The Kind Folk (23 page)

He's alone in bed. The curtains are keeping sunlight away from him. In a moment Sophie says something in the main room and approaches down the corridor. She's wearing her most voluminous new dress and carrying a phone. "He's woken up," she tells it and covers it with a hand. "Are you all right, Luke?"

"I am now," he says and does his best to be.

"You'd better speak to him, Freda," Sophie says and hands him the phone.

"I'm sorry if I woke you, son. Sophie says you weren't in till very late."

"Don't worry, I'd rather be awake. Why were you calling?"

"We were wondering if you'd decided what you're doing about Terry's house."

He's disturbed to realise that he hasn't thought of it for days. "The house," he says to Sophie. "We'll be selling it, won't we?"

"It's your house, Luke."

He assumes this means yes—it will have to. "We'll be selling," he says, mostly to Freda.

"Then Maurice and I thought we could give you a hand. You've both got more than enough to do as it is."

Luke is uneasily reminded of his dream by asking "What kind of hand?"

"Maurice and the boys can get the house cleared and then I'll tidy up before you put it up for sale. If it needs sprucing he'll see to that too."

Luke can't see how to turn the offer down; surely there's no reason why he should. "That's very kind," he says and wishes he'd thought of a different word.

"It's nothing of the kind, Luke. It's just what families do." Less reprovingly she says "Was there anything else you wanted to keep from the house?"

This revives his unease. "Besides what?"

"Sophie was saying you'd found Terry's diary. Was there anything in it to help?"

"It shows how obsessed he was with, with things Maurice didn't have much time for." Luke is speaking to Sophie too as he says "That's one way you wouldn't want me taking after him."

"You'll keep it though, will you?" Freda seems anxious to be assured. "It's still a souvenir of him."

"I wouldn't want anyone else to have it," Luke says and asks Sophie "There's nothing else we'd like from the house, is there?"

"I'm not sure there's even that, if you mean the journal."

"So if anything else takes our fancy," Freda says, "you won't mind if we have it."

At once he's nervous on their behalf. "There's a room full of junk and more of it scattered round the house," he says. "I shouldn't think there's anything that would look good in your home."

"We'll see tomorrow. I wouldn't mind something to remember Terry by. Now I'll leave you two together, well, it's more than two."

Luke says goodbye, not having thought of anything more useful, and swings his legs off the bed as he hands Sophie her mobile. As he stands up she says "You'd rather they dealt with the house, then."

"I was a long way away and worried, that's all, with you being twice as precious just now." Luke is hoping this may placate her—surely it's how people manage these situations, whichever this one is—but feels compelled to add "I'm sure they'd like to feel they're helping when we've so much else to handle."

Sophie gazes at him before she says "You're giving me a lot of reasons, Luke."

"Will they do?"

She pauses long enough for him to see they won't. "I've been reading while you were away.
The End of Magic."

She's keeping too much of her expression to herself for Luke to be sure of her feelings. All he can risk saying is "And so... "

He could easily take her silence for an accusation, and her sigh as well. "I didn't get much sleep while I was waiting for you," she says. "I'm going to try and have a nap."

Luke doesn't think she is inviting him to join her. By the time he has finished in the bathroom she's asleep, and he hurries to the computer. While he doesn't know what Sophie has in mind, perhaps that's because the students at the library distracted him from finishing Alvin Page's book. He brings it onscreen and goes to The Last Gift, though even the title of the chapter makes him nervous. As he scrolls through the material he previously read he wishes he could leave all of it behind. He's doing his utmost to feel that it no longer matters when a paragraph he hasn't previously read crawls up the screen, and his fingers clench on the control.

It's another quotation from John Strong. "Whereas once upon a time the Gift was the means by which the Folk of the Moon infiltrated the upstart race, in this barren era it has the function of a charm. That which is least known may be most potent, and the Gift gains power from its ignorance of its own nature, which allows its essence to preserve its secret dream. Its occult strength lies in the depths of its mind where even its own vision, having grown mortal, cannot penetrate. Thus it is capable of reawakening such magic as is hidden in the world, and perhaps the Folk may revive themselves by battening upon the dormant forces it has roused..."

He's surprised not to find this more disturbing. He feels as though he has already dealt with it in the streets that were built over the marsh. Perhaps by acknowledging it he can extinguish its power. As his hand relaxes on the control he hears Sophie murmur in the bedroom. He shuts the computer down and keeps his footsteps quiet in case she's still asleep. A thought appears to have wakened her, and she looks unexpectedly apologetic. "Luke, did you mean what you told Freda?"

"I told her a few things. I should think I meant them all."

"You said you weren't going to inherit Terence's obsession."

Luke doesn't think he quite said that; perhaps Sophie dreamed he did.

Nevertheless he says "I shouldn't think you'd want me to any more than she would."

He can see the answer in her eyes, but there's a question too. She parts her lips for a breath and then says "Do you believe what it says in the Page book?"

"No more than you do."

"Then I don't at all."

"I won't either," Luke vows and takes her hands, which makes his grasp feel sure of itself. "I won't even think of it. Let's never mention it again."

ON THE BALCONY

"Just water in a bottle, thanks. I'll be driving home after the show."

"So long as you aren't sober in the wrong way, hey? Your act is what I'm saying."

"I'll be whatever they want me to be. That's how it works."

"Champion. Here's your tipple, so are you fixed up?"

"Do you mind if I ask you an odd question?"

"The odder the better. I'm more than a shade odd myself."

Luke thinks it's more that the man would like to be. He's Alasdair Hull, the manager of the Elysium. He's wearing a pale green three-piece suit with a leather trilby, beneath which his plump amiable face might look too youthful to have left school if it didn't bear wrinkles several decades old. As Hull resumes his puffy chair behind his office desk, having shut the miniature refrigerator that stands on top of a safe, Luke says "What made you get in touch with me?"

"No other way to book you that I could see. You independent types don't go in for agents any more. You're all the folk you need to be all by yourself."

"Yes, but why did you when you did?"

"Your reputation's spreading, that's all. I'll bet you there are folk here tonight who've never been to the Elysium."

"So what had you heard that prompted you?"

"You won't let me off with saying I got the idea out of my own little head."

"I will if it's true."

"Well, it's not." Hull tweaks the brim of his hat as if he's greeting somebody and says "We have one of our local critics to thank. She does it for the paper and the radio."

"She came to see you about me, you mean."

"As good as. Rang up and I don't know when I've ever heard her sound so enthusiastic."

If Luke were to say he's not surprised it would be mistaken for bragging, and so he says "Would you happen to remember what she said?"

"I do." Hull tips his hat back with a finger, though not far enough to expose his receding hairline. "Don't take this wrong," he says, "but she said we ought to book you while we can afford you."

They're reduced to imitating themselves, Luke thinks. "Will the lady be here tonight?"

"Sadly she won't. I haven't had a chance to tell her you'd be on since she rang, and she's still away on a course. She'll be sorry to have missed you.

Luke knows there's no reason to assume anything of the kind. It has occurred to him to cancel any bookings like this one, but he doesn't want to let anybody down, and what has he to fear? Just because the theatre is close to Crakemoor, which is mentioned in Terence's journal, he isn't about to be tempted to visit the site. As Hull ushers him backstage the manager says "Don't worry because we're empty upstairs. We're renovating but we haven't had to turn anyone away."

An unlit balcony looms over the stalls, which are indeed almost full. It's supported by caryatids Luke assumes are Victorian, however ancient they're feigning to be. Its front edge bears a brass rail divided by a pair of irrelevant decorations, two ridged knobs framed by the elevated aisle. As the audience greets Luke with applause he could think the vibrations have made or are about to make the incongruous objects stir.

He earns more applause and a chorus of sighs by announcing that he's soon to be a father, though he only means to lead into a routine. Here's a father who appears not to know which way up to hold the newborn. Here's another who's afraid he may drop it or squash it or upset it or cause it to spray him. Here's a fellow who's determined not to shed a single joyful tear and grimaces so much that the audience claps as well as laughing. This would encourage Luke more if the items on the balcony weren't responding as well, letting go of the rail so as to stretch their fingers wide and perform a parody of applause. In a moment they grip the rail again, and the body rises into view between them.

Too much of it seems to be elsewhere. It puts Luke in mind of a foetus that has withered in some inhuman womb. He could easily imagine that the bloated head, which is still working on some of its features, has floated up like a grinning balloon and drawn the pallid fleshless torso after it. It isn't unexpected, he tells himself, and it won't distract him. Here's one of those aunts who are convinced you have to address children in a special way, as if you're really talking to everyone else within quite a distance. Here's a relative who uses babies as an excuse to revert to speaking in no recognisable language. Here's one who doesn't care for children but feels bound not to show it, except that every wince and nervously valiant smile and earnest bid for friendship does...

The occupant of the balcony is displeased by all the laughter. Perhaps it feels that Luke should be paying it more attention. While the tiny eyes are unreadable—they're so deeply sunken that they appear to have shrivelled into the head—the corners of the lipless mouth have sagged on either side of the toadstool lump of a chin. Luke is inspired to portray someone determined to ignore a child, which produces several minutes of fun, and so does an impression of a father desperate to pretend he isn't wheeling a baby in a buggy, that unmanly task. The antics of the intruder in the balcony prompt Luke to demonstrate the lengths to which people will go in their attempts to disregard others while trying not to seem to do so. A whitish tongue, unless it's a discoloured worm, has writhed out of the mouth to dangle down the chin as the figure wags its head at him and lifts its hands on either side of the undeveloped face to give the ancient sign twice. Luke is reminded of a child who's eager to provoke a chase, except that the antics strike him as senile. They aren't going to put him off, although eventually he falls back on trusted material: the infectious tics, the verbal ones, the bank robber who ends up on the Brittan show. He feels as if he has been driven to imitate himself, even if the audience can't know. The waves of mirth appear to goad the intruder to desperation, and it prances back and forth on the balcony, grimacing so hideously that the contortions look capable of wrenching such features as it has into a different shape, not necessarily that of a face. Luke hears boards clatter beneath its tread, and some of the people seated under the balcony glance up. Suppose somebody on the staff goes to look? No doubt they wouldn't see the culprit, and Luke applies himself to doing likewise. At last his show is over, and he glimpses a shape crouching out of view as light floods the auditorium.

He suspects he's meant to know that his tormentor is hiding and to look out for it elsewhere. It isn't visible as the audience makes for the bar or the street, and Luke can't see it when he leaves the Elysium once Alasdair Hull has finished enthusing about him. Even if the presence helped intensify his nervous energy onstage, he can live without that kind of stimulus. The payment machine at the entrance to the multi-storey opposite the theatre sticks out the tongue of his parking ticket, and a shivering lift carries him up to the fifth level, past floors indistinguishable from one another except for the occasional parked car. Nothing moves on the expanses of concrete blanched by fluorescent lights, and he could imagine that the July heat has grown so stagnant it has sapped the night of life. But as he steers the Lexus out of its space he sees a figure waiting for him.

It's crouching on top of the wall at the far end of the fifth level, gripping the concrete edge with its toes, which are as long as his fingers. He has to drive towards it —there's no other way out of the car park—and as he does so it lifts its hands to frame its face. The hands are describing the sign and perhaps also drawing attention to the absence of a mouth in the round whitish lump. In the middle of the floor Luke swings the car down a ramp and glimpses the figure dropping like a spider off the wall. As the car turns onto the fourth floor he sees that his follower has perched on the wall there to await him.

It plays the trick all the way down to the last floor but one. He wouldn't be surprised to find it loitering like a hitchhiker at the exit barrier, but the ground level is deserted. As he drives through Leeds towards the motorway he thinks he sees a figure scuttling past the far ends of terraced streets. When he arrives at the lonely junction the motorway overlooks, at first the only sign of life appears to be the operation of the traffic lights that guard the empty roads. He's driving up to the motorway when a scrawny malformed shape vaults onto the ramp and scurries ahead of him.