Glass Town

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by Steven Savile


  Lockwood walked unsteadily down from the pulpit to his wheelchair, allowing his grandson to help him into it. As the younger Lockwood pushed him slowly back down the aisle, he reached out and rapped hard on the side of the coffin. Then smiling to himself, said, “Definitely dead then. Had to make sure,” which earned a chuckle from a few parts of the congregation. The old man looked less than amused.

  2

  THE CROOKED KING

  “Do you think it will be enough to keep him out?” Gideon Lockwood asked his young companion as they returned to The Hunter’s Horns, the public house in the warrens of the Rothery. All the streets had names that harked back to a more mythological past with echoes of Albion and an England that never was. There was a Herne Drive and a Goodfellow Lane both leading away from the green and dozens more within a hundred yards. The pub, like the rest of the estate, had seen better days. It was surrounded by herringbone rows of terraced houses with red clay tiled rooftops and wheelie bins in the yards. From above there were little pockets of green, notably around a big old lightning-blasted oak tree in the very heart of the estate the kids called The Hunter because of its branching horns, and beyond that rose the shadows of Coldfall Wood, one of the last primeval forests in the country. How many kids had lost their virginity in the fairy circle in the heart of the old forest? Half of those brought up on the Rothery, at least. Most of the streets were more concrete jungle than untamed wilderness, though. Not that its own form of dangerous game wasn’t out on the prowl, but the Lockwoods had nothing to fear from those particular feral youths. This was their place. Their patch. No one would come at them here. That would be a declaration of war, and no one was strong enough to fight a war with them on their home turf. Not now. Not ever.

  “It had better be,” the young man said, sinking into the seat in the back room. The jukebox was playing some long-forgotten ’80s one-hit wonder in the other room. In here it was muffled beyond recognition. “But if not, well, then we have to deal with him.”

  “I don’t know, it’s not like it was, we can’t just make people disappear anymore,” Gideon Lockwood said.

  “That’s exactly what we can do.”

  Gideon reached into his pocket for a packet of filter-tipped cigarettes and fumbled one out with trembling hands. It was quite an operation for the old man, but he stubbornly refused any help. The younger man waited for him to light up.

  Everything in life isn’t as it seems to be. The surface is constructed from a patina of lies. That was the first thing the young man had learned from Damiola, the magician. But that was an obvious lesson for one of the world’s greatest liars to teach. He lived his life through deceits, showing one truth while hiding another quite different one. There are layers of existence. Layers of consciousness and understanding. Just because your eyes work well on one level doesn’t mean they won’t be blind on another. That was what Damiola had given him; eyes to see.

  “It’s not like we haven’t done it before. And, if the worst comes to worst, at least we know no one will accidentally stumble across his body. Not where we’ll hide it.” The younger man wasn’t talking about hiding Joshua Raines’s body in the foundation of some bridge, either. He was talking about burying it in Glass Town.

  “Then we better hope it was enough.”

  “You worry too much, boy,” the younger man said. “Sometimes you just have to trust your old man.”

  Gideon Lockwood didn’t say anything for the longest time. He offered no contradictions, because it was true: of the two of them he was the boy.

  Marcus, the bartender, brought over a pair of brandy glasses slick with Rastignac XO and put them on the table between the Lockwoods, and then left them alone in the back room. This wasn’t the kind of bar where the drinkers wanted the bartender to solve the woes of the world. They wanted to be left alone and he knew when to disappear.

  “Look at it from my perspective,” Gideon said finally. “I thought you were dead for the best part of my life. I grew up without a father. I grew old without a father. When the nuns told me who you were, I mourned you. When I learned your story, how you had disappeared, I hated Isaiah. I was sure he had murdered you. I couldn’t let it go. So I watched him. He had no idea who I was. I got close enough to watch him obsess over your relationship with that bloody woman, like a ratter down a hole. He just wouldn’t give it up. And I hated him for it. More than I hated her for taking you away from me. More than I hated you. Everything I became, that was down to your not being there. I was just a baby.”

  “Don’t blame me for the choices you made in life. That’s weak and it’s bullshit. I didn’t force you to do any of it, and given the choice I would never have come back, remember that. But I didn’t have a choice.”

  Gideon grunted. “And how does that help me? You don’t even want to be here. I’m dying and you don’t want to be here. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t aged a day and I’m this withered old husk of a man; you’re still my father, and all you can think about is that place and getting back there.”

  “Life isn’t fair, boy, less so now than it was in my day. Back then we had our ways of doing things, but you knew where you stood. The family was firm but fair. People didn’t dare cross us. You made an example of one man and let it serve as a lesson for all of them. You don’t get to run a place like this without getting your hands bloody. But if you did it right, you only ever had to do it once.” Gideon didn’t disagree. The physicalities of control hadn’t changed much over the best part of a century. “So we didn’t get to play happy families? So what? Looks like you did all right for yourself without me. Ain’t like you were a girl who needed me to dust off your knees when you fell down. Some might even say being forced to stand on your own two feet made a man out of you and you should thank me for going away. As for the dying, self-pity doesn’t become you. We’re all dying, son, it’s a fact of life. It’s just some of us are going more slowly than others. Look at it this way, at least you lasted longer than that bastard Boone, that’s something to be grateful for, and I could still go before you. There are no guarantees in this life.”

  “Was she worth it?” Meaning was she worth giving everything up for? Meaning was she worth walking out on your life, turning your back on your brother, on the empire your father and his father had built? Meaning was she worth missing out on my entire life for? Meaning how could anything be worth that, explain it to me.

  “Always, boy. Every single sacrifice, and I know you don’t want to hear that, but that’s the way it is. But if that boy gets his hands on Isaiah’s papers—if he even begins to suspect what we did … how we did it … My brother was so close to solving the riddle of Glass Town, to seeing past the smoke and mirrors … And its defenses are weaker now. The frames are already flickering. The walls are growing thin. It can’t last forever … If the boy pieces it all together, even if it’s just to see through the frames for long enough to glimpse what is on the other side,” the young man, whose real name was Seth Lockwood, shook his head as though it was all too much to countenance. “Then it’s in danger of all coming apart. That can’t happen. I won’t let it. I won’t give her up. Not now. We have made a life together.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I think someone should pay his dear cousin a visit, don’t you? There are bridges to be built. After all, your eulogy was very touching. How could he not be moved by it?”

  3

  FAMILY REUNION

  Josh moved around the gathering like a grim moth—butterfly wasn’t an appropriate simile because there were no bright colors on display inside the Scala, the old-domed bingo hall and social club on the edge of the Rothery where the mourners had retreated to raise a glass and share Boone stories. Everyone wanted to shake his hand and tell him how sorry they were for his loss, what a great man Boone had been, what a loss he would be, and share a reminiscence.

  Three victims of middle-aged spread and male-pattern baldness propped up the bar, half-drained pints of stout in their thick h
ands.

  Despite the smoking ban, the air was thick with the stuff.

  Seeing him, the baldest and fattest of the trio raised a hand to call him over.

  Josh didn’t have the will to resist because if it weren’t them, it would be another group just like them with another story, so he walked over to the bar to join them. “Gentlemen,” he said, forcing a smile.

  “The apple really didn’t fall too far from the tree with you, did it? Bloody hell, it’s like looking at a picture of your old man as a boy.”

  “Uncanny, isn’t it?” the middle man agreed, setting his pint aside.

  The third man agreed with a slight nod.

  Josh didn’t have the slightest idea who they were.

  “How you holding up?” the first asked, but before he could answer the middle man said, “Pretty tough day, eh?”

  The third man nodded his agreement again.

  They were like some overweight balding version of the Fates, with the third weird brother remaining silent while the others made their pronouncements.

  “Yeah, it’s been a tough day,” Josh admitted. “A tough week, really, especially for Mum. I’ll be glad when it’s all over.”

  “You’re a good lad,” the first offered.

  “Like your old man,” the second agreed.

  And still the third man said nothing.

  “Anyway,” the first continued, “we just wanted to offer our condolences, face-to-face.”

  “It’s appreciated,” Josh said, managing a half smile.

  “Did Boone ever tell you about the first time we met him?” the middle man asked. Josh didn’t have the heart to tell him he had no idea who they were, so he shook his head. “It was going back some, we were kids, no more than eleven or twelve, I reckon. Right in the middle of The Blitz.”

  He settled in to tell his tale, leaning back against the bar now that he had a captive audience.

  “It was one of those dark nights when the Krauts were in the sky with their bombs, just waiting … the air was thick with them. If I close my eyes, I can still remember the whistle from the doodlebugs and then the silence, and that was so much worse because you’d just know, shit, here it comes and there was nothing you could do but hide and hope it missed you…” he shivered, and it was obvious he really could remember. “Anyway, this old warden, Norman, was on the searchlight duty for our street. The lights were dotted across the rooftops to help our boys spot the Luftwaffe, strafing the sky. When the air-raid siren goes up and the blackout’s meant to start, only Norman’s light doesn’t go out.

  “Everyone’s running for the air-raid shelters, but not Boone. See, even then Boone’s a bit of a handful. What we used to call a good old-fashioned guttersnipe back then. When the sirens go off and people run for cover he’s off to work. He finds an empty house, breaks a window, and climbs in, looking to grab some food from their pantry. We were all hungry back then, see. Properly hungry. Living hand-to-mouth. There just wasn’t enough food to go around. My old mum would queue up for hours just for a bit of dripping and a crust. Stuff likes eggs were a treat. Bet you don’t even know what dripping is, do you, lad?” he didn’t wait for an answer. “So anyway, Boone’s in this butcher’s parlor helping himself to a plate of fried sausage when he realizes the place is still lit up like the middle of the day and he can’t hear anything. That’s the worst of it. The place is eerily quiet.

  “Then he realizes what he can’t hear: the drone of the doodlebugs. And the place is lit up like Christmas. The warden’s only gone and had a fucking heart attack and his light’s still on, guiding the German bombs right to the end of our street!

  “Boone didn’t hesitate—and remember he’s still in short trousers—he scarpers out of the place like his arse is on fire, still eating that sausage mind you, and runs toward the light, not thinking about his own safety. It’d been drilled into us, see. That light had to be out. He climbs up onto the roof and uses a stone to shatter the bulb, even as the bomb explodes three streets away and takes out four houses in the terrace leaving nothing but a crater behind. And if that ain’t enough, he only carries the old guy back down to the street, making enough noise to raise the Devil and get help for him. A second bomb landed less than twenty feet from where Boone stood—”

  “Jesus, but how—?”

  “Didn’t detonate. Someone was looking after him that day.”

  “Someone’s been looking after Boone all his life,” the middle man said. Josh hadn’t heard this story before. He shook his head, trying to imagine what it must have been like. “That old warden was my dad,” the middle man continued, ending the story. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for your granddad, lad.”

  Josh nodded. As Boone stories went, it wasn’t a bad one.

  The three raised a glass to toast Boone Raines before Josh left them to their stories. He needed to get some fresh air, so he snuck out the back, closing the fire door behind him, and just stood in the shadows, breathing in the fresh air.

  “All getting a bit emotional for you, eh, Cuz?” said a voice from shadows.

  “Jesus Christ,” Josh said. “You scared the crap out of me.” He fell back against the wall, laughing. It was a nervous laugh full of relief that the thing in the shadows didn’t mean him harm.

  “Ah, sorry, that wasn’t my intention. After Gramps’s speech in the church I thought maybe he was right, you know? It’s not our war. We should get to know each other. I mean, until today I didn’t even know I had a cousin.” He still didn’t step out of the shadows. Josh heard a curious clicking sound. It took him a moment to realize it was Lockwood’s tongue on the roof of his mouth.

  “I’m not sure we are cousins,” Josh said. “Not in the strictest sense.”

  “Well, we’re blood. I mean you just have to look at us,” and so saying Lockwood eased away from the wall, the shadows relinquishing their hold on him. The likeness was disturbing. He was right, there was no denying the genetic blend behind their faces. “And apropos of blood, do you know anything about this bad blood between your great-grandfather and mine? That’s right, isn’t it? The great part? It all sounds very mysterious.”

  “Not much,” Josh said. “It was about a girl.”

  “Isn’t it always?”

  “Eleanor Raines.”

  “Pretty name—and I’m guessing your great-grandmother, then?”

  “Nope. I’d never heard of her until this morning. My great-grandmother’s sister.”

  “Oh, now that sounds like a scandal.”

  Something stopped Josh from telling his new cousin everything he knew. Instead he blew out an exaggerated sigh and shrugged. “Eleanor was the love of his life. There was some big falling out between Isaiah and Seth and that was it, the family split. Isaiah turned his back on the family, became a Raines, and my family was born.”

  “Oh, what a tangled web. Families, eh?”

  “Families,” Josh agreed.

  Lockwood stubbed out the cigarette he hadn’t been smoking, and ground it out under his foot. “Amen,” he said.

  Josh shook his head. “But, like your grandfather said at the funeral, it’s not on us, is it? There’s no need for it to define the next ninety years of our family.”

  “Agreed,” Lockwood said, inclining his head slightly as he looked at Josh, weighing up what to say next. Josh wasn’t sure Lockwood believed him when he said he didn’t know what the feud was about, but couldn’t see why it should concern either of them. Like he said, it was ninety years ago, and that is a hell of a long time for old grudges to smolder on. “Anyway, look,” Lockwood held out a hand for Josh to shake, “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for your loss. I really am.”

  “Thank you,” Josh said, taking the proffered hand. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Seth,” he said. “Yeah, Looks like we’re not the most original family when it comes to naming our offspring. It’s just a curse I have to bear. Thankfully, no one remembers the old bastard these days. Anyway, by all accounts your gran
dfather was a good sort. I can’t begin to imagine how it’d feel to lose Gideon, so, you know…” he said.

  He let go of Lockwood’s hand. Those were the last kind words that the pair would ever say to each other, not that Josh realized that at the time. His cousin turned to walk away, but stopped on the edge of the shadows and turned to look back at him. “Hey, nah, it’s nothing. Forget it.”

  “What?”

  “It’s stupid, don’t worry about it. I was just wondering if the old guy left you anything, you know, a memento. Like I said, it’s stupid. I just keep thinking about Gideon and wondering what I’d want of his to remember him by.”

  Josh’s hand moved instinctively toward the letter in his inside pocket before he could stop it, but rather than pulling back and making it obvious he carried on and pulled out Boone’s battered silver tobacco tin. “This,” he said, holding it up in the brightness of the security light for him to see. “I think he was trying to get me killed.” The joke fell flat.

  Lockwood left him alone in the dark.

  4

  THE RUSHES

  “He’s lying,” Seth Lockwood said. “And rather badly at that.”

  “So what do we do?” the old man in the passenger seat asked. The degenerating nerves in his right cheek twitched, making it look as though he was struggling not to smile.

  “We bring in the Rushes,” Seth said.

  “The what?”

  “You’ll see soon enough. I don’t want to spoil the surprise. We’re getting into Boone’s house, and we’ll tear it apart if need be. We’re going to find what he left behind. Anything that leads back to Glass Town, we destroy. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Remember, he’s just a kid. He’s not part of this.”

  “Don’t go getting sentimental on me, sunshine. We do what we have to do. Whatever it takes. That’s how we survive. Sometimes we even go so far as to enjoy it. And don’t bother trying to pretend you’ve never enjoyed causing pain. I recognize it in you. We’re kin.”

 

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