Unquiet Dreams (11 page)

Margaret walked over to the fridge, opened the door and scanned the contents. Nope, nope, nope—bingo! The communal coffee can would be perfect. She grabbed it and began shuffling through the detritus on top of the big Frigidaire. Ah, here, a simple brown paper bag. She snapped off the plastic lid and dumped the coffee into the bag. If she had to explain anything—well, she could think of something; people were always needing coffee cans for something. It wouldn't be the first time one disappeared.

Shielding her left hand within the safety of the flashlight's beam, Margaret set the can down in what she hoped was an appealing position. Taking a deep breath, she put her foot down between the can and the wall (but closer to the can), trying to tempt the void from its hiding place. Seconds passed; a minute—nothing happened. Then stealthily the shade oozed silkily across the floor and onto her foot. Margaret shivered once, convulsively, then leaned over to switch on the power strip. The corner was flooded with light, and she felt the thing's alarm, flattening around her foot, trying to soak up what little shadow there was, panicking when Margaret withdrew her foot. She could swear—almost—that she heard a kind of high-pitched keening, barely audible, maybe only in her mind. And the next moment the void jumped into the can, curling in on itself away from the glare.

Margaret scooped up the can and a charge—electric, yes, but something more—went through her hands. But she could not resist the urge. Margaret looked into the depths of the can and met cold hate. It swirled angry, frightened, caught. Black folding into black, it radiated darkness and rage. And hunger, an all-consuming hunger—it roiled and turned on itself and Margaret could feel the heat and hate as if shimmering from its surface, the surface which was something more than black—a vacuum, a void, not so much a presence as an absence, a gaping need that wanted to draw her in, that threatened even now to jump and consume her. With a sob Margaret thrust the can directly under the nearest light and then the shriek was real, long, mouthless yet audible, pain and rage and despair more eloquent than words, more horrible than she could have imagined, taking with it all the silent deaths it had consumed, choking them back as if a last sustenance. Turning on itself, getting smaller, denser—Margaret knew that if she came any closer to it now, she would be sucked into the vortex, spinning itself ever smaller, tighter, deadlier. And then with a pop, it was simply gone. Even as she saw it disappear, Margaret couldn't believe, no, not even when she heard it. Not until the last of the electric charge faded from her fingers did she finally slump, drop the can, and exhale noisily. It was really gone.

It took her longer to put all the lamps away, carefully restoring them to their original positions on the desks, but the minutes flew by. As frightened as she had been all day, Margaret was now occupied with a sense of wonder. More things in heaven and earth, the phrase went—she knew not from where it came, something learned in school no doubt—more things indeed. Some of them quite horrible, she now knew. But what marvels too, surely, must be somewhere awaiting discovery. The thought exhilarated her.
I think I'll go down and have a drink too
. Margaret grinned.
I feel like celebrating
.

 

 

for M.E.S.

"I know where to get you some."

Hanley looked up. Nagle sat there, nodding a little too fast, knee jittering like a piston. Madman: he was on something hoppy again, overdoing it. Expanding his head, he always claimed; next he would be seeing giant moths. Again. "Get what?"

"Mandrake anthrax." He breathed the words like an incantation.

A shiver wormed down Hanley's spine. "It's not real. Just a song, like." Yet he could feel his tongue working in his mouth already, ready to taste it.

Nagle smiled. "Riley told me."

"That fucker's a liar."

"Not that he had it, that it was real. He was looking." Nagle leaned toward Hanley, bringing his scabby chops a little too close for comfort. "But I found it."

"I thought you were going to help me move," Hanley said, grabbing the empty Tennent's box and sweeping some CDs into it. "The housing association won't let me stay past this week."

"Too right."

Hanley looked at him. "You all right there?"

"Sure, sure, sure. And yourself?" For a moment Nagle appeared to connect with this realm. His too blue eyes clouded over again and the hum returned.

"No, I'm fucking not. These arse-lickers have it in for me. I should emigrate." He threw a few more CDs in the box then sighed. Moving made him feel fifty years old. I should be on the trail of some fine pilsner, Hanley thought, fuck this for a laugh.

"It's not far," Nagle urged, knee jerking even faster. "Just down the street, number 63. Decadence and anarchy, eh?" Nagle nodded more, seemingly unable to stop once he started.

"You will drive me insane with that," Hanley said, irritation finally getting the better of him. "Could you stop feckin' nodding for two minutes together?"

Nagle looked wounded. "Sorry, mate."

"Mate." Hanley kicked the Tennent's box. He wished it were a dog. Or Nagle.

"Friend o' my youth, brother in arms, ancestral sage," Nagle crooned.

Hanley laughed. "Feckin' eejit!" Anything had to be better than packing: a reasonable offer. "Right. How much you got?"

Nagle's eyes flashed and he jumped to his feet. The man practically danced. "Plenty, plenty. Had a little visit home this week. Yourself?"

"I put a wee bit by." It was no less than the truth. The crisp blues had been destined for Connolly's or Garavan's and a swiftly flowing river of lager. Perhaps a man ought to expand his horizons on occasion—not as far as Nagle, mind. "Right-o."

"Go round there then, shall we?"

In the streets below the rain pelted down and the wind howled mournful. Hanley pulled his collar up. Nagle shuffled along beside him, the hum audible even in that din. How much longer would the Crimbo lights be up? Surely the city paid good money to unstring them even at the holiday rate.

"Here." Nagle nodded but once. Lesson learned.

Hanley eyed the brick The door proved to be a gothic affair, metal bound and painted all black. Seeing no modern convenience, he lifted the oversized bat knocker and clapped it to a few times. They both craned their ears but all around them it was suddenly as quiet as death as if all the people had walked hand in hand into the bay abandoning the city behind them. Hanley shuddered.

When he had just about surrendered all hope and began to get thirsty for a tall foamy pint, the door groaned open to reveal a disheveled looking eurotrash reject of indeterminate age. "What?"

Hanley found him off-putting. Nothing like a youngster thinking he was better than he was to rile him. Nagle must have sensed it. He swayed in and said, "We're here to see your man."

The dull-witted young man stared for a moment, as if he were about to refuse, then shouted over his shoulder, "Gregor, coupla pugs for ye." He moved himself with the door to allow the two to pass.

"Thanks, pikey," Hanley muttered. His mam wouldn't have held with such rudeness, but Hanley figured the kid ought to have been to them. Unprofessional it was.

They walked along the corridor to the sitting room at the back. The afternoon light—such as it was—filtered in through the net curtains and lit a strange scene. Cholly Case sat on the mock-leather sofa, the parts of some fancy gun spread out before him as he polished a shiny piece. He nodded to Hanley, then went back to his work. At the table a Dutch woman sat there weeping and playing Solitaire.

Gregor raised his hands in greeting. "My friends, welcome!"

Nagle oozed obsequiousness. "Gregor, you're looking lively."

"It's no less than the truth," the dealer agreed. "What'll you be having today? A little crack with your craic."

Hanly grimaced. The joke was so old it had a beard in his grandfather's youth. "None of your cut-rate Polish grinder."

Their host smiled, a magnificent and beneficent beam. "May the cat eat you."

Nagle intervened. "We were after some mandrake anthrax." He managed to invoke the words without betraying the hunger behind them.

Gregor's surprise could not be hidden, but he recovered quickly. "How quickly it spreads, the word." He named a price. It was sufficiently astronomical to be convincing.

Nagle nodded at Hanley. This time he could not cease the jerky motion. "We'll do it."

Gregor looked from one to the other of them. The Dutch woman sniffled. Without another word, he turned and went to the cupboard below the sink. When he returned, Gregor held out a bottle. Its black letters spelled Hex.

"Mandrake Anthrax," he cooed.

Somehow the bottle seduced. Hanley's fingers itched to hold it. The dark green curves would fit his hand like an old friend. He couldn't smell it, yet it tickled his senses. It had been the right thing. His tongue moved, lascivious.

Hanley handed over his folding money and swigged.

The effects came instantly. His belly boiled with its heat. His skull expanded. His mouth began to laugh. Nagle looked so small beside him. That seemed to be funny as well and he threw his head back to guffaw with abandon.

The room widened. The moon peeked in. How had the time passed? Nagle chattered, his arms stalks waving in the gloaming. For some reason it angered Hanley.

Gregor poked a finger at him, but Hanley did not let it dissuade him. His legs propelled him across the darkened room as if they were moving through meringue. Nagle shrank in the twilight. No more than a bug, Hanley thought. With both hands he grabbed the wee man's ears. He pulled Nagle's head off and watched it skitter up the wall. The eyes blinked at him from their perch. His humour returned. No point moving, he realised. I'm already in hell. Hanley laughed his own head off.

 

 

In memory of William Blake

Out here you can see America, the real America—small roads, small towns, small minds, all littered with the detritus of waste, despair, and greed. I spend my days chasing the broken white lines of the numbered passages between those towns. I have crossed the borders of the whole forty-eight on an elliptical path that gives a wide berth to the yellow clusters of city centers on my ragged maps. I know cities. It's not any kind of prejudice that I don't visit them anymore, just a need to avoid the limelight; the shadows it casts are too strong for someone of my age. The lights of a small town are just right, a bouquet of neon, headlights, and flickering fluorescence. Makes me feel pretty.

Today I'm driving an old red Honda. It's been a while since I have driven a stick shift and I'm always amazed how quickly the rhythm returns. What is it about shifting gears that turns you into Mario Andretti? I had to catch myself. Smiling, laughing, and singing along with some old rock-n-roll tune about love and longing, I had let the needle creep up to almost ninety. No need to get anyone's attention—not that I don't have a valid driver's license and a clean record, but you never know when you'll meet someone who isn't sufficiently numbed by television and advertisements, someone who still pays attention. Or more importantly, notices things. I can pass, among most people. But in the daylight it's harder, and this is a glorious day of wide open blue skies from horizon to horizon, a glistening sparkle charging from every shiny surface. Birds sing so loudly and so energetically that droppings fly out their other ends from the sheer strain of it. It's a day for grins and fast driving. Even this rusty Civic seems to spring to the challenge and I pass by many a potential town because I have to keep driving, feeling the wind whip by through the open window, seeing the countryside slip away. It's almost like flying, and I bury the thought and the melancholy it provokes. Just for today I will be happy, just for today I will enjoy what I have: an open road, a fast car, and my freedom.

When at last I have to stop, dusk has crept across the plains. Blue has already become lavender and the big orange globe has sunk wistfully beneath the crust. At the gas station I pat the Honda tenderly and fill it with premium grade gasoline. She deserves it. I look around me. I could be anywhere. The gas-n-go is one of a chain, though not one of the big ones. Coffee is cheap and the adverts garish. What could be in 99¢ hot dog that you would want to eat? People poison themselves with what is cheap and easy. Less than a hundred years ago, dinner was still an occasion. Where's the joy? Where's the real pleasure? I shiver at the thought of trying one frank just for the vicarious thrill, but it would be risky. Even though my overbig jacket disguises my form, the harsh interior lights always make me feel naked and unbearably wrinkly. Ah, vanity! I have been so grateful for the rise of the self-service station. It's a pity people have adapted to it, too. They just don't appreciate their liberty to come and go. I have been hiding so long; it makes me weep to see what freedoms they relinquish without a moment's reflection or even the slightest tear.

Having crossed that invisible border and entered town, I reconcile myself to getting something to eat. It's not really dark enough, but in these small towns darkness hangs at the fringes and in the corners of the strip malls. There's a place where all is hidden, forgotten, non-existent, where nobody knows your name. It doesn't take too long to find one.

In the south the euphemism is "gentleman's club." Some dim remembrance of a lost time that perhaps only existed among a small elite, or perhaps only in the pages of bright magazines and thick novels, today it means nothing more than darkness, longing and money. Sex is there, but it's a by-product. The main transaction is between loneliness and cash. Surrounded by teaming populations, they are all so alone. Some fear, some loathe, but they are all alike in their certainty that it cannot be theirs any other way. I talk to them about it, sometimes, why they think they cannot have it, why it eludes them. For many, it is simply that they are unwilling to exert the effort it would require. They want the world and they want it now, but lacking any extraordinary ability, they have nothing with which to reach out and snare it. But others see only a shadow world, twisted and darkened by their own stunted failures with disappointments piled like corpses to cover any glimpse of their own true reflection. They cannot see their own beauty and they work seemingly day and night to erode it. Even in their imperfection I find glory, but they are blind.