by Tanith Lee
Roger smiled. A wide, teeth-baring smile.
The vampire blinked. “What the –?”
He didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence.
Roger crouched on the fire escape. He could hear the younger vampire stalking along the empty street, calling to his buddy, his tone taking on a crackly edge of worry.
Roger stomped on the fire escape floor. The metal twanged, and the boy raced into the alley, then stopped and looked around.
“Tim?” he said.
Roger dropped from the fire escape. He didn’t thump when he hit the pavement. You didn’t reach his age by being noisy and careless.
“Tim?” the boy called, louder.
“Over there,” Roger said.
The boy whirled, stumbling. Seeing Roger, he tried to find a suitably menacing glower, but couldn’t quite manage it.
“Over there.” Roger pointed at the trash bags littering the end of the alley. A boot stuck out from behind one. “And over there.” He pointed to a lock of blond hair peeking from behind another. “I think there’s part of a hand over there, too, but that was an accident. Getting old. The reflexes are the first thing to go.”
The boy looked from body part to body part, then turned to stare at Roger.
“You know what else happens when you get old?” Roger continued. “You get comfortable. Set in your ways. You find a city like this.” He waved around them. “You settle in. You make it your own. And you really, really hate it when some young bloods waltz in and crap all over the place.” He ran his tongue over his teeth, letting his fangs extend. “It’s very inconvenient.”
The boy backed up. “I-I didn’t know. . .”
“But you should. It’s basic respect. You don’t have it and, I’m sorry to say, it doesn’t look like anything you’re capable of learning. Now I need to clean up the mess you made.”
The boy bolted. He managed to dodge Roger and raced onto the road. But he didn’t get far.
Roger was finishing up when his cell phone rang. He checked the call display. Leslie.
“Please tell me you’re on your way,” she said when he answered.
“On my way…?”
“To Fresno’s? For drinks? At eleven?”
He swore.
“Forgot, didn’t you?” she said with a chuckle. “You’re getting old, Roger.”
“So I’ve been told.” He sighed and finished tucking the young vampire’s body behind the trash bags. “So I’ve been told.”
Beside him, Lowe rattled on about arrival times, departure times, transportation to the city, agendas... At some point, Shard thought, this trip would end. At some point, by extension, Lowe would stop talking. Shard pointed his fingertips at the world below, aimed, fired... The shuttle banked and he missed. Roby was gone from view – but it was still there, he knew. It had always been there. Shard snapped, “I’m not so far gone I can’t remember what you’ve told me three times already.”
Lowe stopped, perplexed rather than cowed. He was a careful young man, well-informed and attentive to detail, untroubled by any broader passions, making up in precision what he lacked in perception. Usually Shard preferred it that way; not now.
“On arrival at the port,” Shard said, “a car will be waiting to take us to the capital, where accommodation has been arranged for the duration of our stay in the fourth tower. Tomorrow morning – eighth hour, free standard – another car will take us to the Archive. After which –” this said bitterly, “– I’m on my own.”
“Exactly so.” Lowe, content, returned to his briefings, with no apparent appreciation of Shard’s irony. Shard’s hatred peaked – then passed, like his nausea, like all things.
It all unfolded much as Lowe had sketched, with the single notable exception of the protest that was waiting for them between the port and the first of the promised cars. Under siege in the arrival hall, Shard looked out to see upwards of fifty people, few of them old enough to remember the war, carrying banners executed with an otherwise uplifting degree of competence and literacy, chanting their complaint with no small grasp of rhythmic structure. Their unifying theme was their hatred of Shard. The local police watched affably from the side and showed no particular interest in moving them. Grimly, Shard said, “Now this wasn’t in the itinerary.”
Lowe did not reply. He was deep in the grip of that paralysis that overwhelms functionaries when their best-laid plans prove susceptible to simple human irrationality. He was not, Shard saw, going to be any use.
After thorough consideration of the terrain, the nature of the enemy, and the men and materiel at his disposal, Shard was in a position to offer a professional appraisal of their situation. “I suggest, Mr Lowe, that we make a run for it.” Seeing Lowe baulk, he hastened to explain. “All we have to do is get through the crowd and across the road.”
“That’s all?”
“The passenger doors are on this side of the car, see? You make for the front and I’ll head for the back. Keep your head down and your forearms up – like this, see? Don’t stop. It’s me they’re after, anyway.”
Lowe was not measurably comforted. Shard took hold of his elbow and marshalled him through the doors, into the hard light and cold air of Roby, amongst the signs and voices calling him evil and butcher and murderer.
The doors closed behind them. Shard surveyed the mob and the mob stared back. Then it moved in, with a single purpose.
Battle was joined. Shard lost hold of Lowe within seconds. In the crush and the chaos, he stumbled, falling forwards with a gasp, an old man on his knees. Somebody laughed. Just before he hit the ground, the police intervened, swooping in as if to relieve a falling city. Two of them gathered up the visitors, while the rest formed a barrier to let them pass, calling to the crowd that it was over, that they had had their fun.
They deposited them on the far side of the road and would not accept thanks. In the sanctuary of the car, Lowe inspected the marks on his arm which would shortly become bruises. “I had not anticipated that.”
Shard was too busy trying to slow his heart rate to be able to point out that such was Lowe’s entire purpose. By the time he had his breath back, the moment had passed, but he was able to communicate enough silent fury to penetrate even Lowe’s thick skin. They journeyed to the capital in silence. Shard brooded on his reception. It was the youth of his assailants that troubled him most; how long this hatred had lasted, how deep it must still run, down even to this generation, which had not been born when he was last here and could only know him through the medium of history lessons, propaganda. Was there to be no end?
Full darkness had fallen by the time the car landed at their accommodation. Shard’s room was functional but clean. By this point all he cared about was the bed. “Marshal,” Lowe said, “we should go through the agenda for tomorrow.”
It was too much. Shard – sick in heart and body, wearied almost beyond relief from the journey, from the events of the day, from all that had brought him back here so late in life – snapped. He strode over to the door and threw it open. “Get out! You bloody halfwit! Get the hell out!”
Lowe, bewildered, blinked twice and then withdrew. With peace of a kind restored, Shard could devote himself again to throwing up, in privacy if not in comfort. This done, he drew the curtains, blocking out any sight of the city beyond. Then he lay down on his bed and returned to that solitary contemplation of our mortality which is the nightly pursuit of many, not simply sick old men, and in which we should all on occasion be indulged – even those of Shard’s stripe.
On the Grey Road
Alison Littlewood
The road was grey and empty and headed straight across the moor, and to Paul it came as a relief. The route that wound upward towards this place had seemed to be deliberately holding him back; and he wasn’t a tourist, wasn’t here for the view. Now the ground spread away on all sides, rust-coloured with bracken, divided by silver gashes of water and edged by the Highland peaks beyond. There was nothing else to be seen, no houses,
no people, only the road cutting through it all, taking him onward to the place his mother had died.
I’ll come and see you, he’d said, after the divorce. But the divorce was finalised a year ago, his father moving south, his mother north, as if repelled like magnets with similar poles, and Paul still hadn’t got round to making the trip. The heart attack had been sudden, the funeral held where his grandparents lived, in Wiltshire. There was nothing here he wanted: only a property that was left to him, a house he had never seen – and a raging hollow inside, one formed as much from anger as sorrow. She had only been forty-three. She was looking forward to starting again.
After a time the road began to fall, dropping steeply, edging around a gorge where white water poured from the mountains. Ahead and below, blue water shone; it was Loch Leven, and Paul knew his journey was almost done.
The house was small and cramped and it was odd to see his mother’s things there. It was in a row of other small houses, all made of grey stone, thatched in what looked like blackened heather. Water hung in the air, too listless to fall as rain, and it was cold.
Inside the house wasn’t any warmer. Paul stood in the lounge and spun in a circle, taking in the small television, the nick-nacks, the photographs on a shelf. He went to pick one up, saw a picture of himself as a young boy, his mother smiling next to him. His dad was nowhere to be seen.
He looked into the kitchen, then a small room that had been turned into a study, papers strewn across the desk. The last room was his mother’s bedroom and Paul didn’t go in, just stood in the doorway. The bed wasn’t made and it looked as if she could have stepped out of it five minutes ago, got up and stretched, could have been pottering around elsewhere in the house. That made Paul’s back prickle. He shook the feeling off; he was being stupid. It was like when he was a young boy, and a friend had switched off the light and told Paul not to think of ghosts; it just wasn’t possible. He closed the door to his mother’s room and went to find a radio or something else with which to fill the house with noise.
Paul drew the curtains against the gathering dark and settled into the most comfortable chair in the room, a mug of coffee steaming on the table next to him. He realised he’d forgotten to bring a book and instead selected one from the shelf: A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. He’d never liked Dickens, not really, though his mother had encouraged him to persevere; odd that she only seemed to have succeeded now she was gone.
There was a sound – a soft tap at the door – and Paul started. After a moment, he rose to answer. When he reached the hall he could see that the front door was already partway open and a short woman stood in the gap, her fine white hair blowing like candyfloss around her scalp. She didn’t smile but she pushed something towards him, and he caught its scent: apple pie.
“I thought ye might need it, hen,” she said. “I didnae know ye’d arrived a’ready.”
Paul blinked, wondered if he was supposed to have been expecting her. He glanced at the open door.
“Ah, lad, we’re friendly round these parts. We don’t lock our doors. Are ye no goin’ ter offer a neighbour a cup o’ tea?”
He apologised, stepped back and invited her inside.
The pie was still warm from the oven, generous and deep. They ate slices of it, the neighbour – Mrs Lennox – on the sofa, Paul on his mother’s chair.
“I was sorry about your mother,” she said. “She was nice. Friendly. A nice woman.”
Paul found himself unable to answer. He nodded, tried to swallow pastry that was clogging his throat.
“Perhaps she found what she wanted now though, eh?”
“Sorry?”
“Well, you know. The way she was chasin’ here and chasin’ there – wanting to know about all the ghosties an’ goblins.” said Mrs Lennox. “Enough to turn your hair white.” She tossed her head and smiled.
“She was what?” Paul frowned. His mother hadn’t been like that, had never shown a second’s interest in such things. He tried to recall if she’d ever mentioned anything on the telephone, but he couldn’t remember her even reading a scary novel, unless he counted A Christmas Carol.
“Ay, sweet, she went all o’er the place after it, she did. Especially around this time o’ day.”
“After it?”
“Well aye, the greyman, o’ course.” She said greyman as if it was all one word, raised her eyebrows as if thinking him a fool. For a moment, Paul wondered if he was; or if maybe she had wandered into the wrong house.
She let out a sharp laugh. “Now you’re thinking I’m losing my marbles, are ye not? I see it.” She set down her plate, leaned forward, tapped her finger to the side of her nose. “I’m not, laddie. I know what your mother said, not that it matters now, bless her soul. But she went up in the hills after it, she did. Supposed to walk the tops, they are, terrifying anyone who goes there.” She paused. “She thought it were himsel’ that was taking the others.”
“Others?”
“Of course: the others.” She looked suddenly old. “The others. The ones who died like she did.”
Paul stared at her, shook his head. Where had she got such strange ideas? But then, she’d probably done the same thing to his mother, come round here spinning wild tales, and his mother would have been too polite to laugh at her. Now Mrs Lennox didn’t look at him, just took small sips of her tea, staring into the fireplace. He wondered what she was seeing; certainly not the same thing he did.
As soon as he could he showed her out, muttering pleasantries, though he was still thinking about what she’d told him. No: if his mother had been chasing some ghost, it was because she’d become interested in the area, its colour, its stories; nothing more. She simply hadn’t been that credulous.
She thought it were himsel’ that was taking the others.
Paul shook his head, forced a smile. He thought of the way the woman had opened the door; made sure he locked it before turning in for the night.
Paul tried to sleep on the sofa, lay awake listening to the rain rapping on the windows. Soon he would get the place listed with an estate agent, a clean white sign outside, and his mother’s things would be gone: a new beginning, for someone. He got up once during the night and pulled aside the curtains. Outside he saw nothing but the outline of more houses, their windows dark. He looked up and beyond them. He knew the hills were there, but he couldn’t see them; there was only an area that was blacker than the rest. He squinted. Had his mother really imagined some creature up there? It must be a foolish thing to haunt such a place. He shuddered, pulled the curtains closed, and tried to sleep once more.
The study was the first thing. Paul knew the ornaments would have to go, the books; but he couldn’t think of moving them, not yet. His visitor of the night before had piqued his curiosity. Was there really any truth in it? He went in, sat down at the desk. Although the house had been closed up this room felt bright, airy; light streamed in, streaking the walls.
There was a picture on the desk. It was of a face carved in wood, peering from between oak leaves, mouth open, tongue sticking out. He grimaced, put the image aside. Beneath it was a book on the mysterious places of Scotland; below that, printouts, something about brownies, selkies, the sidhe, then Am Fear Liath Mòr, the greyman. He rested his hand on it a moment, closed his eyes. Hadn’t he known his mother at all? He scanned the page about the greyman, read something about a supernatural presence haunting the peak of Ben MacDhui – the sound of spectral footsteps that would follow hikers through the mist, the terror it inspired in all who heard it. He frowned, turned the page to see a map; the mountain it spoke of was miles and miles away. At the bottom, written in his mother’s hand, were the words: Another type? Sound only. If seen, seen only once. And then, a single word, underlined: cold.
Paul frowned and pushed the papers away. What on Earth had she been doing, writing a book or something? She’d never said anything to him, never mentioned this. He leafed through the rest, glancing at notes, local legends listed and tagged. Surely t
hat must be what she had been doing; it couldn’t be anything else. Then, at the bottom, he found in her writing: The minister. He knows the grey.
Paul looked up, stared at the wall. Photographs had been pinned to it: an island in the loch, a hilltop wreathed in mist, a small church. His mother, smiling into the camera. She was wearing walking shoes and a padded jacket, and she looked happy. She stood on a slope covered with springy heather, some place Paul had never been and didn’t know. He glanced out of the window. Perhaps he should get outside, go and see the things she had seen; it was one way to bring her back, if only for a while.
He frowned. Was that why he had chosen that book to read, last night – to bring his mother back? But anyway, a walk would do him good, and he could call by the church on the way. Without thinking, he took the sheet of paper, folded it and slipped it into his pocket before he went out.
The church was larger than Paul had expected, made of dour grey stone and rising tall into a pointed tower. From this angle, close to the front door, it seemed bigger than the mountains beyond. He was still peering upward, seeing catches of blue sky through breaks in the cloud, when someone called a greeting; a moment later Paul heard the sound of footsteps. He turned to see a minister carrying a trug full of weeds, the man’s face reddened with exertion, only a dog collar belying his profession.
“I’m Mrs Heyward’s son,” Paul said. He found it odd to identify himself by someone who was gone, but the minister showed no sign of it being strange; he merely nodded, held up his hands to show they were too dirty to shake, and led the way inside.
“Tea,” he said later, while they sat on a pew and sipped. “Drink of the lord, if I may say so.”
Paul smiled, cradling a mug in his hands. He’d never really liked tea, had only accepted because doing so would make it easier to talk; now he didn’t know what to say.
“So what brings you here, son? Your mother was a good woman, but she didn’t attend, not really.”