by Stephen King
Good.
“I don’t think we’ll ever know,” I said. “But the place was a firetrap, Mom. It was going to happen eventually. If you think about it, I’ll bet even you knew that.”
“I’m not sure I did,” she said, wide-eyed, struggling to remember what she hadn’t been present enough to experience in the first place to even imprint a memory. But now new memories would come. That I was sure of.
“How did I get out of there?” I asked. “I can’t quite remember. And Lou! Where’s Lou?”
“Why, I pulled you out, Jo,” Mom said. “I led your brother out, too. That’s what mothers do.”
It was only then that I noticed my brother hopping at the side of the house, shoulders hunched, approaching and retreating from the remains of what had both nurtured and trapped him, reaching out as if he wanted to pluck possessions from within, but realizing he dared not get too close. Eventually, empty-handed, shoulders hunched, he slowly came to stand beside us.
“We’ve lost everything,” he said, seeing, but not seeing.
“No,” I said, pulling him close so that we were both hugging our mother tight. Our mother. “No … we haven’t.”
RECOGNIZING TREES
CIARÁN PARKES
I recognize some of them,
a chestnut tree, a copper beech maybe.
It’s a kind of game,
giving everything a name
when they’re only molecules, moving randomly.
I recognize some of them,
a group of pigeons, a squirrel that looks tame
chasing breadcrumbs, walking down a tree.
It’s a kind of game,
this struggle to survive, to claim
meaning for everything, store it in a library.
I recognize some of them
but none of the people here who came
on lunch breaks, with take-away cups of coffee.
It’s a kind of game
even if I decide not to play it, just remain
on this park bench in a kind of numb frenzy.
I recognize some of them,
it’s a kind of game.
KNOW YOUR CODE
RAMSEY CAMPBELL
THEY’RE PASSING a cash dispenser on their way home from the restaurant when Audrey says “Let’s have a word.”
“Do we need any money just now?” At once Vernon feels ashamed; though he may be carrying enough, he shouldn’t assume she is. “Hide,” he says.
“I hid.”
It isn’t simply a private joke, but Vernon hopes it’s sufficiently private, because a man is seated against the wall in which the dispenser is embedded. Since they’ve retired Audrey has developed a habit of murmuring the digits under her breath while she types them, and Vernon doesn’t want the fellow to overhear. He pulls out his wallet and extracts the debit card as he dodges past his wife. “How much would you like?”
The man with his legs splayed across the pavement tilts his head as if Vernon is addressing him. No doubt he hopes users of the machine will feel impelled to donate to him, and Vernon suspects that Audrey might have given away too much of their cash. “May as well have a hundred,” she says.
Vernon leans on the stick he’s had to use since last year and slips the card into the slot with a resolutely steady hand. Has the man driven the code out of his head? He manages not to say the words aloud, though recovering them from his mind feels close to hearing them along with the digits they represent: nine eight nine four. He snatches the card as the slot inches it out and stuffs the notes into his pocket. “You don’t need it right now, do you?” he barely asks and is turning away from the dispenser when the man at his feet says “Mr Henshall?”
For the first time Vernon looks directly at him. His scalp is cropped close as a prisoner’s, and his reddened eyes seem to have seen far too much for comfort. Vernon doesn’t know why the sharp unshaven face, which is weathered almost to the bone, should appear familiar until Audrey murmurs “Is that Billy Meredith?”
The man keeps his gaze on Vernon, who finds this worse than impolite. “My wife has the notion we taught you at school.”
“That’s right, Mr Henshall, you did.” The man looks sympathetic, presumably because of Vernon’s reliance on the stick. “I know it’s been years,” he says. “Billy Meredith.”
“So Mrs Henshall said. Well then,” Vernon says as if Meredith has misbehaved yet again, “I thought we’d set you on the right track. What’s brought you to this state?”
“No jobs.” Before Vernon can argue with this Meredith says “I joined the army when I left school, but now they don’t want us out there any more. A lot of us are surplus to requirements.”
“It can’t have done your mind much good. You never know what will affect it.”
“I’m genuinely sorry to hear that, Billy.” Vernon suspects Meredith is with him in wishing Audrey hadn’t spoken. “Aren’t there organisations that can help you?” he hopes aloud.
“They’ve done what they can,” Billy says and stands up with a litheness Vernon finds daunting. “How are you getting home?”
Vernon can’t help feeling glad that Meredith doesn’t know where they live. “This doesn’t stop me driving,” he says, brandishing the stick.
“I’m only asking because it seems like you’ve had a bit to drink.” Before Vernon can retort that it’s a good deal truer of the man whose breath is in his face, Meredith says “And if you want one here’s a cab.”
The roof of the approaching vehicle flickers with a succession of streetlamps, which make it harder to distinguish the lit sign. Vernon wasn’t planning to drive, and he feels bound to thank Meredith for stopping the taxi. Meredith opens the door too, and as Audrey climbs in she glances back. The light under the roof seems to rejuvenate her wide generous face, and so does a glimpse of the concern she always showed when teaching. “Vernon,” she whispers.
She’s playing the role of his conscience. He rummages in his pocket and snags the topmost of the wad of notes—just five pounds, he’s relieved to see. He shakes Meredith’s rough hand before leaving the note in it as he clambers into the taxi. “I hope we’ve helped,” he mutters, trying not to take the man’s uncertain expression for ingratitude. Once he has told the driver where they want to go he can’t help murmuring “Does it make you glad we never had children?”
“We did, Vernon.” This unnerves him—surely her memory hasn’t deteriorated so much—until she says “We had them at school.”
“Of our own, I meant. We wouldn’t have been able to leave those behind.”
“Maybe some people never really leave us if we don’t make them.”
Is this a gentle rebuke about Meredith? As Vernon tries to distinguish her face now that the light is off, the driver says “Had a good night, have you?”
“Just celebrating an anniversary,” Vernon tells her.
“Sounds like you did. What one?”
Having to recall yet another number brings Vernon unexpectedly close to panic, but he’s able to say “Forty-fourth.”
“Good on you, whatever it is.”
How many more can he and Audrey expect? He feels compelled to tot the months up: twelve and then at least another few dozen, though how many days will that call for? He wouldn’t mind being distracted, but there’s silence apart from the drone of the engine and the chatter of his thoughts until he has to direct the driver through the suburb. He opens the door for Audrey and pays the driver, fending off his change. “Look after yourself,” the driver says, rather too much like a nurse for Vernon’s taste.
He’s nervous in case Audrey slips on the rain-soaked leaves strewn over the uneven garden path, but he finds her waiting in the dark porch. As soon as he unlocks the door she vanishes into the unlit hall, where the alarm panel warns them they have half a minute to type the code. The panel is still bleeping when Vernon lurches into the hall and fumbles in search of the light switch. Thinking Audrey has forgotten the code threatens to drive it out of his head.
“I add,” he cries just in time, though the phrase is a kind of joke; mathematics was Audrey’s subject, while his was English. The letters give him the digits to type, and the bell on the external wall emits a single clang before falling silent. As he rubs his forehead with one equally clammy hand Audrey says “I think we’re both ready for bed.”
He hopes she’s just pleasantly exhausted rather than relieved the day is done. They’ve enjoyed better anniversaries; she didn’t eat too much at dinner, and Vernon had to see off her favourite dish. He’s glad they didn’t encounter Billy Meredith beforehand; her concern might have robbed her of even more appetite. The waiter almost seemed to think the Henshalls shouldn’t be there, although he’d often served them in the past. He’d no right to feel insulted when he didn’t even ask Audrey what was wrong. Once they’re in bed Vernon is overwhelmed by protectiveness, and clasps her waist as if he’s saving her from the dark.
Daylight rouses him, and it feels like realising “We ought to change the number for the debit card.”
“Get a new card, do you mean?”
Audrey sounds more distant than he was expecting. She’s dressed and standing by the bed. Until he manages to focus on her she puts him in mind of a hospital visitor. “The security number,” he says.
“We changed it recently, if you remember.”
“Only because the bank emailed saying everybody should. I’d just like to make sure nobody can know the new one.”
“If you mean poor Billy Meredith, he was never a thief.” Audrey’s frown ages her face. “How much did you give him?” she’s anxious to hear.
“Enough, I should certainly think.” When this falls short of placating her Vernon has to add “A fiver.”
“Well, I wish you’d given me the money while we were there.”
He isn’t going to ask how much she would have donated to Meredith. “I’m ready to shop,” she says, “whenever you are.”
He could almost imagine she’s urging him to leave before he has bathed and dressed. He has a bowl of cereal as well, and a mug of coffee so black that it parches his mouth. Once he has said “I add” he ushers Audrey out of the house. A February wind laced with rain meets them, and he hurries to unlock the garage so that she can shelter in the car. As he drives the Ceed out of their street and onto the main road he says “Shall we decide on a number, then?”
“Let’s have a word.”
“Café, if you like.”
“That doesn’t bring back the best memories just now.”
He should have known it might remind her of last night. “How about iced as in coffee?”
“It makes me feel cold, Vernon.”
She isn’t usually so critical of his selection. Her response worries him, though he can’t define how. “Would egad fit the bill, do you think?”
“It’s a bit old-fashioned, isn’t it? Even more than us.”
He didn’t mean to bring their age to mind. He’s close to feeling robbed of language, which is far too reminiscent of straining to recall a number. “Face, then,” he says. “You can’t have a problem with that.”
“If you haven’t one with mine.”
Has he betrayed how her wrinkled frown upsets him? How does he think he looks to her? He’s a good deal more faded and wizened, and he ought to be grateful that she has stayed with this scrap of the man she married. So long as they still have their faculties, surely that’s enough. “Of course I haven’t,” he assures her. “I never will have. You’re all I want to see.”
After that they’re silent. Interludes like this—each knowing the other is there—have been at the heart of their relationship, keeping it alive. Eventually he finds space for the car in the retail park, among too many vehicles to count. “Face it,” he murmurs to Audrey as they make their way to the cash machines outside the supermarket. “That’s our word.”
By the time they finish queuing for a terminal there’s a queue behind them. Vernon has been trying to hide the card in his hand like a clumsy magician, and now he wobbles it into the slot and types the code. The onscreen response is so swift it feels like being pounced upon. INCORRECT, he’s told.
Were his fingers shakier than he realised? The notion makes the rest of him feel unstable too. He keys the code again at half the speed and gains the same response. If he’s wrong once more the machine will keep his card. “What am I doing?” he pleads. “What’s wrong?”
“Face it. I did.”
“I didn’t,” he realises aloud. He has been typing 6135 before changing the code. He types the right one and is able to substitute the alternative. As soon as the slot offers a sliver of plastic he catches it between his fingernails and jams the card into his wallet. “All secure,” he declares. “Our secret’s safe.”
The queue is staring at him. Does everyone resent his having spent so long at the machine without taking any cash? If they were so intent on his behaviour, did anyone see what he typed? “Just had to change our number,” he says.
“I know what you mean,” the foremost woman says. “They can drive you mad, those.”
“You shouldn’t say such things,” Audrey protests. “They don’t help.”
“I’m with my wife,” Vernon says. “We don’t let little things get to our minds.”
The woman needn’t look at him like that, even if she thinks he’s being pompous. He shoves the wallet into the plump pocket of his padded coat as he limps to find a trolley large enough to accommodate his stick. “We don’t need much,” Audrey says. “We’ve plenty in the freezer.”
Has encountering Meredith made her think they spend too much? She keeps telling Vernon to return items to the shelves; it’s no wonder he feels watched by shoppers and perhaps by security too. The girl at the checkout scans the tins of food and bottles of spring water, and tells Vernon to check the amount and key his code, neither of which he requires to be told. It’s only when he makes to type the numbers for the credit card that his fingers begin to fumble at the air and then at his bumpy forehead. “Forget I did,” he mumbles. “Don’t face it either.”
“Maybe we should have just one number for them all.”
“That’s supposed to be risky, isn’t it? Anyway, we can’t deal with it here. Help me, for heaven’s sake.”
Before Audrey has a chance to speak the checkout girl says “Is there a problem, sir? People are waiting.”
“Let them wait a little longer, then. One day they’ll learn what it’s like to be our age.” As he sees Audrey’s face wrinkling he wishes he could take back his remark; their years are numbers he’d rather put out of his head. “What’s our word for this?” he pleads, and when Audrey doesn’t provide it he says “If you ask me it’s the new obscenity.”
The checkout girl looks as if he has said one. “Sorry, pardon?”
“You can say all sorts of words we weren’t meant to use in our childhood but now it’s these numbers we’re forbidden to write down.” When the customer behind him tries to prompt some action with a loud sigh and a cough, Vernon yanks the card out of the reader. “Forget it,” he says wildly. “We’ll pay cash.”
As he wheels the trolley to the exit, leaning on it as much as pushing, Audrey murmurs “You should have used your head, Vernon.”
“What do you think I was trying to do?” Then he laughs loud enough to attract quite a few stares. “Just realised what my wife meant,” he reassures the shoppers. “Head, that’s it. You should have said.”
“Do you want me to do all the remembering?” He’s disconcerted by how old her face grows as she says “I’ll try if you like.”
“You mustn’t feel pressured. We’re still a team, more so than ever.” In a bid to rejuvenate her look Vernon says “Maybe we’ll do what you said, have just one number.”
That’s best discussed at home. He’s too conscious of being overheard. He speeds the trolley out of the supermarket and peers about for the car. It’s red, but so are dozens if not hundreds of the vehicles. He doesn’t want to ask Audrey for the registr
ation number, not least in case she has forgotten too. It isn’t 3554, but the bunch of digits won’t leave his mind alone. He fishes out his keys and squeezes the fob, and hears the Ceed respond somewhere in the distance. He has to rouse the sound—a plaintive yip like the voice of a lost animal—several times before he sees the headlamps flare. As he opens the boot he’s confronted by the number plate, by a jumble of letters and digits that threatens to clog his mind with nonsense. “How could we remember that?” he complains and grimaces at a couple who seem to think he’s addressing them.
The inside of the car still smells new. Why should that make him feel guilty—because the likes of Billy Meredith can’t afford a fraction of the price? He does his best to leave the feeling behind on the way home. He unloads the car and refrains from commenting when, having plodded with a bag in each hand to the front door, he finds Audrey hasn’t let herself in. “I add,” she cries as he makes for the clamorous panel, and Vernon tells himself that she had just a momentary lapse.
He might upset her if he asks about it. He persuades her to sit down while he puts away the shopping and makes her a coffee, and then he sees to dinner from the freezer. The pallid chilly metal door is labelled with notes in her handwriting, some of which are out of date. “One of your best,” he says over dinner. “Won’t you have some more?”
“I made it for you, Vernon. So long as you enjoy it, that’s what counts.”
He mustn’t let the reference to counting bother him. After dinner they watch television, a documentary about new developments in mathematics and then a look at the decline in numeracy. Eventually he can’t hold back from asking “Haven’t we seen this before?”