell us stories. Waves riding the ghost of a wind two years gone and two thousand leagues distant, roaming alone like great, rogue beasts, devouring everything they encounter. Not an uncommon occurrence on the open ocean.”
“But this isn’t the open ocean.”
“And you think the ocean knows, or cares? Though I will admit to you, Mr Selkirk. At the time, it seemed like the sea just didn’t want us out there.
“By now, the only two healthy people at Cape Roby Point were Charlie’s father and me. And when that new sleet kept coming and coming . . . well. We didn’t talk about it. We made our wounded rowers as comfortable as we could by the fire on the rugs inside. Then we set about washing bedding, setting out candles. I began making this little sister here—” as she spoke, she toed the doll with the white bandeau, which leaned against her feet “—to keep him company in his coffin. Although both of us knew, I’m sure, that we weren’t even likely to get the bodies back.
“My God, the sounds of that night. I can still hear the sleet drumming on the roof. The wind coiling around the tower. All I could think about was Charlie out there, clinging to the ropes for hope of reaching me. I knew he would be gone by morning. Around 2:00 a.m., Charlie’s father fell asleep leaning against a wall, and I eased him into a chair and sank down on the floor beside him. I must have been so exhausted, so overwhelmed, that I slept, too, without meaning to, right there at his feet.
“And when I woke . . .”
The Kendalls, Selkirk thought, as he watched the woman purse her mouth and hold still. Had he known them? It seemed to him he’d at least known who they were. At that time, though, he’d had eyes only for Amalia. And after that, he’d kept to himself, and left everyone else alone.
“When I woke,” Mrs Marchant murmured, “there was sunlight. I didn’t wait to make sense of what I was seeing. I didn’t think about what I’d find. I didn’t wake Charlie’s father, but he came roaring after me as I sprinted from the house.
“We didn’t even know if our rowboat would float. We made straight for it anyway. I didn’t look at the sandbar. Do you find that strange? I didn’t want to see. Not yet. I looked at the dunes, and they were gold, Mr Selkirk. Even with the blown grass and seaweed strewn all over them, they looked newly born.
“The rowboat had landed on its side. The wood had begun to split all down one side, but Charlie’s father thought it would hold. Anyway, it was all we had, our last chance. Without a word, we righted it and dragged it to the water, which was like glass. Absolutely flat, barely rolling over to touch the beach. Charlie’s father wasn’t waiting for me. He’d already got into the boat and begun to pull. But when I caught the back and dragged myself in, he held position just long enough, still not saying a single thing. Then he started rowing for all he was worth.
“For a few seconds longer, I kept my head down. I wanted to pray, but I couldn’t. My mother was a Catholic, and we’d worked for the nuns. But somehow, making the dolls had turned God doll-like, for me. Does that make sense? I found it impossible to have faith in anything that took the face we made for it. I wanted some other face than the one I knew, then. So I closed my eyes and listened to the seagulls squealing around, skimming the surface for dead fish. Nothing came to me, except how badly I wanted Charlie back. Finally, I lifted my head.
“I didn’t gasp, or cry out. I don’t think I even felt anything.
“First off, there were only two of them. The highest was Charlie. He’d climbed almost to the very top of the main mast, which had tilted over so far that it couldn’t have been more than twenty-five feet above the water. Even with that overcoat engulfing him and the hat pulled all the way down over his ears, I could tell by the arms and legs snarled in the rigging that it was him.
“ ‘Is he moving, girl?’ Charlie’s father asked, and I realised he hadn’t been able to bring himself to look, either. We lurched closer.
“Then I did gasp, Mr Selkirk. Just once. Because he
“Charlie’s father swore at me and snarled his question again. When I didn’t answer, he turned around. ‘Lord Jesus,’ I heard him say. After that, he just put his head down and rowed. And I kept my eyes on Charlie, and the empty blue sky beyond him. Anywhere but down the mast, where the other Kendall boy hung.
“By his ankles, Mr Selkirk. His ankles, and nothing more. God only knows what held him there. The wind had torn his clothes right off him. He had his eyes and his mouth open. He looked so pale, so thin, nothing like he had in life. His body had red slashes all over it, as though the storm had literally tried to rip him open. Just a boy, Mr Selkirk. His fingertips all but dancing on the water.
“Charlie’s father gave one last heave, and our little boat knocked against the last showing bit of the Kendalls’ ship’s hull. The masts above us groaned, and I thought the whole thing was going to crash down on top of us. Charlie’s father tried to wedge an oar in the wood, get us in close, and finally he just rowed around the ship and ran us aground on the sandbar. I leapt out after him, thinking I should be the one to climb the mast. I was lighter, less likely to sink the whole thing once and for all. Our home, our lighthouse, was so close it seemed I could have waded over and grabbed it. I probably could have. I leaned back, looked up again, and this time I was certain I saw Charlie move.
“His father saw it, too, and he started screaming. He wasn’t even making words, but I was. I had my arms wide open, and I was calling my husband. ‘Come down. Come home, my love.’ I saw his arms disentangle themselves, his legs slide free. The ship sagged beneath him. If he so much as touched that water, I thought, it would be too much. The cold would have him at the last. He halted, and his father stopped screaming, and I went silent. He hung there so long I thought he’d died after all, now that he’d heard our voices one last time. Then, hand over hand, so painfully slowly, like a spider crawling down a web, he began to edge upside-down over the ropes. He reached the Kendall boy’s poor, naked body and bumped it with his hip. It swung out and back, out and back. Charlie never even looked, and he didn’t slow or alter his path. He kept coming.
“I don’t even remember how he got over the rail. As he reached the deck, he disappeared a moment from our sight. We were trying to figure how to get up there to him. Then he just climbed over the edge and fell to the sand at our feet. The momentum from his body gave the wreck a final push, and it slid off the sandbar into the water and sank, taking the Kendall boy’s body with it.
“The effort of getting down had taken everything Charlie had. His eyes were closed. His breaths were shallow, and he didn’t respond when we shook him. So Charlie’s father lifted him and dropped him in the rowboat. I hopped in the bow with my back to the shore, and Charlie’s father began to pull desperately for the mainland. I was sitting calf-deep in water, cradling my husband’s head facedown in my lap. I stroked his cheeks, and they were so cold. Impossibly cold, and bristly, and hard. Like rock. All my thoughts, all my energy, all the heat I had I was willing into my fingers, and I was cooing like a dove. Charlie’s father had his back to us, pulling for everything he was worth. He never turned around. And so he didn’t . . .”
Once more, Mrs Marchant’s voice trailed away. Out the filthy windows, in the grey that had definitely darkened into full-blown dusk now, Selkirk could see a single trail of yellow-red, right at the horizon, like the glimpse of eye underneath a cat’s closed lid. Tomorrow the weather would clear. And he would be gone, on his way home. Maybe he would stay there this time. Find somebody he didn’t have to pay to keep him company.
“It’s a brave thing you’ve done, Mrs Marchant,” he said, and before he could think about what he was doing, he slid forward and took her chilly hand in his. He meant nothing by it but comfort, and was surprised to discover the sweet, transitory sadness of another person’s fingers curled in his. A devil’s smile of a feeling, if ever there was one. “He was a good man, your husband. You have mourned him properly and well.”
“Just a boy,” she whispered.
“A good boy, then. And he loved you. You have paid him the tribute he deserved, and more. And now it’s time to do him the honor of living again. Come back to town. I’ll see you somewhere safe and warm. I’ll see you there myself, if you’ll let me.”
Very slowly, without removing her fingers, Mrs Marchant raised her eyes to his, and her mouth came open. “You . . . you silly man. You think . . . But you said you knew the story.”
Confused, Selkirk squeezed her hand. “I know it now.”
“You believe I have stayed here, cut off from all that is good in the world, shut up with my nuns all these years like an abbess, for love? For grief?”
Now Selkirk let go, watching as Mrs Marchant’s hand fluttered before settling in her lap like a blown leaf. “There’s no crime in that, surely. But now—”
“I’ve always wondered how the rowboat flipped,” she said, in a completely new, expressionless tone devoid of all her half-sung tones, as he stuttered to silence. “All the times I’ve gone through it and over it, and I can’t get it straight. I can’t see how it happened.”
Unsure what to do with his hands, Selkirk finally settled them on his knees. “The rowboat?”
“Dead calm. No ghost wave this time. We were twenty yards from shore. Less. We could have hopped out and walked. I was still cooing. Still stroking my husband’s cheeks. But I knew already. And I think his father knew, too. Charlie had died before we even got him in the boat. He wasn’t breathing. Wasn’t moving. He hadn’t during the whole, silent trip back to shore. I turned toward land to see exactly how close we were. And just like that I was in the water.
“If you had three men and were trying, you couldn’t flip a boat that quickly. One of the oars banged me on the head. I don’t know if it was that or the cold that stunned me. But I couldn’t think. For a second, I had no idea which way was up, even in three feet of water, and then my feet found bottom, and I stood and staggered toward shore. The oar had caught me right on the scalp, and a stream of blood kept pouring into my eyes. I wasn’t thinking about Charlie. I wasn’t thinking anything except that I needed to be out of the cold before I became it. I could feel it in my bloodstream. I got to the beach, collapsed in the sun, remembered where I was and what I’d been doing, and spun around.
“There was the boat, floating right-side up, as though it hadn’t flipped it all. Oars neatly shipped, like arms folded across a chest. Water still as a lagoon beneath it. And neither my husband nor his father
“I almost laughed. It was impossible. Ridiculous. So cruel. I didn’t scream. I waited, scanning the water, ready to lunge in and save Charlie’s dad if I could only see him. But there was nothing. No trace. I sat down and stared at the horizon and didn’t weep. It seemed perfectly possible that I might freeze to death right there, complete the event. I even opened the throat of my dress, thinking of the Kendall boys shedding their coats that first day. That’s what I was doing when Charlie crawled out of the water.”
Selkirk stood up. “But you said—”
“He’d lost his hat. And his coat had come open. He crawled right up the beach, sidewise, like a crab. Just the way he had down the rigging. Of course, my arms opened to him, and the cold dove down my dress. I was laughing, Mr Selkirk. Weeping and laughing and cooing, and his head swung up, and I saw.”
With a single, determined wriggle of her shoulders, Mrs Marchant went completely still. She didn’t speak again for several minutes. Helpless, Selkirk sat back down.
“The only question I had in the end, Mr Selkirk, was when it had happened.”
For no reason he could name, Selkirk experienced a flash of Amalia’s cruel, haunted face, and tried for the thousandth time to imagine where she’d gone. Then he thought of the dead town behind him, the debris disappearing piece by piece and bone by bone into the dunes, his aunt’s silent death. His uncle. He’d never made any effort to determine what had happened to his uncle after Amalia vanished.
“I still think about those boys, you know,” Mrs Marchant murmured. “Every day. The one suspended in the ropes, exposed like that, all torn up. And the one that disappeared. Do you think he jumped to get away, Mr Selkirk? I think he might have. I would have.”
“What on earth are you—?”
“Even the dead’s eyes reflect light,” she said, turning her bright and living ones on him. “Did you know that? But Charlie’s eyes . . . Of course, it wasn’t really Charlie, but . . .”
Selkirk almost leapt to his feet again, wanted to, wished he could hurtle downstairs, flee into the dusk. And simultaneously he found that he couldn’t.
“What do you mean?”
For answer, Mrs Marchant cocked her head at him, and the ghost of her smile hovered over her mouth and evaporated. “What do I mean? How do I know? Was it a ghost? Do you know how many hundreds of sailors have died within five miles of this point? Surely one or two of them might have been angry about it.”
“Are you actually saying—?”
“Or maybe that’s silly. Maybe ghosts are like gods, no? Familiar faces we have clamped on what comes for us? Maybe it was the sea. I can’t tell you. What I can tell you is that there was no Charlie in the face before me, Mr Selkirk. None. I had no doubt. No question. My only hope was that whatever it was had come for him after he was gone, the way a hermit crab climbs inside a shell. Please God, whatever that is, let it be the wind and the cold that took him.”
Staggering upright, Selkirk shook his head. “You said he was dead.”
“So he was.”
“You were mistaken.”
“It killed the Kendall boy, Mr Selkirk. It crawled down and tore him to shreds. I’m fairly certain it killed its own father as well. Charlie’s father, I mean. Luis took one look at him and vanished into the dunes. I never saw the dog again.”
“Of course it was him. You’re not yourself, Mrs Marchant. All these years alone . . . It spared you, didn’t it? Didn’t he?”
Mrs Marchant smiled one more time and broke down weeping, silently. “It had just eaten,” she whispered. “Or whatever it is it does. Or maybe I had just lost my last loved ones, and stank of the sea, and appeared as dead to it as it did to me.”
“Listen to me,” Selkirk said, and on impulse he dropped to one knee and took her hands once more. God, but they were cold. So many years in this cold, with this weight on her shoulders. “That day was so full of tragedy. Whatever you think you . . .”
Very slowly, Selkirk stopped. His mind retreated down the stairs, out the lighthouse door to the mainland, over the disappearing path he’d walked between the dunes, and all the way back into Winsett. He saw anew the shuttered boarding houses and empty taverns, the grim smile of the stable-boy. He saw the street where his uncle’s cabin had been. What had happened to his uncle? His aunt?
“Mrs Marchant,” he whispered, his hands tightening around hers, having finally understood why she had stayed. “Mrs Marchant, please. Where is Charlie now?”
She stood, then, and twined one gentle finger through the tops of his curls as she wiped at her tears. The gesture felt dispassionate, almost maternal, something a mother might do to a son who has just awoken. He looked up and found her gazing again not out to sea but over the dunes at the dark streaming inland.
“It’s going to get even colder,” she said. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
KIM NEWMAN
The Man Who Got Off the Ghost Train
KIM NEWMAN IS A NOVELIST, critic and broadcaster. His published fiction includes
His non-fiction books include
He is a contributing editor to
Newman has won the Bram Stoker Award, the International Horror Critics Award, the British Science Fiction Award and the British Fantasy Award. He was born in Brixton (London), grew up in the West Country, went to University near Brighton and now lives in Islington (London).
As the author reveals: “ ‘The Man Who Got Off the Ghost Train’ was written for my collection
“Also, I happen to like stories set on trains and wanted to do one. I dimly remember being taken with a British TV
“In
Culler’s Halt
“TEN HOURS, GUV’NOR,” said Fred Regent. “That’s what the time-table says. Way this half-holiday is going, next train mightn’t come for ten
Richard Jeperson shrugged. A cheek-muscle twitched.
Pink-and-grey-streaked autumn skies hung over wet fields. Fred had scouted around. No one home. Typical British Rail. He only knew Culler’s Halt was in use because of the uncollected rubbish. Lumpy plastic sacks were piled on the station forecourt like wartime sandbags. The bin-men’s strike was settled, but maybe word hadn’t reached these parts. A signpost claimed CULLER 3m. If there were a village at the end of the lane, it showed no lamps at the fag-end of this drab afternoon.
Fred wasn’t even sure which
On the platform, Richard stood by their luggage, peering at the dying sunlight through green-tinted granny glasses. He wore a floor-length mauve travel coat with brocade frogging, shiny PVC bondage trousers (a concession to the new decade) and a curly-brimmed purple top hat.
Fred knew the Man From the Diogenes Club was worried about Vanessa. When a
At dawn, they’d been far South, after a nasty night’s work in Cornwall. They had been saddled with Alastair Garnett, a civil servant carrying out a time-and-motion study. In a funk, the man from the ministry had the bad habit of giving orders. If the local cops had listened to Richard rather than the “advisor”, there’d have been fewer deaths. The hacked-off body parts found inside a stone circle had to be sorted into two piles – goats and teenagers. An isolated family, twisted by decades of servitude to breakfast food corporations, had invented their own dark religion. Ceremonially masked in cornflakes packets with cut-out eyeholes, the Penrithwick Clan made hideous sacrifice to the goblins Snap, Crackle and Pop.
Bloody wastage like that put Richard in one of his moods, and no wonder. Fred would happily have booted Garnett up his pin-striped arse, but saw the way things were going in the 1980s.
Trudging back to seaside lodgings in Mevagissey, hardly up for cooked breakfast and sworn off cereal for life, they were met by the landlady and handed Vanessa’s telegram, an urgent summons to Scotland.
Abandoning the Penrithwick shambles to Garnett, Richard and Fred took a fast train to Paddington. They crossed London by taxi without even stopping off at homes in Chelsea and Soho for a change of clothes or a hello to the girlfriends – who would of course be ticked off by that familiar development – and rattled out of Euston in a slam-door diesel.
The train stank of decades’ worth of Benson & Hedges. Since giving up, Fred couldn’t be in a fuggy train or pub without feeling queasily envious. At first, they shared their first-class compartment with a clear-complexioned girl whose T-shirt (sporting the word “GASH”, with an Anarchy Symbol for the A) was safety-pinned together like a disassembled torso stitched up after autopsy. She quietly leafed through
Outside Lincoln, something mechanical got thrown. The train slowed to a snail’s pace, overtaken by ancient cyclists, jeered at by small boys (“Get off and milk it!”), inching through miles-long tunnels. This went on for agonising hours. Scheduled connections were missed. The only alternative route the conductor could offer involved getting off at York, a stopping train to Culler’s Halt, then a service to Inverdeith, changing there for Portnacreirann. In theory, it was doable. In practice, they were marooned. The conductor had been working from a time-table good only until September the 1st
Beyond the rail-bed was a panoramic advertising hoarding. A once-glossy, now-weatherworn poster showed a lengthy dole queue and the slogan LABOUR ISN’T WORKING – VOTE CONSERVATIVE. Over this was daubed NO FUTURE. A mimeographed sheet, wrinkled in the fly-posting, showed the Queen with a pin through her nose.
“There’s something wrong, Frederick,” said Richard.
“The country’s going down the drain, and everyone’s pulling the flush.”
“Not just that. Think about it: ‘God Save the Queen’ came out for the Silver Jubilee, two years
“This is the wilds, guv. Can’t expect them to be up with pop charts.”
Richard shrugged again. The mystery wasn’t significant enough to be worth considered thought.
They had more pressing troubles. Chiefly, Vanessa.
Their friend and colleague wasn’t a panicky soul. She wouldn’t have sent the telegram unless things were serious. A night’s delay, and they might be too late.
“I’m not happy with this, Frederick,” said Richard.
“Me neither, guv.”
Richard chewed his moustache and looked at the time-table Fred had already checked. Always gaunt, he was starting to seem haggard. Deep shadow gathered in the seams under his eyes
“As you say, ten hours,” said Richard. “
“Might as well kip in the waiting room,” suggested Fred. “Take shifts.”
There were hard benches and a couple of chairs chained to pipes. A table was piled with magazines and comics from years ago: Patrick Mower grinned on the cover of
Fred huddled in his pea-coat and scarf. Richard stretched out on a bench like a fakir on a bed of nails.
The new government wasn’t mad keen on the Diogenes Club. Commissions of Inquiry empowered the likes of Alastair Garnett to take a watching brief. Number Ten was asking for “blue skies suggestions” as to what, if anything, might replace this “hold-over from an era when British intelligence was run by enthusiastic amateurs”. Richard said the 1980s “would not be a comfortable decade for a
Fred knew Richard was right to be paranoid. Wheels were grinding and the team was being broken up. He had been strongly advised to report back to New Scotland Yard, take a promotion to Detective Inspector and get on with “real police work”. Rioters, terrorists and scroungers needed clouting. Task Forces and Patrol Groups were up and running. If he played along with the boot boys, he could have his own command, be a Professional. The decision couldn’t be put off much longer.
He’d assumed Vanessa would stay with the Club, though. Richard could chair the Ruling Cabal, planning and
Now, he wasn’t sure. If they didn’t get to Vanessa in time . . .
“There used to be a through train to Portnacreirann,” mused Richard. “The Scotch Streak. A sleeper. Steam until 1962, then diesel, then . . . well, helicopters took over.”
“Helicopter?” queried Fred, distracted. “Who commutes by helicopter?”
“NATO. Defence considerations kept the Scotch Streak running long after its natural lifetime. Then they didn’t. March of bloody progress.”
Richard sat up. He took off and folded his glasses, then tucked them in his top pocket behind an emerald explosion of display handkerchief.
“It’s where I started, Frederick,” he said. “On the Scotch Streak. Everyone has a first time . . .”
“Not ’arf,” Fred smiled.
Richard smiled too, perhaps ruefully. “As you so eloquently put it, ‘not ‘arf. For you, it was that bad business at the end of the pier, in Seamouth. For your lovely Zarana, it was the Soho Golem. For Professor Corri it was the Curse of
Fred’s interest pricked. He’d worked with Richard Jeperson for more than ten years, but knew only scattered pieces about the man’s earlier years. Richard himself didn’t know about a swathe of his childhood. A foundling of war, he’d been pulled out of a refugee camp by Major Jeperson, a British officer who saw his
Of Richard’s doings between the War and the Seamouth Case, Fred knew not much. After Geoffrey’s death in 1954, Richard’s sponsors at the Club had been Edwin Winthrop, now dead but well-remembered, and Sir Giles Gallant, now retired and semi-disgraced. Vanessa came into the picture well before the Seamouth Case. She had Richard’s habit of being evasive without making a fuss about it. All Fred knew was that her first meeting with their patron was another horror story. Whenever it came up, she’d touch the almost-invisible scar through her eyebrow and change the subject with a shudder.
“Now we’re near the end of the line,” said Richard, “perhaps you should hear the tale.”
They were here for the night. Time enough for a ghost story.
“Frederick,” said Richard, “it was 195–, and I was down from Oxford . . .”
Act I: London Euston
I
. . . it was 195– and Richard Jeperson was down from Oxford. And the LSE. And Cambridge. And Manchester Poly. And RADA. And Harrow School of Art. And . . . well, suffice to say, many fine institutions, none of which felt obliged to award him any formal qualification.
Geoffrey Jeperson had sent him to St Cuthbert’s, his old school. Richard hadn’t lasted at “St Custard’s”, setting an unhappy precedent insofar as not lasting at schools went. After the Major’s death, Edwin Winthrop took over
Though the Diogenes Club supported him with a generous allowance, he took on jobs of work. He assisted with digs and explorations. He sleuthed through Europe in search of his past, and drew suspicious blanks – which persuaded him to pay more attention to his present. He spent a summer in a biscuit factory in Barnsley, making tea and enduring harassment from the female staff. He was a film extra in Italy, climbing out of the horse in
Between education and honest toil, he did his National Service. He was in the RAF but never saw an aeroplane. The Club placed him in a system of bunkers under the New Forest. He fetched and carried for boffins working on an oscillating wave device. After eighteen months, a coded message instructed him to sabotage an apparently routine experiment. Though he liked the backroom boys and had worked up enthusiasm for the project, he followed orders. The procedure failed and – he was later given to understand – an invasion of our plane of existence by malign extra-dimensional entities was prevented. That was how the Club worked under Edwin Winthrop: pre-emptive, unilateral, cutting out weeds before they sprouted, habitually secretive, pragmatically ruthless. A lid was kept on, though who knew whether the pot really had been boiling over?
After the RAF, Richard spear-carried for a season at the Old Vic, and played saxophone with The Frigidaires. The doo-wop group was on the point of signing with promoter Larry Parnes – of “parnes, shillings and pence” fame – when the girl singer married a quantity surveyor for the security. Though her rendition of ‘Lipstick on Your Collar’, lately a hit for Connie Francis, was acceptable, Richard couldn’t really argue with her. Frankly, the Frigidaires were never very good.
Richard only knew within a year or so how old he actually was, but must be out of his teens. Edwin felt it was time the boy knuckled down and got on with the work for which he had been prepared. Richard moved into a Georgian house in Chelsea which was in the gift of the Club, occasionally looked after by an Irish housekeeper who kept going home to have more children. He meditated, never missed
Richard dressed in the “Edwardian” or “teddy boy” manner: scarlet velvet frock coat with midnight black lapels (straight-razor slipped into a special compartment in the sleeve), crepe-soled suede zip-up boots with winkle-picker toe-points, a conjurer’s waistcoat with seventeen secret pockets, his father’s watch and chain, bootlace tie with silver tips, navy-blue drainpipe jeans tighter than paint on his skinny legs. His thin moustache was only just established enough not to need augmentation with eyebrow pencil. A Brylcreem pompadour rose above his pale forehead like a constructivist sculpture in black candyfloss.
If he took his life to have begun when his memory did, his experience was limited. He had never seen a woman naked, except in
Within a year, all that would change.
One morning, a special messenger arrived on a motorbike, with instructions that he give himself over to a side-car and be conveyed to the Diogenes Club. This, he knew, was to be his debut.
The retired Royal Marine Sergeant who kept Door in the Mall went beet-coloured as Richard waltzed past his post. Outlandish folk must come and go from the Diogenes Club, but Richard’s clothes and hair were red rag to a bull for anyone over twenty-five – especially a uniformed middle-aged man with a short back and sides and medal ribbons. There was talk about playwrights and poets who were “angry young men”, but the older generation would not easily yield a monopoly on sputtering indignation.
He rather admired himself in the polished black marble of the hallway pillars. The whole look took hours to achieve. His face no longer erupted as it had done a few years earlier, but the odd plague-rose blemish surfaced, requiring attention.
Escorted by a silk-jacketed servant beyond the famously noiseless public rooms of the Club, he puffed with pride. Ordinary Members mimed
He was treading in the footsteps of giants. Mycroft Holmes, the mid-Victorian civil servant who was instrumental in founding what was ostensibly a “club for the unclubbable” but actually an auxiliary extraordinary to British intelligence and the police. Charles Beauregard, the first Most Valued Member – the great puzzle-chaser of the 1880s and ’90s and visionary chairman of the Ruling Cabal through the middle-years of the current century. Carnacki, the Ghost-Finder. Several terrifying individuals who operated covertly under the goggles of “Doctor Shade”. Adam Llewellyn de Vere Adamant, the adventurer whose disappearance in 1903 remained listed on the books as an active, unsolved case. Catriona Kaye, Winthrop’s life-long companion, the first woman to accept full membership in the Club. Flaxman Low. Sir Henry Merrivale. Robert Baldick. Cursitor Doom.
He was ushered upstairs. In an underlit Ante-Room, his coat was taken by a turbaned orderly. He had a moment before a two-way mirror to be awed by the great tradition, the honour to which he would ascend in the presence of the Ruling Cabal. He patted his pockets, checked his fly and adjusted his tie. The weight of the razor was gone from his sleeve. Somewhere between the street and the Ante-Room, he had been frisked and defanged.
A baize door opened, and a tiny shove from the silent Sikh was necessary to propel him along a short dark corridor. One door shut behind him and another opened in front. Richard stepped into the windowless Star Chamber of the Ruling Cabal.
“Good Gravy, Edwin,” said someone sour, “is this what it’s come to? A bloody teddy boy!”
Some of Richard’s puff leaked out.
“I think he’s
The last of his self-esteem pooled on the floor.
“Cool, man,” said another commentator, snapping his fingers. “Straight from the fridge.”
He didn’t feel any better.
Edwin Winthrop sat at the big table that had been Mycroft’s desk, occupying one of three places. He had slightly hooded eyes and an iron-grey moustache. Even if Richard weren’t attuned to “vibrations”, he’d have had no doubt who was in charge. Next to him was Catriona Kaye, a compact, pretty woman as old as the century. She wore a dove-grey dress and pearls. The only one of the Inner Circle who had treated him as a little boy, she was now the only one who treated him as a grown-up. She was the heart and conscience of the Diogenes Club. Edwin recognised his own tendency to high-handedness, and kept Catriona close – she was the reason why he wasn’t a monster. To Edwin’s right was an empty chair. Sir Giles Gallant, make-weight on the Ruling Cabal, was absent.
“If we’ve finished twitting the new boy,” said Edwin, impatiently, “perhaps we can get on. Richard, welcome and all that. This is the group . . .”
Edwin introduced everyone. Richard put faces to names and resumés he already knew.
Dr Harry Cutley, the pipe-smoking, tweed-jacketed scowler held a chair of Physics at a provincial redbrick university. He had unexpectedly come under the Club’s remit, as Quantum Mechanics led him to Parapsychology. When Edwin vacated the post of Most Valued Member to run the Ruling Cabal, Sir Giles recruited Cutley to fill his roomy shoes. The academic finally had funds and resources to mount the research programme of his dreams, but was sworn
The husky-voiced blonde in the black leotard and pink chiffon scarf was Annette Amboise, of Fitzrovia and the Left Bank. She wore no lipstick but a lot of eye make-up and had hair cropped like Jean Seberg as Joan of Arc. She smoked Gauloises in a long, enamel holder. Of Anglo-French parentage, she’d spent her mid-teens in Vichy France, running messages for the Resistance and Allied Intelligence. She came to the Club’s notice after an unprecedented run of good fortune, which is to say she outlived all other agents in her district several times over. Catriona diagnosed an inbuilt ability to intuit random factors and predict immediate danger. Annette thought in knight moves – two hops forward, then a kink to the side. Since the War, she’d been doing other things. A retired interpretive dancer, past thirty with too many pulled muscles, she was authoress of a slim volume,
The tall, thin hipster was Danny Myles, whom Richard recognised as “Magic Fingers Myles”, piano-player in a modern jazz combo famous for making “I Can’t Get Started With You” last an entire set at Ronnie Scott’s. He wore a green polo-neck and chinos, and had a neatly-trimmed goatee. His fingers continually moved as if on an infinite keyboard or reading a racy novel in Braille. Born blind, Myles developed extra senses as a child. Gaining sight in his teens, Myles found himself in a new visual world but retained other sharpnesses. Besides his acute ear, he had “the Touch”. Richard and Annette took the psychic temperature of a room with invisible antennae (Catriona called them “mentacles”), but Myles had to lay hands on something to intuit its history, associations or true nature. The Magic Fingers Touch worked best on inanimate objects.
“This is Geoffrey’s boy,” explained Edwin. “We expect great things from him.”
From Magic Fingers, Richard gathered non-verbal information: he understood how everyone related to each other, where the frictions were, whom he could trust to come through, when he’d be on his own. Cutley was like a football manager required to play a board member’s nephew in goal. He hated “spook stuff” and wanted to haul paraphenomena back to measurable realities. Annette was emotionally off on another plane, but mildly amused. She had vague, not-related-by-blood auntie feelings for Richard and a nagging concern about his short-term future that did little for his confidence. Richard thanked Myles with a nod no one else noticed.
This is what it was like: Richard
“Now we’re acquainted,” said Edwin, “let’s get to why you’ve been brought together. Who’s heard of the Scotch Streak?”
“It’s a train, man,” said Myles. “Euston to Edinburgh, overnight.”
“Yes,” said Edwin. “In point of fact, the service, which leaves London at seven o’clock every other evening, does not terminate in Edinburgh. It continues to Portnacreirann, on Loch Linnhe.”
“Is this one of those
Edwin nodded, and passed the conch to Catriona.
II
“In 1923, Locomotive Number 3473-S rolled out of foundry sheds in Egham,” began Catriona Kaye, the Club’s collector of ghost stories. “It was an Al Atlantic Class engine. To the non-trainspotters among us, that means a shiny new chuff-chuff with all the bells and whistles. It was bred for speed, among the first British trains to break the hundred-mile-an-hour barrier. The London, Scotland and Isles Railway Company presented the debutante at the British Empire Exhibition in 1924, and christened ‘the Scotch Streak’. A bottle of champagne was wasted on the cow-catcher by the odious Lady Lucinda Tregellis-d’Aulney. She mercifully passes out of the narrative. The LSIR got wind of a scheme by a rival to run a non-stop from London to Edinburgh, and added a further leg to their express, across Scotland to Portnacreirann. This sort of one-upmanship happened often before the railways were taken into public ownership. The Streak’s original colours were royal purple and gold. Even in an era of ostentation in high-speed transport, it was considered showoffy.
“The Scotch Streak was quickly popular with drones who wanted to get sozzled in Piccadilly, have a wee small hours dram in Edinburgh, then walk off the hangover in Glen Wherever while shooting at something feathery or antlered. All very jolly, no doubt. Until the disaster of 1931.
“There are stories about Inverdeith. In the 18th century, fishermen on Loch Gaer often netted human bones. After some decades, this led to the capture of the cannibal crofter famed in song as ‘Graysome Jock McGaer’. He was torn apart by a mob on his way to the scaffold. During the interregnum, the Scots God-botherer Samuel Druchan, fed up because England’s Matthew Hopkins was hogging the headlines, presided over a mass witch-drowning. As you know, proper witches float when “swum”, so the Druchan took the trouble to sew iron weights to his beldames’ skirts. In 1601, a local diarist recorded that a ‘stoon o’ fire spat out frae hell’ plopped into the waters with a mighty hiss. However, the railway bridge disaster really put Inverdeith on the tragedy map.
“What exactly happened remains a mystery, but . . . early one foggy morning in November, the Scotch Streak was crossing Inverdeith Bridge when – through human agency, gremlins, faulty iron or sheer ill-chance – 3473-S was decoupled from the rest of the train. The locomotive pulled away and steamed safely to the far side. The bridge collapsed, taking eight passenger carriages and a mail car with it. The rolling stock sank to the bottom of Loch Gaer with the loss of all hands, except one lucky little girl who floated.
“A board of inquiry exonerated Donald McRidley, the engine driver, though many thought he’d committed the unforgivable sin of cutting his passengers loose to save his own hide. Only Nicholas Bowler, the fireman, knew for sure. Rather than give testimony, Bowler laid on the tracks and was beheaded by an ordinary suburban service. McRidley was finished as an engineer. Some say that, like T. E. Lawrence re-enlisting as Aircraftman Ross, McRidley changed his name and became a navvy, working all weathers on a maintenance gang, looking over his shoulder at dusk, dreading the reproachful tread of the Headless Fireman.
“Whatever he might or might not have done, McRidley couldn’t be blamed for the ‘In-for-Death Bridge’. All manner of Scots legal inquiries boiled down to an unlovely squabble between Inverdeith Council and the LSIR. One set of lawyers claimed the sound structure wouldn’t have collapsed were it not for the Scotch Streak rattling over it at speeds in excess of the recommendation. Another pack counter-claimed eighty-nine people wouldn’t be dead if the bridge wasn’t a rickety structure liable to be knocked down by a stiff breeze. This dragged on. A newspaperman dug up a local legend that one of Druchan’s witches cursed her weights as she drowned, swearing no iron would ever safely span the loch. ‘Local legend’ is a Fleet Street synonym for ‘something I’ve just made up’.
“The Streak ran only from London to Edinburgh until 1934, when a new bridge was erected and safety-tested. A fuss was made about the amount of steel used in the construction. Witches have nothing against steel, apparently. Then, full service to Portnacreirann resumed.
“Memories being what they were, folks who
“Controlling interest in the LSIR was held by Douglas Gilclyde of Kilpartinger, who horsewhipped a secretary he thought misreferred to him as ‘Lord Killpassengers’. It was a point of pride for His Lordship, a
“Kilpartinger lured back the hunting set by trading speed records for social cachet. From 1934, the Scotch Streak became famously, indeed
“He wasn’t the only casualty. The Streak’s Incident Book ran to several spine-tingling volumes. People threw themselves under the train, got up on top and were swept off in tunnels, were decapitated when they disregarded DO NOT LEAN OUT OF THE WINDOW notices, opened doors and flung themselves across the landscape. Naturally, a number of fatalities occurred around Inverdeith. There was a craze for booking the up service on the Streak, naturally not bothering with the return. The procedure was to put a particular record on the wind-up Victrola as the train crossed the bridge, then take a graceful suicide leap as Bing Crosby crooned ‘a golden goodbye’. Mistime it, and you smashed into a strut and rained down in pieces.
“Kilpartinger played up the Streak’s glamour by engaging the likes of Noel Coward, Elsie and Doris Waters, Jessie Matthews and Gracie Fields to entertain through the night. A discreet doctor prescribed pick-me-ups to keep the audience, and not a few performers, awake and sparkling. Houdini’s less-famous brother escaped from a locked trunk in the mail van and popped out of the coal tender. The Palladium-on-Rails business soured when a popular ventriloquist was institutionalised after an argument with his dummy. His act started off with the usual banter, then the dummy began making passes at women in the carriage. The vent was besieged. His dummy jeered him as he was beaten up by angry escorts. He snatched a hatchet and chopped at the dummy’s mocking head, taking off three of his own fingers.
“Of course, there were
“As I left, in something approaching high dudgeon, His Lordship tried to reassure me about the train. After all, he said, he’d travelled more miles on the Streak than anyone else with no obvious ill-effects. A month later, for some anniversary run or other, he boarded at Euston, posing cheerfully in his tartan cummerbund for the newspapers, clouds of steam billowing all around. After retiring to his compartment, he disappeared and did
“Maybe Kilpartinger became another anonymous navvy on his beloved line, swinging a hammer next to the disgraced McRidley. Or perhaps he dissolved into a Scotch mist and seeped into the upholstery. If you run across him, give him my best.
“With the LSIR in ruins, it seemed likely the Streak had made its last run. It was saved by the War. Luxury took a back seat to pulling together, but the Streak was classified an essential service, supporting the Royal Navy Special Contingencies School at Portnacreirann. The Diogenes Club was busy on other fronts, but spared a young parapsychologist with a plum-bob and an anemometer to make a routine inspection. He ruled the train, the tracks and Inverdeith Bridge were perhaps
“Soon, there was another strange story about. Take the Streak to your Special Contingencies course, and you’d win a medal. I went over the records last week – an enormously tedious job – and can confirm this was, in fact, true. ‘Special Contingencies’, as you might guess, is a euphemism for ‘Dirty Fighting’, which goes a long way towards explaining things. Nevertheless, a high proportion of the Streak’s sailors proved aggressive, valiant and effective in battle. A high proportion of that high proportion got their gongs posthumously. The more often a man rode the Scotch Streak, the more extreme his conduct. We don’t publicise the British servicemen tried for war crimes, but out of fewer than a dozen bad apples in World War II, five were Streak regulars. Americans rode the Ghost Train too. We don’t have official access to their records, but they have Alexanders and Caligulas too.
“After the War, the railways were nationalised. In
“The haunting never stopped.”
III
“We’ve reams of anecdotal evidence for ab-natural activity,” said Edwin, taking over from Catriona. “Apparitions, apports, biloca-tion, sourceless sound, poltergeist nuisance, echoes from deep time, fits of precognition, possession, spontaneous combustion, disembodied clutching hands, phantoms, phantasms, pixies, nipsies, revelations, revenants, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all. Few sleep well on the sleeper.
“A typical toff thinks he’s slightly train-sick and decides to spend his next day out murdering English foxes rather than Scottish grouse. A percentage have much nastier turns. Outcomes range from severe ill-health and mental breakdown to disappearance and, well, death.”
“What about the staff, Ed?” asked Cutley, who had been taking notes.
Richard saw Edwin calculate how to keep aces in his hole while seeming to lay his cards on the table. It was habitual in these circles.
“BR have trouble keeping guards, waiters and porters,” Edwin admitted. “Even then, one see-no-evil conductor who’s been on the Streak for yonks swears the shudder stories are all hogwash. Presumably, he’s the opposite of
“Why now?” asked Annette, pluming smoke. She drew a question mark in the air with her burning cigarette-end.
“That’s the thing, Annie,” said Edwin. “With fewer souls riding the Streak, the haunting isn’t as noticeable as when Cat was on the case. But the Americans have expressed a
Edwin opened his hands, indicating the whole room.
Richard had paid close attention to Catriona Kaye’s story. Something in it jogged his mind.
“We’ve Miss Kaye’s manuscript and the wartime report,” said Harry Cutley, as if giving a tutorial. “Everyone is to read them by Thursday, then we’ll start fresh. Those of you who were with me on the Edgley Vale Puma Cult know how I like things done. Those of you who weren’t will find out soon enough. Annette, visit the newspaper library and go over all the cuttings on the Scotch Streak since the boiler was cast. Magic Fingers, get out in the yards, talk to railwaymen, choo-choo bores . . . pick up any more stories for the collection. You . . . ah, sorry . . . the Jeperson boy . . .”
Cutley knew very well what his name was, but waited for the prompt.
“Richard.”
The Most Valued Member flashed a joyless smile.
“Thank you. I will remember. Not Greasy Herbert, but
“I’ll ride the mail car if you think it’s a good idea.”
Cutley considered it.
“The Club can spring for four compartments,” put in Edwin, airily. “If you’re all in First Class, no one will mind if you wander. With any other tickets, Richard and Danny wouldn’t be allowed where interesting business might be going on.”
“Whatever you think best,” said Cutley. “If money’s no object, we might as well all get the gold toilet seats and mints on the pillows. Dickie will qualify for a half-fare anyway.”
The academic was used to working on the cheap, in fear of a redbrick budget review. He also wasn’t happy to be given command of a group then undercut in front of them. Edwin had made Cutley “Most Valued Member”, but was prone to step out from behind the desk and upstage his successor. Catriona laid a hand on Edwin’s elbow, chiding with a gesture only the recipient and Richard noticed.
“Keep all the chits,” said Cutley. “Bus tickets, and so forth. My procedure is big on chits,
Now, Cutley was needling Richard because he couldn’t afford to prick back at Edwin. Richard was getting a headache with the politics.
“This is a haunted house on wheels,” Cutley told them. “There are boring procedures for haunted houses, which will be followed. Background check, on-the-spot investigation, listing of observable phenomena and effects. Once that’s over, I will assess findings and make recommendations. If the haunting can be dispelled through scientific or spiritual efforts, no one will complain. Annette, I’d appreciate a run-down of possible rituals of exorcism or dispellment. Bell, book and railwayman’s lamp? Of course, we can always advise the train be taken out of service and the line abandoned. If there are no passengers to be haunted, it doesn’t matter if spectres drag their sorry shrouds along the rails.”
Richard put his hand up, as if in class.
Cutley, annoyed, noticed. “What is it, boy?”
“A thought, sir. If the train could be put out of service, it already would have been. There must be a reason to keep it running.”
Richard looked at Edwin. So did everyone else. Catriona massaged his arm.
At length, Edwin responded. “No use trying to keep secrets in a roomful of Talents, obviously.”
Danny Myles whistled.
“What is it?” asked Cutley, catching up.
“The Scotch Streak must stay in service. The Special Contingencies School is now a submarine base. A vital component in our national deterrent.”
“The gun we have to their heads while theirs is stuck into our tummy,” put in Catriona.
“Cat goes on Aldermaston marches and wants to ban the Bomb,” Edwin explained. “As a private individual, it is within her rights to hold such a position. In this Club, we do not decide government policy and can only advise . . .”
Annette almost snorted. She obviously knew Edwin Winthrop better.
“Every forty-eight hours,” Edwin continued, “mathematicians convene in Washington DC and use a computer to generate number-strings which are fed into an electronic communications network accessible only from secure locations at the Pentagon and our own Ministry of War. There’s another terminal in Paris, but it’s a dummy – the French can fiddle all they want, but can’t alter the workings of the big machine. We wouldn’t want them getting offended by the creeping use of terms like ‘le week-end’ and kicking off World War Three in a fit of haughty pique. Annie, the French half of you didn’t hear that.
“Once the numbers are in the net, they have to be conveyed to the President of the United States, the Prime Minister of Great Britain and selected officers on the front-lines of the Western Alliance. We don’t use telephone, telegraph, telegram or passenger pigeon – we send couriers. The number-strings are known as the ‘Go-Codes’. Unless they are keyed properly on special typewriters, orders cannot be given to arm a warhead, launch a missile or drop a bomb. Without the Go-Codes, we have no nuclear weapons.”
“And
“So,” said Myles, waving his hands for emphasis, “we’ve B-52s zooming over the Arctic, nuclear subs cruising the seven seas, ranks of computers the size of Jodrell Bank, and brave soldier boys in the trenches ready to respond to any dire threat from the godless commie horde . . . but it all depends on some git catching a seven o’clock steam train from Euston every other evening?”
“That’s it, exactly,” said Edwin
“Crazy, man,” said Myles, snapping his fingers.
“As I said, matters of defence policy are beyond our remit. You understand now why governments are in a lather. If the Streak isn’t secure, NATO wobbles. Quite apart from the haunting, they’re worried about spies. One reason the Go-Codes are still carried by train is that our fiendish intelligence friends think the Russkies don’t believe we’d
“I hope I meet a spy,” said Annette, posing languidly. “I always saw myself as Mata Hari. Can I lure young lieutenants to their doom?”
“Leave them alone, Annie,” said Edwin. “They’ve enough on their plates, what with World Peace in their pockets. There’s been a high turnover on that detail. One nervous collapse, one self-inflicted gunshot wound, one sudden convert off in a monastery somewhere. Do not let it be known outside this room, but in the past year there have been four separate blocks of up to eighteen hours when our defences were compromised because the Go-Codes didn’t arrive without incident.
“Consider the poor general whose burdensome duty it is to inform the President of this situation, let alone the possibility the Other Side might get wind of a first-strike opportunity. If we do hold a gun to their head, they’d best not find out the firing pin is wonky.”
Richard felt sickness in the pit of his stomach, as if he had washed down a half-pint of salted cockles with a strawberry milkshake. Despite Cutley’s “boring procedures for haunted houses”, this was a bigger deal than pottering around Borley Rectory feeling out cold spots. The nausea passed and, to his embarrassment, he found he was physically in a state of high excitement. He gathered this was common in the corridors of power – though, since his voice broke, it seemed the minutes of the day when he
“Will the Yanks know we’re aboard?” asked Cutley.
“In theory, at the highest level. The boys on the train don’t know anything. They’ve been encouraged to believe they’re a decoy, and that their envelopes are to do with an inter-services gambling ring organised by a motor pool sergeant in Fort Baxter, Kansas. Spot the couriers if you must, but don’t get too close. Come back with concrete intelligence about whatever threats are gathering in the dark. I’ve always wanted to end a briefing by saying ‘this mission could shorten the War by six months’. The next best thing is ‘the fate of the free world depends on you’, which, I am sorry to say, it does. I’m sure you’ll do us proud, Harry.”
The lecturer shot glances at his group. Richard knew what Cutley thought of Annette, Magic Fingers and him. Two beatniks and a ted, not an elbow-patch between them, just the sorts Hard-Luck Harry hoped to get away from,
“We’ll make the best of it, Ed,” said Cutley.
IV
Richard walked under the Doric arches of Euston Station at five o’clock, two hours before the Scotch Streak was due to depart. He was among crowds, streaming from city offices to commuter trains.
“
“Don’t even think about it, kiddo,” said a voice close to his ear. “World’s safe till midnight, at least. After that, it gets blurry . . . but Madame Amboise sees all. Worry not your pretty little head.”
He recognised Annette from her perfume, Givenchy mingled with Gauloise, before he heard or saw her. She spun him round and kissed both his cheeks, not formally. Her wet little tongue dabbed the corners of his mouth.
For the trip, she had turned out in a black cocktail dress, elbow-length evening gloves, a shiny black hat with a folded-aside veil and a white fox-fur wrap with sewn-shut eyes. This evening, she wore lipstick – thin lines of severe scarlet. She posed like Audrey Hepburn, soliciting his approval, which was certainly forthcoming.
“That’s the spirit,” she said, patting his cheek.
He had a mental image of Annette in her underclothes – black, French and elaborate. It flustered him, and she giggled.
“I’m doing that,” she said. “It’s a trick.”
She slipped off her shoulder strap to show black lace.
“And it’s accurate,” she added. “Sorry, I mustn’t tease. You’re so easy to get a rise out of. I don’t get to play with anyone
She tapped the side of her head and made spooky conjuring gestures.
Under her brittle flirtatiousness, she ran a few degrees high, trying to shake off a case of the scareds. That, in turn, worried him. Annette Amboise might come on like the Other Woman in a West End farce, but in the Diogenes Club’s trade – not to mention actual war – she was a battle-proved veteran. All he’d ever done was switch some wires. If she knew enough to be frightened, he ought to be terrified.
“Aren’t the arches magnificent?” she said. “They’ll be knocked down in a year or two. By idiots and philistines.”
“You’re seeing the future?”
“I’m reading the papers, darling. But I do see the future sometimes. The
“What about . . . ?”
She puffed and opened a fist as if blowing a dandelion clock. “Boom? Not this week, I think. Not if we have anything to do with it. Of course, that’d bring down the arches too.”
She touched the stone with a gloved hand, and shrugged.
“Nada, my love,” she said. “Of course, that’s Magic Fingers’ speciality, not mine. Laying on of hands. The Touch That Means So Much.”
Annette took him by the arm and steered him into the station. A porter followed, shoving a trolley laden with a brassbound trunk, matching pink suitcases, a vanity case and a hat-box. Richard had one item of luggage, a Gladstone bag he’d found in a cupboard.
“There’s our leader,” said Annette, pointing.
Harry Cutley sat at a pie-stall, drinking tea. His own personal cloud hung overhead. Richard wondered whether Edwin would show up to see them off, then thought he probably wouldn’t.
Annette stopped and held Richard back.
“Darling, promise me you’ll be kind to Harry,” she said, pouting, adjusting his tie as if he were a present done up with a bow.
Richard shrugged. “I didn’t have other plans.”
“You don’t need plans to be unkind. You’re like me, a
Harry looked up and saw them coming. He waved his folded newspaper.
“Where’s Myles?” he asked.
Neither Richard nor Annette knew. Harry tutted, “Probably puffing ‘tea’ in some jive dive.”
“Tea would be lovely, thanks,” said Annette.
Harry looked at the mug in his hand.
“Not this muck,” he said, sourly. The woman behind the counter heard but didn’t care.
“Supper on the train, then?” said Annette. “Sample that famous Scotch Streak luxury?”
“Just make sure to keep the chits,” cautioned Harry.
“Don’t be such a grumpy goose,” said Annette, leaning close and kissing the lecturer, who didn’t flinch. “This will be a great adventure.”
“Like last time?”
“Well, let’s hope not
Harry pulled back the sleeve of his tweed jacket and showed a line of red weals leading into his cuff.
“Puma Cults,” commented Annette, “
Richard gathered Harry and Annette had both come off the Edgley Vale case with scars. The Most Valued Member had put that successfully to bed. An Away Win for the Diogenes Club. No points for the Forces of Evil. Harry even smiled for a fraction of a second as Annette purred and stretched satirically.
At once, Richard understood the difference between his Talent and Annette’s. He received, she sent. He picked up what others were feeling; she could make them feel what she felt. A useful knack, if she was in an “up” moment. Otherwise, she was a canary in a mineshaft.
Suddenly, Myles was there.
“Hey, cats,” he said, raising an eyebrow as that set Annette off on more
“If we must,” said Harry.
Magic Fingers dressed like a cartoon burglar – black jeans, tight jersey, beret, capacious carpet-bag. All he needed was a mask.
Passengers travelling First Class on the Scotch Streak had their own waiting room, adjacent to the platform where the train was readied. On presenting tickets, the party was admitted by a small, cherubic, bald, uniformed Scotsman.
“Good evening, lady and gentlemen,” he said, like a head-waiter. “I’m Arnold, the Conductor. If there is any way I can be of service, please summon me at once.”
“Arnold, the Conductor,” said Harry, fixing the name in his mind.
Annette made arrangements to have her extensive luggage, and their three underweight bags, stowed on the train.
No extra-normal energies poured off Arnold, just polite deference. Considering his age and Richard’s style, that was unusual. In the conductor’s view, purchase of a First Class Sleeping Compartment ensured admission to the ranks of the elect. The passenger was always right, no matter what gaudy finery he wore or what gunk was slathered on his hair. Richard realised Arnold was the see-no-evil fellow Edwin had mentioned. The man who was not haunted. The conductor might be immune to ghosts, the way some people didn’t catch colds. Or he could be a very, very good dissembler.
The waiting room wanted a thorough clean, but a residue of former glory remained. While Second and Third Class passengers made do with benches on the platform, First Class oiks could plump posteriors on divans upholstered in the Streak’s “weeping bruise” purple. Complimentary tea was served from a hissing urn – which made Cutley mutter about wasting threepence (and collecting a chit) at the pie-stall.
Framed photographs hung like family portraits, commemorating the naming ceremony (there was that Lady Lucinda who Catriona disliked), the inaugural runs of 1928 and 1934 (Lord Kilpartinger in an engineer’s hat) and broken speed records. Nothing about Inver-deith Bridge, of course.
Other passengers arrived. Two young men might as well have had “Secret Courier” stitched to their hankie pockets. They had adult-approved US navy crew-cuts and wore well-fitting civilian suits which didn’t yet bend with their bodies. Matching leather briefcases must contain the vital envelopes. Annette cast a critical eye over the talent; one nudged the other, who cracked a toothy smile that dimpled in his corn-fed American cheek.
“So, where’s the spy?” whispered Annette.
“
Three sailors in whites looked like refugees from a road company of
A fuss erupted at the door. Arnold and a guard were overwhelmed by a large, middle-aged woman. She wore a floral print dress and a hat rimmed with wax grapes and dry, dead roses.
“I’ve got me ticket somewhere, ducks,” she said. “Give us a mo. Here we are. Me ticket, and me card.”
The woman had a Bow Bells accent and one of those voices that could crack crystal. Something about her alerted Richard. Annette and Myles had the same reaction. Psychic alarm bells.
“What is it?” asked Harry, noticing his group’s ears all pricked up at once.
“Calm,” said Annette.
Richard realised his heart was racing. He breathed deliberately and it slowed. Myles let out a whistle.
“Me card,” repeated the woman. “Elsa Nickles, Missus, Psychic Medium. I’m here to ’elp the spirits. The ones tevvered to this plane. The ones who cannot find the rest they need. The ones trapped on your Ghost Train.”
Arnold was less interested in the woman’s card than her ticket, which turned out to be Third Class. Not a sleeping compartment, but a seat in the carriage next to the baggage car. A trained contortionist with no feeling at all in her back or lower limbs might stretch out and snooze.
The conductor told her this waiting room was First Class only. She wasn’t offended.
“I don’t want to go in, ducks. Just wants a butcher’s. The vibrations are strong in the room. No wonder your train’s got so many presences.”
The “Psychic Medium” craned over Arnold’s head and scanned the room, more obviously than Richard had done. She frankly stared at everyone in turn.
“Evenin’, vicar,” she said to the saturnine clergyman, who smiled, showing rotten teeth. “Should have those fixed,” she advised. “Pull ’em all on the National Health and get porcelain choppers, like me.”
She grinned widely, showing a black hollow rim around her plates.
The vicar wasn’t offended, though he looked even more terrifying when assembling a smile.
Mrs Nickles didn’t give Harry, Richard or the US Navy a second glance, but fluttered around Annette – “Cor, wish I had the figure for that frock, girl” – and was taken with Magic Fingers.
“You’ve got the Gift, laddie. I can always tell. You see beyond the Visible Sphere.”
Myles didn’t contradict her.
“I sense a troubled soul ’em, or soon to be ’em,” she announced. “Never mind, I can make it well. It’s all we can do, ducks, make things well.”
Mrs Sweet hid behind her
Harry muttered, unnoticed by Mrs Nickles.
The woman was a complication, not accounted for in Harry’s “boring procedures”. Richard sensed the Most Valued Member wonder idly if Mrs Nickles might step under rather than onto the train.
The first time he’d “eavesdropped” on a musing like that, he’d picked up a clear vision from the Latin master; the Third Form mowed down by a machine gun barrage. He’d been horrified and torn: keep quiet and share in the guilt, speak out and be reckoned a maniac. Even if he prevented slaughter, no one would ever
“Ahh, bless,” said Mrs Nickles, standing aside so someone with a proper ticket could be let into the room.
A solemn child, very sleepy, had been entrusted by a guardian into the care of the Scotch Streak. She wore a blue, hooded coat and must be eight or nine. Richard, who had little experience with infants, hoped the girl wouldn’t be too near on the long trip. Children were like time bombs, set to go off.
“What’s your name?” asked Annette, bending over.
The girl said something inaudible and hid deeper in her hood.
“Don’t know? That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Mrs Nickles and Annette were both smitten. Richard intuited neither woman had living children. If Mrs Nickles really was a medium, that was no surprise. Kids were attention sponges and sucked it all up – a lot of Talents faded when there was a pram in the house.
Annette found a large label, stiff brown paper, fastened around the girl’s neck.
“Property of Lieut-Cdr Alexander Coates, RN,” she read. “Is this your Daddy?”
The little girl shook her head. Only her freckled nose could be seen. In the hooded coat, she looked more like a dwarf than a child.
“Are you a parcel then?”
The hooded head nodded. Annette smiled.
“But you aren’t for the baggage car?”
Another shake.
Arnold announced that the train was ready for boarding.
The Americans jammed around the door as the British passengers formed an orderly queue. Annette took the little girl’s hand.
The Coates Parcel looked up and Richard saw the child’s face. She had striking eyes – huge, emerald-green, ageless. The rest of her face hadn’t fully grown around her eyes yet. A bar of freckles crossed her nose like Apache war paint. Two red braids snaked out of her hood and hung on her chest like bell-pulls.
“My name is Vanessa,” she said, directly to him. “What’s yours?”
The child was strange. He couldn’t read her at all.
“This is Richard,” said Annette. “Don’t mind the way he looks. I’m sure you’ll be chums.”
Vanessa stuck out her little paw, which Richard found himself shaking.
“Good evening, Richard,” she said. “I can say that in French.
“Good evening to you, Vanessa.”
She curtseyed, then hugged his waist, pressing her head against his middle. It was disconcerting – he was hugged like a pony, a pillow or a tree rather than a person.
“You’ve got a fan, man,” said Magic Fingers. “Congrats.”
Vanessa held onto him, for comfort. He still didn’t know what to make of her.
Annette rescued him, detaching the girl.
“Try not to pick up waifs and strays, lad,” said Harry.
Richard watched Annette lead Vanessa out of the waiting room. As the little girl held up her ticket to be clipped by Arnold, she looked back.
Those eyes!
V
Richard was last to get his ticket clipped. Everyone found their proper carriages. Mrs Nickles strode down the platform to Third Class, trailed by sailors.
He took in 3473-S. At a first impression, the engine was a powerful, massive presence. A huge contraption of working iron. Then, he saw it was weathered, once-proud purple marred and blotched, brass trim blackened and pitted. The great funnel belched mushroom clouds. He smelled coal, fire, grease, oil. Pressure built up in the boiler and heat radiated. A gush of steam was expelled, wet-blasting the platform.
“Bad beast, man,” said Myles, fingertips to metal.
As Annette said, his talent was to read inanimate, or
“Got a Jones in it, like a circus cat that’s tasted blood, digs it, wants more.”
“That’s a comfort.”
Myles clapped his shoulder, magic fingers lingering a moment. Briefly, Richard felt a chill. Myles took his hand away, carefully.
“Don’t fret, man. I’ve known Number 73 buses go kill-crazy. Most machines are just two steps from the jungle. No wonder witches don’t dig iron. Come on, Rich. ‘All aboard for the Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe . . .’ ”
Arnold blew his whistle, a shrill night-bird screech. It was answered by a dinosaurian bellow from the locomotive. The steam-whoop rattled teeth and scattered a flock of pigeons roosting in the Euston arches.
“The train now standing at Platform 14,” said an announcer over the Tannoy, sounding like a BBC newsreader fresh from an elocution lesson, “is the Scotch Streak, for Edinburgh, and Portnacreirann. It is due to depart at seven o’clock precisely.”
Richard and Myles stepped up, into their carriage. The wide, plush-carpeted corridor afforded access to a row of sleeping compartments.
“You’re next to me, Richard,” said Annette, who had been installing Vanessa nearby. “How cosy.”
He looked at Magic Fingers, who shrugged in sympathy – with a twinge of envy – and went to find his place.
Richard checked out his compartment. It was like a constricted hotel room, with built-in single bed, fixed desk (with complimentary stationery and inkwell) and chair, a cocktail cabinet with bottles cradled in metal clasps, wardrobe-sized en-suite “bathroom” with a sink (yes, marble) and toilet (no gold seat). A second bed could be pulled down from an upper shelf, but was presently stowed. From murder mysteries set on trains, he knew the upper berth was mostly used for hiding bodies. Richard’s Gladstone bag rested at the foot of the bed like a faithful dog. His towel and toiletries were stowed in the bathroom.
At first look, everything in First Class was first class, then the starched white sheets showed a little fray, and that greyish, too-often-washed tinge; the blue-veined sink had orange, rusty splotches in the basin and a broken plug-chain; cigarette-burns pocked the cistern. KINDLY REFRAIN FROM USING THE WATER CLOSET WHILE THE TRAIN IS STANDING IN THE STATION said a framed card positioned above the toilet. In an elegant hand, someone had added TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT.
Richard thought he saw something in the mirror above the sink, and had to fight an instinct to turn. He knew there would be nothing there. He looked deeper into the mirror, peering past his pushed-out face, ignoring a fresh-ish blotch on his forehead, searching for patches where the silvering was thin. He exhaled, misting the mirror. Rune-like letters, written in reverse, stood out briefly. He deciphered DANGER, WARNING and FELL SPIRIT, then a heart, several Xs and a sigil with two “A”s hooked together.
“Made you look,” said Annette, from the corridor. She giggled.
He couldn’t help grinning. She was hatless now, languidly arranged against the doorframe, dress riding up a few inches to show a black stocking-top, shoulders back to display her fall of silky hair. She drew her “AA” in the air with her cigarette end, and puffed a perfect smoke ring.
She drew him along the corridor. They joined Harry and Myles in the next carriage. The ballroom in Lord Kilpartinger’s day, it was now designated the First Class Lounge.
Magic Fingers found a piano, and extemporised on “The Runaway Train”, which Annette found hilarious. She curled up in a scuttle-like leather seat.
At the far end of the carriage sat the vicar – probably working on a sermon, though his expression suggested he was writing death threats to be posted through the letter-boxes of nervous elderly ladies.
Arnold passed through the carriage, and informed them the bar would be open as soon as they were underway.
“Hoo-ray,” said Annette. “Mine’s a gimlet.”
She screwed a fresh cigarette into her holder.
Arnold smiled indulgently and didn’t tell Myles not to tinkle the ivories. They were First Class and could swing from the chandeliers – which were missing a few bulbs, but still glinted glamorously – if they wanted.
“Impressions?” asked Harry, who had a fresh folder open and a ball-point pen in his hand.
“All clear here,” said Annette. “We’ll live past Peterborough.”
“This box has had its guts battered,” said Magic Fingers, stuttering through a phrase, forcing the notes out, “but we’re making friends, and I think he’ll tell me the stories. ‘The runaway train came over the hill, and she ble-e-ew . . .’ ”
Harry looked at him and prompted, “Jeperson? Anything to add?”
Richard thought about the little girl’s ageless eyes.
“No, Harry. Nothing.”
Harry bit the top of his pen. The plastic cap was already chewed.
“I hope this isn’t a wasted journey,” said the Most Valued Member. “Just smoke and mirror stories.”
“It won’t be that,” said Annette. “I can tell.”
The whistle gave out another long shriek, a Johnny Weissmuller Tarzan yell from the throat of a castrated giant.
“ ‘. . . and she ble-ew-ew-ew-ew
Without even a lurch, as smooth as slipping into a stream, the Scotch Streak moved out of the station. The train rapidly picked up speed. Richard sensed pistons working, big wheels turning, couplings stretching, the irresistible
He had a thrill of anticipation. All boys loved trains. Every great mystery, romance or adventure must have a train in it.
“ ‘. . . the engineer said the train must halt, he said it was all the fireman’s—!’ ”
Myles’s piano-playing was shut off by a crash. The lid had snapped shut like a bear-trap.
The jazzman swore and pulled back his hands. His knuckles were scraped. He flapped them about.
“Pain city, man,” he yelped.
“First blood,” said Annette.
“The beast’s impatient,” said Myles. “Antsy, itchy-pantsy. Out to get us, out to show who’s top hand. Means to kill.”
Harry examined the piano, lifting and dropping the lid. A catch should have held it open.
“Catch was caught, Haroldo,” said Magic Fingers, pre-empting the accusing question. “No doubt about it.”
Harry said the lid could easily have been jarred loose by the train in motion. Which was true. He did not make an entry in his folder.
Annette thought it was an attack.
“It knows we’re here,” she said. “It knows who we are.”
They were on their way. Outside the window, dark shapes rushed by, lights in the distance. The train flashed through a suburban station, affording a glimpse of envious, pale-faced crowds. They were only waiting for a diesel to haul them home to “villas” in Hitchin or Haslemere and an evening with the wireless, but all must wish they were aboard the brightly-lit, fast-running, steam-puffing Streak. Bound for Scotland – mystery, romance and adventure!
Richard found he was shaking.
Act II: On the Scotch Streak
I
Over the train-rattle, Annette Amboise heard herself scream.
She was in the corridor. The lights were out. One of her heels was broken, and her ankle turned.
The train was being searched, papers demanded, faces slapped, children made to cry, bags opened, possessions strewn. She’d soon be caught and questioned. Then, hours of agony culminating in shameful release. She’d hold off as long as she could. But, in the end, she’d break.
She knew she’d
Fingers slithered around her neck. A barbed thumb pressed into the soft flesh under her jaw.
Her scream shut off. She couldn’t swallow her own spit. Air couldn’t reach her lungs.
The grip lifted her off her feet. Her back pressed against a window that felt like an ice-sheet. She was wrung out, couldn’t even kick.
She smelled foul breath, but saw only dark.
The train passed a searchlight. Bleaching light filled the corridor. Uniform highlights flashed: twin lightning-strike insignia, broken cross armband, jewel-eyed skull-badge, polished cap-peak like the bill of a carrion bird. No face under the cap, not even eyes. A featureless bone-white curve.
The
She tried to forget things carried in her head. Names, code phrases, responses, locations, times, number-strings. But everything she knew glowed red, ready for the plucking.
Her captor held up his free hand, showing her a black, wet Luger. The barrel, cold as a scalpel, pressed to her cheek.
The light passed.
The pistol was pushed into her face. The gunsight tore her skin. Her cheek burst open like a peach. The barrel wormed between her teeth. Bitter metal filled her mouth.
The grip around her throat relaxed, a contemptuous signal.
She drew in breath and began to
“Annie,” said Harry Cutley, open hand cupped by her stinging cheek, “come back.”
She had been slapped.
She was
She choked on her words.
Harry was bent over her. She was on a divan in the lounge carriage. Myles and Richard crowded around. Arnold the Conductor attended, white towel over his arm, bearing cocktails. Hers, she remembered, was a gimlet.
“Where were you?” asked Harry. “The War?”
She admitted it. Harry had been holding her down, as if she were throwing a fit. Suddenly self-conscious, he let her go and stood away. Annette sat up and tugged at her dress, fitting it properly. Nothing was torn, which was a mercy. She wondered about her face.
Her heart thumped. She could still feel the icy hand, taste oily gunmetal. When she blinked, SS scratches danced in the dark.
“Can we get you anything?” asked Harry. “Water? Tea?”
“I believe that’s mine,” she said, reaching out for her cocktail. She tossed it back at a single draught. Her head cleared at once. She replaced the empty glass on Arnold’s tray. “Another would be greatly appreciated.”
Arnold nodded. Everyone else had to take their drinks from the tray before he could see to her request. They sorted it out – a screwdriver for Myles, whisky and water for Harry, a virgin mary for Richard. Arnold, passing no comment on her funny turn, withdrew to mix a fresh gimlet.
“Case of the horrors?” diagnosed Myles.
She held her forehead. “In spades.”
“A bad dream,” said Harry, disappointed. His pen hovered over a blank sheet in his folder. “Hardly a
“To dream, wouldn’t she have to be asleep?” put in Richard. “She went into it standing up.”
“A fugue, then. A fit.”
Harry erred on the side of rational explanation. Normally, Annette admired that. Harry kept an investigation in balance, stopped her – and the rest of the spooks – from running off with themselves. Usually, ghosts were only smugglers in glow-in-the-dark skeleton masks. Flying saucers were weather balloons. Reanimated mummies were rag week medical students swathed in mouldy bandages. Now, his thinking was just blinkered. There
“Have you had fits before?” asked Richard.
“No, Richard,” she said patiently. “I have not.”
“But you do get, ah, ‘visions’?”
“Not like this,” she said. “This was a new experience. Not a nice one. Trust me.
“ ‘It’?” said Harry, frowning. “Please try to be more scientific, Annie! You must specify. What ‘it’? Why an ‘it’ and not a ‘them’?”
Her heartbeat was normal now. She knew what Harry – irritating man! – meant. She tried to be helpful.
“Just because it’s an ‘it’ doesn’t mean there’s no ‘them’? An army is an ‘it’, but has many soldiers, a ‘them’.”
“What came for me wasn’t one of my usuals,” she continued. “I see what might happen. And not in ‘visions’, as Richard put it. I don’t hear ‘voices’ either. I just know what’s coming, or might be coming. As if I’d skipped ahead a few pages and skim-read what happens next.”
“I see round corners. Into the future. This was from somewhere else.”
“The past?” prompted Richard. “A ghost?”
“The past? Yes. A ghost? Not in the traditional sense. More like an
“Dramatic, Annie, but not terribly helpful.”
Harry put the top back on his biro.
“Listen to her,” said Richard, slipping an arm around her shoulder – a mature gesture for such a youth. “She’s not hysterical. She’s not imagining. She
Harry was not inclined to pay attention to the Jeperson Boy.
“I can’t,” he said. “It’s static. It’ll cloud the issue. We need observable phenomena. Incidents that can be measured. Traced back to a source. I’ll get the instruments.”
“We
He didn’t include himself, but should have.
A burst of indignant fury belched from Harry as Richard called him “Daddy-O”. She flinched at the psychic outpouring, but less than she would if she hadn’t known it was coming.
The lad was pushing with Harry. He couldn’t help himself.
Myles laid a hand on her forehead, nodded.
“Something’s been at her,” he said. She didn’t like the sound of that. “Left clawmarks.”
“Will everybody please stop talking as if this were my autopsy,” she said. “I have been attacked, affronted, shaken. But I am not a fragile flower you need to protect. I can take care of myself.”
Like she did in the War.
The curve under the SS cap came back to her. If questioned, she would have talked. Everyone did, eventually. It had never come to it, because of her trick, her way of putting her feet right, of avoiding situations. Others – the names that had come back to her – had been less fortunate. As far as she knew, they were dead or damaged beyond repair. Most had been caught – talking made no difference in the end, they were still killed.
Ever since, she had been putting her feet right. Walking near peril, not into it. Here, she was on a train – a row of linked boxes on wheels. There might be no right steps here. There might only be danger. Her gift was often knowing where not to be. Here, knowing where not to be did not mean she could avoid being there.
She trusted her instincts. Now, they were shouting:
Harry, Richard and Myles backed away from her. Just as she’d known they would. She ticked off the moment, grateful there wasn’t anything more to it.
She suppressed the instincts. The red cord – a chain, actually – still hung above a window, unbothered in its recess. She would ignore it.
Would she pull the cord in the future or was she imagining what it would be like? No way to tell. She saw herself in the dock, being lectured, then paying five one-pound notes to a clerk of the court – but the clerk had no face. That usually meant she was imagining. If this was going to happen, she would see a face, and recognise it later.
Then, her brain buzzed. She couldn’t mistake this for wandering imagination. Before the War, a child psychiatrist labelled Annette’s puzzling malaise as “acute
If that was a few pages ahead, she’d rather fold the corner at the end of this chapter, put the book on her bedside table and never open it again. But that wasn’t how the world worked.
Arnold came with her second gimlet. This one she sipped.
“Perfect,” she told the conductor, suppressing shivers.
II
Annette’s recovery impressed Richard. Two gimlets and a nip to her compartment to fix her face, and she was set. Her strings were notches too tight, but so were anyone else’s. She flirted, presumably on instinct, flitting among her colleagues, seeming to offer equal time. Only Richard noticed he was getting marginally more serious attention than Harry Cutley or Danny Myles. She already knew them but needed to puzzle out the new boy, fix him in her mind the way Harry fixed names, by rolling him around, pinching and fluffing, testing reactions. Which, as ever, were warm and, he thought, horribly obvious.
Harry sourly made shorthand notes in his folder.
The frightening vicar gently enquired as to the lady’s condition. Annette said she was fine, and he retreated, satisfied. Richard still wondered if the man was faking his aura. His killer’s hands seemed made to be gloved in someone else’s blood.
Standing nearby, Annette was carefully not looking at the communication cord. Of course. Anyone who travelled by train knew that imp of the perverse which popped up at the sight of a PENALTY FOR IMPROPER USE – £5.00 notice –
Annette felt Richard’s lapel between thumb and forefinger.
“Real,” she said. “Sometimes I can’t tell any more.”
He didn’t know where to put his hands.
“Put the boy down, Annie,” said Harry. “Come fill in this Incident Form. Since you’re convinced you were
She shuddered and joined Harry. He gave her a sheet of paper and a pencil, which she proceeded to use as if sitting an exam, producing neat, concise notations in the spaces provided.
Danny Myles sat at the piano, fingers tapping the closed lid. His bruises were rising. He smiled, did a little two-finger Gene Krupa solo on the polished wood.
“Me next, you think?” Richard asked.
Myles lifted his shoulders.
“Watch your back, Jack.”
The carriage windows were ebony mirrors. If Richard got close to the glass and strained, he could make out the rushing countryside. A late supper would soon be served in the dining carriage. The train didn’t stop until Edinburgh, at half-past one; then, after a twenty-minute layover, it would continue to Portnacreirann, arriving with the dawn.
The overnight express felt more like an ocean liner than a train. Safe harbour was left behind and they were alone on the vast, deep sea.
Though they had compartments, none of them would sleep.
Richard took out his father’s watch, checked it against the clock above the connecting door. He had ten past nine, the train clock had ten to. He’d wound the watch at Euston, setting the time against the big station clock.
Myles saw what he was doing, rolled his sleeve back and felt a glassless watch – a holdover from his blind days. “Stopped, man,” he said. “Dead on the vine. Seven seven and seven seconds. That’s a panic and a half.”
“I won’t have one of those things,” said Annette, looking up from her form. “Little ticking tyrants.”
“Prof?” Myles prompted Harry.
Harry pulled a travel clock out of a baggy pocket and held it next to his wrist-watch.
“Eight thirty-two. Ten-o’-six.”
“Want to take a stab at which is the real deal?” asked Magic Fingers.
They all looked at the train clock, ticking towards supper time.
“What I thought,” said the jazzman.
Harry Cutley riffled through his folder and dug out more forms. He handed them out. Myles got on with it, turning out a polished paragraph. Richard simply wrote down “WATCH FAST”.
“Perhaps now you’ll stay away from mechanical instruments and rely on people,” said Annette. “You know clocks run irregularly in haunted places, so why do you trust thermometers, barometers, wire-recorders and cameras?”
“People run irregularly too,” said Harry, reasonably. “Even – no,
Richard was piqued. His watch was no ordinary timepiece. His father had inherited it from
Inside, gears and wheels were tiny fragments of unknown crystal, which sparkled green or blue in certain light. The roman numerals were lost in tiny engravings of bearded satyrs and chubby nymphs.
Those first ticks were where Richard’s memory began. Before now, the watch had never betrayed him.
If Jeperson’s watch wasn’t to be trusted, what else in the life furnished for him by the Diogenes Club was left? The watch wound with a tiny key, which was fixed to the chain – it could also stop the mechanism, and Richard did so. If the watch could not run true, it should not run at all. He felt as if a pet had died, and he’d never had pets. He unhooked the chain and wondered if he’d ever wear it again. He slipped watch and chain into a pocket and handed back the incident form.
Arnold, who obviously had no trouble with
Harry reset his watch and clock against the train time. He made a note in his folder.
“I foresee you’ll be at that all night,” said Annette. “Without using a flicker of Talent. It’s Sod’s Law.”
Harry smiled without humour, not giving her an argument.
It hit Richard that something had gone on between Harry Cutley and Annette Amboise, not just an investigation into a Puma Cult. Harry took teasing from her he wouldn’t from anyone else. He sulked like a boy when she paid attention elsewhere. She’d told Richard not to underestimate the Most Valued Member.
Now, in a way that annoyed him, he was jealous.
“Should we sample the Scotch Streak fare?” said Annette. “In Kilpartinger’s day, the cuisine was on a par with the finest continental restaurants.”
“I doubt British Rail have kept up,” said Harry. “It’ll be beef and two veg, pie and chips or prehistoric bacon sarnies.”
“Yum,” said Magic Fingers. “My favourite.”
“Come on, boys. Be brave. We can face angry spirits, fire demons, Druid curses and homicidal lunatics. A British Rail sandwich should hold no horrors for us. Besides,
Annette led them to the dining carriage. Wood-panel and frosted glass partitions made booths. Tables were laid for two or four.
As he passed under the lounge clock, Richard looked up. For a definite moment, he saw a face behind the glass, studded with bleeding numbers, clockhands nailed to a flattened nose, cheeks distended, eyes wide, clockmaker’s name tattooed on stretched lips.
“That’s where you’ve got to,” he mused, recognising Douglas Gilclyde. “Lord Killpassengers himself.”
The face was gone. Richard thought he should mention the apparition, then realised he’d only have to fill in another form and opted to keep stum. There’d be plenty more where that came from.
III
They were all laughing at him, the bastards!
Harold Cutley tasted ash, bile and British Rail pork pie. He wanted to tell the bastards to shut up. The only noise he produced was a huffing bark that made the bastards laugh all the more.
“Gone down the wrong tube,” said the insufferable Jeperson Boy.
The French tart slapped him on the back, not to clear the blockage – taking an excuse to give him a nasty thump.
“Get Prof a form to fill in,” snarked the beatnik. “See how he likes it.”
Cutley stood and staggered away from the table. He honked and breathed again. He could talk if so inclined. As it happened, he bloody well wasn’t.
He knew they’d all gang up on him!
That was how it always was. At Brichester, no one understood his work and he was written off as “the Looney”. Muriel hadn’t helped, betraying him with all of them. Even Head of Physics, Cox-Foxe. Even bloody students! He was with the Diogenes Club toffs on the sufferance of Ed Winthrop, who habitually overruled and sidelined and superseded. Ed had saddled Harry with this shower so he couldn’t get anywhere, would never have any findings to call his own.
No one was coming after him. He shot a glance back at the booth, where Annette was canoodling with the teddy boy. The bitch, the bastard! Magic Fingers was tapping the table, probably hopped up on “sneaky pete”. If there were results to be had, he’d have to find them on his own.
He would show them. He would have to.
The conductor – what was his name? Why hadn’t he fixed it? – was in his way, blocking the narrow aisle. Cutley got past the man, shrinking to avoid touching him, and strode towards the dark at the end of the carriage.
“Well, really,” said the frumpy bat who was the only other diner, the old girl with the guns. She’d spilled claret on her gammon and pineapple and was going to blame Harold Cutley. “I must say. I never did.”
Cutley thought of something devastating to snap back at the pinch-faced trout, but words got mixed up between his brain and his pie-and-bile-snarled tongue and came out as spittle and grunts.
The woman ignored him and forked a thin slice of reddened meat into her mouth.
He looked back. The carriage had stretched. The rest of his so-called group were dozens of booths away, in a pool of light, smiling and fondling, relieved he was gone, already forgetting he’d ever been there. The bastarding bastards! They had the only bright light. The rest of the carriage was dim.
Now there were other diners, in black and white and silent. One or two to every fifth or sixth booth. Shadows on frosted glass partitions. Starched collars and blurry faces. Some were missing eyes or mouths, some had too many.
Muriel was here somewhere, having her usual high old time while someone else brought home the bacon.
Bitch!
“May I see your ticket?”
It was the conductor. Or was it another official? This one looked the same, but the tone of voice was not so unctuous. He sounded deeper, stronger, potentially brutal. More like a prison warder than a servant.
What was the name again? Albert? Alfred? Angus? Ronald? Donald?
Arnold – like Matthew Arnold, Thomas Arnold, Arnie, Arnoldo, Arnold. That was it.
“What is it, Arnold?” he snapped.
“Your ticket,” he insisted. His collar insignia, like a police constable’s, was a metal badge. LSIR. That was wrong, out of date. “You must have your ticket with you at all times and be prepared to surrender it for inspection.”
“You clipped mine at Euston,” said Cutley, patting his pockets.
Cutley searched himself. He found his bus ticket from Essex Road to Euston, a cinema stub (1s, 9d,
“Would this be yours?” said Arnold, holding up a strip of card.
Cutley was more annoyed. This was ridiculous.
“If you had it all the time, why didn’t you say so, man?”
“We have to be sure of these things.”
Cutley noticed that the conductor wasn’t “sirring” him any more. Before he could take the proffered ticket, he had to return his various discoveries to his pockets. Even if he piled up the things he could afford to throw away, it was a devil of a job to fit everything back into his jacket, which was baggier and heavier by the minute.
Arnold watched, still holding out the ticket.
Beyond the conductor, the dining car was nearly empty again. Jeperson, Annette and Magic Fingers were in the far distance, merrily tucking into knickerbocker glory or some other elaborate, sickly-sweet pud. None of that on his old ration book, he remembered with a bitter twinge.
He was sorted out. Except he had put the Peacock with the used bus and cinema tickets. He slid the book into his side-pocket, tearing a seam with a loud rip. He had a paper of buttons but no needle and thread. Muriel always had a needle, ready threaded, pinned about her in case of emergencies. She wasn’t in the dining carriage now – probably off in some fellow’s compartment, on her knees, gagging for it, the cow, the harlot!
“Why are you still here?” he asked Arnold, snatching his ticket.
“To make sure,” said the conductor. “This isn’t your place. This is for First Class Passengers only.”
Bloody typical! These jumped-up little Hitlers put on a blue serge uniform that looked
“What does this say, my good man?”
“I beg your pardon,” responded Arnold, with a tone Cutley didn’t like at all. “What does what say?”
“This ticket, you bastard. What does this ticket say?”
“Third Class,” said the conductor. “Which is where you should be, if you don’t mind my saying. This is not the place for you. You would not be comfortable here. You would be conscious of your, ah, shortcomings.”
Cutley looked at his ticket. It must be some sort of funny.
“This isn’t mine,” he said.
“You said it was. You recognised it. You would not want to make a scene in the First Class Dining Carriage.”
“First Class! I don’t call a stale pork pie first class dining!”
“The fare in Third Class might be more suited to your palate. More your taste. Rolls are available. Hard-tack biscuits. Powdered eggs, snoek, spam. Now, move along, there’s a good fellow.”
Arnold, seeming bigger, stood between him and the booth where the others were downing champagne cocktails. Cutley tried to get their attention but Arnold swayed and swelled to block him from their sight. Cutley tried to barge past. The conductor laid hands on him.
“I must ask you to go back to your place.”
“Bastard,” spat Cutley into the man’s bland face.
Arnold had a two-handed grip on Cutley’s lapels. So where did the fist that sank into Cutley’s stomach come from?
Cutley reeled, hearing another long rip as a lapel tore in the conductor’s hand. His gut clenched around pain. He knew when he was beaten. He slunk off, towards the connecting door. Beyond was Second Class, not his place either. He was supposed to be at the back of the train, with the baggage and the mail, probably with live chickens and families of untouchables sat on suitcases tied with string, lost in the crowd, one of the masses, trodden under by bastards and bitches. In his place.
There were things back there which he could use. He knew where they were. He had overheard, at Euston. He remembered the long cases.
Guns!
He limped out of the dining carriage, into the dark.
IV
“What’s up with Harry?” Richard asked.
“Gyppy tummy?” suggested Magic Fingers.
“I should go after him,” said Annette, folding her napkin. “We shouldn’t be separated.”
Richard touched her arm. His instincts tingled. So, he knew at once, did hers.
Harry had stumbled past Arnold, who was briefly bewildered, and charged out of the carriage.
“You stay here,” said Richard. “I’ll go.”
He stood. Annette was supposed to admire his manly resolve. She radiated a certain mumsy pride as if he were a schoolboy striding to the crease to face the demon bowler of the Upper Sixth. Not quite what he intended.
Harry Cutley had been seized in the middle of a mouthful of pie. Not necessarily a phenomenon worth an Incident Form. Something in his eyes as he veered off, trying to staunch coughing, suggested he wasn’t seeing what Richard was. The man had been touched. Attacked, even.
“Your friend, sir,” said Arnold, with concern. “He seems taken poorly.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing repeatable, sir.”
“I’ll see to him, thank you, Arnold.”
“Very good, sir.”
Every time he spoke with Arnold, Richard had to quash an impulse to tip him. At the end of the journey, was it the done thing to palm a ten-bob note and pass it over with a handshake?
He walked the length of the carriage, rolling with the movement of the train. He had become accustomed to the Scotch Streak. He had to concentrate to hear the rattle of wheels, the chuff-chuff of the engine, the small clinkings of cutlery and crockery. Almost comforting. Catriona Kaye said the most dangerous haunted houses always feel like home.
Harry had barged past Mrs Sweet. Richard thought of talking with her, but she glared as he walked towards her. He was a duck’s-arse-quiffed affront to everything she believed. Real killers wore respectable suits from Burton’s and had faces like trustworthy babies. That was how they got close. Richard had a pang of worry that Mrs Sweet might have an extra gun about her – a hold-out derringer in her stocking-top or a pepperpot in her reticule – in case a wounded grouse flapped close enough to need its head dissolving with a single, deadly-accurate shot. This train gave people funny ideas. She might easily pot him on the offchance.
He got by Mrs Sweet unshot, looked over his shoulder at Annette and Myles, and stepped through the connecting door into the Second Class carriage. He checked the lavatory and didn’t find Harry – though he caught sight of a cracked mirror and started, shocked at a glimpse of an antlered, fox-faced quarry with a target marked on his forehead in dribbling blood. How others see us.
The carriage was empty. The corridor was unlit. Second Class did not have sleeping berths, but there were regular compartments, suitable comfortably for six, which could take ten in a pinch. The dark made it easier to see out of the windows. This stretch of track ran though ancient forest. Branches twisted close, leaves reaching for the passing express.
Richard made his way down the carriage, checking each compartment. None of the privacy blinds were down. One seat supported a huddle of old clothes that might have been a sleeping Second Class passenger – though it was early to turn in for the night. On a second look, no one was there. He knew better than be caught out that way, and looked again. Whatever had been huddled was gone back to its hole. He trusted it would stay there.
It couldn’t be the throat-cut spectre of “Buzzy” Maltrincham. The vicious Viscount wouldn’t have been caught dead in Second Class. 3473 had many more ghosts than him. Would Lord Kilpartinger show up again? Disgraced old Donald McRidley – assuming he was dead. The Headless Fireman? The passengers of ’31? The waterlogged witches of Loch Gaer?
It got darker as he proceeded. Turning back, he saw the glass of the connecting door was now opaque – had someone drawn a blind? – and the dining carriage cut off from view.
“Harry?” he called out, feeling foolish.
Something pattered, near the toilet cubicle. Fast and light. Not clumsy Harry Cutley. It might be a large cat. They had railway cats, didn’t they? There was one in
Another of Catriona Kaye’s sayings was that sometimes observers brought their own ghosts and the haunted place merely fleshed them out. Was there a puma person still after Harry? Hadn’t Annette been bothered by something from the War? Her “it”, her Worst Thing? Some entities fished out your worst nightmare – your worst memory, your darkest secret – and threw it at you. But nothing dug for your happiest moments, your fondest wishes, your most thrilling dreams and wrapped them up as a present. What had Magic Fingers called it, Sod’s Law?
Richard remembered his father’s advice about how to see off a tiger if you were unarmed. Knock sharply on its snout, as if rapping on a front door. Just the once. Serve notice you are not to be bothered. The big cat would bolt like a doused kitten, leaving rending, clawing and devouring for another day. Pumas are just weedy imitation tigers, so the Major Jeperson treatment should send one chasing its tail. Of course, his father never claimed to have used his tiger-defying technique in the wild. It was wisdom passed down in the family – untested, but comforting.
“Harry?”
Now, Richard felt like an idiot. Plainly, lightfeet wasn’t Harry Cutley.
He walked back, past the compartments – that huddle was still absent, thank you very much – towards the toilet and the connecting door. He moved with casual ease, controlling an urge to scream and run. The puma was Harry’s Worst Thing. Not Richard Jeperson’s.
The area between cubicle and door was untenanted. He thought. He held the door-handle, torn. He couldn’t return to Annette and Myles with no news of Harry, but didn’t want to venture further into the train without reporting back, even if he raised a fuss. Harry, technically, was in charge. He should have left instructions – not that Richard would have felt obliged to follow them. If it had been
The nagging imp came again – he was just a kid, he wasn’t ready for this, he wasn’t sure what
Click. He’d tell Annette that Harry had gone far afield, then co-opt Arnold and make a thorough search. This was a train, it was impossible to go missing (
He opened the connecting door.
And wasn’t in the dining carriage, but the First Class Sleeping Compartments. Discreet overhead lights flickered.
At the end of the corridor, by an open compartment-door, stood a small figure in blue pyjamas decorated with space-rockets, satellites, moons and stars. Her label was tied loosely around her neck. Her unbound red hair fell to her waist, almost covering her face. Her single exposed eye fixed on him.
What was the girl’s name? He was as bad as Harry.
“Vanessa?” it came to him. “Why are you up?”
Setting aside the Mystery of the Vanishing Carriage, he went to the child, and knelt, sweeping hair away from her face. She wasn’t crying but something was wrong. He recognised emptiness in her, an absence he knew well – for he had it himself. He made a smile-face and she didn’t cringe. At least she didn’t see him as a werebeast whose head would fit the space over the mantelpiece. She also didn’t laugh, no matter how he twisted his mouth and rolled his eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
“Dreams,” she said, hugging him around the neck, surprisingly heavy, lips close to his ear, “
V
“. . . and then, chicklet, there were two.”
Magic Fingers wished the Scotch Streak’s famous facilities stretched to an espresso machine. He could use a Java jolt to electrify the old grey sponge, get his extra-senses acting extra-sensible. Like most night-birds, he ran on coffee.
Annie pursed her lips at him and looked at the doorway through which Hard Luck Harry and now the Kid had disappeared.
“You said we shouldn’t split the band and you were on the button,” he told her. “We should have drawn the wagons in a circle.”
“You’re not helping,” she said.
Was he picking up jitters from her? When Annie was discombo-bulated, everyone in the house came down with the sweats. It was a downside of her Talent.
“Chill, tomato, chill,” he said. “Put some ice on it.”
She nodded, knowing what he meant, and tried hard. There was a switch in her brain, which turned off the receptors in her fright centre. Otherwise she’d never have made it through the War.
Danny Myles had been blind during the War, evacuated from the East End to the wilds of Wales. He had learned his way around the sound-smell-touch-tastescape of Streatham in his first twelve years, but found the different environment – all cold wind-blasts, tongue-twisting language and lava bread – of Bedgellert a disorienting nightmare. He had run away from Mr and Mrs Jones the Farmers on his own, and
Born without sight, it was hard for Danny to get his head around the
He’d been doing these gigs for years. In ’53, he’d unmasked the Phantom of the Festival of Britain. Then, he’d busted the Insane Gang. Defused the last of Goebbels’ Psychic Propaganda Bombs. Rid London Zoo of the Ghost Gorilla and his Ape Armada. It was a sideline. Also, he knew, an addiction. Some jazzmen popped pills, mainlined horse, bombed out on booze, chased skirts – he went after spooks. Not just any old sheet-wearers, but haints which could turn about and bite. Heart-eaters. Like 3473-S. This was a bad one, worse than the Phantom,
“You’re doing it again,” Annie chided him.
He realised he’d been drumming his fingers. “Stella By Starlight”. A song about a ghost. He stopped.
His hands hurt. That snap from the piano-lid was coolly calculated to show him who was boss. The sides of his thumbs were numb. His knuckles were purple and blobby. He spread his fingers on the tablecloth.
“Like, ouch, man,” he said.
Annie giggled.
“It hurts, y’know. How’d you like it if your face fell off?”
She was shocked for a moment.
“Not a lot,” she said.
“These hands are my fortune, ought to be wrapped in cotton wool every night. If I could spring for payments, I’d insure them for lotsa lettuce. This . . . this
“The Worst Thing in the World.”
“On the button, Mama.”
“Less of the ‘Mama’. I’m not that much older than you.”
The Kid ought to be back by now. But he was a no-show. And Harry Cutley was far out there, drowning.
Magic Fingers cast his peepers over the dining car. There’d been an elderly frail strapping on the feed-bag down the way. She’d skedaddled, though he didn’t recall her getting up. Arnold – the conductor-waiter-majordomo-high priest – was gonesville also. He and Annie were alone.
Man, the rattle and shake of the train was fraying his nerves with bring-down city jazz! It was syncopation without representation! All bum notes and missed melodies.
At first, movement had been smooth, like skimming over a glassy lake. Now, the waters were choppy. Knives and forks hopped on the tables. Windows thrummed in their frames. The cloth slid by fractions of an inch and had to be held down, lest it drag plates over the edge and into the aisle.
He felt it in his teeth, in his water, in his guts, in the back of his throat.
Speed, reckless speed. This beast could come off the rails at any time.
The windows were deep dark, as if the outsides were painted – or black-out curtains hung over them. Even if he got close to the cold glass, all he saw was a fish-eye-distorted, darked-up reflection.
They weren’t in a tunnel. They could have been on a trestle stretched through a void, steaming on full-ahead, rails silently coming to pieces behind them. Alone in the night.
He raised his hand and fingertipped the glass, getting five distinct icy shocks. He’d been leery of using his touching, but now was the time.
“Anything?” asked Annie.
He provisionally shook his head, but felt into the glass. It was thick, like crystal, and veined. He felt the judder of pane in frame, and caught the train’s music, a bebop with high notes, warning whistles and a thump of dangerous bass. 3473 had a heartbeat, a pulse.
A shock sparked into his fingers, pain outlining his hand-bones.
He was stuck to the window, palm flat against the glass, fingers splayed. Waves of hurt pulsed into him, jarring his wrist, his arm . . . up to the elbow, up to the shoulder.
Annie sat, mouth open, not moving. Frozen.
No, he felt her gloved fingers on his wrist, pulling. He scented her perfume, close. The brush of her hair, the warmth of her, near him.
But he saw her sitting still, across the table.
It was if his eyes had taken a photograph and kept showing it to him, while his extra-senses kept up with what was really happening. He moved his head: the picture in front of him didn’t change.
Annie was speaking to him, but he couldn’t make it out. Was she talking French? Or Welsh? He had the vile taste of lava bread in his mouth. He heard the train rattle, the music of 3473, louder and louder.
The picture changed. For another still image.
Annie was trying to help, one knee up on the table, both hands round his wrist, face twisted in concentration as she pulled.
But he couldn’t feel her hands any more, couldn’t smell her.
In his eyes, she was with him. But every other sense told him she’d left off.
His vision showed him still images, like slides in a church hall. It was as if he were in a cinema where the projector selected and held random frames every few seconds while the soundtrack ran normally.
A scream joined train noise.
Annie was in the aisle, arms by her sides, hands little fists, mouth open. Dark flurries in the air around her. Birds or bats, moving too fast to be captured by a single exposure.
The scream shut off, but Annie was still posed in her yell. Something broke.
In the next image, she was strewn among place-settings a few booths down, limbs twisted, dress awry. The frosted glass partition was cracked across.
The window let go of him. His hand felt skinless, wet.
Someone, not Annie, was talking, burbling words, scat-singing. No tune he could follow.
He waited for the next picture, to find out who was there. Instead the frame held, fixed and unmoving no matter how he shook his head. He stood and painfully caught his hip on the table-edge. He felt his way into the aisle, still seeing from his sat-by-the-window position. He tried to work out where he was in the picture before him, reaching out for chair-backs to make his way hand-over-hand to Annie, or to where Annie was in his frozen vision.
A heavy thump, and a hissing along with the gabble.
He stood still in the aisle, bobbing with the movement of the train, like the hipsters who didn’t dance but nodded heads to the bop, shoulders and hands in movement, carried by jazz. He guesstimated he was three booths away from his original viewpoint.
Then the lights flared and faded.
The picture turned to sepia, as if there were an even flame behind the paper, and the brown darkened to blackness.
He shut and opened his sightless eyes.
His hands were on chair-backs and he had a better sense of things than when treacherous eyes were letting him down. He heard as acutely as before. The gabbling was a distraction. Just noise, source-less. There was no body to it – nothing displacing air, raising or lowering temperature, smelling of cologne or ciggies. There was one breathing person in the carriage – Annette Amboise, asleep or unconscious. Otherwise, he was alone, inside the beast.
This was different; blindness, with the memory of sight. It was as if there had been white chalk marks around everything, just-erased but held in his mind as guide-lines.
It wasn’t like seeing, but he knew what was where.
Tables, chairs, roses in sconces, windows, connecting doors, the aisle. Under him was carpet. Under that was the floor of the carriage. Under that hungry wheels and old, old rails.
Now there were shapes in the dark. Sitting at the tables. White clouds like human-sized eggs or beans, bent in the middle, limbless, faceless.
He heard the clatter of cutlery, grunts and smacks of swinish eating. In the next carriage, the piano was assaulted. Someone wearing mittens plunked through “Green Grow the Rushes-Oh”, accompanied by a drunken chorus. This wasn’t now. This was before the War.
This was the Scotch Streak of Lord Killpassengers.
How far off was the In-for-Death Bridge?
He couldn’t smell anything. It was worse than being struck blind. He knew he could cope without eyes. He’d made it from Wales to London, once. He had the magic fingers.
Someone called him, from a long way away.
All he could taste was dry, unbuttered lava bread. Butter wasn’t to be had in London, what with rationing – his Mum used some sort of grease that had to be mixed up in a bowl. In Wales, with farms all about, there was all the butter in the world and no questions asked, but Mr and Mrs Jones didn’t believe in it. Like they didn’t believe in hot water. Or sheets – thin blankets of horsehair that scratched like a net of tiny hooks would do. Or music, except the wheezing chapel organ. When Danny drummed his fingers, he’d get a slap across the hand to cure him of the habit. He was not to get up from the table, even if he needed to take the ten steps across the garden to the privy, until he’d cleared his plate and thanked the Good Lord for His Bounty.
Most nights, he’d sit, fighting his bladder and his tongue, struggling to swallow, trying not to have acute taste-buds, ignoring the hurt in his mouth until the lump was solid in his stomach. “There’s lovely,” Mrs Jones would say. “Bless the bread and bless the child.”
In the dining carriage, there was lava bread on every table.
The communicating door opened. The racket rose by decibels, pouring in from the canvas-link between carriages where the din was loudest. A cold draught dashed into his face. Someone entered the dining car, someone who shifted a
He recognised the face.
A huge paw, grimy with engine dirt, stuck out.
“Gilclyde,” boomed the voice, filling his skull. “Lord Kilpartin-ger.”
Not knowing what else to do, Magic Fingers offered his hand to be shaken. Lord Killpassengers enveloped it with his banana-fingered ape-paws and squeezed with nerve-crushing, bone-crushing force.
Agony blotted out all else – he was in the dark again, feeling the vice-grip but not seeing His Lordship dressed up as Casey Jones. Burning pain smothered his hand.
It was a bad break. At the end of his wrist hung a limp, tangled dust-rag.
Then he felt nothing – no pain. No sound. No smell. No taste. No feeling.
For the first time in his life, he was completely cut off.
VI
Even beyond the usual assumption that quiet English children were aliens, there was
She made Richard feel the way grown-ups, even those inside the Diogenes Club, felt around him when he was a boy, the way a lot of people still felt when he was in the room. At first, they were on their guard because he dressed like the sort of youth the
Now he knew about Vanessa.
He was almost afraid of her. And this from someone who accepted the impossible without question.
Sherlock Holmes, brother of the Club’s founder, said: “When you have eliminated the impossible, what remains, no matter how unlikely, must be the truth.” Less frequently quoted was Mycroft’s addendum, “And when you can
It was
Where was everybody? Harry was downwind, last seen heading towards Second and Third Class. Annette and Myles were in the misplaced dining car. Arnold the Conductor, omnipresent earlier, was nowhere to be seen.
Were the other passengers where they should be? Though it was easy to get distracted by fireworks, this investigation was supposed to be about protecting the American couriers.
Three compartments had blinds drawn and DO NOT DISTURB signs hung. One was Annette’s and she wasn’t there. Another was Vanessa’s and she was with him.
That was a puzzle. Besides the couriers, Mrs Sweet and the sinister vicar (one of whom
“Have you seen any Americans?” he asked the child.
She solemnly shook her head and stuck out her lower lip. She wanted more attention paid to her.
He looked again at her label.
“Who
She gave a “don’t know” shrug.
“Not your Dad, you said. Where are your parents?”
Another shrug.
“Lot of that about,” he said, feeling it deeply. “Where do you live, usually?”
A small sound, inaudible – as if the girl weren’t used to speech, like a well-bred, upper-middle-class Kaspar Hauser in spaceman pyjamas.
“Come again, love?”
“Can’t remember,” she said.
Richard had a chill, born of kinship. But he was also wary. This was too close to where he came from. If the train could come up with Worst Things to get under Annette’s or Harry’s skin, it could sidle up close to him and bite too.
“Vanessa What?”
Another “can’t remember”.
“It must be Vanessa Something. Not Coates, but Something.”
She shook her head, braids whipping.
“Just Vanessa, then. It’ll have to do. Nothing wrong with ‘Vanessa’. Not a saint’s name, so far. Not forged in antiquity and refined through passage from language to language like mine. Richard, from the Germanic for ‘Rule-Hard’, also ‘Ricardo’, ‘Rickard’, ‘Dick’, ‘Dickie’, ‘Dickon’, ‘Rich’, ‘Richie’, ‘Clever Dick’, ‘Dick-Be-Quick’, ‘Crookback Dick’. Your name – like ‘Pamela’, ‘Wendy’ and ‘Una’ – was invented within recorded history. By Jonathan Swift, as it happens. Do you know who he was?”
“He wrote
So she remembered
“Yes. He coined the name ‘Vanessa’ as a contraction – like ‘Dick’ for ‘Richard’ – for an Irish girl called ‘Esther Vanhomrigh’.”
“Who was she?”
“Ah, she was a fan of Dean Swift, you know, like girls today might be fans of Tommy Steele.”
“Don’t like Tommy Steele.”
“Elvis Presley?”
Vanessa was keener on Elvis.
“Miss Vanhomrigh was Swift’s biggest fan, so he invented a name for her. He preferred another woman called Esther, Esther Johnson, whom he called ‘Stella’. I expect he made up the names so as not to get them mixed up. Stella and Vanessa didn’t like each other.”
“Did they fight?”
“In a way. They competed for Swift’s attention.”
“Did Vanessa win?”
“Not really, love. Both died before they could settle who got him, and he wasn’t entirely in the business of being got.”
Best not to mention the author might have married Stella.
How did they get into this? He didn’t set out to be a lecturer, but he was recounting things he didn’t think he remembered to this inquisitive, reticent child. Talking to her calmed him.
“Are we being got?” she asked.
“I’m afraid we might be.”
“Please don’t let me be got.”
“Not if I can help it.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Vanessa smiled up at him. Richard worried he had just given his word in the middle of a great unknown. He might not be in a position to keep his promise.
But he knew it was important.
Vanessa must not be got.
They were by the compartment with the DO NOT DISTURB sign. He saw a THROUGH TO PORTNACREIRANN notation. The blind wasn’t pulled all the way down, and a spill of light wavered on the compartment floor. In that, Richard saw a pale hand dangling from the lower berth, thin chain fixed to the handle of a briefcase on the floor. It was one of the couriers.
At least they were safe.
Vanessa put her eye up to the gap and looked in, for a long while.
“Come away,” he said. “Let the nice Americans sleep.”
She turned and looked up at him. “Are you sure they’re nice?”
“No, but they’re important. And it’s best to leave them alone. There are other people I want to find first.”
“Your friends? The pretty lady. The scowly man. The blind person.”
“Danny’s not blind. Well, not now. How did you know he’d been blind?”
She shrugged.
“Just sensitive, I suppose,” he prompted. “And, yes, them. I left them in the restaurant but I, ah, seem to have mislaid the carriage. It used to be there” – pointing at the connecting door – “but now it isn’t.”
“Silly,” she said. “A restaurant can’t get lost.”
“You’ve got a lot to learn.”
“No, I haven’t,” she declared, sticking up her freckled nose. “I’ve learned quite enough already.”
Richard was slightly irked by her tone. He might have said Vanessa’s education could hardly be considered complete since she’d omitted to learn her own full name. But that would be cruel. He understood too well how these situations came about.
“The supper carriage is through that door,” she said. “I peeked, earlier.”
She led him by the hand, back towards the connecting door.
“We should be careful,” he said.
“Silly silly,” she said. “Come on, Mr Richard, don’t be scared . . .”
When anyone – even a little girl – told him not to be scared, his natural instinct was to wonder what there was not to be scared of, then whether the person giving the advice was as well up on the potential scariness or otherwise of the situation or entity in question as they might be.
The subdued lamps in the train corridor had dimmed to the point when everything seemed moonlit. The glass in the connecting door was black – he had a nasty thought that the carriages could have shifted about again, and there might be cold night air and a nasty fall to the tracks beyond.
He let Vanessa’s hand go, and looked – trying to show more confidence than he felt – towards the door. He was over twice the girl’s age, and should take the lead; then again, twice a single figure wasn’t that much. He didn’t really know how old he was, let alone how old he should act.
He hesitated. She gave him a little push.
The train noise was louder near the door, the floor shakier.
Richard told himself he was opening the door. Then he found he actually was.
Beyond was . . .
VII
Something had given her an almighty thump. And had got to Danny Myles.
Annette came to on a table. Forks were driven through her shoulder-straps, pinning her to Formica. She couldn’t sit without ruining her Coco Chanel. Obviously, this was the work of a fiend from Hell. Or a jealous wife.
The table rattled. Was the Scotch Streak shaking to pieces?
A length of something spiny, like over-boiled stringy asparagus with teeth, stretched across her mouth. She clamped down, tasted bitter sap, and spat it away. It was the long-stemmed rose from the place-setting.
She carefully detached the forks, trying to inflict no more damage to her dress, and sat up. Wet, sticky blood pooled on the tablecloth. Then she noticed a paring-knife sticking out of her right thigh. Her stocking was torn. She gripped the handle, surprised not to feel anything but slight stiffness. Upon pulling out the knife, a gush of jagged pain came. She ignored it, and improvised a battlefield dressing – another useful trade learned in the War – with a napkin and cocktail sticks.
Sliding off the table, she looked up and down the dining carriage.
Danny Myles was backed into a space between the last booth and the door to the galley, hugging his knees, face hidden. He trembled, but she couldn’t tell if it was with silent sobbing or the movement of the train.
She saw no one else, which didn’t mean no one else was there.
Someone had forked and knifed her. The skewering had been too deliberate, too mocking, to be the result of a directionless phenomenon like the common-or-garden poltergeist. Something with a
There were ghosts here, though.
“Danny,” she said.
He didn’t hear her. That tinkled a warning – Danny heard
“Danny,” she said, louder.
She went to him, feeling stabbed again with every step.
He wasn’t dead, she saw, but in shock, crawled back into his shell. He looked up and around, seeing nothing.
Danny “Magic Fingers” Myles held up useless hands.
“Busted,” he said. “Gone.”
She knelt by him and examined his hands. No bones were broken. She found no wound of any kind. But they were dead, like sand-filled gloves.
“
She knew what the Worst Thing was for Danny Myles.
His head jerked and he flinched, as if he were being flapped at by a cloud of bats. He knew someone was near, but not that it was her. All his senses were gone. He was locked in his skull.
She took his arms and stood him up. He didn’t fight her. She tried to reach him – not by talking or even touching, but with her inside self. She projected past the bony shields around his mind, to reassure, to promise help . . .
She didn’t know if the damage was permanent – but she squashed the thought, screwing it into a tiny speck. He mustn’t get that, mustn’t catch despair from her, to compound his own.
Because it was her way, she tried kissing him, but just smeared her lipstick. She held him tight, her forehead against his.
He wriggled, escaping from her. The napkin bandage came loose and her leg gave out. For support, she grabbed a tall trolley with shelves of dessert. It rolled down the aisle, dragging her. She bumped her head against the silvered frame. Cream and jam smeared the side of her face, matting in her hair. The trolley got away, and she was left, tottering, reaching out for something fixed . . .
Danny walked like a puppet, jerked past the galley, pulled towards the end of the carriage. Annette had seen people like that before, in shock or under the ’fluence.
“Danny!” she called out, frustrated. Nothing reached him.
She repaired her bandage. How much blood had she lost? Her foot was a mass of needles and pins. She wasn’t sure her knee was working properly. Her fingers weren’t managing too well knotting the napkin.
Danny was at the end of the carriage. The door slid open, not through his agency – the train had
This had gone far enough.
She reached out, slipped her hand into the alcove, and took a firm hold on the communication cord.
She had felt this coming. Now, here it was.
“ ‘Penalty for improper use – five pounds’,” she read aloud. “Cheap at half the price.”
She pulled, with her whole body. There was no resistance. She sprawled on the carpet. The red-painted metal chain was loose. Lengths rattled out of the alcove, yards falling in coils around her.
No whistle, no grinding of brakes, no sudden halt.
Nothing. The cord hadn’t been fixed to anything. It was a con, like pictures of life-belts painted on the side of a ship.
The Scotch Streak streaked on.
If anything, the din was more terrific. Cold wind blew, riffling Annette’s sticky hair.
Between the carriages, one of the exterior doors was open.
Another earlier flash-forward came back to her. An open door. Someone falling. Breaking.
“Danny!” she yelled.
She scrabbled, tripping over the bloody useless chain, got to her feet, one heel snapped. That had been in her Worst Thing vision. Slipping free of her pumps, she ran towards the end of the carriage, as light flared in the passage beyond. She saw the open door, had an impression of hedgerows flashing by, greenery turned grey in the scatter of light from the train. Danny Myles hung in the doorway, wrists against the frame, body flapping like a flag.
She grabbed for him. Her fingers brushed his jersey.
Then he was gone. She leaned out of the train, wind hammering her eyes, and saw him collide with a gravel incline. He bounced several times, then tangled with a fence-post, wrapping around it like a discarded scarecrow.
The train curved the wrong way and she couldn’t see him. Magic Fingers was left behind.
Tears forced from her, she wrenched herself back into the train, pulling closed the door. It was as if she had taken several sudden punches in the gut, the prelude to questioning, to loosen up the prisoner.
She found herself sitting down, crying her heart out. For a long time.
“Why is your friend bawling?” asked a small voice.
Smearing tears out of her eyes with her wrist, Annette looked up.
Richard was back – from the wrong direction, she realised – with Vanessa. The little girl held out a handkerchief with an embroidered “V”. Annette took it, wiped her eyes, and found she needed to blow her nose. Vanessa didn’t mind.
“Danny’s gone,” she told Richard. “It got him.”
She looked up at her colleague, the boy Edwin Winthrop had confidence in, the youth she’d entertained fantasies about. Recruited at an early age, educated and trained and brought up to become a Most Valued Member. Richard Jeperson was supposed to take care of things like this. Harry Cutley lead this group, but insiders tipped Richard as the man to take over, to defy the worst the dark had to offer.
She saw Richard had no idea what to do next. She saw only a black barrier in the future. And she swooned.
Act III: Inverdeith
I
He had nothing.
Annette was out cold. Harry was missing in action. Danny was finished. He was no use to them, they were no help to him.
Richard was at the sharp end, with no more to give.
Vanessa tugged his sleeve, insistent. She needed him, needed comfort, needed saving.
Nearby, in one of these shifting carriages, the NATO couriers slept. And others – Arnold the Conductor, the scary vicar, Mrs Sweet, that cockney medium, more passengers, the driver and fireman sealed off from the rest of the train in the cabin of the locomotive. Even if they didn’t know it, they all counted on him. With the Go-Codes up for grabs, the whole world was on the table and the big dice rattled for the last throw.
The Diogenes Club expected him to do his duty.
He had the girl fetch chilled water in a jug from the galley, and sprinkled it on Annette’s brow. The woman murmured, but stayed under. He looked at Vanessa, who shrugged and made a pouring motion. Richard resisted the notion – it seemed disrespectful to treat a grown-up lady like a comedy sidekick. Vanessa urged him, smiling as any child would at the idea of an adult getting a slosh in the face. With some delicacy, Richard tipped the jug, dripping fat bullets of water onto Annette’s forehead. Her eyes fluttered and he tipped further. Ice-cubes bounced. Annette sat up, drenched and sputtering.
“Welcome back.”
She looked at him as if she were about to faint again, but didn’t. He shook her shoulders, to keep her attention.
“Yes, I understand,” she said. “Now don’t overdo it. And get me a napkin.”
Like the perfect waiter – and where
“You’re lovely as you are,” he said.
She shrugged it off, secretly pleased. She let him help her to her feet and slid into one of the booths. Vanessa monkeyed up and sat opposite. The child began to play, tracing scratch-lines on the tablecloth with a long-tined fork.
“I tried the communication cord,” she said. “No joy.”
He got up, found the loose loop of cord, examined it, sought out the next alcove, pulled experimentally. No effect whatsoever.
“Told you so,” she said.
“Independent confirmation. Harry Cutley would approve. It counts as a finding if we fill in the forms properly.”
Richard sat next to the little girl and looked at Annette, reaching out to catch a drip she had missed.
“Harry’s gone?” she asked.
Richard thought about it. He calmed, reaching into his centre, and tried to feel out, along the length of the train.
“Not like Danny’s gone,” he concluded. “Harry’s on board.”
“What’s he doing when he goes quiet like that?” Vanessa asked, interested. “Saying his prayers?”
“Being sensitive,” said Annette.
“Is that like being polite, minding his ‘P’s and ‘Q’s?”
Richard broke off and paid attention to the people immediately around him.
“Something missing,” he said. “Something’s been taken.”
“Time, for a start,” said Annette. “How long have we been aboard?”
Richard reached for his watch-pocket, then remembered he’d retired the timepiece. There was a clock above the connecting door. The one in the ballroom carriage seemed to keep the right time when all others failed. The face of this clock was black – not painted over, but opaque glass. It still ticked.
“I won’t carry a watch,” said Annette, “but I’ve an excellent sense of time. And I’ve lost it. How long was I unconscious?”
“Ages,” said Vanessa. “We thought you’d died.”
“A few seconds,” said Richard.
“See,” said Annette. “No sense of time at all.”
Richard looked at the nearest window. It was black glass, like the clock – a mirror in which he looked shockingly worn-out. Even when the overhead lights flickered, which they did more and more, he couldn’t see out. He didn’t know if they were rushing through England, Scotland or some other dark country. He felt the rattle-rhythm of the train – that, he knew, came from rolling over slight joins between lengths of rail, every ten or twenty feet. The Scotch Streak was still on tracks.
“Have we passed Edinburgh?” said Annette.
Edinburgh! That was a way out, a way off the Ghost Train!
From the station, he could phone Edwin, have the Club use its pull to cancel the rest of the journey, get everyone else out safely. Danny’s death was justification for calling off the whole jaunt, shutting down the line. The couriers could be sent across Scotland in a taxi. It would take longer, but they’d be surer to arrive intact. If anyone wanted to start World War III, they’d have to wait until after lunch.
Then, he could think of something else to do with his life.
What life?
“I have a picture of the station in my mind,” said Annette, concentrating. “Passengers get off, coal is taken on. They try and do it quietly, so as not to wake the sleepers, but you can’t pour tons of anything quietly. I can’t tell if I’m seeing ahead or remembering. My Talent seems to be on the blink at the moment. ‘Normal transmission will be resumed as soon as possible’. There’s a black wall . . .”
“We’ve already stopped once,” said Vanessa, in a small, scared voice. “In Scotland.”
This was news. Richard couldn’t imagine not noticing.
“Quite right, miss,” said Arnold the Conductor, coming back from where the First Class Carriages should be. “I’ve clipped the ticket of the Edinburgh-to-Portnacreirann passenger. Just the one. Not what it used to be. Ah, someone’s made a bit of a mess here. Don’t worry. We’ll get it cleaned up in a jiffy. Madame, might I bring you more water? This jug seems to be empty.”
Richard, suddenly cool inside, saw Arnold was either mad or with the other side. Not
He resisted an impulse to take Arnold by his antique lapels, smash him through a partition, throw a proper teddy boy scare into him, get the razor against his jugular, demand straight answers.
“Thank you,” he told the conductor. “A refill would be appreciated.”
Arnold took the jug and walked off. Annette, greatly upset, was about to speak, but Richard made a gesture and she bit her lip instead. She was up to speed. It wasn’t just the train and the spooks. It was the people aboard, some of them at least.
“What is it?” said Vanessa, picking up on the wordless communication between grown-ups. “A secret? Tell me at once. You’re not to have secrets. I say so.”
Annette laughed indulgently, at the girl’s directness. The corners of her eyes crinkled in a way she hated and tried to avoid, but which Richard saw was utterly adorable. She was far more beautiful as herself than the make-up mask she showed the world.
“No secrets from you, little thing,” she said, pinching Vanessa’s nose.
The little girl looked affronted by the impudence and stuck her fork into Annette’s throat.
“Don’t call me ‘little thing’,” she said, in a grown man’s voice. “You French cow!”
II
Richard scythed a white china dinner-plate edge-first into the little girl’s face. The plate broke, gashing Vanessa’s eyebrow – it would leave a scar. Blood fountained out of the child-shaped thing.
She gave out a deep, roaring howl and held her face, kicking the underside of the table, twisting and writhing as if on fire.
Richard looked across the table at Annette.
She held her hand to her throat, fork stuck out between her fingers, blood dribbling down her arm. Her eyes were wide.
“Didn’t see . . . that coming,” she said, and slumped.
The light went out in her eyes.
Vanessa’s hooked little fingers scrabbled at Richard’s face, and he fell out of his seat. The child hopped onto his chest, pummelling, scratching and kicking. He slithered backwards, working his shoulders and feet, trying to throw the miniature dervish off him. Her blood poured into his face.
He caught hold of one of her braids and pulled.
A little girl yell came out of her, a
The girl was possessed.
It had been hiding, deep in the blanks of her mind, but had peeped out once or twice. Richard hadn’t paid enough attention.
And now another of the group was gone.
Annette Amboise. He’d only known her a few days, but they’d become close. It was as if they knew they would be close, had seen a future now cruelly revoked, had been rushing past this long night, speeding to get to a next leg of their journey, which they would take together.
All that was left of that was this
As Vanessa shrieked, Richard hurled her off. He got to his feet, unsteady. He looked to Annette, hoping she was unconscious but knowing better. Slack-mouthed, like a fish, she toppled sideways, towards the window, slapping cheek-to-cheek with her equally dead reflection.
Arnold was back – not from the direction he had left. He carried a full jug.
“The lady won’t be needing this now,” he said.
The conductor ignored the frothing child-thing, who was crawling down the aisle, back seemingly triple-jointed, tongue extending six pink-and-blue inches, braids stood on end as if pulled by wires. It was like a giant gecko wearing a little girl suit, loose in some places and too tight in others. As its limbs moved, the suit almost tore.
One eye was blotted shut with blood. The other fixed on Richard.
The girl hissed.
Then the Gecko became bipedal. The spine curved upwards, straining like a drawn bow. Forelegs lifted and became floppy arms, hands limp like paddles. The belly came unstuck from the aisle carpet. Snake-hips kinking, it hopped upright. It stood with feet apart and shoulders down, as if balancing an invisible tail.
“Vanessa,” said Richard, “can you hear me? It’s Richard.”
Hot, obscene anger burst from whatever it was. He flinched. Annette might have been able to reach the girl inside, help her. That was her Talent. His left him open to emotional attack.
He stood his ground.
The label around the Gecko’s neck was soggy with blood, words washed away, black shapes emerging.
He reached out and tore the label away. It left an angry weal around Vanessa’s neck.
“Mine,” she said, in her own voice. “Give it me back, you bastarrrd,” in the thing’s masculine, somehow Scots voice. “Mine,” both voices together, blasting from her chest and mouth.
He rubbed his thumb over the bloody card. Scrapes came away. The label was actually an envelope, with a celluloid inner sleeve sealing strips of paper. He clawed with a nail, and saw number strings.
The couriers were decoys, after all.
“Give me those,” said the Gecko.
Richard knew what he held. Not numbers, but a numerical key. Put in a slot, they could bring about Armageddon.
“Is that what you want?” he asked, talking to the thing.
The smile became cunning, wide. The unblotted eye winked.
“Give me back my numbers,” it said, mimicking the girl’s voice.
He could tell now when it was trying to fool him. Could tell how much she was Vanessa and how much the Gecko.
“Conductor,” she said. “That man’s got my ticket. Make him give it back to me.”
“Sir,” said Arnold. “This is a serious matter. May I see that ticket?”
Richard clutched the celluloid in his fist. He wouldn’t let Arnold take the Go-Codes. He was with the Gecko.
Vanessa’s eye closed and she crumpled. He had a stab of concern for the girl. If she fell badly, hit her head . . .
Arnold’s gaze had a new firmness.
“Sir,” he said, holding up his ticket-clippers. “The ticket.”
By jumping from the girl to the conductor, the Gecko had got closer to him. But it wore a shape he was less concerned about damaging.
He stuck the Go-Codes into his top pocket, and launched a right cross at Arnold, connecting solidly with his chin, staggering him back a few steps. He’d perfectly hit the knock-out button, but the thing in Arnold didn’t pay attention. It lashed out, clipper-jaws open, aiming for an ear or a lip, intent on squeezing out a chunk of face.
Richard ducked and the clippers closed on his sleeve, slicing through scarlet velvet, meeting in the fold. He hit Arnold a few more times, hearing school boxing instructors tell him he shouldn’t get angry. In his bouts, he always lost on points or was disqualified, even if he pummelled his opponent insensible. What he did in a fight wasn’t elegant or sporting, or remotely allowable under the Queen-sberry rules. He had learned something in the blanked portion of his childhood.
From a crouch, he launched an uppercut, smashing Arnold’s face, feeling cartilage go in the conductor’s nose. The clippers hung from Richard’s underarm. They opened and fell to the juddering floor, leaving neat holes in his sleeve.
Not above booting a man while he was down, he put all his frustration into a hefty kick, reinforced toe sinking into Arnold’s side, forcing out a Gecko-groan. The conductor emptied.
Then an arm was around Richard’s neck. He was dragged to the floor.
Annette’s elbow nut-crackered around his throat and her dead face flopped next to his, one eye rolling.
He felt a wave of disgust, not at physical contact with a corpse, but at the abuse of Annette’s body. He couldn’t fight her as he had Arnold, or even as he had Vanessa (he’d broken a plate on a child’s face!) because of what had hung between them until moments ago.
The thing working Annette took the fork out of her throat and held it to Richard’s eye.
“The codes,” it said, voice rattling through her ruptured windpipe. “Now.”
He pressed his hand over his top pocket. He blinked furiously as the fork got close. One jab, and there would be metal in his brain.
This trip was nearly over.
III
The Gecko inside Annette held Richard in a death-grip, fork-tines hugely out of focus against his eye. Beyond the blur, he saw Arnold watching with his habitual air of quizzical deference. Anything between the passengers was their own business.
Someone shouldered Arnold aside and levelled two double-barrelled shotguns at Richard and Annette.
It was Harry Cutley. Hard-Luck Harry to the Rescue!
“Ah-hah,” declared Harry, a melodrama husband finding his wife in a clinch with her lover, “ah-bleedin’-hah! I knew Dickie-Boy was a wrong ’un from the first. Hold him steady, Annie and I’ll save you!”
It wasn’t easy to aim two shotguns at the same time, what with the swaying of the train. Harry couldn’t keep them level.
“Annette’s not home,” Richard said. “Look at her eyes.”
Harry ignored him.
He must have broken into the baggage car and requisitioned Mrs Sweet’s guns. His pockets were lumpy with cartridges. He had a lifetime of resentments to work off, in addition to being under the influence of the Scotch Streak. Harry still couldn’t hold the guns properly, but was close enough to Richard that aiming wouldn’t make much difference.
At least, the fork went away.
The Gecko relaxed a little, holding Richard up as a shield and a target.
Harry saw Vanessa, half her face bruised and bloody.
“I see you can’t be trusted on your own,” he said to Richard. “There’s a reason I’m Most Valued Member, Clever Dick. I observe at a glance, take in all the clues, puzzle out what has happened, make a snap decision, and act on it, promptly and severely.”
He managed with an effort to get one gun half-cocked, but his left-hand gun twisted up and thumped his face. He flinched as if someone else had attacked him, and pointed the gun he had a better grip on.
Richard shrugged off Annette’s dead fingers and stood.
The gun-barrel raised with him.
“Look at Annette, Harry,” he said. “It got her. It got Danny. It had Vanessa. It’s tried to have me. It is trying to get you. You can hear it, can’t you? It’s talking to you now.”
Richard stood aside, to let Harry see Annette.
The Gecko couldn’t get the corpse to stand properly. Her bloodied neck was a congealed ruin. Her bloodless face was slack, empty – only her eye mobile, twitching with alien intellect.
“Annie,” said Harry, shocked, grieving.
“You see,” said Richard, stepping forward. “We’ve got to fight it.”
Both guns swung. The barrels jabbed against Richard’s chest.
“Stay where you are, young feller-me-lad,” said Harry, fury sparking again. “I
“Several,” Richard admitted.
“Yes, I can tell. They’re all like you, bright boys with no depth, no
Harry was off on his own. With the guns steady, he got all the cocks back.
Annette had pulled herself upright, assisted by Arnold. She puppet-walked towards them.
“Look behind you,” whispered Richard, like a kid at a pantomime.
Harry showed a toothy grin. “Won’t fool me with that one, boy.”
Annette’s hands were out, thumbs barbed, nearing Harry’s neck. When she gripped, his hands would clench – and four barrels-worth of whatever Mrs Sweet liked to load would discharge through Richard’s torso.
“Just this once, do me a favour, Harry, and
The barrels jammed deeper. Richard shut up – he couldn’t do anything about his educated accent, which set off Harry’s class hatred.
Annette’s hands landed, not around Harry’s neck, but on his shoulders. He shivered, in instinctive pleasure. He was enjoying himself. He had everyone where he wanted them. He angled his head and rubbed his cheek, like a cat’s, on Annette’s dead hand.
The Gecko used Annette’s face to make a smile and kissed Harry’s ear.
It was a miracle the guns didn’t go off.
“See, just this once, bright boy, you lose.”
The light in Annette’s eyes went out and she was a corpse-weight against Harry’s back. Harry was bothered, his eyes flickering.
“Don’t do that,” he said.
While Harry was distracted, Richard took hold of the barrels and tried to shift them. No dice. Harry shook his head as if trying to see off a buzzing wasp.
Annette fell away, collapsing on the floor.
Harry stepped backwards, his upper body jerking as if the wasps were now pestering in force. The guns slipped away from Richard’s chest. He took the opportunity to get out of the way. Harry tripped over Annette’s legs and went arse over teakettle.
One of the guns finally went off, blasting a plate-sized hole in the ceiling.
Night air rushed through. Up there somewhere were stars.
Harry, without even knowing what he was doing, resisted the Gecko. So it couldn’t take anyone – only unformed minds, long-time Streak freaks, or the newly-dead. It could whisper, influence, mislead, work on weaknesses, but couldn’t just move in and take over.
Richard sensed the thing’s formless anger.
Then Vanessa, standing quietly a dozen feet away, was tagged and was “it” again. She ran, hopping past Annette, leap-frogging Harry, and soared at Richard, in defiance of gravity, a living missile.
Vanessa’s head collided with Richard’s stomach, and he was knocked over.
She snatched the celluloid from his pocket, and – with a girlish whoop of nasty triumph – was out of the carriage.
He heard her laugh dwindle as she got further away.
Harry stood, brushing a blood-smear on his jacket. He’d dropped one of the guns, but had the other under his arm. He flapped his wrung-out hand, still jarred from the discharge. The thumb, broken or dislocated, kinked stiffly.
Another person lumbered into the dining carriage, bulky in shawls, thick-ankled. Richard thought for a moment it was Mrs Sweet come to complain about the ill-treatment of her precious guns, but it was the old dear last seen at Euston. “Elsa Nickles, Missus, Psychic Medium.”
Mrs Nickles eased past Arnold, who didn’t tell her she was out of her class. She looked at the bloody ruins, the dead woman, the mad people.
“I knew no good would come of this,” she said. “Them spirits is angered,
Mentally, Richard told Harry not to shoot the woman.
He could tell the Most Valued Member was thinking of it. Firing guns was addictive. The first time, you were afraid, worried about the noise, the danger, the mess. Then, you wanted to do it again. You wanted to do it
Didn’t matter if it your finger was on the trigger of a .22 bird-blaster or the launch button of an Intercontinental Ballistic Missile, the principle was the same. Didn’t even matter what you were aiming at. Pull . . . point and press!
“Listen to her, Harry,” he said.
Harry didn’t know what Richard meant. Why should he pay attention to some unscientific loon? In Harry Cutley’s parapsychology, cranks like Elsa Nickles were the enemy, dragging the field into disreputability, filler for the Sunday papers.
“Listen to her accent,” Richard insisted.
“Oi don’t know what ’e means,” said Mrs Nickles, indignant.
Class solidarity in Harry. If Richard’s manner got his back up, Elsie’s plain talk – even when spouting nonsense – should soothe him. Of course, she was from London and he was a Northerner. He might hate her just for being Southern, in which case Richard would give up and let the world hang itself.
Harry put the gun down and held up his wonky thumb.
“Cor, that’s shockin’,” said Mrs Nickles. “Let me ’ave a butcher’s. Raised seven kids an’ never seen one of ’em do that to thesselves.”
Harry let the woman examine his hand. She thought for a moment, then took a firm grip on the twisted digit and tugged it into place. Harry yelped, swore, but then flexed his thumb and blurted gratitude.
“That’s better,” said Mrs Nickles.
The pain had cleared Harry’s mind, Richard hoped.
“We’ve met the thing behind the haunting,” he told the Most Valued Member. “It was hiding in the little girl. It tried to possess you, but you fought it off. Do you remember?”
Harry nodded, grimly.
“Continue with the report, Jeperson,” he said.
“It’s some sort of discarnate entity . . .”
“A wicked spirit,” said Mrs Nickles. “A frightful fiend.”
“Not a ghost. Not the remnant of a human personality. Something bigger, nastier, more primal. But clever. It plucks things from inside you. It understands who we are, how we can be got at. It’s simple, though. It does violence. That’s its business. Feeds off pain, I think. Call it ‘the Gecko’. When it’s in people, they move in a lizardy way. Maybe it nestles in that reptile part of the brain, pulls nerve-strings from there. Or maybe it knows we don’t like creepy-crawlies and puts on a horror show.”
“ ‘The Gecko’,” said Harry, trying out the name. “I’ll make a note of that. You found it, Jeperson. You’re entitled to name it.”
“Thank you.”
“Now we know what we’re up against, we should be better able to cage it. I’ll write up the findings and, after a decent interval, we can come back with a larger, more specialist group. We can get your Gecko off the Ghost Train into a spirit box. In captivity, it can be properly studied.”
Richard knew a spirit box wasn’t necessarily of wood or metal. If ‘sealed’ properly, a little girl could be a spirit box.
Looking at Annette, who’d rolled under a table, Richard said, “If it’s all the same, Harry, I’d rather kill it than catch it.”
“We can still learn, Jeperson. How to deal with the
“Let’s cope with this one first.”
Richard’s attention was called by the train’s rattle. Something had changed.
A whistle-blast sounded. Had there been another ellipsis in time?
“Are we there yet?” asked Harry. “Portnacreirann?”
“Oh no, sir,” said Arnold, who still didn’t acknowledge anything unusual. “We’re slowing to cross Inverdeith Bridge.”
Richard felt the pace of the rattle.
“We’re not slowing,” he said. “We’re speeding up.”
IV
“It was on a night like this, in 1931,” said Mrs Nickles, “Inverdeith Bridge fell . . .”
Richard understood why the Gecko had killed Annette. She’d have seen what was coming next.
“We’re in no position to make a report and act later,” he told Harry. “The Gecko’s going to kill us
Harry and Mrs Nickles both looked puzzled.
Richard had a familiar sensation, of
“The Go-Codes,” he said. “It has the number-strings.”
Mrs Nickles nodded, as if she understood – Richard knew she was faking, just to stay in the game. Harry was white, genuinely understanding.
“It was lunacy to send the damned things by train,” said Harry. “Ed advised against it, but the Club was overruled. By the
“Bloody us too, though,” said Richard. “This might have happened eventually, but it happened tonight because we were aboard. We
“Not me,” said Harry.
Richard shrugged, “Maybe not.”
“But her?”
Harry looked at Elsa Nickles.
Richard did too, for the first time really. Psychic Medium. A Talent. But she had something else. Knowledge.
“Why are you on the Streak, Mrs Nickles?” he asked.
“I told you. To ’elp the good spirits and chase off the wicked.”
“Fair enough. But there are many haunted places. Ruins you don’t have to buy a ticket for. Why the Scotch Streak?”
She didn’t want to explain. Harry helped her sit down in a booth. Arnold was eager to fetch her something.
“Gin and tonic, luv,” she said.
The conductor busied himself. Richard hoped the Gecko hadn’t left something in Arnold, to spy on them.
The whole carriage shook, from the speed. Crockery, cutlery, roses, anything not held down, bounced, slid, shifted. Air streamed through the hole in the roof, blasting tablecloths into screwed-up shrouds.
Arnold returned, dignified as a silent movie comedian before a pratfall, drink balanced on a tray balanced on his hand. Mrs Nickles drained the G and T.
“Hits the spot,” she said.
“Why . . . this . . . train?” Richard asked.
“Because they’re ’ere, still. Both of ’em. They’re not what you call ‘the Gecko’, but they made it grow. What they did, what they didn’t do, what they felt. That, and all the passengers who drownded. And all who come after, who were took by the train, bled their spirits into it. That’s your blessed Gecko, all them spirits mixed up together and shook. It weren’t born in ’ell. It were made. On the night when the bridge fell. Somethin’ in the loch woke up, latched onto ’em.”
“Them? Who do you mean?”
“Nick and Don,” she said, a tear dribbling. “Me ’usband and . . . well, not me ’usband.”
“Nick . . . Nickles?”
“Nickles is what you call me pseudernym, ducks. It’s Elsa Bowler, really. I was married to Nick Bowler.”
“The Headless Fireman,” said Harry, snapping his fingers.
Mrs Nickles grimaced as about to collapse in sobs. The reminder of her husband’s suicide was hardly tactful.
“Don would be the driver, Donald McRidley?” he prompted.
Arnold almost crossed himself at that disgraced name. The conductor fit into this story somewhere. He looked at Mrs Nickles as if he were a human being with real feelings, rather than an emotionless, efficient messenger of the railway Gods.
“Donald,” spat Mrs Nickles. “Yes, blast ’is ’ide. The Shaggin’ Scot, they used to call him. The girls in the canteen. We were all on the railways, on the LSIR. I was there when they named the Scotch Streak, serving drinks. I was Assistant Manager of the Staff Canteen in ’31. Up the end of the line, in Portnacreirann. Don and Nick weren’t usually on shift together, but someone was off sick. They were both speedin’ towards me that night. I think it came out, while they were togevver in the cabin. About me. The bridge was comin’ down, no matter what. But somethin’ was goin’ on in between Don and Nick. Afterwards, Don scarpered and Nick . . . well, Nick did what he did, poor lamb. So we’ll never know. Don was a right basket. Don’t know how I got in with him, though I was a stupid tart in them days and no mistake. Don weren’t the only bloke who wasn’t me ’usband. Even after all the mess. If you want to call anyone the Gecko’s Mum, it’s me.”
“The driver and the fireman were arguing? Over you?”
Mrs Nickles nodded. Her false teeth jounced, distorting her mouth. Richard’s fillings shook. Harry’s face rippled. It was as if the Streak were breaking the sound barrier.
The train was going too fast!
“What about the uncoupling?”
“
Richard understood.
But he saw where Mrs Nickles was lying. “No human hand.” Maybe the Gecko was
“It was both of them,” he said. “It took them both. It made them do it, made them uncouple the train.”
He
The coupling unlatched. A gap growing. Between engine and carriages. The awful noise of the bridge giving way. The train screaming as it plunged. Carriages coming apart among clanging girders and rails. Bursts of instantly-extinguished flame. Sparks falling to black waters. Breaking waves on the loch shores.
An outpouring of shock and agony. Gecko food.
“Jeperson,” said Harry, snapping his fingers in front of his nose.
“I know what it did,” he told the Most Valued Member. “What it wants to do. How it plans to do it. Another Inverdeith disaster, all of our deaths, and it can
Harry swore.
“We’ve got to stop the little girl,” said Richard. “Pass me that shotgun.”
V
At the connecting door, ready to barge after the Gecko, Richard caught himself.
“Fooled me once, shame on you, fooled me twice, shame on me.”
He turned and walked deliberately to the other end of the dining carriage, past Harry, Mrs Nickles and Arnold.
“That’s the wrong way, Jeperson.”
“Is it?”
“I came from that way. Back there is, ah, Second and Third Class. And the baggage car.”
Harry held up the other shotgun, left-handed.
“Things change. Haven’t you noticed?”
Harry wasn’t stupid or inexperienced. “Dislocation phenomena? Escher space?”
“Topsy-turvy,” Richard said.
“How do you know the configuration won’t switch back? The Gecko could keep us off balance, charging back and forth, always the wrong way? At Wroxley Parsonage in ’52, there was a corridor like that, a man-trap. The MVM before me lost two of his group in it.”
Jeperson was given pause.
He looked up through the hole in the ceiling, at telephone wires, clouds, the sky. He could tell which way the train was travelling but lost that certainty if he stepped too far away from the hole. The windows were no help. They might have been painted over or gooed on. A rifle-stock blow rattled but did not break the glass.
“There’s a spirit ’ere ’oo wants to speak,” said Mrs Nickles.
Harry was impatient. “There are too many spirits here.”
“This is a new one, mate. I’m getting’ . . . ah . . . fingers?”
“Magic Fingers?” said Harry, suddenly taking the woman seriously. “Danny Myles? What’s happened to him?”
“Lost, Harry,” said Richard. This was news to the Most Valued Member.
“Damn.”
“’E says, don’t think,
To Richard, it did. He shut his eyes and in the dark inside his head sensed Danny, or something left behind by Danny. He stopped trying to work out which way the train was speeding, just let his body become aware of the movement, the rattle, the shifting. He had little thrills, like tugging hooks or pointing arrows.
“Spin me round,” he said.
“Like the party game?” asked Mrs Nickles.
He nodded. Big hands took him and spun him. He went up on the points of his shoes, remembering two weeks of ballet training, and revolved like a human top.
He came to a stop without falling.
He knew which way to charge and did so, opening his eyes on the way. He didn’t even know which end of the carriage he was exiting from. He opened the communication door and plunged on, as if Mrs Sweet’s gun were a divining rod.
The others followed.
VI
Richard knew Danny was tied here, along with many others. Magic Fingers was fresh enough to have some independence, but soon he’d be sucked in and become another head of a collective pain-eating hydra. The Scotch Streak was home to a Bad Thing. Haunting a house, or a lonely road or public toilet or whatever, seldom meant more than floating sheets or clammy invisible touches. The worst haunters, the Bad Things, were monsters with
He was in a carriage he hadn’t seen before but didn’t doubt he was on the track of the Gecko.
There were no windows, not even black glass. Hunting trophies on shields – antlers and heads of antlered animals – stuck out of panelled walls, protruding as if bone were growing like wood, making the aisle as difficult to penetrate as a thick thorn forest. There were rhino-horns and elephant tusks, even what looked like a sabre-tooth tiger-head with still-angry eyes. Low-slung leather armchairs were spaced at intervals, between foot-high side-tables where dust-filled brandy snifter glasses were abandoned next to ashtrays with fat cigar grooves. Potent, manly musk stung Richard’s nostrils.
“What’s this?” he asked Arnold, appalled.
“The Club Car, sir. Reserved for friends of the Director, Lord Kilpartinger. It’s not usually part of the rolling stock.”
In one chair slumped a whiskered skeleton wearing a bullet-bandoleer, Sam Browne belt and puttees. It gripped a rifle-barrel with both hands, a loose toe-bone stuck in the trigger-guard, gun-mouth jammed between blasted-wide skull-jaws, the cranium exploded away.
“Any idea who that was?” Richard.
“He’s in Catriona’s pamphlet,” put in Harry. “ ‘Basher’ Moran, 1935. Some aged, leftover Victorian Colonel. Big-game hunter and gambling fiend. Stalked anything and everything, put holes in it and dragged hide, head or horns home to stick on the wall. Mixed up in extensive crookery, according to Catriona, wriggled out of a hanging more than once. He’s here because he won his final bet. One of his jolly old pals wagered he couldn’t find anything in the world he hadn’t shot before. He proved his friend wrong, there and then.”
An upturned pith helmet several feet away contained bone and dum-dum fragments.
“Case closed.”
“Too true. They made a film about Moran and the train,
Richard advanced carefully, between trophies, tapping too-persistent horns out of the way with the gun-barrel.
“Could do with a machete,” he commented. “Careful of barbs.”
The train took a series of snake-curve turns, swinging alarmingly from side to side. A narwhal horn dimpled Richard’s velvet shoulder.
Richard heard Harry
“Just a scratch,” he reported. “Doesn’t hurt as much as my bloody hand.”
“Shouldn’t ought to be allowed,” said Mrs Nickles. “Shootin’ poor animals as never did no-one no harm.”
“I rather agree with you,” said Richard. “Hunting should be saved for man-killers.”
Gingerly, they got through the club car without further casualties.
The next carriage was the dining car, again. Harry wanted to give up, but Richard pressed on.
“Table-settings here are the other way round,” he said. “It’s not the same.”
“There ain’t no bleedin’ great ’ole in the roof neither,” observed Mrs Nickles.
“That too.”
“We shall be pleased to serve a light breakfast after Inverdeith,” announced Arnold. “For those who wish to arrive at Portnacreirann refreshed and invigorated.”
“Kippers later,” said Richard. “After the world-saving.”
Beyond this dining car was First Class. Richard led them past the sleeping compartments. Annette’s door hung open: her night-gown was laid out on the counterpane, like a cast-off silk snakeskin. That was a thump to the heart.
The decoy couriers snored away. No need to bother them.
Another expedition was coming down the corridor towards them. Were they so turned around in time they were running into themselves? Or had evil duplicate ghost-finders emerged from the wrong-way-round dimension where knives and forks were right-to-left? No, there was a mirror at the end of the corridor. Score one for eliminating the impossible.
“Where’s the connecting door?” Richard asked the Conductor.
“There’s no need for one, sir,” said Arnold. “Beyond is only the coal tender, and the locomotive. Passengers may not pass beyond this point.”
The Gecko had managed, though.
One of the doors flapped, swinging open, banging back. Cold air streamed in, like water through a salmon’s gills.
Richard pushed the door and leaned out of the carriage, keeping a firm grip on the frame.
Below, a gravel verge sped by. To the East, the scarlet rim of dawn outlined a black horizon. Up ahead, 3473-S rolled over the rails, pistons pumping, everything oiled and watered and fired.
An iron girder came up, horribly fast. Richard ducked back in.
“We’re on the bridge,” he said.
Before anyone could object, if they were going to, he threw himself out of the door.
VII
Clinging to the side of the carriage, it occurred to Richard that someone else might have volunteered to crawl – essentially one-handed, since shotguns don’t have useful shoulder-slinging straps like field-rifles – along the side of a speeding steam train.
Harry had seniority and responsibility, but his injured hand disqualified him. Mrs Nickles was too hefty, overage and a woman besides. And the conductor was not entirely of their party. The Gecko had fit into him much too snugly. There was more mystery to
Arnold – a streak of sneakiness, of evasion, of tragedy. Richard had noticed a spark in his mild eyes as Mrs Nickles was talking about the good old days of the LSIR, about the Shagging Scot and the Headless Fireman and the In-for-Death Run of ’31.
So, the train-crawling was down to him.
Once he’d swung out on the door, he eased himself around so he was hanging outside the train, blasted by the air-rush, deafened by the roar. About eight feet of carriage was left before the coupling. That was a mystery – a compartment not accessible to the passengers. No, it wasn’t a mystery – it was a toilet and washroom for the driver and the fireman, reachable by a wide, safe running-board along the side of the coal tender, with guard-rails and hand-holds he would just now have greatly appreciated on
Above him, however, were loops of red chain – the communication cord. Richard grabbed a loop and held tight. The whistle shrilled over the din of the train. Cold chain bit into his palm. He should have put gloves on.
He dangled one-handed, trusting the chain to take his weight, back against the carriage, and saw glints on the dark waters of Loch Gaer several hundred feet below. Down there were the angry spirits of Jock McGaer’s “graysome” dinners, the drowned Inverdeith Witches and the cut-loose passengers of ’31 – they must all be wrapped up in the Gecko too. Not to mention the “stoon o’ fire spat out frae hell” of 1601. This had all started with that.
The flimsy-seeming bridge, he reminded himself, was the sturdy structure put up to
With both hands free, it was easier to travel from loop to loop. He’d think about how to deal with the Gecko without a weapon when he got to it. A sound rap on the nose didn’t seem likely to do the trick.
The door clanged shut behind him. Harry and Mrs Nickles hung out of the open window, fixed expressions of encouragement plastered on anxious faces.
He fought the harsh wind, cruel gravity, hot spits of steam and cinder, and his own clumsiness. Something shaped like a little girl had done this earlier, he knew. The Gecko could probably stick to the side of the train, like a real lizard.
Eight feet. A hard eight feet. The skirts of his frock coat lashed his thighs. He had no feeling in his hands, but blood dripped from weals across his palms. He reached out for the next loop, the last, and his fist closed on nothing, then locked. He had to force his hand open and look up, hooking nerveless, perhaps boneless fingers over the loop. He saw his grip, but couldn’t feel it. He didn’t want to let go of the hold he was sure of. But if he didn’t, he was stuck. He reached out his leg, which didn’t quite stretch enough to hook over the guard-rail. His boot-sole scraped tarnished brass. His cuff was sodden with his own blood. With a prayer to higher powers, he let go the sure hold, put all his weight on the unsure one, and swung towards the platform.
He made it and found his feet on a veranda-like platform at the end of the carriage. He shook with fear and weakness and relief. Feeling came back, unwelcome, to his bloodied hand.
Between the carriage and the locomotive was the big, heavy coupling. Black iron thickened with soot and grease.
On the coupling squatted the Gecko. Only the braids and oily pyjamas even suggested this was still Vanessa. It was goblin filth on a poison toadstool, a gremlin dismantling an aero-engine in flight, the imp in Fuseli’s Nightmare hovering over a sleeping maiden.
With stubby-fingered, black hands, it picked at the coupling.
The Gecko looked up, eyes round, nostrils like slits. It hissed at Richard.
Blasts of steam came, surrounding them both with scalding fog. The whistle shrieked again.
In the coal tender, nearly empty this close to the destination, rolled two bodies, the driver and the engineer. They were sooty, with red torn-out throats. No one was at the open throttle.
Richard shook hot water off his face, which began to sting. He’d be red as a cooked lobster.
He grabbed the Gecko by the shoulders. He held folds of Vanessa’s pyjama top and pulled.
It gnawed his wrists.
Things hadn’t all gone the monster’s way. In 1931, it had unhooked the coupling at this point on the bridge. Now, it was using one little girl’s hands rather than two experienced men’s. The Gecko could give its hosts strengths, ignore their injuries, distort their faces . . . but it couldn’t increase a hand-span, or make tiny fingers work big catches.
The Gecko tried to take Richard and he shrugged it off.
They were more than halfway across the bridge.
“No room here,” he told it. “No room anywhere for you. Why not quit?”
Vanessa slumped in his grip, hands relaxing on the coupling. Richard picked her up, pressed her face to his chest.
“Can’t breathe,” she said, in her own voice.
This was too easy.
In the coal tender, two bodies sat up and began to crawl towards Richard and Vanessa. The Gecko had found experienced railway-men’s hands. This was where having a shotgun would have been useful – he doubted he could shoot Vanessa, even if he
The Gecko had no trouble working both corpses at the same time, which meant there was probably still some of it in the child. It had been hatched in the driver’s cabin of 3473, and was at its strongest here.
The fireman threw a lump of coal, which broke against the carriage behind Richard’s head. The driver clambered off the tender, down to the coupling platform. There was a lever there, its restraints undone.
The bridge might not come down, but at this speed and gradient the uncoupled carriages would concertina, come off the rails, break through the girders, fall into the loch.
There was a lot of dawnlight in the sky now.
Holding Vanessa close, he felt something in the hankie pocket of her pyjamas. He shifted her weight to his left shoulder, freeing his right hand to pluck out the Go-Codes.
He held the celluloid up in the rush of air, then let it go, snatched away, up and over the lake, sailing towards Inverdeith. One of the most closely-guarded military secrets in the world was tossed into the wind.
“You should have committed the Go-Codes to memory,” he told the monster.
The Gecko’s corpse puppets opened throats and yelled, like the whistle. Then, the whistle itself sounded. The Gecko wasn’t only in the driver and the fireman. It clothed itself in the iron of the locomotive, the brass-trim and scabby purple paint. Its fury burned in the furnace. Its frustration built up a seam-splitting head of steam. Its hunger ate up the rails.
Richard thought he’d saved the world, but not himself.
“What’s keeping you here?” he asked.
Dead hands reached the uncoupling lever. Richard slid his cutthroat razor out of his sleeve and flicked it open. He drew the edge swiftly, six or seven times, across greasy, blackened meat, cutting muscle-strings.
The corpse’s hands hung useless, fingers flopping against the lever like sausages. The corpse was suddenly untenanted, and crumpled, falling over the coupling, arms dangling.
The Scotch Streak was safely across Inverdeith Bridge.
VIII
The fireman lay dead, empty of the Gecko.
It was just in the train now. The Scotch Streak’s lamps glowed a wicked red.
World War III was off, unless the Gecko could somehow let the Soviets know NATO’s trousers were down. But everyone on the train could still be killed.
At this speed, slamming into the buffers at Portnacreirann would mean a horrific pile-up. Or the Scotch Streak might plough through the station, and steam down Portnacreirann High Street and over a cliff. Like Colonel Moran, the Gecko was intent on spiteful suicide. It could carry them all with it, in fire and broken metal.
Richard knew Diogenes Club procedure. Solve the problem, no matter the cost. His father had told him from the first this was a life of service, of sacrifice. Every Member, every Talent, gave up something. Danny and Annette weren’t the first to lose their lives.
It might be a fair trade.
“Are we nearly there?” Vanessa asked, laying her head on his shoulder. “I’m very sleepy.”
He felt the weight of the child in his arms. He had to carry the fight through. For her. He only had a half-life, snatched from a void. He should have been dead many times over. There was a reason he’d survived his childhood. Maybe it was Vanessa. She had to be saved, not sacrificed.
“There’s one thing left to do,” he told her. “Have you ever wanted to drive a choo-choo train?”
She laughed at him. “Only babies say ‘choo-choo’!”
“Chuff-chuff, then.”
Vanessa’s giggle gave him the boost he needed, though he was still terrified. While facing demon-possessed zombies and nuclear holocaust, he’d misplaced his fear. Now, he was in charge of a runaway train, funk seeped back into his stomach. He found he was trembling.
He set the girl down safely and stepped over the dead driver, climbed the ladder to the coal tender, passed the dead fireman and got to the cabin. The furnace door clanked open. Levers and wheels swayed or rolled with the train’s movement.
It occurred to him that he didn’t know how to stop a train.
“Can I sound the whistle?” asked Vanessa. She had followed, monkeying over the coal tender, unfazed by dead folk. She found the whistle-pull, easily.
Richard absent-mindedly said she could and looked about for switches with useful labels like PULL TO SLOW DOWN or EMERGENCY BRAKES. He heard the Gecko’s chuckle in the roll of coal in the furnace. It knew exactly the pickle he was in.
Vanessa blew the whistle, three long bursts, three short bursts, three long bursts. What every schoolchild knew in Morse code. SOS. Save Our Souls. Help! Mayday.
The sun was almost up. The sky was the colour of blood.
Ahead, the rails curved across open space, towards Portnacreirann Station.
“I can see the sea,” shouted Vanessa, from her perch.
Richard muttered that they might be making rather too close acquaintance with the sea – rather, Loch Linnhe – in a minute or two.
“Here comes someone,” said Vanessa.
More trouble, no doubt! He looked back and couldn’t see anything.
He was reluctant to leave the cabin, though he admitted he was useless at the throttle, but surrendered to an impulse. He was sensitive: he should trust his feelings while he had them. He made his way back past the tender.
The door to the staff toilet was open and Arnold stood with a fire-axe. He had smashed through the mirror. Mrs Nickles was behind him. And Harry Cutley. Richard kicked himself for not thinking of that, but hadn’t known there was a door beyond the mirrored partition.
Arnold raised the axe and Richard knew the Gecko had its hook in him, had been reeling him in like trout. Mrs Nickles shouted something. They hadn’t come in response to the SOS.
Now, in addition to the runaway train, he had an axe-wielding madman to deal with.
Richard dashed back to the cabin. Arnold leaped across the coupling, treading on his dead colleague, and followed.
The conductor was the full Gecko now. Richard had a razor against an axe.
He pulled the first lever that came to hand. Instinct paid off. A burst of steam pushed Arnold back, knocking him to his knees. Richard kicked at the axe-head and wrenched the weapon out of the conductor’s hands. He took hold of the man’s throat and held up his fist, enjoying the look of inhuman panic – the Gecko in terror! – in Arnold’s eyes, then clipped him smartly, bang on the button. This time, fortune was with him. The Gecko’s light went out. Arnold slumped in Richard’s grip, blood creeping from his nose.
Mrs Nickles had followed Arnold. She clung to the hand-rail.
“It’s Donald,” she shouted. “Donald McRidley. I didn’t recognise the blighter without ’is ’air. ’E were a ruddy woman about his blessed beautiful ’air when ’e were the Shaggin’ Scot, an’ now e’s a bald-bonced old git.”
Arnold’s – Donald’s! – eyes fluttered open.
So, he wasn’t a navvy. Or not any more. He was back on his train. Unable to get away, Richard supposed. No wonder.
“Driver,” he shouted. “Bring in the Streak!”
“Passengers aren’t allowed in this part of the train, sir,” he mumbled. “It’s against regulations. The company can’t be held responsible for accidents.”
Richard saw the red glint, the Gecko creeping back. He slapped McRidley, hard. The eyes were clear for a moment.
“Time to stop the train,” he told the man. “Do your duty, at last. Redeem your name.”
“Do it for Else, ducks,” said Mrs Nickles, cooing in McRidley’s ear. “Do it for poor Nick. For the LSI-bloody-R.”
McRidley broke free of the pair of them.
As if sleepwalking in a hurry, mind somewhere else, he pulled levers, rolled wheels, tapped gauges.
The station was dead ahead, sunlight flashing on its glass roof.
Wheels screamed on rails. Vanessa tooted the whistle, happily.
Harry was with them now, arm in a makeshift sling, hair awry. Every boy wanted to be in the cabin of a steam train.
They all had to hang onto something as McRidley braced himself.
Sparks showered the platform, startling an early-morning porter. The buffers loomed.
They did not crash. But there was a heavy jolt.
IX
Donald McRidley, Arnold the Conductor, was dead. When the train stopped, so did he – like grandfather and the clock in the song.
3473-S was decoupled now and shunted into a siding. The Gecko was still nestled in there, but its conduit to the train, to the passengers, was cut. Richard thought it might have been the communication cord, which had to be unhooked – but the monster had also been tied to the lifeline of the once-disgraced, now-redeemed driver.
“’E were a ’handsome devil,” commented Mrs Nickles, putting her teeth back in. “Loved ’is train more than any girl, though.”
Harry was on the telephone to Edwin Winthrop. He said the entity was in captivity, but Richard knew the Gecko was dying. As the fire went out in 3473’s belly, the monster gasped its last. A bad beast, Danny had called it. The iron shell would just be a trophy. They should hang the cow-catcher in the Diogenes Club.
The decoy couriers were gone, off to the NATO base. Mrs Sweet was marching down to the baggage car, where a surprise awaited. The terrifying vicar looked even more ghastly in the light of day. Richard had brushed past the man several times, mind open for any ill-omen, to convince himself the Gecko wasn’t sneaking off in this vessel to work its evil anew.
Police and ambulances were on their way. Edwin would have words in ears, to account for Danny, Annette and the crewmen, not to mention general damage. Richard found Annette rolled under a table, and carried her to her compartment, where he laid her out on her bed, over her night-gown, eyes closed.
A straight-backed American civilian, with teeth like Burt Lancaster and a chin-dent like Kirk Douglas, scouted along the platform.
“Buddy, have you seen a parcel?” he said. “For Coates?”
Richard tried to answer, but no words came.
The American looked further, walking past Vanessa.
Portnacreirann
The train finally came, as Richard finished telling the story.
They had been up all night. Cold Saturday dawn had broken.
Now, they sat in a carriage, not a compartment. Fred settled in, but Richard was restless.
“I used to love trains,” he said. “Even after my Ghost Train ride. It was a nice way to travel. You had time and ease, to read or talk or look out the window. Now, it’s all strikes and delays. This might as well be a motor-coach.
Fred still had questions.
“So, guv, who
Richard shrugged. “Vanessa is Vanessa, Fred. Like me, she’s no real memory of who she was, if she was anyone. In my case, there was a war, a decade of chaos. It was easy to get misplaced, left out of the records. With her . . . well, it shouldn’t have been possible. Someone dropped her off at Euston with a label round her neck. A woman, she thought, but not her mother. Surely, she couldn’t be a stray, she must belong to someone?”
“What about that Coates bloke? The Yank at Portnacreirann.”
“That wasn’t ‘Lieutenant Commander Alexander Coates, RN’, That was a Colonel Christopher Conner, SAC ‘Coates’ wasn’t an alias or a code – just a name on a label. Winthrop made enquiries. The only ‘Alexander Coates’ even remotely in the Navy was a 14-year-old sea-scout. We looked into the system of couriering the Go-Codes. The Americans had only given us the cover story even when they’d wanted help, so we threw a bit of a sulk. They eventually admitted – and this is how strange defence policy is – that they had, as they said, ‘contracted out’. Hired a private firm to make delivery, not telling them what was being carried. The firm turned out to be a phone in an empty room with six weeks’ rent in arrears. Maybe some semi-crook was hauling kids out of orphanages and bundling them up to Scotland under official cover, then selling them on or disposing of them. We’ll never know and, in the end, it was beside the point.”
“You
“No. No one adopted her, unless you count the Diogenes Club.”
“Does she
“Not really. Where it’s absolutely necessary, it’s ‘Kaye’. Catriona took an interest, as she did in me. Without her, we’d be complete freaks.”
Fred kept quiet on that one.
“What about the Gecko? Harry Cutley?”
“The Gecko died, if it could be said to have lived. When 3473-S turned into cold scrap iron, it was gone. Puff. Harry poked around with his instruments before giving up. For a year or two, another old steamer pulled the Scotch Streak. Then it went diesel. Harry dropped out in 1967. Went to Nepal. And I became the Most Valued Member. There’s a ceremony. Very arcane. Like the Masons. You know most of what’s happened since.”
Fred thought it through.
He did know most of the stories, but not all. Despite ten years’ involvement with the Diogenes Club, with Richard and Vanessa, there were mysteries. They could both still surprise him. Once, in a close, tense, unexpected moment, before Fred met Zarana, he and Vanessa had kissed, deeply and urgently. She said, “You do know I’m a man,” and, for dizzying seconds, he had believed her. Then she giggled, they were back in danger, and anything further between them cut off.
After a decade, he still didn’t know if Richard and Vanessa had ever been a couple. Everyone else assumed, but he didn’t. Now, knowing about the Ghost Train, he saw how complex their entanglement was: a kinship of siblings, raised under the aegis of a unique institution, but also guardianship, as Richard brought Vanessa into the circle the way his adoptive father had brought him. The only thing he really
Lately, Vanessa had been absent a great deal. So had Fred, of course – with Zarana, or at the Yard. But Vanessa had been on missions, cases, sealed-knot and under-the-rose business. A change was coming in the Club – when Richard took a seat on the Cabal, as seemed inevitable, Vanessa was in line to become Most Valued Member? There was a woman Prime Minister, so no reason why a woman couldn’t hold that title. If she wanted it – which, Fred realised, he didn’t know she did.
For three months, there’d been no word. While Richard and Fred were tracking cornflakes cultists, she was somewhere else, unavailable. Fred could tell Richard was concerned, though confident in the woman. She’d survived a lot since throwing off the Gecko. Now, this summons.
. . . to Portnacreirann.
“It’s not over, is it?” said Fred. “It can’t be coincidence that it’s the same place.”
Richard gave a non-committal
“We’re at Inverdeith,” he said. “And that’s a Portnacreirann train on the other side of the platform.”
They were off one train before it had completely stopped and on another already moving out.
And then Inverdeith Bridge. Sun glinted on the surface of Loch Gaer.
“This is where the Gecko was born,” said Richard. “Between Nick Bowler and Donald McRidley and 3473-S. And that ‘stoon o’ fire spat out frae hell’, if I’m any judge – which I am. The stoon was an egg, waiting for the right circumstances to hatch. All the other bloody business around the loch was influenced by the unborn thing. Maybe it was an alien, not a demon. The stoon was what we’d now call a meteorite, after all. From outer space. Witch-drownings and human haggis kept the embryo on a drip-feed for centuries, but it awaited a vehicle – literally. The shell-shards might still be down there. Maybe it was a clutch of eggs.”
Fred looked at untroubled waters. This local train proceeded slowly over the bridge. He saw rust on the girders where paint had flaked away, missing rivets, spray-can INDEPENDENT SCOTLAND graffiti, scratched swear-words.
“In-for-Death,” he said.
“Think calm thoughts, Frederick. And we’ll be safe.”
This was where it had happened. With that thought, Fred had a chill. He didn’t only mean this was where the Gecko was born and defeated, but this was where
Past the bridge, with Portnacreirann in sight and passengers taking luggage down from overhead racks, Fred’s insides went tight. They had been delayed. What if they were too late? What was so urgent anyway? He had learned to be ready for anything. But what kind of anything was there at Portnacreirann?
“Did you bring your elephant gun, guv?”
Richard snorted at that.
They got off the train, carrying their bags.
They walked along the platform and into the station. It was busier than Culler’s Halt, but emptied quickly.
A centrepiece of the station was an old steam engine, restored and polished, with a plaque and a little fence around it.
Richard froze. It was 3473-S, the locomotive that had pulled the Scotch Streak, the Ghost Train, the favoured physical form of the Gecko. Now, it was just a relic. No danger at all. A youth in naval dress uniform admired it. He turned and saw them.
“Mr Jeperson, Mr Regent,” he said. “Glad you made it in time. Cutting it close, but we’ll get you to the base by breaking petty road safety laws. Come on.”
The officer trotted out of the station. Fred and Richard followed, without further thought for 3473-S.
A jeep and driver waited on the forecourt. The officer helped them up. Fred had a pang at being treated as if he were elderly when he was only just used to thinking of himself as “early middle aged”. It happened more and more lately.
“I’m Jim,” said the boy in uniform. “Al’s cousin. We’re a navy family. Put down for ships at birth like some brats are for schools. In the sea-scouts as soon as we’re teething. I hope your lady knows what she’s getting into.”
Fred and Richard looked at each other, not saying anything.
“We all think she’s rather super, you know. For her age.”
“We admire her qualities, too,” said Richard.
Fred had a brief fantasy of tossing Jim out of the jeep to watch him bounce on the road.
They travelled at speed down a winding lane. Three cyclists with beards and cagoules pedalling the other way wound up tangled in the verge, shaking fists as Jim blithely shouted out “sorry” at them. “Naval emergency,” he explained, though they couldn’t hear.
Whatever trouble Vanessa was in, Fred was ready to fight.
The jeep roared through a checkpoint. The ratings on duty barely lifted the barrier in time. Jim waved a pass at them, redundantly.
They were on the base.
It had been a fishing village once, Fred saw – the rows of stone cottages were old and distinctive. Prefab services buildings fit in around the original community. The submarine-launched “independent deterrent” was a Royal Navy show now. NATO – i.e. the Yanks – preferred intercontinental ballistic missiles they could lob at the Soviets from their own backyards in Kansas, or bombs dropped from the planes that could be scrambled from the protestor-fringed base at Greenham Common. There would still be Go-Codes, though.
The base was on alert. Sailors with guns rushed about. There were rumours of trouble in the South Atlantic. Naval budget cuts had withdrawn forces from the region so suddenly that a South American country, say Argentina, could easily get the wrong idea. It might be time to send a gun-boat to remind potential invaders that the Falklands remained British. If there were any gun-boats left.
The jeep did a tight turn to a halt, scattering gravel in front of a small building. Once the village church, it was now the base chapel.
“Just in time,” said Jim, jumping down.
He opened the big door tactfully, so as not to disturb a service inside, and signalled for Fred and Richard to
Fred remembered Richard leading him into a deconsecrated church at dead of midnight to stop a then-cabinet minister intent on slitting the throat of a virgin choirboy in a ritual supposed to revive the British moulded plastics industry. The Minister was resigned through ill-health and packed off to the House of Lords to do no further harm. The choirboy was now in the pop charts dressed as a pirate, singing as if his throat really had been cut. This wasn’t like that, but a ritual was in progress.
No one in the congregation gave the newcomers a glance. Jim led Fred and Richard to places in a pew on the bride’s side of the church. They found themselves sitting next to Catriona Kaye, and her nurse. All the others from her day – Edwin, Sir Giles – were gone. Barbara Corri was here too, in a cloud of
“We got telegrams,” whispered Professor Corri, fingers around Richard’s arm.
Vanessa stood at the altar, red hair pinned up under the veil, in a white dress with a train. Beside her stood a navy officer Fred had never seen before. He couldn’t focus on the groom’s face for the glare of his uniform. He even had the dress-sword on his belt and plumed helmet under his arm.
“How did this happen?” Fred asked, to no one in particular.
“A loose end, long neglected,” whispered Catriona. “Not that it explains
She dabbed a hankie to the corner of her eye.
Fred looked at Richard. The man was crying and Fred had absolutely no idea what he was feeling.
Fred looked at the altar, at the naval chaplain.
“. . . Do you, Alexander Selkirk Coates take this woman, Vanessa, ah, No Surname Given, to be your lawfully wedded wife . . .”
Fred looked up at the vaulted ceiling, gob-smacked.
STEPHEN JONES & KIM NEWMAN
Necrology: 2006
AS ALWAYS, we acknowledge the passing of writers, artists, performers and technicians who, during their lifetimes, made significant contributions to the horror, science fiction and fantasy genres (or left their mark on popular culture and music in other, often fascinating, ways) . . .
AUTHORS/ARTISTS/COMPOSERS
American TV scriptwriter Arthur Browne, Jr died on January 3rd, aged 82. Although best known for his Western credits, he also wrote episodes of
Prolific British children’s book author Jan Mark (Janet Marjorie Brisland) died on January 15th, aged 62. A two-time winner of the Carnegie Medal, her short supernatural stories are collected in
British illustrator John Stewart died of liver failure in London’s St. Thomas Hospital on January 18th. He was in his late fifties and had been ill for some time. During the 1970s and ’80s he contributed to such small press magazines as
English-born animator and director Norm McCabe died the same day, aged 94. He began working at Warner Bros, in the mid-1930s, where his credits include a number of
33-year-old American comic book artist Seth Fisher died on January 30th after falling seven stories from a roof in his adopted homeland of Japan. His credits include DC Comics’
British crime writer, actor and broadcaster Ernest Dudley (Vivian Ernest Coltman Allen), who created sinister BBC Radio detective “Dr. Morelle” in 1942, died on February 1st, aged 97. The character, inspired by Erich von Stroheim, who Dudley had met in Paris in the 1930s, was originally played by Cecil Parker. The 1949 Hammer film
Veteran animator and illustrator Myron Waldman died of congestive heart failure on February 4th, aged 97. He was the last surviving animator from the Max Fleischer Studios, which he joined in 1930. There he helped develop such characters as Betty Boop (who started out as a dog), Popeye, Superman, Raggedy Ann, Baby Huey, Herman, Little Lulu and Casper the Friendly Ghost. In 1934 he began producing a number of “Color Classics” cartoons in response to Disney’s series of “Silly Symphonies”. He left the company in 1957 and moved to television (
The body of 76-year-old American TV writer and director Alan Shalleck, who collaborated with co-creator Margaret Rey to bring the
91-year-old Japanese composer Akira Ifukube, best known for his iconic
British crime writer Michael Gilbert died the same day, aged 93. Named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America in 1998, his ghost stories appeared in
Peter [Bradford] Benchley, the grandson of humorist Robert Benchley and best-selling author
British-born film and television executive and author James Hardiman died in San Francisco on February 19th, aged 86. He moved to Hollywood in 1956, where he worked for Walt Disney Productions, CBS-TV, Screen Gems and Columbia Pictures Television. He spent a number of years in Tokyo as a correspondent for
58-year-old African-American SF author Octavia E. (Estelle) Butler died of a stroke on February 24th after striking her head during a fall on the sidewalk outside her Seattle home. She was reportedly on high blood pressure medication at the time. Inspired by the movie
American artist Ronald Clyne died of a heart attack on February 26th, aged 80. He sold his first illustration to
American fantasy author Ronald Anthony Cross died from a stroke on March 1st, aged 68. His first story appeared in
Richard [Patrick] Terra, who published non-fiction in
Dutch-born SF writer Nancy Ann Dibble (Ansen Dibell) died on March 7th, aged 63. Her “King of Katmorie” series ran over five books (1978–85), and as “Nan Dibble” she wrote
Former attorney, antiques dealer and science fiction author David Feintuch [Mason] died of a heart attack on March 16th, aged 61. He had a long history of cardiac troubles and suffered from Type II Diabetes. Mason won the John W. Campbell Award for best new writer in 1996 for his military SF novel
US academic and humorous fantasy author John Morressy died of a massive heart attack on March 20th, aged 75. He made his debut in
SF author Kurt von Trojan died of bone and kidney cancer in Australia on March 22nd, aged 69. Born in Vienna, his books include the novels
Jane Yolen’s husband of more than forty years, poet David W. (William) Stemple, died in his sleep after a long battle with cancer the same day, aged 68.
Polish SF author and critic Stanislaw Lem died of heart failure on March 27th, aged 84. The author of
Typographical designer Ruari McLean died the same day, aged 88. During the 1950s and ’60s he supervised the design of such iconic British children’s comics as
American author and screenwriter Henry Farrell (Charles Henry Myers), whose fiction was filmed as
Australian fan Diane Marchant died of pancreatic cancer on April 5th. In 1972 she created the Aussie
TV writer and producer Burt Pearl died of lymphoma on April 6th, aged 49. He scripted episodes of
63-year-old British SF and fantasy author and editor Angus Wells died in an accidental fire at his home on April 11th. While working at Sphere Books in the 1970s he edited a number of “Best of” collections based around individual authors. His own books include the TV tie-in
88-year-old Scottish novelist Dame Muriel Spark (Muriel Sarah Camberg), whose novels
Scriptwriter, producer and director David Peckinpah, the nephew of film director Sam Peckinpah, died of a heart attack on April 23rd, aged 54. He scripted episodes of
Screenwriter, dramatist and novelist Jay Presson Allen (Jacqueline Presson) died of a stroke on May 1st, aged 84. She adapted
47-year-old American fantasy author Lisa A. (Anne) Barnett died in her sleep of a brain tumor caused by metastatic breast cancer on May 2nd. She collaborated with her partner, Melissa Scott, on the novels
Music composer and conductor Andre Brummer died of pneumonia on May 6th, aged 89. His many credits include Roger Corman’s
British editor and ghost story author Elizabeth M. (Margaret) Walter died on May 8th. Although she refused to divulge her age, she was believed to be around 78 or 79. Her stories are collected in
George Lutz, whose claims in 1975 that his Long Island home was possessed by evil spirits became the basis of
Russian philosopher and author Alexander Zinoviev died of cancer on May 10th, aged 83. His 1976 novel
American mathematics teacher and author Arthur Porges died after a long illness on May 12th, a couple of months short of his 91st birthday. He began his fiction career in the early 1950s, selling consistently to
44-year-old Bay Area fan, folk singer and author Leigh Ann Hussey was killed in a motorcycle accident on May 16th. She had stories in the anthologies
Tony Award-winning Broadway producer, director and composer Cy Feuer died on May 17th, aged 95. During the late 1930s he began working at Republic Pictures as a composer and head of the studio’s music department. Over the next two decades he worked on
British folk-singer Gytha North died of cancer on May 24th, aged
American comics artist Alex (Alexander) Toth died at his drawing board on May 27th, aged 77. He joined DC Comics in 1947, where he illustrated such characters as Dr Mid-Nite, the Atom and Green Lantern for $30 per page. He went on to work on a number of Dell comics based on popular TV shows (
Television writer Robert Bielak, who was supervising producer for
“Seamus Cullen”, the pseudonymous American-born author of the erotic 1976 novel
British playwright, novelist and prolific TV scriptwriter Allan Prior died on June 1st, aged 84. In the 1970s he scripted five episodes of BBC-TV’s
George Kashdan, who worked as an editor and writer at DC Comics from 1946 until 1968, died of complications from a stroke on June 3rd, aged 78. Among the characters he worked on were Green Arrow, Congo Bill and Johnny Quick. He wrote and often edited such titles as
Former CIA intelligence agent and author Karl T. Pflock, whose 2001 book
67-year-old American fantasy artist Tim Hildebrandt (Timothy Allen Mark Hildebrant), one-half of the successful Brothers Hildebrandt team, died of complications from diabetes on June 11th. With his identical twin brother Greg he created the original
Austrian-Hungarian-born literary agent and film producer Ingo Preminger, the brother of director Otto, died in Los Angeles on June 7th, aged 95. Preminger represented a number of writers who were blacklisted during the McCarthy era, including Dalton Trumbo and Ring Lardner, Jr, along with such actors as Paul Henreid and Ralph Meeker. His film credits include
83-year-old Hungarian avant-garde composer Gyorgy Ligeti died after a long illness in Vienna, Austria, on June 12th. The creator of a pioneering sound technique called “micropolyphony”, he is best known for his work on the soundtrack for Stanley Kubrick’s
Controversial American book publisher Lyle Stuart (Lionel Simon) died on June 24th following a heart attack. He was 83. After working as business manager for
62-year-old Jim Baen (James Patrick Baen), American editor and publisher and founder of the Baen Books imprint, died on June 28th after suffering a massive stroke two weeks earlier. He never regained consciousness. Baen began his career at Ace Books in 1972, and went on to edit the SF magazines
American radio and TV broadcaster Roderick MacLeish, who wrote the 1982 fantasy novel
Bookseller and author Martin [Arthur] Last died on July 6th, aged 76. With his long-time partner Baird Searles (who died in 1993) he co-founded The Science Fiction Shop in New York City’s West Village from 1973–86. Last also wrote fiction, poetry and reviews, and co-authored the 1979 study
Tough-guy crime writer Mickey Spillane (Frank Morrison Spil-lane), who created PI Mike Hammer in his first novel,
Best-selling British fantasy writer David [Andrew] Gemmell died at his computer on July 28th. Just over a week earlier, the 57-year-old author had undergone a quadruple heart bypass and appeared to be recovering well. Best known for his heroic fantasy “Drenai” series, which he began in 1984 with
Susan E. Michaud (Susan E. Roberts), who helped run small press imprint Necronomicon Press with her husband, Marc Michaud, died on August 3rd, aged 41.
Nebula-nominated American author Bob (Robert J.) Leman died of congestive heart failure on August 8th, aged 84. During the 1950s and ’60s he produced the fanzine
British SF author Philip E. (Empson) High died of respiratory failure on August 9th, aged 92. He had been admitted to hospital a week earlier following a heart attack. A contributor to such magazines as
79-year-old ghost hunter and author Ed Warren who, with his wife Lorraine, investigated more than 10,000 suspected hauntings, died on August 23rd of complications from a stroke. Having investigated the Amityville house in New York, the couple worked as consultants on
American scriptwriter/producer Joseph [William] Stefano, who co-created and produced the TV show
Pioneering TV animation designer Ed Benedict, who created such iconic cartoon characters as The Flintstones, Quick Draw McGraw, Huckleberry Hound, Yogi Bear and The Jetsons, died on August 28th, aged 94. After working at the Walt Disney studio, with Oswald Lantz at Universal and with Tex Avery at MGM, he became the main character designer for Hanna-Barbera from the late 1950s until his retirement in the mid-1970s.
American songwriter Paul Vance (Paul Van Valkenburgh), whose cult hit “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini” went to #1 for 16-year-old Brian Hyland in August 1960, died of lung cancer on September 6th, aged 68. With Lee Pockriss he also co-wrote “Catch a Falling Star”, which was a #1 hit for Perry Como in 1958. Vance sold the rights to all his songs when he was younger.
Animator Berny Wolf died on September 7th, aged 95. After working on the
French screenwriter and director Gérard Brach died of cancer on September 9th, aged 79. Best known for his many collaborations with director Roman Polanski (including
American horror author and editor Charles L. (Lewis) Grant died of a heart attack in front of the television on September 15th, aged 64. He had been suffering from chronic obstructive pulmonary disease and emphysema from some years, and had returned from a care facility ten days earlier to his home in New Jersey to celebrate his birthday (and that of his wife of almost twenty-five years, editor and novelist Kathryn Ptacek) on September 12th. A prolific short story writer and novelist, Grant’s career spanned more than thirty-five years. During that time he cultivated his unique style of “quiet horror” in many novels and collections, including
British TV scriptwriter Peter [George Derek] Ling, best-known as the co-creator of the soap opera
American socialite Patricia Kennedy Lawford, the sister of John and Robert Kennedy and the widow of actor Peter Lawford, died of complications from pneumonia on September 17th, aged 82. She was believed to be the last person alive to know the truth behind the mysterious suicide of Marilyn Monroe in 1962.
Author and fan Darrell C. (Coleman) Richardson (aka “D. Coleman Rich”) died after a long illness on September 19th, aged 88. He wrote more than forty books, several about the pulps that include
British sculptor Allister Bowtell died of cancer on September 20th, aged
Sir Malcolm [Henry] Arnold died of a chest infection on September 23rd, aged 84. Best known as the first British composer to win an Academy Award, for his score for
American science fiction and fantasy writer and poet John M. (Milo) “Mike” Ford (aka “Michael J. Dodge”/“Milo Dennison”) died on September 25th, aged 49. He was diabetic and had undergone a kidney transplant in 2000. The winner of two World Fantasy Awards for his 1983 novel
French writer, editor and translator Michel Demuth died of liver failure on September 30th, aged 67. He translated the French editions of Arthur C. Clarke’s
American biographer and book collector Virgil S. (Starbuck) Utter, Jr died of congestive heart failure on October 3rd, aged 81. His published biographies of C. L. Moore and Henry Kuttner, Raymond King Cummings, Grant Allen and George Allen England, often in collaboration with Phil Stephensen-Payne and others.
Multiple Award-winning American SF author and fanzine writer [Arthur] Wilson “Bob” Tucker, credited with coining the term “space opera”, died after a short illness on October 6th, aged 91. His most famous fanzine was
British film critic Philip Strick, a regular contributor to the BFI’s
Emmy Award-winning scriptwriter, producer and director Jerry Belson, co-creator of TV’s
Belgium writer Jacques Sternberg died of lung cancer on October 11th, aged 83. He is credited with publishing the first French SF Fanzine,
British children’s author and illustrator Ursula Moray Williams died on October 17th, aged 95. Her more than seventy books include
Animator and cartoonist Don R. Christensen (aka “Don Arr”) died on October 18th, aged 90. He was a sketch artist at Disney from 1937 to 1941, working on such films as
British playwright and YA author John Symonds died on October 21st, aged 92. He was also Aleister Crowley’s literary executor.
British playwright and author Paul [Victor] Ableman, whose SF novel
British author and screenwriter [Thomas] Nigel Kneale, best remembered for his pioneering
Leonard Schrader, the Oscar-nominated screenwriter of
American pulp author and rare book dealer Nelson S. (Slade) Bond died of complications from heart problems on November 4th, just short of his 98th birthday. After making his SF debut in
British SF fan and book dealer Ron Bennett, whose fanzine newsletter
American composer Basil Poledouris died of cancer on November 8th, aged 61. His many film scores include
American SF cover artist Stanley Meltzoff died on November 9th, aged 89. In the 1950s he painted a number of influential covers for Signet/NAL paperbacks for books by Isaac Asimov, Alfred Bester, Edmond Hamilton, Robert A. Heinlein and A. E. van Vogt, amongst others. He also did the covers for
Jack (John Stewart) Williamson (aka “Will Stewart”), the oldest surviving author from
Ken Ishikawa, who co-created the 1970s giant robot
British literary agent Maggie (Margaret) [Irene] Noach died on November 17th, aged 57. She was admitted to hospital complaining of back pains. Diagnosed with a broken vertebra, she developed breathing problems during an operation on her spine that led to massive heart failure. After beginning her career at A. P. Watt, Noach established her own literary agency in 1982 and represented such SF authors as Brian Aldiss, Geoff Ryman, Stephen Baxter, Garry Kilworth, Michael Scott Rohan and Colin Greenland. With her second husband, Alan Williams (the son of actor and playwright Emlyn), she complied
American-born writer Guy Mariner Tucker, author of the 1996 study,
American television writer Chris Hayward, who co-created
Russian-born Broadway lyricist and screenwriter Betty Comden (Basya Cohen), whose credits include the Mary Martin stage version of
Jerry G. (Gwin) Bails, regarded as “the father of American comic book fandom”, died of a heart attack the same day, aged 73. He began publishing his influential fanzine,
Prolific British author Sydney J. (James) Bounds died of cancer on November 24th, aged 86. He joined the Science Fiction Association in 1937, where he met writers Arthur C. Clarke, William F. Temple and John Christopher (Sam Youd). Bounds founded the SF fan group, the Cosmos Club, during World War II, and his early fiction appeared in the club’s fanzine,
90-year-old actress and author Phyllis Fraser (Helen Brown Nichols/Phyllis Cerf Wagner) died of complications from a fall the same day. The cousin of Ginger Rogers, she appeared in a handful of 1930s films, including
American academic Leon E. (Eugene) Stover, who collaborated with Harry Harrison on the 1968 anthology
American comic book illustrator Dave [Emmett] Cockrum, best-known for his work with Len Wein on Marvel’s
Film music composer and conductor Shirley Walker died of a brain aneurysm on November 29th, aged 61. Her many credits include
51-year-old American author [John] Pierce Askegren was found dead at his home from a massive heart attack the same day. He wrote the “Inconstant Moons” trilogy (
42-year-old British writer Craig Hinton, whose credits include five
Romance writer Patricia [Anne] Matthews died of respiratory failure and congestive heart failure on December 7th, aged 79. Her 1991 novel
American comics artist Martin Nodell, who co-created and illustrated the original 1940s Green Lantern under the name “Matt Dellon”, died on December 9th, aged 91. Nodell reportedly got the idea for Green Lantern’s magic ring while waiting for a New York subway and seeing a train operator waving his green light. The character soon got his own comic book, which ran until 1947. He was revived in 1959 and has appeared in various incarnations since. Nodell eventually left the comics industry in the early 1950s and moved on to a career in advertising, where he was part of the original team who created the Pillsbury Doughboy.
TV scriptwriter Robert Schaefer died of emphysema on December 14th, aged 80. He wrote for numerous shows, including
American comics artist Hardin “Jack” Burnley, who was the first person other than their creators to draw Superman, Batman and Robin during the Golden Age of comics, died of complications from a broken hip on December 19th, aged 95. Burnley drew the cover for
American SF author Jayge Carr (Margery Ruth Krueger), whose books include
86-year-old British children’s author [Ann] Philippa Pearce, whose Carnegie medal-winning time-slip novel
American SF fan Dick (Richard Harris) Eney died of a stroke on December 22nd, aged 74. He published the
PERFORMERS/PERSONALITIES
49-year-old Bryan Harvey, the former singer and guitarist with folk/ rock duo House of Freaks, was found dead with his family in the basement of his burning home in Richmond, Virginia, on New Year’s Day. Along with his wife and two young daughters, he had been bound with tape and had his throat cut before the house was set ablaze. With drummer Johnny Hott, Harvey released five acclaimed albums between 1987 and 1995, including
Stuntman and actor Jerry Summers died the same day, aged 74. The movies he worked on include
Danish-born actress Osa Massen died in Santa Monica on January 2nd, aged 91. She went to Hollywood in the late 1930s, where she appeared in such films as
Puerto Rican-born actor and television producer Raul Davila, who played a voodoo priest in
British character actor John Woodnutt died on January 3rd, aged 81. His film credits include
Phyllis [Lucille] Gates, the former wife of Rock Hudson (who died of AIDS in 1985), died of complications from lung cancer on January 4th, aged 80. She met Hudson in 1954 while working as a secretary for his agent. They married a year later but divorced in 1958. She later discovered that the romance had been arranged to dispel rumours that the actor was gay. Gates became an interior designer and never saw Hudson again.
Soul singer Lou Rawls died of lung and brain cancer on January 5th, aged 72. During a forty-year career, Rawls released more than sixty albums and won three Grammy Awards. His biggest hit was “You’ll Never Find (Another Love Like Mine)” in 1976. During the 1960s he branched into acting, appearing in such films as
Stage and screen actress Anne Meacham died on January 12th, aged 80. After earning an Obie Award for creating the role of “Catherine Holly” in the 1958 Off Broadway production of Tennessee Williams’
Two-time Academy Award-winning Hollywood star Shelley Winters (Shirley Schrift) died of heart failure on January 14th, aged 85. She had been in poor health since suffering a massive heart attack the previous October. After working as a chorus girl on Broadway, Winters moved to Los Angeles in the early 1940s where she shared an apartment with a then unknown Marilyn Monroe. Initially cast for her curvaceous 37–26–36 figure, she later reinvented herself as a capable character actress with more than 130 films to her credit, including
American leading man Anthony (Tony) Franciosa (Anthony Papaleo) died of a massive stroke on January 19th, less than a week after the death of his former wife (1957–60), actress Shelley Winters. He was 77. The actor, who went to Hollywood in the mid-1950s, had a reputation for being “difficult” on movie sets. His credits include Antonio Margheriti’s
American soul singer “Wicked” Wilson Pickett died of a heart attack on January 20th, aged 64. His 1960s hits include “Mustang Sally” and “The Midnight Hour”. His career enjoyed a renaissance in 1991 with the release of the film
43-year-old American character actor Chris (Christopher) Penn, the burly younger brother of actor Sean and son of director Leo (who died in 1998), was found dead on January 24th in his Santa Monica apartment. According to the coroner’s office, the main cause of death was an oversized heart and the effects of multiple medication intake. Best remembered for his role as “Nice Guy Eddie Cabot” in Quentin Tarantino’s
91-year-old Fayard Nicholas, who performed with his younger brother Harold (who died in 2000) as the tap dancing Nicholas Brothers, died of pneumonia and complications from a stroke the same day. The team made their film debut in 1932 and later headlined at the Cotton Club in Harlem.
Benny Hill’s straight man, comedian and actor Henry McGee, died of complications from Alzheimer’s disease on January 28th, aged 77. Early in his career he appeared in the 1950 SF thriller
Scottish-born ballerina and actress Moira Shearer [King] (Lady Kennedy) died on January 31st, aged 80. She had been ill for some time. The flame-haired dancer first rose to prominence as the lead in Michael Powell’s
Brooklyn-born Al Lewis (Albert or Alexander Meister, sources vary), best remembered as the 378-year-old Grandpa Munster (actually Count Dracula) on the CBS-TV show
American actress Jean Byron (Imogene Burkhart) died the same day, aged 80. A radio singer before being put under contract by Columbia Pictures, she starred opposite Johnny Weismuller in
Film and TV actor Franklin Cover, whose credits include
American character actor Phil Brown, best remembered for his role as Luke Skywalker’s doomed “Uncle Owen” in
American actor Andreas Katsulas, who played Ambassador G’Kar of Nam in the
72-year-old actor Paul Carr died of lung cancer in Los Angeles on February 17th. He played Lt. Lee Kelso in the pilot for
Billy Cowsill, lead singer of the 1960s family group The Cowsills, died of emphysema and osteoporosis on February 18th, aged 58. Reportedly the inspiration for TV’s
Emmy Award-winning American comedian and actor Don Knotts died of pulmonary and respiratory complications on February 24th, aged 81. Best remembered for his role as Deputy Barney Fife in
Emmy Award-winning American actor and environmental activist Dennis Weaver died of complications from cancer the same day, also aged 81. Best remembered for his roles as limping sidekick Chester Goode in the CBS-TV Western
American actor Darren McGavin, who starred as investigative reporter Carl Kolchak in the TV movies
Jackson 5 drummer Johnny Jackson, Jr (no relation) was stabbed to death on March 1st. He was
Former British child actor Jack Wild died after a long illness on March 2nd, aged 53. After receiving an Academy Award nomination for his debut as the Artful Dodger in the 1968 musical
Scottish writer and singer Ivor Cutler died on March 3rd, aged 83. He played Buster Bloodvessel in the Beatles TV movie
44-year-old singer and former actress Dana Reeve, the widow of
British character actor, comedian, and radio and TV scriptwriter John Junkin died of lung cancer, emphysema and asthma on March 7th, aged 76. He appeared with the Beatles in
Character actor Kort Falkenberg, who was featured as Cadet Farren in the 1950s TV series
Oscar-winning American character actress Maureen Stapleton died of chronic pulmonary disease on March 14th, aged 80. Her many credits include
80-year-old American actor and fencing expert Britt Lomond died after a long illness on March 22nd. Best remembered as the villainous Captain Monastario on the 1957 Walt Disney TV series
Country music singer and guitarist “Buck” Owens [Alvis Edgar Owens, Jr] died in his sleep of an apparent heart attack on March 25th, aged 76. A pioneer of the “Bakersfield Sound”, he co-hosted (1969–86) TV’s
American character actor Julian Burton died on March 27th, aged 73. He appeared in Roger Corman’s
55-year-old cult 1970s drive-in actress Candice Rialson died of liver disease on March 31st, although her death was not announced for another five months. She appeared in
Child actor Gary Gray, who appeared in MGM’s final “Lassie” movie,
65-year-old American singer/songwriter Gene Pitney died on April 5th, following a concert in Wales. The writer of such classic pop songs as “Hello, Mary Lou”, “Rubber Ball” and “He’s a Rebel”, Pitney launched his own singing career in 1961. His distinctive falsetto voice could be heard on such hits as “Town Without Pity”, “(The Man Who Shot) Liberty Valance”, “Only Love Can Break a Heart”, “24 Hours from Tulsa”, “I’m Gonna Be Strong” and “Something’s Gotten Hold of My Heart”.
American actress Amanda Duff [Dunne] died of cancer on April 6th, aged 92. Married to screenwriter and film director Philip Dunne (who died in 1992), she appeared in
American country musician Gordon Terry, who appeared in Ron Ormond’s 1968 movie
Singer June Pointer, the youngest member of the Grammy-winning Pointer Sisters, died of cancer on April 11th, aged 52. With her sisters Ruth and Anita, she sang on such 1970s and ’80s hits as “I’m So Excited”, “Slow Hand” and “Jump (For My Love)”. June Pointer was arrested for cocaine possession two years before her death and was sentenced to a rehabilitation centre.
German actress Christiane Maybach, who played the disembodied head in the 1959 horror film
Indian producer, singer and mega-star Rajkumer (Muthuraj Singanalluru Puttaswamayya) died the same day, aged 76. A champion of Kannada language films, he made more than 200 mostly historical and mythological movies and was worshipped by millions. Five people died in demonstrations following his death. In July 2000 Rajkumer and four relatives were kidnapped by the Tamil bandit, Veerappan. He was eventually released 108 days later, after a secret deal was negotiated with the authorities.
American character actor Henderson Forsythe, who portrayed Dr David Stewart on the daytime soap opera
Italian actress Alida Valli (Baroness Alida Maria Laura Altenbur-ger von Marckenstein Freunberg), whose career spanned more than sixty years, died in Rome on April 22nd, aged 84. Born in Pula, Italy (in what is now Croatia), she began her film career at the age of nine and made her Hollywood debut in Alfred Hitchcock’s
British film and TV actress Jennifer Jayne (Jennifer Jones) died on April 23rd, aged 73. She appeared in
Elma G. “Pem” Farnsworth, reputedly the first person to appear on television, died in Utah on April 27th, aged 98. Often called “The Mother of Television”, she was the wife of Philo T. Farnsworth and part of the technical team when he demonstrated his invention in San Francisco on September 7th, 1927.
Actress Alberta Nelson died of cancer on April 29th, aged 68. She was cast as the leather-clad blonde biker girlfriend of Eric Von Zipper (Harvey Lembeck) in a number of AIP’s “Beach Party” movies in the 1960s, including
British magician Billy McComb, who appeared in Clive Barker’s
American “B” movie actress Betsy Jones-Moreland died of cancer after a long illness on May 1st, aged 76. She is best known for her roles in Roger Corman’s
Test pilot and NASA engineer Bruce A. Peterson died the same day, aged 72. In 1967, he survived a plane crash at the Dryden Flight Research Center thanks to extensive surgery. He became the model for TV’s
Pro-football player turned actor Michael “Bear” Taliferro, who played with the Washington Redskins in the NFL, died of a stroke on May 10th, aged 45. His film credits include
Colombian-American singer Soraya died of breast cancer the same day, aged 37. She won a Latin Grammy Award for female album in 2004.
Frankie Thomas, Jr (Frank M. Thomas), who starred on live TV from 1950–55 as
Prolific American character actor Byron Morrow died the same day, aged 94. Often cast as a military officer, police chief and other authority figures, he appeared in
Actor Paul Marco, whose most famous role was Kelton the Cop in Edward D. Wood, Jr’s infamous
Music arranger and composer Lew Anderson, who was the third person to play silent sidekick Clarabell the Clown on the popular 1950s children’s TV show
62-year-old Norwegian-born actress Eva Norvind (Eva Johanne Chegodayeva Sakonskaya), who appeared in a number of Mexican films during the 1960s, including
69-year-old former milkman Freddie Garrity, lead singer with the 1960s Manchester group Freddie & the Dreamers, died in Wales of complications from emphysema on May 19th. The band’s hits include “I’m Telling You Now”, “You Were Made for Me” and “If You Gotta Make a Fool of Somebody”.
Zoë Rae (Zoë Rae Bech), one of the earliest child stars of the silent film era, died on May 20th, aged 95. She made her screen debut at the age of three in 1914, and two years later Carl Laemmle signed her to a five-year contract at Universal for $100.00 per week. Billed as “Little Zoë, the Universal Baby”, she worked with John Ford, Rupert Julian and Lon Chaney (
64-year-old Jamaican ska and reggae singer Desmond Dekker (Desmond Adolphus Dacres) died of a heart attack on May 25th in Surrey, England. As Desmond Dekker and the Aces he had such hits in the 1960s as “Israelites” and “It Mek”.
American actor Paul Gleason, usually seen in supporting roles as authority figures, died of a rare form of lung cancer on May 27th, aged 67. He had only been diagnosed three weeks earlier. A former professional baseball player and drinking companion of writer Jack Kerouac, Gleason’s many credits include
British actor and film and TV writer David Butler died the same day, aged 78. He appeared in the 1970 horror thriller
British musical entertainer Derek Scott died on May 27th, aged 84. Following World War II, he formed a comedy duo with Tony Hancock, and he later composed the music for Hancock’s 1960s TV series and the film
American leading man Robert Sterling (William John Hart), best remembered for his role as the ghostly George Kirby in the 1953–56 TV series
Johnny Grande, who played piano for Bill Haley and His Comets on their 1954 hit “Rock Around the Clock”, died on June 2nd, aged 76. He also played on “See You Later, Alligator” and “Rockin’ Through the Rye”.
Grateful Dead and The Tubes keyboard player Vince Welnick apparently committed suicide the same day, aged
75-year-old radio actor James Barrett, who voiced the part of Dan Reid, the young nephew of
59-year-old Texas-born singer, songwriter and musician Billy Preston, best known for playing keyboards on the Beatles’ 1970 album
American character actor Robert Donner, a founding member of Harvey Lembec’s comedy-improv group The Crazy Quilt Comedy Company, died of a heart attack on June 8th, aged 75. After his friend and neighbour, Clint Eastwood, encouraged him to try drama, Donner appeared in more than 100 films and TV shows. Best known for his recurring role as Exidor on
Former model and exploitation actress Audrey Campbell (aka “Audrey Theile”) died after a long illness the same day, aged 76. She suffered from kidney and respiratory problems for many years. Best remembered for her role as Madame Olga in the 1964 sexploitation trilogy
Hollywood leading man Arthur Franz died of heart failure and emphysema on June 17th, aged 86. His film credits include
American character actor Richard Stahl (aka “Dick Stahl”) died on June 18th, aged 74. His numerous credits include
Claydes “Charles” Smith, co-founder and lead guitarist with the 1970s jazz funk group Kool & the Gang, died after a long illness on June 20th, aged 57. Smith wrote the hits “Joanna” and “Take My Heart”.
Welsh-born character actor and anti-establishment film-maker Kenneth Griffith (Kenneth Griffiths) died on June 25th, aged 84. He made his film debut in the early 1940s, and his credits include
71-year-old Lennie Weinrib (aka “Len Weinrib”), who supplied the voice of the title character on the 1969 TV series
55-year-old American actor Benjamin Hendrickson, who won a Daytime Emmy Award for playing police chief Hal Munson on the soap opera
80-year-old American actress Kasey Rogers (Josie Imogene Rogers, aka “Laura Elliot”), who played Louise Tate on TV’s
Syd Barrett (Roger Keith Barrett), founder of the rock group Pink Floyd, died of diabetes-related symptoms on July 7th, aged 60. Barrett was the lead singer and guitarist of the group until 1968, when an LSD-induced mental breakdown led to him living as a recluse for more than thirty years. He wrote such early hits for the group as “Arnold Layne” and “See Emily Play”, while the Floyd’s songs “Wish You Were Here” and “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” celebrated Barrett’s genius.
1940s Hollywood star June Allyson (Ella Geisman) died after a long illness from pulmonary respiratory failure and acute bronchitis on July 8th, aged 88. A former Broadway chorus dancer, late in her career she appeared in such TV movies as
Tony and Emmy Award-winning stage and screen actor Barnard Hughes died after a short illness on July 11th, aged 90. His film credits include
Swiss-German actor Kurt Kreuger (aka “Knud Kreuger”) often cast as Nazi officers in movies, died of a stroke in Los Angeles on July 12th, aged 89. He appeared in such films as
American burlesque comedian and Oscar-winning supporting actor Red Buttons (Aaron Chwatt) died of vascular disease on July 13th, aged 87. In a career that spanned seven decades, his credits include
American stage and screen actress Carrie Nye (Carolyn Nye McGeoy) died of lung cancer on July 14th, aged 69. The wife of US talk show host Dick Cavett, she appeared in
Veteran character actor Jack Warden (John H. Lebzelter) died on July 19th, aged 85. A former teenage boxer (under the name “Johnny Costello”), he appeared in
Veteran character actor Robert Cornthwaite died on July 20th, aged 89. Best remembered for his roles as various doctors in
Oscar-nominated Japanese-American film and TV actor Mako (Makoto Iwamatsu) died of oesophageal cancer on July 21st, aged 72. He appeared in
Former child actress and model J. Madison Wright [Morris] died of a heart attack the same day, aged 21. She had just returned from her honeymoon. Mostly known for her TV work, her first major role was playing True Danziger in the NBC-TV series
Classical music composer and teacher Dika Newlin, who later became an actress and unlikely punk rock performer, died on July 22nd, aged 82. A singer and keyboard player with the alternative rock band Apocowlypso in the 1980s, she composed the music for the horror film
British professional jockey turned film stuntman Mick Dillon died on July 23rd, aged 80. In 1961, Dillon and two other stuntmen took turns wearing the monster suit for
52-year-old Michael Sellers, the son of British actor Peter, died of a heart attack on July 24th, twenty-six years to the day after his father died of the same condition at the age of 54. The first child of the actor’s marriage to actress Anne Howe, Michael Sellers was left virtually penniless following his father’s death and he subsequently wrote the biographies
Johnny Weissmuller, Jr, the son of the Olympic swimmer famous for his movie portrayal of Tarzan in the 1930s and ’40s, died of cancer on July 27th, aged
Square-jawed leading British actor and “King of the Voice-Overs” Patrick Allen (John Keith Patrick Allen) died on July 28th, aged 79. Born in the British protectorate of Nyasaland (now Malawi), he grew up in Canada and America before arriving back in the UK in 1953, where he got a small role in Alfred Hitchcock’s
57-year-old Kim McLagan (Patsy Kerrigan, aka “Kim Kerrigan”), a swinging ’60s London fashion model and the former wife (1966–75) of The Who drummer Keith Moon (who died of a drug overdose in 1978), was killed in Texas on August 2nd when she apparently jumped a stop sign in her car and was hit by a truck. In 1978 she married Small Faces keyboard player Ian McLagan.
British wrestler turned actor Ken Richmond died on August 3rd, aged 80. From the mid-1950s he was the fourth bare-chested strongman to strike the giant gong for J. Arthur Rank film productions. He also had small roles in
Arthur Lee (Arthur Taylor Porter), lead singer with the 1960s Los Angeles band Love, died of lymphoblastic leukaemia the same day, aged 61. Such albums as
British-born character actor John “Basher” Alderson died in California on August 4th, aged 90. His numerous credits include Fritz Lang’s
Japanese
Hollywood “B” movie actress [Laura] Lois January died of Alzheimer’s disease on August 7th, aged 93. The heroine of countless Westerns, she also appeared in
American TV talk show host Mike Douglas (Michael Delaney Dowd, Jr) died on August 11th, aged 81. In the late 1940s he sang with Kay Kyser’s band, and he was the singing voice of Prince Charming in Walt Disney’s 1950 animated feature
73-year-old British-born character actor and prolific voice performer Tony Jay, best known as the voice of the scheming Judge Frollo in Disney’s animated
American character actor Bruno Kirby (Bruno Giovanni Quida-ciolu, aka “B. Kirby, Jr”) died of complications from leukaemia on August 14th, aged 57. His credits include
Singer and musician Buck Page, who founded the original Western band Riders of the Purple Sage in 1936, died on August 21st, aged 84.
Bruce Gary, drummer for The Knack (“My Sharona”) died of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma on August 22nd, aged
British character actor Bill Stewart died of complications from motor neurone disease on August 29th, aged 63. He appeared in such films as
Rockabilly singer and songwriter Jumpin’ Gene Simmons, who had a novelty hit in 1964 with “Haunted House”, died after a long illness the same day, aged 69.
90-year-old Canadian-born Hollywood star Glenn Ford (Gwyllyn Samuel Newton Ford) was found dead at his home on August 30th. He had suffered a series of strokes over the previous decade. Best known for his many Western roles, Ford also appeared in
1948 and 1952 American Olympic decathlon champion Bob Mathias, who later became an actor and Republican Member of Congress, died of cancer on September 2nd, aged 75. He portrayed Prince Theseus in
Actor, radio singer/announcer and television station owner John Conte died on September 4th, aged 90. From 1955–58 he hosted more than 600 segments of the NBC-TV daytime anthology series
Crikey! Australian “Crocodile Hunter” Steve Irwin was killed the same day by a freak stingray strike in the heart during underwater filming for a show called
Welsh-born actor Bill Meilen, who played Dr Egas Gottreich in
British actress Hilary [Lavender] Mason, best known for her role as the blind psychic Heather in Nicolas Roeg’s
Broadway actor Robert Earl Jones, the father of actor James, died of heart failure on September 7th, aged 95. Blacklisted for refusing to testify before the House of Un-American Activities Committee in the 1950s, his relatively few film credits include
British character actor Frank Middlemass died on September 8th, aged 87. His credits include Hammer’s
American character actor S. John Launer died the same day, aged 86. He began his film career in
Herbert Rudley, who co-starred with Basil Rathbone, Lon Cha-ney, Jr, Bela Lugosi, John Carradine, Akim Tamiroff and Tor Johnson in
20-year-old Daniel Smith, the son of former
American-born singer Peter Tevis died of Parkinson’s disease on September 13th, aged 69. Tevis spent most of his early career in Italy, where he was instrumental in creating the distinctive themes for Spaghetti Westerns. After returning to America in the late 1960s, he was credited as music producer on
Hungarian-born champion bodybuilder turned actor Mickey Hargitay (Miklós Hargitay), the father of Emmy Award-winning actress Mariska, died after a long illness on September 14th, aged 80. Inspired by a magazine cover of muscleman Steve Reeves, Hargitay won the “Mr. Universe”, “Mr America” and “Mr Olympia” contests in 1955 and went on to become an ensemble cast member of Mae West’s night-club stage show. He was married to actress Jayne Mansfield from 1958 until three years before her untimely death in a car crash in 1967. The couple appeared together in
Senegal-born British actor Johnny Sekka (Lamine Secka) died of lung cancer in California the same day, aged 72. After stowing away on a ship to Europe in the 1950s, he initially worked on the British stage before appearing in such films and TV shows as
Saxophone player Danny Flores (aka “Chuck Rio”), who shouted the word “Tequila!” on the Champs’ 1958 hit song of the same name (which he wrote), died of pneumonia on September 19th, aged 77. A heavy drinker during the early days of the band, he reportedly signed away US royalties to the song (which was featured in such films as
59-year-old actor and voice-over artist Tim (Timothy) [Hayes] Rooney, the son of veteran Mickey Rooney, died on September 21st after a five-year battle with the muscle disease dermatomyositis. His credits include
Christopher Crawford, the second child adopted by film star Joan Crawford, died of cancer on September 22nd, aged 62. He apparently supported his adoptive sister Christina’s account of their upbringing in her 1979 memoir
American leading man Edward [Laurence] Albert (Jr), the only son of actor Eddie Albert (who died in 2005) and Mexican actress/dancer Margo, died of lung cancer the same day, aged
Influential blues guitarist Etta Baker, who recorded with Taj-Mahal, died on September 23rd, aged 93. She worked in a textile mill for twenty-six years before starting her professional career in the late 1950s.
Prolific Japanese actor Tetsuro Tamba (Shozaburo Tanba), who portrayed Tiger Tanaka in the James Bond movie
Iva Toguri D’Aquino, who may have been better known as World War II propagandist “Tokyo Rose”, died in Chicago on September 26th, aged 90. An American citizen, D’Aquino had been visiting relatives in Japan when war broke out and she reportedly began broadcasting anti-American propaganda to US troops in the Pacific. She was convicted of treason and jailed for six years in 1949 but, after doubts about guilt, she was pardoned by President Gerald Ford in 1977.
British-born actor, scriptwriter and author Alan Caillou (Alan Lyle-Smythe) died in Arizona on October 1st, aged 92. Following World War II, he worked as a police chief in Ethiopa and a district officer in Somalia before moving to Canada and then the United States. Usually cast a British “major” types in Hollywood, Caillou appeared in the 1959
Six-foot, two-inch tall fashion model-turned-actress Tamara Dobson died of complications from pneumonia and multiple sclerosis on October 2nd, aged 59. In the 1970s she portrayed the eponymous kung-fu fighting government agent in
Actress and former model Frances Bergen (Frances Westerman), the widow of ventriloquist Edgar Bergen (who died in 1978) and mother of Candice Bergen, died after a long illness the same day, aged 84.
British character actor Tom Bell died after a short illness on October 4th, aged 73. Best known for his recurring role in the
69-year-old Mexican-American singer Freddy Fender died of lung cancer at his home in Texas on October 14th. He had suffered numerous health problems for years due to drug and alcohol abuse. After recording a Spanish-language version of Elvis Presley’s “Don’t Be Cruel” in the 1950s, he later had hits with “Before the Next Teardrop Falls” and “Wasted Days and Wasted Nights” following a three-year prison sentence for possession of marijuana.
Scottish-born leading man Derek [William Douglas] Bond died on October 15th, aged 86. His film credits include
American actor Jack DeLeon died on October 16th. As well as appearing in such films as
Tuba player Tommy Johnson, who played the opening notes of the ominous shark theme in Steven Spielberg’s
Distinctive French character actor Daniel Emilfork [Berenstein] died on October 17th, aged 82. Born in Chile of Ukrainian parents, his film credits include
Hollywood actress and former model Phyllis Kirk (Phyllis Kirkegaard) who co-starred with Vincent Price in the 1953 3-D movie
Emmy Award-winning actress Jane [Waddington] Wyatt, who co-starred with Ronald Coleman in
77-year-old British character actor Peter Barkworth died of broncho-pneumonia following a stroke on October 21st. A mainstay of British television during the 1960s, ’70s and ’80s, he appeared in episodes of
Sandy West, drummer with the all-female band The Runaways, died of lung cancer the same day, aged 47. She was only sixteen years old in 1975 when she founded the group with singer and guitarist Joan Jett. Their hits include “Cherry Bomb” and “Born to Be Bad”.
84-year-old Canadian-born actor Arthur Hill died in a Los Angeles care facility on October 22nd after a long battle with Alzheimer’s disease. He made his uncredited film debut in 1949, and went on to appear in
Acknowledged as the world’s smallest actor, two-feet, four-inch tall Nelson de la Rosa died of a heart attack the same day, aged 38. As well as being the good-luck charm for the Boston Redsox during the baseball team’s victorious 2004 World Series run, the Dominican Republic national, who was born with the genetic syndrome microcephalic osteodysplastic primordial dwarfism type II, was the eponymous creature in
Freddie Marsden, the drummer for Liverpool band Gerry and the Pacemakers, which he co-founded with his younger brother in the early 1960s, died on October 23rd, aged
French actress Tina Aumont (Maria Christina Aumont), the daughter of actors Jean-Pierre Aumont and Maria Montez, died of a pulmonary embolism on October 26th, aged 60. After making her screen debut under the name “Tina Marquand” in the 1966 version of
66-year-old professional American footballer turned actor Marlin McKeever died of complications from injuries received at his home on October 27th. For thirteen years he played with the Los Angeles Rams, the Minnesota Vikings, the Washington Redskins and the Philadelphia Eagles. McKeever and his twin brother Mike (who died in 1967) played the Siamese Cyclops’ Ajax and Argo in
Smooth-voiced British actor William Franklyn died of prostate cancer on Halloween, aged 81. His films include Roman Polanski’s
American actress Bettye Ackerman [Jaffe] died of complications from Alzheimer’s disease on November 1st, aged 82. The widow of actor Sam Jaffe (who died in 1984 and was more than thirty years her senior), her film credits include
40-year-old independent New York film actress Adrienne Shelly (Adrienne Levine) was found hanged in her office the same day. A 19-year-old construction worker was arrested several days later and charged with second-degree murder in connection with her death (apparently the result of an argument over noise). Shelly wrote and directed the 1994 horror film
Trinidad-born Hollywood actress Marian Marsh [Henderson] (Violet Ethelred Krauth) died on November 9th, aged 93. Best known as the teenage Trilby O’Farrell under the mesmeric influence of John Barrymore in the 1931
Academy Award-winning “tough guy” actor Jack Palance (Vladimir Palahniuk, aka “Walter Jack Palance”) died on November 10th, aged 87. Best known for his Westerns (including the classic
76-year-old British character actress Diana Coupland died the same day after failing to recover from heart surgery. Her first husband was composer Monty Norman and, in 1962, she supplied the voice for Ursula Andress’ Honey Ryder singing “Underneath the Mango Tree” in the first James Bond movie,
R&B singer Gerald Levert, son of The O’Jays’ lead singer Eddie Levert, died on November 10th, aged 40. He suffered from a heart condition and died from an apparently accidental mixture of over-the counter and prescription drugs.
British character actor Ronnie Stevens died on November 12th, aged 81. For the 1963 puppet TV series
Busy British character actor John [William Francis] Hallam died on November 14th, aged
R&B singer Ruth Brown died of complications from a stroke and heart attack on November 17th, aged 78. Between 1949 and 1961 she had more than two dozen hits, including “(Mama) He Treats Your Daughter Mean”. Brown also appeared in such films as
80-year-old American character actor Jeremy Slate died of complications following oesophageal cancer surgery on November 19th. His many films include Hitchcock’s
South African-born Vonne Shelley, who as a teenager appeared in a small number of films under the name “Yvonne Severn”, including
76-year-old French actor Philippe Noiret died on November 23rd after a long battle with cancer. The two-time Cesar Award-winner’s more than 125 film credits include
Veteran American jazz and big-band vocalist Anita O’Day (Anita Belle Colton) died of cardiac arrest the same day, aged 87. She recorded around thirty albums and wrote candidly of her battles with heroin addiction and alcoholism in her 1981 biography,
British actor Anthony Jackson, who played the ghostly Fred Mumford in the children’s TV series
“Greetings, pop-pickers!” After being diagnosed with arthritis in 1991, Australian-born British disc jockey Alan “Fluff” [Leslie] Freeman MBE died on November 27th, aged 79. He was a pioneering presenter for BBC Radio since the early 1960s and, later, TV’s
French actress Claude Jade (Claude Marcelle Jorre) died of complications from eye cancer on December 1st, aged 58. A discovery of Francois Truffaut, who fell in love with her, she appeared in Hitchcock’s
Actor and voice artist Sid Raymond (Raymond Silverstein) died of a stroke the same day, aged 97. Best remembered as the voice of such cartoon characters as Baby Huey and Katnip, he also appeared in
84-year-old American supporting actor Adam Williams (Adam Berg) died of lymphoma on December 4th. His many credits include
American stuntman turned actor Michael Gilden died on December 5th, aged 44. Best known for playing Finnegan and Liam on several episodes of TV’s
Actor Russell Wade died on December 9th, aged 89. Best remembered for his roles in Val Lewton’s
American character actor Peter Boyle died of multiple myeloma and heart disease on December 12th, aged 71. A former member of the Christian Brothers religious order, he spent three years living in a monastery before he turned to acting. After working as a production manager on the offbeat science fiction comedy
Mike Evans, who played Lionel Jefferson in the American TV sitcoms
Former model Kimberly [Ann] Ross, who starred in the 1989 horror film
Republic Pictures leading lady Lois Hall died of a heart attack on December 21st. The 80-year-old actress had earlier been taken ill on the set of David Fincher’s
Peter G. Spelson, who produced, scripted and starred in the 1980 horror/SF film
“Hello, my darlings.” 81-year-old British TV and film comedian Charlie Drake (Charles Edward Springall) died in his sleep at a London nursing home on December 23rd following a long illness caused by two strokes in the late 1990s. In 1974 he starred in the Children’s Film Foundation movie
“The Godfather of Soul”, influential American singer James Brown, died of pneumonia in Atlanta, Georgia, on Christmas Day, aged 73. Best known for such hits as “I Got You (I Feel Good)”, “It’s a Man’s World” and “Get Up (I Feel Like Being a Sex Machine)”, he appeared in
Tough guy character actor Frank Campanella died on December 30th, aged 87. One of his first roles was as Mook the Moon Man in an episode of TV’s
FILM/TV TECHNICIANS
American cinematographer Leonard J. South died of pneumonia and complications from Alzheimer’s disease on January 6th, aged 92. Best known for his nearly a dozen collaborations with Alfred Hitchcock, including
74-year-old Academy Award-winning film editor Stu Linder died of a heart attack while on location on January 12th. His credits include
British production designer Norris Spencer, a frequent collaborator with Ridley and Tony Scott, died of pneumonia the same day, aged 62. He worked on
Oscar-winning German film producer Franz Seitz died after a long illness on January 19th, aged 84. In 1979 he directed a version of Thomas Mann’s
Austrian-Hungarian-born film and TV director Otto Lang died of complications from heart disease on January 30th, aged 98. Arriving in America in the mid-1930s, he worked on such TV series as
Polish-born film director, animator, sculptor and photographer Walerian Borowczyk died in Paris on February 3rd, aged 82. His 1974 film
Writer, television director and drama professor Luther James died on February 5th, aged 76. He directed episodes of
British animator Eddie (Edric) Radage died in early February. His many credits include
Scriptwriter, producer and director Frank Q. Dobbs died of cancer on February 15th, aged
Australian-born film director Peter Sykes died on March 1st, aged around
Canadian-born director Lindsay Shonteff died in England on March 11th, aged 70. In the 1960s he filmed two low budget British horrors,
Animation director Brad Case died on March 19th, aged 93. He began his career as an animator on Disney’s
66-year-old Spanish film director and scriptwriter Eloy German de la Iglesia died on March 23rd, following an operation for renal cancer. His films include
Australian film producer Barbi Taylor died on March 24th, aged 59. Her credits in various production capacities include
Veteran Hollywood director Richard Fleischer died on March 25th, aged 89. The son of 1930s animator Max Fleischer, his numerous films include Disney’s classic
Emmy Award-winning producer-director Dan Curtis died of brain cancer on March 27th, aged 77. Creator of the Gothic daytime soap opera
Mechanical special effects technician Gerald Endler died the same day, aged 94. His many films include
Gloria Monty, who executive produced ABC-TV’s daytime soap opera
American cinematographer Paul Hipp, who began his career working on such exploitation films as
Korean director Shin Sang-Ok died in Seoul on April 11th, aged 79. In the 1970s, both he and his actress wife were separately abducted and transported to North Korea, where they completed seven films before seeking asylum in the West in 1986. His 1985 socialist monster movie
50-year-old TV producer and director Scott Brazil died of respiratory failure due to complications from Lou Gehrig’s disease (ALS) and lyme disease on April 17th. He directed episodes of TV’s
British-born TV director Peter Ellis died in California on April 24th. He relocated to the US in the 1980s, where he directed episodes of
Hollywood talent manager and publicist Jay Bernstein died of a stroke on April 30th, aged 69. His clients included Farrah Fawcett, Suzanne Somers and Kristy McNichol. He produced the TV films
Austrian-born Alpine cameraman Herbert Raditschnig, who shot specialist scenes for the James Bond movies
American special effects technician Philip Barberio died of multiple myeloma on May 8th, aged 60. He worked on
Veteran British film director, screenwriter and producer Val Guest (Valmond Guest) died of prostate cancer in Palm Springs on May 10th, aged 94. A former film journalist, he worked on a number of comedy scripts, including
Former actor turned BBC-TV producer Peter Bryant died on May 19th, aged 82. From 1967–69 he produced and/or story-edited
Two-time Academy Award-winning production designer and art director [Lloyd] Henry Bumstead died of prostate cancer on May 24th, aged 91. He worked on more than 100 films in a career than spanned nearly seventy years, including Hitchcock’s
British documentary film-maker Michael Croucher, who produced and directed the 1973 ghost story TV series
American special effects pioneer Arthur Widmer, who created the Ulta Violet Travelling Matte (a forerunner of the bluescreen optical process), died on May 28th, aged 91.
Oscar-winning computer animation pioneer Bill Kovacs died of complications of a stroke and cerebral haemorrhage on May 30th, aged
Bernard Loomis, one of the first people to successfully market toys through the entertainment industry, died of heart disease on June 2nd, aged 82. From the late 1950s into the 1990s, while working for Mattel, Kenner Toys and other companies, he turned various franchises (including
Pioneering scuba diver Dick Anderson, who served as diving equipment technician in Nassau for Disney’s
Veteran Hollywood director Vincent Sherman (Abram Orovitz) died on June 18th, one month short of his 100th birthday. A former stage and screen actor, he made his directorial debut in 1939 with
British film producer, director and cinematographer Monty Berman (Nestor Montague “Monty” Berman), died on June 20th, aged 93. Born in London’s Whitechapel, he worked with Michael Powell and Carol Reed before teaming up with Robert S. Baker in the late 1940s to turn out a string of low budget “B” movies, including
Aaron Spelling, who began his career as a character actor in the 1950s and went on to become one of the most powerful and influential independent producers in television, died after suffering a stroke on June 23rd, aged 83. His long list of credits include Rod Serling’s short-lived series
Kathy Wood, the widow of cult director Edward D. Wood, Jr (who died in 1978), died of cancer on June 26th, aged 84. She met and married the struggling film-maker in 1955, and worked closely with her husband as an editor and writer on a number of his projects (apparently coming up with the term “solarnite bomb” for
Italian author and film-maker Stanis(lao) Nievo, credited as one of the creators of the “mondo” genre of outrageous film documentaries with
Former vaudeville comedian and country music producer June Carr Ormond died in Nashville of complications from a stroke on July 14th, aged 94. With her husband Ron (who died in 1981), she produced a number of poverty-row Western serials starring Lash LaRue and Fuzzy St. John as well as the 1952 cult classic
Film producer, screenwriter and publicist Sam X. Abarbanel died on August 9th, aged 92. A former publicist for Republic Pictures, he wrote and produced the 1950 cult favourite
Emmy Award-nominated TV documentary writer, producer and director Nicholas Webster died after a long illness on August 12th, aged 94. A bit player in
75-year-old British TV producer and director Kim Mills died after a long illness on August 28th. After working as an assistant director on such films as
Hollywood producer William M. Aldrich, the son of director Robert Aldrich, died of cancer on August 31st, aged 62. He began his career as an actor in his father’s films
Belgian director Remy Belvaux died in northern France on September 4th, aged 38. He co-directed and acted in the 1992 cult film
Italian production manager Armando Govoni died on September 17th, aged 79. After working in the wardrobe department for Mario Bava’s
83-year-old Swedish-born cinematographer Sven Nykvist died of complications from the rare brain disease primary progressive aphasia and Alzheimer’s disease on September 20th. In a career in which he worked with such directors as Ingmar Bergman, Roman Polanski, Woody Allen, Bob Fosse and Andrei Tarkovsky, the two-time Oscar winner’s more than 120 film credits include
American director, writer and producer Stanley Z. Cherry died of cancer on September 27th, aged 74. His various credits include
Italian director Renato Polselli (aka “Ralph Brown”) died on October 1st, aged 84. His many credits include
Veteran film and TV producer Herbert
B. [Breiter] Leonard died of cancer on October 14th, aged 84. He worked in various production capacities on numerous serials and low budget movies, including
Indian entrepreneur Spoony Singh [Sundher], who founded the world-famous Hollywood Wax Museum in 1965, died of congestive heart failure on October 18th, aged 83.
64-year-old Emmy Award-winning cinematographer James M. Glennon died from a blood clot following surgery for prostate cancer on October 19th. As well as working as a camera operator on such films as
Canadian film and TV director Daryl Duke died of pulmonary fribosis on October 21st, aged 77. His credits include
American set designer and art director Roy Barnes died of lung and bone cancer on October 29th, aged 70. His many credits include
Film producer and composer Edward L. Alperson, Jr died on Halloween, aged 81. He received an associate producer credit on the 1986 remake of his father’s classic
Exploitation cinematographer, director, producer, film editor and actor Gary Graver died of cancer on November 16th, aged 68. He collaborated with Orson Welles on such unfinished projects as
Maverick American writer, producer and director Robert [Bernard] Altman died of cancer on November 20th, aged 81. After briefly trying acting (
Japanese director Akio Jissoji died of stomach cancer on November 29th, aged 69. In the mid-1960s, while working for Tokyo Broadcasting System, he created the TV series
Independent American writer, producer and director Don Dohler died of cancer on December 2nd, aged 60. Inspired by reading
83-year-old record producer Ahmet Ertegun, founder of the Atlantic Records label, died on December 14th, after falling and injuring his head at a Rolling Stones concert at New York’s Beacon Theatre on October 29th. In 1947 he borrowed $10,000 to start Atlantic Records, whose artists included Dizzy Gillespie, The Drifters, Bill Haley and the Comets, Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin, Led Zeppelin, Buffalo Springfield and Bobby Darin (Ertegun produced his recording of “Mack the Knife”).
Joseph Barbera, who co-founded the animation studio Hanna-Barbera with William Hanna (who died in 2001), died on December 18th, aged 90. Joining forces at MGM in 1937, the team won seven Academy Awards for their work on
USEFUL ADDRESSES
THE FOLLOWING LISTING OF organisations, publications, dealers and individuals is designed to present readers and authors with further avenues to explore. Although I can personally recommend most of those listed on the following pages, neither the publisher nor myself can take any responsibility for the services they offer. Please also note that the information below is only a guide and is subject to change without notice.
—The Editor
ORGANISATIONS
The British Fantasy Society (
The Friends of Arthur Machen (
The Ghost Story Society (
The Horror Writers Association (
World Fantasy Convention (
World Horror Convention (
SELECTED SMALL PRESS PUBLISHERS
Bloody Books (
Cemetery Dance Publications (
Crowswing Books (
Earthling Publications (
Fantagraphics Books (
Gauntlet Press (
Gray Friar Press (
Hadesgate Publications (
Hill House, Publishers (
Kerlak Publishing (
Medusa Press (
MonkeyBrain Books (
Night Shade Books (
Nocturne Press (
Pendragon Press (
PS Publishing (
Raw Dog Screaming Press (
Sarob Press (
Savoy Books (
Solitude Publications, 9356 Lamont, Livonia, MI 48150, USA. E-mail:
Subterranean Press (
Tachyon Publications (
Telos Publishing Ltd (
Twilight Tales (
Wormhole Books (
SELECTED MAGAZINES
Alan K’s Inhuman Magazine is an attractive digest fiction publication with an old-time pulp feel. For more information (no unsolicited manuscripts) e-mail:
Apex Science Fiction & Horror Digest (
Cemetery Dance Magazine (
Locus (
The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction (
New Genre (
PostScripts: The A to Z of Fantastic Fiction (
Rue Morgue (
SF Site (
Talebones (
Video Watchdog (
Weird Tales (
BOOK DEALERS
Bookfellows/Mystery and Imagination Books (
Borderlands Books (
Cold Tonnage Books (
Ken Cowley offers mostly used SF/fantasy/horror/crime/superna-tural, collectibles, pulps, videos etc. by mail order at very reasonable prices. Write to: Trinity Cottage, 153 Old Church Road, Clevedon, North Somerset, BS21 7TU, UK. Tel: +44 (0)1275–872247. E-mail:
Dark Delicacies (
DreamHaven Books & Comics (
Fantastic Literature (
Fantasy Centre (
Ferret Fantasy, 27 Beechcroft Road, Upper Tooting, London SW17 7BX. George Locke’s legendary mail-order business now shares retail premises at Greening Burland, 27 Cecil Court, London WC2N 4EZ, UK (10:00am-6:00pmweedays;10:00am-5:00pm Sundays). Used SF/ fantasy/horror, antiquarian, modern first editions. Catalogues issued. Tel: +44 (0)20–8767–0029. E-mail:
Ghost Stories run by Richard Dalby issues semi-regular mail order lists of used ghost and supernatural volumes at very reasonable prices. Write to: 4 Westbourne Park, Scarborough, North Yorkshire Y012 4AT, UK. Tel: +44 (0)1723 377049.
Kayo Books (
Porcupine Books offers regular catalogues and extensive mail order lists of used fantasy/horror/SF titles via e-mail
Kirk Ruebotham (
The Talking Dead is run by Bob and Julie Wardzinski and offers reasonably priced paperbacks, rare pulps and hardcovers, with catalogues issued regularly. They accept wants lists and are also the exclusive supplier of back issues of
Ygor’s Books specialises in out-of-print science fiction, fantasy and horror titles, including British, signed, speciality press and limited editions. They also buy books, letters and original art in these fields. E-mail:
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Introduction: Horror in 2006
Summer
Digging Deep
The Night Watch
The Luxury of Harm
Sentinels
The Saffron Gatherers
What Nature Abhors
The Last Reel
The American Dead
Between the Cold Moon and the Earth
Sob in the Silence
Continuity Error
Dr Prida’s Dream-Plagued Patient
The Ones We Leave Behind
Mine
Obsequy
Thrown
Houses Under the Sea
They
The Clockwork Horror
Making Cabinets
Pol Pot’s Beautiful Daughter (Fantasy)
Devil’s Smile
The Man Who Got Off the Ghost Train
Necrology: 2006
Useful Addresses