by Neil Gaiman
Gregory wondered if a woman like this, a jumpsuited, sunglassed woman who still had an edge of individuality, might touch him. Her mouth was pretty.
Her hands were pretty, too. She raised one and knocked again.
Gregory relished the fact that he was, physically, inches away from her, staring directly at her face, and that she didn’t know. Even in sunglasses, he never allowed himself to fully turn his face toward a stranger. Toward anyone. Everyone was a stranger now.
He thought of the girl from the store and remembered how his blood had felt when she’d smiled at him.
The woman in the hall twisted her glossy beige lips, hesitated, then knocked once more.
Gregory raised his own fist and knocked back at her.
She laughed. She laughed aloud and her teeth weren’t scary at all. Her throat was long when she threw her head back. He wondered how he could make her do that again.
He opened the door. “Oh!” she said, and took a step back. “Hello,” said Gregory. “May I help you?” “Hello, yes. No. I actually came to help you, I believe.” Despite the coverage of her sunglasses, he could tell that she was staring at him. He stared back. He saw his reflection in her lenses and blinked at himself. Blinked: he’d forgotten to put on his own shades.
“I see, well, thank you very much. How so?” “I live in 221B. Your package was delivered to my door by accident. It is addressed to 221A. But it says Gregory Holland.” Her forehead pinched and flushed.
“I’m Gregory Holland,” he said. “This is thoughtful of you, thank you.” “Gregory Holland,” she repeated.
Something oily rose inside him. His joints felt slow. He wished that the sick oil would reach them and make him fast so he could shut the door.
The woman pulled her canvas satchel around to her pelvis and pulled back the flap. Gregory felt tight and knew that she could see his eyes, would read the fear there. Shut the door, kick her and shut the door! Hit her in the face, blind her with broken tortoiseshell!”
Her hand slid into the satchel and he heard the thrush of enormous wings in his ears and she pulled out a flat brown package.
“Gregory Holland, 221A.” She held the package to her face. Her fingernails were painted with clear gloss and Gregory stared at them. He wanted to tap his teeth against them and hold her fingertips on his tongue.
She raised her hand and pushed her sunglasses up to crown her head, and then Gregory was eye to eye with another human, and she said, “Please forgive me for being forward, but I would like to come in for a moment, if you don’t mind.” Her words were appropriate, but there was no formality in her voice at all. Instead, she sounded exhilarated, nervous.
She stepped forward and stood on his threshold. If he slammed the door right now, right now hard, he could knock her out, maybe she would even fall down the steps and break her neck. That would be an accident, not his Right. Even if it were his One it would stop her from looking at him, from doing this to him. He gripped the edge of the door down low and his shoulder tensed to swing it shut.
But she came into his home and reached out as if to touch him and then he couldn’t move at all. Her hand stopped and hung in the air, her fingers twitched.
“You used to be famous,” she breathed. “Does that mean you still are? Once known, always known, I guess.” Her teeth, scarier now, dented her lower lip for an instant. The tip of her tongue flashed and licked her beige lips wet. Gregory backed against the wall and she toed the door shut. God, alone, alone with bare eye and a woman. He wanted to tell her that he had never been famous at all. He wanted her to touch him.
“Famous,” she said, in a fugue. Then her eyes grew bright and she snapped her gaze to his, cocked her head sideways. “I don’t blame you for changing your name, for going anonymous. But I’ve seen all of your movies. I was a fan even before you did Cold Scars, in fact—I watched you on the soaps. And the fact that you’ve survived, oh, you don’t know how glad I am. I watch your movies and I mourn for you. They’re all dead now, you know. Lovers and fans and—oh, Mickey, don’t ever think that I’m one of those fans, never ever think that.”
She forgot herself and put her hand on his arm. She drew a fast, hard breath and quivered as she exhaled. Her voice grew heavy. She had to expend effort to lift it into words. “You have always been so strong. The fact that you’ve survived proves that.”
Gregory disagreed with this, but agreed very much with the flutter of her fingertips on his forearm.
The woman was bats, he knew, but this would be so easy, and she was so convinced of her delusion that she would never notice.
Gregory put his hand on hers and said, “What is your name?” “Ann,” she said, and it didn’t sound like a name, but like a noise that had fallen from her.
Her hand, cool and trembling, moved under his. He wanted to keep it. But he was a prudent man, and he said, “Would you like to have dinner tonight, Ann?”
Ann’s eyes grew wide, as did her smile. She nodded and gave an affirmative hum. “Would six o’clock be a comfortable time for you?” Oh, it would, it would. “I’ll see you then, Ann. Thank you for bringing my package. I’m very glad to have met you.” He dared to put his hands on her shoulders and as he gentled her towards the door again he marveled at the flex of bird bones beneath his thumbs. She was cooing.
“Goodbye, Mickey,” she said, and he smiled at her, nodded, and closed the door. Locked it. Pressed his forehead to the wood and focused on the stretch of his lips. A smile. The air dried his teeth and he put his lips over them, where they belonged.
Gregory returned to the bathroom and stared into the mirror. Work could wait. What was making people look at him funny, mistake him for other men? He examined himself. Brown hair, brown eyes, and a face. Clean man. Bland man. Unremarkable man. He could be any one of a thousand men.
Sunglasses, jumpsuit, please do pardon me, I’m so sorry to have bothered you. No smile, no eyes, no expression, no self-expression. He was just a man, purely manners and anonymity.
He was nobody.
He could be anybody.
Gregory unsheathed his knife and weighed it, tipping it from one hand into the other. Who would the Authorities see, if they saw him?
He frowned. Ann and the girl at the store, could he have known them once? No, of course not. He would have remembered the girl’s terrible magnesium teeth and the gaudy colorful frames of Ann’s sunglasses.
It was two o’clock. Water stood in the bathtub, still. He had no mind for work.
He passed the time on the Internet. He ordered a shoulder holster. He researched the film Cold Scars and its star, Mickey Samson. Samson had been four years older than Gregory, and six inches shorter. Ann would not know about the height difference. Samson’s whereabouts were unknown. This was typical of personalities famous before the Law was passed. There were few stars now; most shows were animated, and those that weren’t featured casts of Authorities. News shows contained footage and voice-overs instead of anchors and live reporters. The cooperation among the sheer numbers of crew members needed for long shoots on location had made movies obsolete. The primary tool of entertainment was the State Internet, a closed system for citizens only. Text was king.
Despite the physical suggestion of anonymity cultivated by the jumpsuited population, the laws demanded that individuals take responsibility for their words and actions. All users online operated under their own names. Their home addresses and private phone numbers were available to the public. Manners reigned on the State Internet, too.
At five o’clock, Gregory shaved, dressed, combed his hair. He polished his sunglasses. His jumpsuit was crisp. His boots were clean and glossy, but not too glossy.
At five-forty, he sat down to wait.
Fourteen minutes later, he heard movement in the building hallway, and saw the shadows of feet at his door. He waited for Ann’s knock. It did not come.
Once again, Gregory crept to the door and peered through the lens. Ann stood outside. Her upper teeth pressed into her
lower lip. She pinched her earlobe. She drew back the cuff of her fawn jumpsuit with her fingertips and examined her watch. She looked at the door, then back at her watch. The watch was scarlet. Gregory’s own watch was matte black. He wondered how Ann had survived so long with all her attention-getting accessories.
Her chest swelled, deflated, then swelled again, and she held it that way and knocked on the door.
Knocked again.
Gregory stared through the peephole until she could hold her breath no more and, just as she let her posture slip, he thumbed the lock and opened the door. Her shoulders were still caved in, but her eyebrows rose above the tops of her sunglasses, and she squeaked.
“Good evening, Ann. I’m honored that you returned.”
She wobbled her head a little and then regained her composure somewhat, and said, “Good evening, Mickey. Gregory. Which do you prefer?”
“Gregory, please. Mickey must be our secret.” “Of course.” Penny-sized jowls of disappointment puffed at the corners of her mouth. They faded as she controlled her face.
“I would be happy to ask you in, under normal circumstances. Tonight I thought you might like to come with me to see the Ensemble Authorities perform Shakespeare in the park. Othello, I think. The web schedule says there will be dim sum vending kiosks there.”
“That sounds just wonderful,” she said.
Gregory nodded. “It begins at six-thirty. We can walk to the park. There may be a crowd,” he warned. He could barely speak the word “crowd,” so unnerved was he by the possibility.
Ann could contain herself no longer. “Who cares?” she asked, reaching for and catching his hand. “Six-thirty? Not much time. Let’s go!” Her smile was broad and eager.
Mistake, thought Gregory. This woman was death to him. She was all teeth and quickness, but even when quiet, she wanted attention. The skin that gloved her dangerous flesh felt nice against his, but not nice enough to stop him from fearing her.
They left for the park.
The walk took five minutes. Ann chattered the whole time. Her plumbing was bad too (perhaps Gregory would bother the landlord, after all) and she detailed the stagnant contents of her kitchen sink to him. Her toilet was clogged, too. She told him that, until it was fixed, she tried not to eat or drink much at home, so her body would not force her to use the restroom. He would rather not have heard this and thought it appallingly uncouth of her to have told him. Even her tongue was death. He wanted it far away from him, but leaving would have been rude.
They entered the gates of the park and passed through the arbor. The air was indigo with dusk. Ahead lay the parade grass, populated by quiet people wearing sand-colored coveralls. Each of the dim sum kiosks stood as the hub of a wheel spoked by queues of polite citizens. Here and there white-suited Authorities monitored the quiet throng.
“Oh, Mickey, honey, the play’s going to start soon. Let’s eat during intermission, or afterwards, we can eat afterwards if you want.” Ann’s hand gathered the fabric of his right sleeve at the elbow and bunched it up as she hauled him toward the small stage. The button that held the cuff closed popped off as she dragged the fabric up his forearm. He was glad he’d ordered new jumpsuits.
Gregory offered apologies and excuses to each person she brushed against. He doubted his words could be heard over her own, which were growing shrill.
People.
He had brought this upon himself. It had been an experiment. It had failed. His eyes watered behind his glasses.
It would be rude of him to yank his arm away from her. It might anger her. Anger is danger.
But Gregory was angry himself. That, too, was danger. Danger to her. And, he thought, if she was too stupid to realize what she was doing to him, it might be polite to enlighten her.
“Ann. Ann.” He stopped short and she stumbled back into him, her momentum interrupted. Her hair bounced against his chin. “Pardon me, but you seem to be growing a bit overexcited. I am concerned that you may disturb other patrons.”
She whirled around and struck him in the sternum with the heel of her open hand. “Fuck you,” she snapped. “I have the upper hand here. I know who you are, Mickey fucking Samson. I know you used your Legal two years ago, right before you disappeared. You killed that movie critic.” She fingered the collar of his jump-suit and smirked at him. “Sorry you’re embarrassed. You’ll have to get used to it, lover. Now. Let’s sit here, it’s a nice place. We’re as close to the stage as we’re gonna get. I know you don’t want to be right up front because the actors might recognize you, right? Here’s good.”
She sat down on the grass, her legs crossed. Her hip bone pressed the toe of his boot.
He thought about kicking her in the back of the head.
He thought about her mouth. He’d wanted so badly to feel her lips, earlier. So he knelt down behind her and drew his knife from his boot, folded his left hand over her slick beige talkative lips and brought his right one around to shove the knife through her larynx.
Her hair smelled like lemons.
Her lips moved against his palm and her blood moved down his wrist. Her shoulders bucked hard against his own throat. That felt nice. He stirred the insides of her throat with the blade, crushing and severing her windpipe. The sounds were bad.
Then his One was dead.
Gregory pulled the knife from her neck and wiped the blade on the grass. He slid it back into the sheath in his boot. He wiped his wrist on the grass and pulled the sleeve down over it. The cuff hung loose but hid the blood.
He checked behind him and saw that the crowd was standing. The play was about to start. They stood to honor the players. Gregory stood, too. Two men in white suits strode toward him from the stage, their eyes hollowed by dusk.
Gregory took four steps backwards, then four to the right. Five back. Three left, deeper into the crowd. He stopped when a man touched his shoulder and said to him, “Pardon me, but aren’t you Professor Brooks? You taught my class last semester. It was an excellent class.”
“Thank you,” said Gregory. “I remember you. You were a talented student.” He could be any of a thousand men. “Excuse me,” said Gregory, “I must be going.” He walked another dozen yards, then turned to face the stage.
The Authorities fixed hard stares on a man twenty paces closer to the stage than Gregory. The man stood calm and confident. The Authorities approached him and stood before him, spoke to him. His posture did not change. He drew forth identification and one of the men in white scanned the chip with their ID databank device. The second Authority listened to the verdict of the first, then spoke at length, face fixed and mechanical, to the man. The man’s shoulders twisted and his head turned from side to side. The first Authority extended his hand to the man’s neck and administered the lethal dose via syringe.
Gregory watched all of this, but he was calm. He did not stare. It’s not polite to stare.
Subdued applause came from the crowd, then, as the curtain rose.
The man next to Gregory smiled at him and said, “I’m so glad we came here. This was a lovely idea, just what I needed. Thank you.”
Gregory smiled back. “I’m glad you’re happy.” He continued to smile.
Sensible Violence
BY BRIAN HODGE
Murder is a sin. Of course it is. But there are little loopholes and provisions encoded into every religion. “Thou shalt not kill, except…”
And then there are those systems of belief that can’t be bothered with pussy-footing around. Their gods walked in slaughtering and never looked back. To do anything less is to see things unclearly.
You can call their adherents extremists or true believers. Call ‘em saints or psychotics. Doesn’t matter to them. They know what is true, and you don’t. Suck it up.
Metaphysical scrapper Brian Hodge never met a truth he couldn’t wrestle to the floor, or die trying. And not a single bloody punch will be pulled.
As you are about to see in this extraordinary culling of the herd.
/> You’re minding your own business when he comes up to you, the way it happens to anyone. Your palms are pressed against the plate glass of the store’s window, a pet store, you never can resist it, taking time out to squat on your haunches and share a few moments with the puppies. With their big feet and fat little bellies, they squirm and trip all over each other trying to get to you, impress you, maybe you’ll take them all home. Show them the world on the other side of the glass.
“‘S’cuse, not to be intruding or nothing, but I’s needing to ask you something, okay, mind if I conversate with you a second?”
Money. He’ll want money, it’s as good as predestined. When you squatted down to watch the pups he was nowhere in sight, and you’d checked, too. You’re less a target for beggars when you’re moving and they know that, that it’s easier to pretend you don’t hear them, that your ears shut down in midstride.
“Basically I’s wondering if you could spare like a couple dollars so I could get something to eat, you know, I wouldn’t ask but I ain’t had nothing to eat for a couple days now—”
He talks with his hands always in motion to make you feel his urgency, feel his hunger, and you wonder if you should tell him to calm down, quit flailing so much and he’ll conserve more calories. He tells you how your donation will enable him to go back up the street a couple blocks to the Dairy Queen on the corner, alleviate his hunger with a double cheeseburger and fries.
“I’m not giving you the money,” you tell him, “but if you’re hungry I’ll take you to buy it.”
“I heard that, let’s go,” his willingness immediate, without the outrage that comes when they only want the cash, then you’re walking up the street, not looking as though you naturally belong together but are something odder, buddy cops maybe, and he’s just come in from undercover work, the reason he’s dressed the way he is, wearing that dirty sweatshirt with the hood fraying around the edge. He probably really needs the meal, unless he only dresses the part, although some don’t even bother, wearing two hundred dollar warmup suits and pricey new sneakers, as robust as marble statues come to life, with their hands out, telling you about all the meals they’ve missed.