Just ahead of him was a crumbling of the corridor wall, a break that allowed some light in, a mix of impossible ocean beach sounds and two stumbling figures. Suddenly the crumbling hole widened as bits of metal and clay and stone tumbled across the floor. Daylight illuminated the forms: Clarence with his hands on Henry, pushing. James shouted.
Clarence stopped, turned and saw James, reached out one hand, bleeding, grasping at air. At that moment the young man who was clearly Henry shoved him, and Clarence tumbled backwards through the hole and into the outside.
“Henry! Henry, it’s Daddy!” James cried.
His son turned and looked at him then, his eyes dark as his hair, his mouth grim, the red streak in his hair damp and shiny as if it might actually be real blood. He just stared. Then smiled a too-wide, most-inhuman, humourless grin. Then he leapt through the hole as well.
James gazed, despairing, and would have fallen to his knees if Clarence hadn’t reappeared around the hole’s edge, waving his arms. “James!” he sobbed, before being sucked outside again.
James was reluctant to go any further, but would have, would have gone to investigate, would even have followed the pair of them through the hole and outside, if the figures dressed in black hadn’t surrounded him and dragged him away.
“Museum security says they found you in an unauthorised area, and when you would not co-operate they were compelled to remove you by force. They also report that there was no evidence that you ever had companions on your visit to the museum.”
“Why would there be evidence either way? I certainly didn’t expect Henry to be there. And Clarence and I came together, but he thought it would be best if we went off exploring on our own.”
“Why would he do that? He is British, you are American, and based on your correspondence it is easy to see he encouraged you to come for a visit. It hardly seems proper he would simply leave you to your own devices.”
“Clarence wasn’t terribly friendly. He seemed to have his own things going on. Certainly he didn’t try to entertain me at all.”
His interrogator glanced over at the companion in uniform. “And I imagine you must have resented this? Or did your anger explode when you say you saw him with your son, his hands upon Henry?”
“Wait, no—you actually think I had something to do with his disappearance?”
“No insult intended, but unlike yourself, he was not a loner. He had friends, and a large family he was quite close to. A rather important family, I might add.”
“All I wanted was to make one last trip over here.” Pleading embarrassed him, but he could not help himself. “I wanted to be where I last saw my son. And I genuinely wanted to see the museum. I have this interest in Lovecraft, you see. He certainly speaks to me. And that interest, it has saved me. It has kept me from thinking about other things.”
“I understand. I have never been to the museum myself, but I hear it is quickly becoming quite an attraction—a national institution, some might say. But then, I’ve never been much of a reader. I’m far too busy. And so, was it everything you expected?” The man busily referred to his notes.
“No. Not at all. Nothing here was as I expected it. Not your entire country.”
“Well, that is the joy and the interesting thing about international travel, is it not? Or it should be. Visiting other cultures, being taken out of one’s comfort zone? What did you expect? England is a wonderful country—many people want to visit us.”
“Of course, of course it is. I wanted to visit England—this just isn’t the England I expected to visit.”
“We do not fit your preconceived notions? Is that it?”
“Where do I begin? Lovecraft of all writers has become a major tourist attraction? Those so-called pets on the posters, held by obviously frightened children? And the foreigners here—the people in bandages, for example, what mythical land do they come from? And have you looked inside the backs of your toilets? What passes here for plumbing? What kind of thing is that? Have you bothered investigating your own plumbing?”
“We are police officers, sir. You would have to go to the municipal engineers with that sort of question. Have you really flown across the Atlantic simply to study the minutest details of our infrastructure? I must say, your two visits to our country have resulted in two unsolved missing persons cases. I should warn you, sir, that providing frivolous and eccentric answers to our inquiries is not likely to improve your situation here. I would simply suggest that, well, there is an old saying. Confession is good for the soul.”
“I flew across the Atlantic to be where I last saw my son. Perhaps it was foolish to think I might run into him, but a broken father can be a very foolish man. I came across the Atlantic to meet someone of like interests, perhaps someone who might in time become a dear friend. Foolish, I know. Perhaps even pathetic. This is the sort of thing that happens to some of us when we are alone.”
“I sympathise, of course. But we are all alone—that is my belief. The other people in our lives, they distract us from that fact, but they do not change it.”
“I know, I know—we all have this problem. Believe me, I know I’m not special in this regard. We all feel a certain insignificance. We all feel that things move so fast, events accumulate, that we can truly understand very little of it. We all feel there are processes at work, decisions being made at a higher level which deeply effect our lives, which we cannot even begin to understand. Our ultimate fate is out of our hands, and we cannot run away from it. I would just like to make sense of my small part of it. I would just like to find some small thread of sanity and hold onto it. Other people seem to live out their lives happily—why can’t I?”
James hadn’t even been aware that he’d put his hands over his face. Embarrassed, he jerked them away. His interrogator wasn’t there. He looked around, frightened, and saw the man in deep conversation with his uniformed companion, with occasional furtive glances his way. Finally his questioner returned.
“My apologies, sir, for the interruption. But we were wondering if you would like to go now? It seems your friend has turned up, and apologises for any inconvenience. But he strongly requests that you do not attempt to contact him. He is quite adamant on that point. We encourage you to enjoy yourself in London for another day, but we would like you to leave the country on Friday. All the arrangements have been made, everything has been taken care of. Your belongings have been moved to the International Hotel. You will find your travel documents waiting for you there.”
The interrogator and the one in uniform escorted James down to the street. The one in uniform stayed back in the shadows. The one who’d asked all the questions squinted painfully into the dim afternoon light, as if even that little bit of sunshine was too much. James felt relieved to have some distance from the man. All those questions, delivered with the man’s stinking breath. The man’s breath reeked of fish and brine and vegetation rotting in salt water. What were they eating over here to cause such a stink?
James did not like to dwell on a person’s appearance, and yet the width of the man’s head had been so distracting, and those terribly wide eyes, narrowed to razor slits by the heavy lids. The one in uniform had been worse, with the ridges on his neck, and the blinkless way he had looked at James, as if he might leap and devour him at any moment.
V. Flying Home
For his final day in London James walked around Soho and over to Covent Garden and the theatre district. This was where Henry had disappeared on that trip so many years ago. The fact that he might have lost him at any point along the route, that he could not pinpoint a block or a street or even a more specific neighbourhood, was shameful to him now. At the opening to each lane, alley, or walk he imagined that smallish form, shoulders hunched in that hostile way, walking away from him, receding so rapidly he had no time even to call out, even to catch a breath, cry, or gasp. Impossibly fast, the speed at which constellations were formed. A careless blink and his son was taken from him, gone.
That had be
en a strange day, an unusually incompetent day for himself as a parent, out of—frankly—dozens of other only slightly less incompetent days. He hadn’t known what to do. He doubted every decision, to the point where making decisions appeared impossible. He certainly did not hate his son, but that particular day he would have had to admit he didn’t like the boy very much.
Henry had been that Sullen Monster almost from the hour they’d stepped off the plane. That’s what James used to call him—never to his face—back when the boy was impossible to reach, unpleasant to talk to. The child had developed a sudden talent for distaste, a formidable skill for putdowns, an unending appetite for boredom. Part of the problem, James knew now, was that he’d needed too much from his son. Needed his conversation, needed Henry to make him a little more human. With a son, family was possible, and James could imagine himself as some part of the community. Henry no doubt had felt the power he’d possessed, and so seized it, wielding it ruthlessly.
“Maybe we could try one of those electronic shops in the Garden?” he’d offered. Henry still loved gadgets—he was always combining them in creative, if not practical, ways. “I’m buying. Anything you want—I’ve already paid for the ticket home.” He laughed then, because he’d meant it to be funny. Henry gave his poor effort what it deserved, which was nothing.
He’d been following Henry much of the day, at his insistence. “Let’s go to lunch,” Henry would say, and head out at breakneck speed, the angry thrust of his shoulders pushing him forward. It hadn’t been a real invitation—it had been a challenge. And James had been too late picking up on that. James had strained to keep up, but he had been afraid of what might happen if he lost sight of his son. Henry had become so impulsive the last couple of years. James fielded calls from the schools (four in two years) every week regarding the things Henry had done, the things Henry had started. Once the boy took some random, ill-considered path, he did so with full commitment. It was almost admirable, in a frightening, edge-of-the-cliff sort of way.
“Henry, wait up!” It was a plea he’d repeated a hundred times a day this trip.
This day, James’ last day in London, there appeared to be a large number of young men in their twenties out and about. Henry’s age, Henry’s size. And neighbouring on Henry’s attitude, although of course Henry was the master, the exemplar beside which all other sullenness paled. (Was that a terrible thing to think? Was that the sort of thing a good father felt about his child?) A few had dyed streaks in their hair. Many didn’t. Many of the young men provided him with his first real-life exposure to those odd pets from the poster campaign, being led about on those child leashes or holding hands with their owners. Although it seemed odd to think you could actually own anything who had a hand you could hold.
Some of these unpleasant creatures rode piggyback on their owners’ backs, clutching them tightly, whispering into or occasionally actually licking their owners’ ears. Creatures in brown fur, blue fur, yellow fur, golden, like stuffed animals charming on the shelf but more than disturbing when actualised. Long nails, long claws, long teeth. Many of the young men bore extended scratches. James had the distinct impression they bore them proudly.
“You’re crowding me, Dad!” Henry had cried out, turning, snarling at him, suddenly not so dissimilar from those disturbing pets.
“I’m several feet away! You’ve got plenty of space!” It had been foolish trying to reason with his son, but James couldn’t help himself. He depended on logic, even when logic was undependable. His son used to be so much like him—surely his sense of logic was still in there somewhere.
“Just stay back! Okay?” Henry twisted around, his black-and-red hair flipping violently. He wore a too-small black jacket with aluminium studs inexpertly applied. Before their trip Henry had imagined that was the way the British teens would be dressed, but apparently that style was out that year in London—they saw no one else dressed in anything remotely like it. Henry had been embarrassed, practically humiliated, but he’d stubbornly kept the outfit on, and if James wasn’t mistaken, flaunting it.
So James had followed Henry around the squares and through the secretive, named walks and down the quaint alleys more like a puppy dog than like a father, and he’d felt ashamed and incompetent but with no idea what to say to his son to make him stop it. At that moment their relationship seemed far from fixable.
There was a great commotion ahead. Apparently one of those strange pets had gotten away from its young owner and been struck by a car. James lingered around the edges of the crowd, watching. The ape-like creature lay on its back, moving its arms and legs as if it were dancing, as if it were some wind-up toy knocked on its side but still attempting to do what it was designed to do. Its long, worm-like tail wriggled aggressively, trapped beneath its body, looking vaguely tentacle-like, looking as if it had its own intelligence.
The car that had struck the animal looked like four or five enormous pipes bolted together with metal boxes of various sizes attached at random. The driver’s head was visible inside a clear plastic bubble mounted on the top. James had never seen anything like it.
James had lost Henry somewhere in those streets during the confusion. He’d turned his head for just a second, and at that moment the boy had raced headlong into the crowd, which opened, then closed again behind him, as if sealing him away from life with his father. James had walked around, circling the blocks and pacing every lane calling Henry’s name, stopping complete strangers and questioning them, going into every likely shop with his son’s picture clutched in his hand. Henry never answered, and James never saw him again.
Boarding took an inordinately long time. James was among the passengers they called first. A British policeman, his neck wrapped in heavy layers of gauze, was stationed by the entrance to the boarding ramp. James did not know if this was now common practice, or if the officer was there to make sure he got on the plane. In any case, he did not speak to him, but James was pretty sure he’d been the object of a pointed glance or two.
After an uncomfortable length of time, they boarded the bandaged people. Their clothes were extraordinarily ragged—much poorer looking than any he had seen on any of these creatures before. In fact their clothing was so worn that in many cases tiny bits of cloth and bandage littered the aisles in minute fragments. Slices of pale skin were exposed. Now and then a damaged bit of flesh would hang out of a worn opening. The plane began to smell of the ocean. It was all very strange, but then a life alone was always very strange.
The bandaged people filled the front two-thirds of the plane. James wondered if they were being deported as well. Of course he hadn’t been deported—he’d simply been asked to leave the country.
The captain announced they would be flying over Iceland. The brilliant light bouncing off water and sky and ice flooded the plane. The bandaged people began to sing, an exalted chorus of damage. James didn’t understand any of the words, but convinced himself they were singing of home.
NECROLOGY: 2015
STEPHEN JONES & KIM NEWMAN
MORE THAN EVER, we are marking 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)…including, this year, too many major authors, two original Star Trek actors, and at least a couple of horror movie icons.
AUTHORS/ARTISTS/COMPOSERS
American illustrator and cartoonist Roy McKie, best known for callaborating with Dr. Seuss (“Ted” Geisel) on a number of children’s books, died on January 8, aged 93. Amongst the titles he illustrated during the 1960s are Ten Apples Up on Top! and My Book About Me by Me Myself!
French SF writer Michel Jeury (aka “Albert Higon”) died on January 9, aged 80. He began publishing in 1960, and his books, under both his own name and the Higon pseudonym, include Aux Étoile du Destin, La Machine du Pouvoir, La temps incertain (aka Chronolysis), Les Singes du Temps and M
ay le Monde.
British scriptwriter, producer and author Brian (Horace) Clemens, best remembered for writing some of the more outlandish episodes of the cult ITV series The Avengers (1961-69) and The New Avengers (1976-77), died on January 10, aged 83. His film credits include The TellTale Heart (1960), And Soon the Darkness (1970), Blind Terror (aka See No Evil), Hammer’s Dr. Jekyll & Sister Hyde and Captain Kronos Vampire Hunter (which he also directed), The Golden Voyage of Sinbad, Disney’s The Watcher in the Woods, Timestalkers, Highlander II: The Quickening and the 2015 horror short Surgery. Clemens also created the TV series Thriller (1973-76) and wrote episodes of Adam Adamant Lives!, The Champions, The Wide World of Mystery, Darkroom, Hammer House of Mystery and Suspense (‘Mark of the Devil’), Worlds Beyond, Alfred Hitchcock Presents (1989) and Highlander. As “Tony O’Grady” he came up with the original stories for two episodes of H.G. Wells’ The Invisible Man (1959) and also co-scripted the film Curse of the Voodoo (aka Voodoo Blood Death). The Avengers was turned in to a short-run stage play in 1971, written by Clemens and Terence Feely. In 2013, PS Publishing issued his short story collection, Rabbit Pie & Other Tales of Intrigue.
Romanian publisher and writer Valentin Nicolau, who founded the successful Nemira imprint in the early 1990s, died of a heart attack on January 13, aged 54.
American animation artist (Alwyn) Walter “Walt” Peregoy died on January 16, aged 89. He worked as a background and colour stylist for Walt Disney on the movies Sleeping Beauty (1959), 101 Dalmations (1961) and The Sword in the Stone, before moving on to such Hanna-Barbera TV series as The Lone Ranger (1966), Wacky Races, The New Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Scooby Doo Where Are You!, The Amazing Chan and the Chan Clan and The ABC Saturday Superstar Movie (‘The Mini-Munsters’), amongst many other titles. Peregoy was involved in the design of Epcot Center in Florida, and he was named a Disney Legend in 2008.
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