by Tim Lebbon
“What is that?” Cain said quietly, and the shadow replied, “I’m not quite sure.” It spoke the truth, because he had stopped lying to himself.
Cain made up his mind. He could turn away and flee, and never know how life could really be. Or he could stay, go out into the evening, find and feel his way through the worlds the others in the house had created in their own Ways. And thinking that way suddenly felt so right.
Once, Cain had tried to catch his own shadow. He chased it around the room, leaping, rolling, reaching out. But it always remained one step ahead of him. At the time, he thought it was because it was so fast, but later, as he dwelled upon it, he wondered whether it was because he had yet to see the light.
Chapter Nine
Meat
He would hide in the front garden.
On the way out of the house that evening, there was no sign of Magenta, or anyone else. Cain made it past George’s flat without being seen—conscious as ever of the peephole in the door and what may be behind it—and approached the front door. The shadow slipped along behind him, sometimes almost touching his heels, other times lagging a few steps behind as if giving Cain space to move. He opened the door onto dusk and cool air invited him out.
The shrubs in the front garden were waist-high and utterly dark. Even now, in the evening, they exuded a sense of watchfulness, as if whatever lived beneath them never slept, only lay there waiting for the next person to pass by.
“Good,” the shadow said, and Cain almost told it to keep quiet before remembering it was only in his head. “Good hiding place.”
Cain knelt on the path and moved aside several branches. The shadow went in first, emphasizing the darkness. Cain followed on hands and knees, wincing every time his hands touched down. But there was only soft ground beneath his palms, and the long-lost memories of last year’s leaves rotting into the soil. He crawled forward, almost having to drop down onto his stomach to pass by below some thicker branches, looking around for the shadow all the while. He found it hunkered down toward what he thought must be the center of the garden. He knew the shadow because it had no texture or substance, not like the other deep shadows below here, those that were merely the absence of light. Knowing where the shadow was, Cain stopped and lay down on his side, propped on one elbow.
That sense of watchfulness remained, emphasized even more by the evening’s silence. Cain had the impression that whatever lived beneath here had seen things, heard and known things, that most other creatures never would. He felt a hundred eyes upon him, questioning his presence with interest but no fear. These creatures remained constantly astounded, a living record of the unusual events in the house, and in their impenetrable minds resided so much that Cain needed to know. If only he could reach out, touch a mouse, and know its consciousness. If these watchful worms could talk, or these slugs and snails could explain history in their silvery trails, then perhaps this night would be unnecessary. Because Cain was sure that after tonight, everything would change. His life would be different, and more important, his perception of the lives of others would never be the same again.
“I’m afraid,” he whispered into the dark, and the dark listened.
“That’s only right,” it said.
Cain waited, and the shadow waited with him. Every now and then it would begin humming the tune, breaking off when Cain frowned in an effort to drive another memory down. At first he thought the shadow was doing it inadvertently, but once or twice the tone of the tune changed, as if hummed past a smile. He wanted to ask what it was doing and why, but he also knew that to succeed tonight he had to remain silent. George could be out of the house at any time—if, indeed, he was coming out at all—and to follow him without being seen, Cain could not afford to give him even a slight suspicion of being watched.
Cain hoped that George would not hear the shadow’s humming.
He looked up, and between the leaves of the shrub canopy he could see the sky clearing as dusk gave way to night. The moon was waxing half-full, and yet he did not believe that this had anything to do with George. His monstrous transformation came wholly from within, not without. That’s just his Way, Cain thought, and somewhere nearby he felt the shadow nod.
It was not the most comfortable of places to wait. Cain’s arm went to sleep and he had to roll onto his other side, stirring a bush and bringing a few loose leaves down onto his face. Something squeaked and scurried out from under him. The shadow shifted, disappearing and then manifesting again on Cain’s other side. It leaned in close, and Cain smelled its odor, like fruit sweating in the sun. He looked from the corner of his eye to see if he could make out any expression. But it was a shadow in the night, darker than the dark. If it was still around come morning, perhaps he would see it then.
The front door opened. Cain held his breath, waiting for the footsteps, suddenly realizing that he would have no way to tell who was exiting the house. “We’ll know,” the shadow whispered. “We’ll smell them.” And Cain knew that it was right. If Sister Josephine came by, he would know her from her honey-scented skin, magicked up and ready for flight, or perhaps the bees that seemed to like her. If it was Magenta, he would register her lack of odor, cosmetic or otherwise. Whistler would smell of age and must, and George . . . with George, it would be meat.
The front door closed and footsteps came along the path.
“Do you know?” the shadow asked playfully.
Cain was annoyed at its condescension, but he breathed in and closed his eyes. Oh yes, he thought, it’s so obvious now. The rich, bloody red stench of George.
George paused at the front gate, and Cain heard him sniffing at the air. When’s the last time I bathed? Cain thought. When did I last change my clothes? He could not recall. But he had the feeling that George’s attention was focused outward into the street, rather than back into the garden. He wondered whether George felt the same way about the garden as he did—unnerved, suspicious, un-easy—but probably not. He was part of the reason the garden was the way it was, after all.
George opened the gate and stepped out into the street, turning left and moving quickly away from the house.
Cain went to move, but something cool brushed his cheek and snagged his ear. “Wait,” the shadow said, “not yet. We’ll hear him and smell him; don’t be too eager to give yourself away.” Cain shrugged the shadow’s hand from his shoulder and moved forward, away. He hated that touch. Slick, like a corpse’s breath on his skin. But he listened to what the shadow said and waited, leaning on his elbows, trying not to move in case he made the shrub canopy shudder with a life it had seldom exhibited before. George’s footsteps faded into the distance. Cain went to get up again, felt the shadow’s gaze on his back, remained still.
They stayed there for several minutes. “If we can hear him, he can hear us,” the shadow said. “His senses could be changed.” Then, a couple of minutes later: “We’ll smell him. And soon we’ll hear him.”
“How do you know so much?” Cain asked.
The shadow’s voice cut in with its sarcastic edge again. “I know what you know but are too afraid to realize.”
“Well, fuck this, I’m going.” Cain crawled from under the bushes and stood, shaking off the gaze of the many living things beneath there. He was yet another image and experience for them to keep to themselves forever. He walked to the front gate, leaned over to look in the direction George had taken, then lifted the latch and stepped beyond the garden. He set off immediately, trying to move as quickly as he could while making as little noise as possible. His shoes were soft leather, well-worn, and they barely whispered as they touched the pavement.
The shadow joined him, slinking along at the bases of walls and hedges like a cat on the prowl.
They reached the end of the street and Cain inhaled deeply, reminded of George’s animalistic sniffing at the garden gate. The faint tinge of raw meat hung in the air—weak to the right, stronger to the left. He headed left, along the road that led eventually to the pub where h
e and Peter had sat and talked the previous afternoon. The shadow followed without comment.
It was not late—not yet midnight—but the streets were surprisingly quiet. Pubs had already let out and their patrons made their way home. Night shift workers were at work. Police cars were parked up. A couple of taxis cruised the streets, drivers already bored and awaiting their knock-off time. A couple of people passed Cain, keeping their eyes averted and putting purpose in their step. He slowed down each time, glancing down at the shadow where it frolicked at the base of a wall or in a doorway, arrogantly inviting discovery. He wanted to meet their gaze, smile, let them know how lucky they were to be on their way home tonight, a night when there was a mad thing like George abroad. But he supposed such niceties as conversation took a backseat come dusk, when darkness did its best to unearth primeval fear. So they walked by without acknowledgment, and Cain knew each time that he would never see that person again. They had whole life stories—loves and hates, triumphs and tragedies, successes and failures—and he would never know any of them. They had lived up to this point utterly ignorant of Cain’s existence, and their lives would continue on until death in that same state. His torment did not trouble them. There was simply this one minuscule point of contact, when the heat of their bodies had perhaps interfered across a few feet of space, their auras may have skimmed each other, and their thoughts had been slightly stirred by one another. A stranger in the night. That was all he was to them, and all he would ever be. His own story was most important to himself. He strode on with greater purpose.
The shadow loped alongside and marched defiantly through pools of illumination thrown down by streetlights.
“You feel he’s near?” the shadow said.
“Do you?”
“I don’t know.” The uncertainty in the shadow’s voice pleased Cain immensely.
“Yes,” Cain said. “He’s near.” In reality, he had no idea at all.
The street came to an end at a T junction, and Cain turned right with barely a moment’s consideration. It was not a smell this time, just a feeling. Again the shadow followed, without question or dissent. Cain took that as an indication that he had gone the right way.
The new road turned quickly right, then left, houses valiantly hanging on to its curves. Between two such houses ran a small lane, presumably leading to car parking and garages at the rear. Cain paused at the head of the lane and stared into the darkness. No streetlight probed that far, and tall houses on either side blocked out what little star and moonlight there was. He felt the weight of the unknown drawing him in.
“Here?” the shadow asked.
“What do you think?”
“You’re the one with a nose.”
Cain sniffed, smiled. “You’re the one who seems to know everything.” A car passed by, a pale face pressed to the front passenger window, mouth open as if trying to cry a warning.
“I think it looks like just the sort of place George would feel at home,” the shadow said.
“I think you’re right,” Cain said, remembering the alley where Peter had been slaughtered, and the garage where he had seen and heard George ripping something apart. “But I don’t want to go in there.”
“Do you realize you’re talking to a shadow?” the shadow said. Cain glanced to his left where the shadow lounged against a parked car, and he burst out laughing. It was the first time he had laughed in what felt like forever. He had read somewhere that laughter was a natural reaction to outright terror.
“Let’s go,” Cain said, and George ran out from the lane and straight into him.
Cain fell back under the sudden assault, tried to cry out, but George’s hand pressed down over his face. He thrashed beneath the slight man’s weight, kicked, clawed at George’s clothing, trying to get a grip to haul the madman away before he had his throat torn out. George only pressed down more, crushing Cain’s body against the pavement, the contact so complete and intimate that the horrible thought came: Who’s to say he just eats them?
The shadow leapt at George’s back. Cain saw it as a blur against the sky, stars blinking as it passed through the air and landed on his assailant. George shrugged, shook his head, frowned, and looked around. The shadow battered at his head and shoulders with its clenched fists, but George seemed to feel little more than a breath of air. He twisted against Cain, kicked his feet as if to dislodge an annoying child, and the shadow fell away and blended into the night.
Cain screamed in his throat, begging it back.
George was only George. He stank, but his teeth were his own, and the palm pressed across Cain’s face was slick, sweaty, and hairless.
“Evening, Cain!” George said. “So I guess Magenta’s had at you?”
Cain stared up into his eyes, trying to give nothing away.
“Why else would you decide to follow me? You saw what happened to Peter, you saw what did it. Why else follow, other than to try to make yourself believe? And I know you . . . I know you! I’ve heard your nightmares. You’d only be doing this if you were filled with doubt.” He pulled back slowly,releasing Cain’s mouth and sitting astride his stomach. He never lost eye contact; the threat of violence was overt. Cain could scream, but it would do him no favors.
“I have no doubt that you’re a monster,” Cain said.
George smiled, then shook his head. “I’m no monster,” he said. “I’m a monster killer. It’s just my Way. I need to feed, and I feed on the weak, the meaningless, those with lives of no significance.”
Cain thought of the people he had passed in the street, the histories and futures he would never know. “Who are you to judge?” he said.
“I’m something of a miracle,” George said. “There are very few like us—”
“I’m nothing like you!”
“I’m not referring to you, little Cain. I mean us—me, Whistler, Magenta, the Sister . . . even Peter. Poor old Peter. Never quite fulfilled his potential, but he was still better than most in this world.”
“You’re full of shit.” Cain hoped that the shadow was listening somewhere and enjoying this. “And so humble with it.”
“You are what you eat, so they say.” George looked down at Cain as if examining an interesting animal trapped in a specimen jar. “So what are you doing?” he asked.
“What?”
“What’s your choice? Are you going to make Mummy and Daddy proud?”
“Fuck you!” Cain bucked and twisted, but George seemed to be growing heavier, immovable.
“I’m peckish,” George said. “It’s not my choice,this hunger. It never was. But once the Way came to me, it’s just the route I took. Everyone’s different, Cain, and I ended up needing food. Real food. Lots of it. And as I said, I only pick on those with no lives. They work, they eat, they watch TV, they shit, they work . . . Who’ll miss them? Who’ll miss just a few of the drones?”
“Someone must. Someone knows you’re out here doing this, and it’s just a matter of time—”
“Time? Come on, I’m sure you saw Peter’s photograph album. I’ve been around for a long time. I travel far, and I’m very picky. And besides . . . I’m removed from the petty concerns of society. What I do is equally removed. You think they’ll ever find Peter’s body? It exists somewhere else now that I’ve been at it, somewhere more honest. And hidden from most.”
“You’re so arrogant,” Cain said. “You, Magenta, all of you. So filled with your own superiority.”
“Not filled with it. Comfortable with it.” George stood then, his knees crunching like two gunshots. He stretched his fingers and Cain heard them popping, one after the other, click-click-click. “Make your choice and live with it.” He looked down at Cain. His face had stretched, his jowls dropped, and his eyes seemed to take on a golden tint, though there was no light to be reflected.
“How could I ever want to be like you?” Cain said.
George shook his head sadly, but his eyes glittered. “You have no idea. Tonight, just for you, I won’t be so careful
. Follow. Witness the freedom of the Way.”
Something passed by close above them, swishing through the night and sending a waft of displaced air down at the ground. Cain thought of the shadow, but then he caught a brief whiff of honey, rich and sweet and so filled with memories.
“Must go,” George said. For an instant before the changing man fled, Cain saw a troubled look cross his face.
George ran back into the lane. He must have been waiting there for Cain all along. Now, invited to follow, Cain saw no reason to change his mind.
I won’t be so careful, George had said. Five minutes earlier, Cain would have taken this as a threat, but not now, not here. George thought himself beyond such pettiness. Once changed, the first person he met would be his food for tonight.
“Thanks for your help,” Cain said.
The shadow emerged from behind a fence. “It’s all down to you, and you know it. Did you smell—?”
“Yes, I know. That troubled George. I’m going to follow.”
“Of course you are,” the shadow said, darting ahead and entering the dark lane. Cain followed. He ran blindly, not bothering to put his hands out in front of him to feel for obstacles. Tonight, his own safety was no longer his prime mover. More and more he felt as though he was on the route to discovery.
I’ll not live like them, he thought, bitter and defiant. I won’t be like them. But he ran on into the night, and he found a strange excitement growing inside at what may have changed come morning.
Trying to keep track of the shadow was impossible, so Cain followed George’s footsteps instead. They were changing. At first they had thrown back the sound of leather on stone, but now they were softer, punctuated by a sharp, piercing scrape after every impact. Claws. George was changing, or had changed already, and Cain did not have long to catch him up. He had no idea what he would do when he did. Watch? Am I really just going to watch while he butchers someone? But he would face that problem when it arrived.