What You Make It

by Michael Marshall Smith

  Grandma Harris was slumped on the floor, back against the cooker. Her throat was arced up like a twisted branch, a perfect target, but jerked back into position as Ricky pulled out his gun. No matter. The face would do just as well.

  He held the gun in a straight-arm grip, sighted down the barrel.

  ‘Don't even fucking think about it,’ the rolling pin said.

  Ricky turned very slowly to look. ‘Excuse me?’

  It had grown legs, and was standing with little hands on where its hips would be. Two stern eyes glared out of the wooden cylinder of its body, and it looked like a strange wide crab.

  Ricky stared at it. Knew suddenly that it wasn't a machine, but an actual rolling pin with eyes and arms. He fired at it. The pin flipped out of the way, then switched direction and flick-flacked towards him, like a crazy little wooden gymnast. Ricky backed hurriedly, fired another shot. It missed, and the rolling pin flicked itself into the air like a muscular missile. Ricky wrenched his head out of the way just in time, and the pin embedded itself in the wall.

  ‘Careful,’ said the wall, slowly opening its eyes.

  Over at the stove, Grandma Harris was pulling herself upright. Ricky blinked at her. She smiled, a sweet old lady smile that wasn't for him. Ricky decided he didn't have to mop up this mess. He'd go straight to talk with John Harris. He fired a couple of rounds into the wall, just between its huge eyes. It made a grumpy sound, but didn't seem much inconvenienced. A huge mouth opened sleepily, as if yawning, as it was only just getting up to speed. The pin meanwhile pushed itself out with a dry popping sound, and turned its beady eyes on Ricky.

  ‘Shit on this,’ Ricky muttered, as it scuttled towards him. He swung a kick at the rolling pin, sent it howling across the room. Fired straight at Margaret Harris, but didn't wait to see if it hit.

  He turned on his heel in the kitchen door, bounded across the hallway and yanked at the door. It wouldn't open, and when Ricky tried to pull his hand away, he saw the handle had turned into a brown wooden hand and was gripping his like he was a prime business opportunity and they were testing each other's strength. Ricky braced his foot against the wall and tugged, for the first time hearing the sound of the beams whispering above. He glanced up and saw some of them were wriggling in place, limbering up, getting ready for action. He didn't want to see their action.

  The door handle wasn't letting go, and so he placed the muzzle of the gun against it and let it have one.

  It took the tip of one of Ricky's fingers with it, but the fucker let go. Ricky reared back, kicked the door with all his strength. It splintered and he barrelled through it, tripped and fell full length on the lawn. Face to face with the grass for a moment, he saw that he'd been right, and there was a little face on every blade. He heard a noise like a million little voices tuning up and knew that its song wasn't likely to be one he wanted to hear.

  He scrabbled to his feet and careened down the path towards the car, bloody hand scrabbling for the keys. Before he could get even halfway there two trash cans came running round from next door. They made it to the car before him, and started levering one side off up the ground. Meanwhile the rolling pin shot out of the house from behind him, narrowly missed his head, and went through the windscreen of the car like a torpedo. Barely had the spray of glass hit the ground before the pin emerged the other side, turned in mid-air and looped back to punch through a door panel. It kept going, faster and faster, looping and punching, until the car began to look like a battered atom being mugged by a psycho electron.

  Ricky began to realize just how badly his hand hurt, and that the car wasn't going to be a viable transportation option. He diverted his course in mid-stride, just heading for the road, for a straight line to run. He cleared the sidewalk, barely keeping his balance, and leaned into the turn. Ricky could run. He'd had the practice, down many dark streets and darker nights, and always running away instead of to. The way was clear.

  Then a vehicle appeared at the corner in front of him, and he understood what the grass had been singing. Not a song, but a siren.

  Wonder World's designers hadn't stinted themselves on the cop wagon. It was black and half as big as a house, all superfins and intimidating wheel arches spiked with chrome. The windows in the sides were blacker still, and the doors in the back might just as well have had ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE scrawled right across them.

  Ricky skidded to a halt, whirled around. An identical vehicle had moved into position just the other side of the remains of his car. Behind it a bunch of mushrooms and toadstools were moving into position.

  The doors of the first wagon opened, and a figure got out each side. Both seven foot tall, with very long tails and claws that glinted. Bud and Slap, though rats, had been friendly rats in all the countless cartoons they'd appeared in over the last thirty years. They were almost as popular as Loopy and Careful and China Duck, and even Ricky recognized them. Cute, well-meaning villains, they always ended up joining the right side in the end.

  But this Bud and Slap weren't like that. These toons were just for Ricky. As he held his ground, knowing there was nowhere to run, they walked towards him with heavy tread. They were stuffed into parodies of uniforms, torn at the seams and stained with bad things. Bud had a lazy, damaged eye, and was holding a big wooden truncheon in an unreassuring way. Slap had a sore on his upper lip, and kept running a long blue tongue over it, to collect the juice. Both had huge guns stuffed down the front of their uniforms. At least that's what Ricky hoped they were. From five yards away he could smell the rats' odour, the gust of sweat and stickiness and decay, and for a moment catch an echo of all the screams and death rattles they'd heard.

  ‘Hey there, Ricky,’ said Slap, winking. His voice was low and oily, full of unpleasant good humour. ‘Got some business with you. Lots of different kinds of business, actually. You can get in the wagon, or we can start it right here. What d'you say?’

  Behind him Bud giggled, and started to undo his pants.

  Nicola stood at the window with Grandma, and watched the parade in the road. It wasn't the real parade, like the one in the Beautiful Realm where they had fireworks and Careful Cat and Loopy, but they were going to see that tomorrow. This was a little parade, with just Bud and Slap, and Percival Pin and Terrance and Terry the Trash Cans: sometimes they put on little parades of their own, Grandma said, just because they enjoyed it.

  They laughed as they watched the characters play. Nicola had thought the man she'd come with had been a bad man, but he couldn't have been as bad as all that. Bud and Slap the Happy Rats were each holding one of his hands, and they were dancing with him, leading him to the wagon. They looked like they liked him a lot. The man's mouth opened and shut very wide as he danced, and Nicola thought he was probably laughing. She would be, in his position. They all looked like they were having such fun.

  Finally, the wagon doors were shut with the man inside, and Bud and Slap bowed up at Grandma's window before getting back into their police car. The trash cans went somersaulting back to next door's yard, and the rolling pin came hand-springing up the path, leaving a trail of little firework stars in its wake. Nicola clapped her hands and Grandma laughed, and put her arm around the little girl.

  Now it was time for supper and pie, and tomorrow would be a new and different day. They turned away from the window, and went to start cooking, in a kitchen where the tables and chairs had already tidied everything up as if nothing bad had ever happened, or ever could.

  Meanwhile, well outside Wonder World, over on a splintered porch outside a small house the other side of the beltway, Marty the Gateman sat in his chair enjoying his bedtime cigarette. His back ached a little, from standing up all day, but it didn't bother him too badly. It was a small price to pay for seeing all the faces as they went into the parks, and when they came out again. The kids went in bright-eyed and hopeful, the parents tired and watchful. You could see them thinking how much it was all going to cost, and wondering whether it would be worth it. Then when
you saw them come out, hours or days later, you could see that they knew that it had been. For a little while the grown-ups realized their cynicism was an emotional short-cut which meant they missed everything worth seeing along the way, and the children had proof of what they already believed: the world was cool. The gateman's job was important, Marty knew. You said the first hello to the visitors, and you said goodbye. You welcomed them in and helped them acclimatize; and then you sent them on their way, letting them see in your eyes the truth of what they believed – they were leaving a little lighter inside.

  Marty's house was small and looked like all the others nearby, and he lived in it alone. As he sat in the warmth of the evening, looking up at the stars, he didn't mind that very much. His wife now lived with someone who was better at earning money, and who came home after a day's work in a far worse mood. Marty missed her, out he'd survive. The house could have been fancier, but he'd painted it last summer and he liked his yard.

  He had the last couple of puffs of his cigarette, and then stubbed it out carefully in the ashtray he kept by the chair. He yawned, sipped the last of his ice tea, and decided that was that. It was early yet, but a good time for sleep. It always is, when you're looking forward to the next day.

  As he lay in his bed later, gently settling into the warm train which would take him into tomorrow, he dimly wondered what he'd do with the rest of his life. Work for as long as he could, he supposed, and then stop. Sit out on the porch, most likely, live out his days bathed in the memory of faces lit for a moment by magic. Smile at passers-by. Drink ice tea in the twilight.

  That sounded okay by him.

  THE TRUTH GAME

  The past is a game in which you, blushing, reveal

  Where you were first kissed, and by whom –

  And like the others I sit and listen,

  But unlike them I do not grin; because

  All I can see are the bars in the window

  Which prevent me from being him.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank the people who've published and help shape my stories – Stephen Jones, Nicholas Royle, David Sutton, Ellen Datlow and Peter Crowther; the three authors who most made me want to write – KA, RB and SK; my parents for always being there, and my wife Paula for not being there then but being here now; and finally my editors, Jim Rickards and Jane Johnson, for their support, patience and friendship.

  About the Author

  Michael Marshall Smith's debut novel was the groundbreaking Only Forward which received widespread critical acclaim. A former comedy writer for the BBC, he currently has two feature films and a miniseries in development. In 1996, Spares was bought by Steven Spielberg's production company Dreamworks in a seven-figure deal. It has since been sold in translation around the world. In 1997, the film rights for his third novel, One of Us, were bought by Warner Brothers for a similar figure amid intense bidding. Mike lives in North London, where he is currently working on his fourth novel while providing a warm place for his cats to sleep.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Praise for Michael Marshall Smith:

  ‘No one writes better than Smith about love: how it's won, how it's lost. No one writes better about being wasted – by drugs, by drink, by time. Nigh-on unique’

  i-D

  ‘A storytelling skill that can only be described as pure genius’

  Venue

  ‘Subtle, beautifully understated stuff which marks him out as a name to watch’

  The Times

  Only Forward

  ‘This is exceptional. Douglas Adams meets William Gibson in a first-rate futuristic adventure’

  The Bookseller

  ‘Very funny and decidedly surreal’

  Empire

  ‘A genuinely new twist … with a punchline of Crying Game proportions’

  Time Out

  Spares

  ‘Some books stretch the imagination. This one mugs it’

  DAVID BADDIEL

  ‘Amusing and horrific, full of sharp asides and biting commentary … comic, cruel, twisted and surreal’

  Empire

  ‘Satisfyingly weird and weirdly funny and just crying out to be filmed’

  Scotland on Sunday

  ‘Witty, hard-edged and coruscatingly imaginative … compellingly off-kilter’

  New Scientist

  ‘Tense, exciting and at times very, very funny … He's worth every penny’

  Time Out

  One of Us

  ‘The crucial thing about Michael Marshall Smith is that he is enormously readable…once you have started reading one of his books, you won't want to stop until you have finished it… While One of Us is full of transdimensional beings and walking, talking household appliances, its determined and unwavering focus is on human emotions, chiefly love and loss … He is in a class of his own… A master of ad absurdum gags [and] enough sensationally good throwaway wisecracks to fill a car park full of skips… He has the talent to become the inspiration to a generation of writers’

  The Independent

  ‘The conceits are first class and so is the writing … Weird, wonderful and [full of irony and satire]. the joyous existence of an illicit Los Angeles bar where you can buy cholesterol and fat as a side order … Michael Marshall Smith makes you laugh. What you get is tongue in cheek with passionate sincerity and plenty of action… It races along, bouyed by its own wit. Raymond Chandler meets Terry Pratchett and they get along fine… Buy Marshall Smith’

  FRANCÉS FYFIELD, The Express

  ‘The obliteration of human memory is a fin de siècle concern, and Michael Marshall Smith provides as witty and imaginative a riff on this as one could wish in One of Us… As always with the fiercely inventive Smith, the rug of reality is exhilaratingly pulled from under the reader's feet’

  New Scientist

  ‘Humour, a cracking pace and fluid prose … Sizzling…Michael Marshall Smith has a Crichton-like knack of attracting film studios. Warner Brothers have this one. Interesting, readable and soon to be watchable’

  The Times

  ‘As genre-defining as William Gibson and as relentlessly read able as Michael Crichton. Don't miss out’

  Maxim

  ‘Outstanding, highly original near future thriller…Wonderfully inventive. Smith imagines a virtual reality heaven where you can call up the dear departed, there are collapsible cars which you can fold in your pocket, microclimates for hire, troupes of literate and vocal machines (coffee grinders and waste disposal units get on well together) and new professions including that of Emissions Manager “better known in the trade as a fart wrangler: hired by movie stars to walk behind them at parties and – should the unfortunate occur – surreptitiously flap an unfurled napkin to disperse the smell as quickly as possible.” A sustained black joke, fiercely funny, and hugely entertaining’

  The Literary Review

  ‘Smith plunges us into a sci-fi film noir where Raymond Chandler's ghost walks with fugitive coffee machines and where virtual reality means that the future is in memories. Wry, fast – paced and original. Brilliant’

  The Scotsman

  ‘From time to time a mystery novel comes along that by its power and imagination grips the mind and the emotions, and this is obviously one of the 10 best for 1998’

  Jerusalem Post

  ‘A rollicking sci-fi murder mystery’

  The Big Issue

  ‘Sharp as a switchblade, One of Us is a surreal mixture of sf, thriller, romance and theological philosophy that stretches the imagination to breaking point… If this book doesn't make you think, you probably haven't got a brain’

  The List

  ‘A gripping thriller. Multi-layered and inspirational – we guarantee you have never read anything like it’

  Edinburgh Student

  ‘Hellishly funny vision … The book is littered with lovely one-liners… Smith has imagination to spare’


  The Mirror

  By Michael Marshall Smith

  Only Forward

  Spares

  One of Us

  What You Make It (short stories)

  Copyright Details

  More Tomorrow

  First appeared in Dark Terrors, edited by Stephen Jones and David Sutton, published by Victor Gollancz. Copyright © 1995 Michael Marshall Smith.

  Everybody Goes

  Copyright © 1992 Michael Marshall Smith.

  Hell Hath Enlarged Herself

  First appeared in Dark Terrors 2, edited by Stephen Jones and David Sutton, published Victor Gollancz. Copyright © 1996 Michael Marshall Smith.

  A Place To Stay

  First appeared in Dark Terrors 4, edited by Stephen Jones and David Sutton, Victor Gollancz. Copyright © 1994 Michael Marshall Smith.

  Later

  First appeared in The Mammoth Book of Zombies, edited by Stephen Jones, published by Robinson. Copyright © 1992 Michael Marshall Smith.

  The Man Who Drew Cats

  First appeared in Dark Voices 2, edited by Stephen Jones and David Sutton, published by Pan. Copyright ©1988 Michael Marshall Smith.

  The Fracture

  First appeared in Dark Voices 6, edited by Stephen Jones and David Sutton, published by Pan. Copyright © 1992 Michael Marshall Smith.

  Save As…

  First appeared in Interzone. Copyright © 1996 Michael Marshall Smith.

  More Bitter Than Death

  First appeared in Dark Voices 5, edited by Stephen Jones and David Sutton, published by Pan. Copyright © 1991 Michael Marshall Smith.