“No one you want to know,” Johnny said.
Ronnie began to make a noise that was somewhere between a moan and a screech, a noise that made the skin on his back want to tear away from his spine, and then it hit him, he knew what he had to do; the only thing he could do, the thing he had always done before. He had to run, lead Ronnie away from Darla.
“Stay on the couch,” Johnny yelled, and then he was up, darting toward the door. Johnny knew what Darla was thinking: I need to run too, and she probably would, would probably call the police, but at this moment he had to lead Ronnie away from her. He had to pay for what he had done, and make sure the innocent did not pay with him.
Johnny leaped out of the protection of the salt circle, through the open door, across the concrete porch, bounded over the steps, hit the walkway running, and behind him he heard the pounding of heavy feet.
Glancing back, he saw his ruse had worked. Ronnie had left Darla alone and was pursuing him, and what a sight Ronnie was in the glow of the streetlight that had only in that moment turned on. Ronnie’s head swung from side to side, threatening to come off and roll away, and yet, somehow it clung, and his mouth seemed far too wide, and it didn’t seem real that he could see Ronnie’s eyes from that distance, but he could; dark and yet somehow glowing. He could hear a sound like bare bones rubbing together as Ronnie ran, and the wind was blowing past Johnny, bringing Ronnie’s horrid stench with it.
The other thing was Ronnie was gaining, and much more easily than when he pursued so many years ago. The reason was simple, Johnny realized. The dead don’t tire.
But Johnny did. The fear he felt had already caused him to burn more energy and adrenaline than he thought possible. He tried not to look back and see Ronnie gaining, tried to concentrate on running, one foot after another, lengthening his strides, bringing his breathing into check.
As Johnny started up the rise that was Dark Hill Run, he saw the traffic thickening on the road next to him. He wondered what the riders would think if they saw him and Ronnie. Two guys, one really odd with a sagging head, out for their evening run.
Good god, surely not. No one could look at Ronnie and think what they were seeing was just a messed-up human being. But if anyone was looking at Ronnie with surprise or curiosity, there was no way Johnny could be aware of it. The cars went by as they did every evening at the top of Dark Hill Run, buzzing like a beehive, people coming off of work, or going out to eat, and here he was with a dead thug running after him, forcing him to run for his life up Dark Hill Run right in the midst of all that normalcy and a symbol of witchcraft at the summit.
Finally Johnny had to look because he could hear that bare-bone grinding sound, the swishing of Ronnie’s jacket as the monster swung his arms and it rubbed against his sides. Johnny glanced back, his heart sank. Ronnie was reaching out for him, his fingers were about to grasp his collar.
Johnny pushed harder, and then he remembered the salt. Reached in his pocket, pulled the bag out and shook it open, flipped salt onto his hair and jacket, and some of the salt sailed over his shoulder, striking Ronnie in the face. There was a sound like grease popping in a hot skillet, and a noise like the one Ronnie had made before, a groaning sound that turned into a banshee-like screech. Ronnie’s fingers brushed the back of Johnny’s jacket, but failed to gain purchase. Ronnie pulled them back, rotten flesh falling off of them in hissing wads.
Johnny, without meaning to, screamed and began to pant and stumble, gaining his balance just as the hill leveled off. He could see the lights of the Starbucks in the distance. But even if he ran there, it would follow, and it wasn’t like the monster had a sense of decorum, would sit down and order a cup of coffee. Ronnie would do what he intended to do anywhere.
There was nothing for it. Johnny realized he would eventually run out of salt and energy, and Ronnie would catch him.
Johnny raced past stores, some of them closed for the day, others still open, lights glowing inside, the street lights falling over him and his pursuer. In those dark store windows he saw a reflection of himself, but not Ronnie. Ronnie might be solid, but he held no reflection, obviously a by-product of being a revenant.
Feeling his legs start to tire, having expended far more energy than on his usual runs, Johnny stumbled past a row of hedges, felt his feet slip out from under him. He hit the sidewalk sliding, rolling onto his back. And there came Ronnie.
Out of the gap between the hedges and Starbucks, missing Johnny by inches, the six p.m. bread truck came barreling, striking Ronnie hard, knocking him winding over a patch of grass and into the road beside it, and then he was hit by a truck, and then a car, and then pieces of him were hit by several cars.
Honking, screeching tires, burning brakes, cars slamming into the backs of one another, and in a moment, the road was silent as cars pulled to the side and people seemed to pour out of them.
Ronnie was all over the concrete in pieces and smears.
As Johnny watched, Ronnie’s head rolled slowly back across the freeway toward him, and bounced up against the curb. The driver of the bread truck was outside of it now, leaning against the grill work, stunned, observing the slow disintegration of Ronnie’s head, the flesh peeling into smelly strips off the skull, the skull collapsing like wet cardboard, a crowd starting to gather.
Johnny could see Ronnie’s leather jacket lying in the highway, his torso collapsing into a puddle of dark goo beneath it, and then the jacket itself shredding as a wind picked at it and carried it away like confetti.
Johnny sat up, leaned his back against the stone wall of the Starbucks and began to laugh. He laughed hysterically. Even with all the oddness in the street, people turned to look at him, he was so out of control. Salt and spells couldn’t compare with a repeat of what had killed Ronnie in the first place. An accident.
Johnny could see Darla walking toward him. She was trembling violently. Her mouth hung open and her arms dangled at her sides, useless. Sirens were screaming their way toward the site of what would surely be thought of as an extraordinary and inexplicable accident.
A man climbed out of one of the cars that had smashed into the curb, came over and put his hand on Johnny’s shoulder as Darla arrived and collapsed on the sidewalk next to Johnny.
The man said, “I’m a doctor. Can I help you in any way?”
Johnny, between bouts of laughter, said, “Yeah, buddy. You can. You got a cigarette?”
HAPPY FOREVER
by
SIMON R. GREEN
Everyone knows a street that doesn’t feel right. Where the light from the street lamps feels sour and spoiled, like bitter honey. Where the shadows are too deep and too dark, and creep up on you when you’re not looking. Everyone knows a house it’s not safe to approach, or turn your back on. Where dim silhouetted figures linger at brightly lit windows, and their movements make no sense at all. And you wonder who these people are, and what they’re doing. And if you’ve got any sense at all you keep on walking until you’re back in some part of the world you recognise, and understand.
The problem with cities is that they’re just too big. People’s needs and ambitions expand to fill the space available, and all the sick hidden secrets in their hearts break loose and rise to the surface. Until in the endless back streets and cul-de-sacs, in the private members-only clubs and lonely bed-sitting rooms, people start to realise they can do anything. Anything at all.
* * *
There is a house where Time stands still. Where nothing moves and nothing changes, no-one enters and no-one ever leaves. A house where what is happening will always happen, as long as someone pays the price.
* * *
My name is Gideon Sable, these days. I’m a professional thief, specialising in acquiring the kind of notable items that can’t normally be stolen. Like a ghost’s clothes, or a photograph of an event that hasn’t happened yet. A ventriloquist’s dummy that speaks in tongues, or a stamp from a country that never existed. Collectors will buy anything. There was a time I could
steal your shadow or your reputation, your self-esteem, your favourite memory, or the life you might have known. There was nothing you could have that I couldn’t take from you; and you’d never even notice till it was far too late. It used to be my proud boast that I could steal anything. Until I went after the one thing I shouldn’t have, the only thing that ever meant anything to me.
* * *
It was a cold night in a colder city, and someone was looking for me. In those days I drifted from address to address, and went out of my way not to have any regular habits or close acquaintances, because that was the kind of thing people could use to track you down. Given what I did, there were always going to be certain aggrieved individuals who wanted very much to get their hands on me. But I did leave my card in various places, so potential clients could leave their contact details. So I could decide whether or not I wanted to meet them.
On that particular night, I hovered just inside the doorway to a reasonably out of the way public house, The Three Bells. As though I’d merely stepped inside on a whim, in passing. I looked around casually, checking the place out, ready to disappear back into the night if anything didn’t feel right. But it was just the usual crowd, sitting at their usual tables, minding their own business. I spotted the client immediately, standing by the bar with a drink in his hand that he didn’t seem very interested in drinking. They all have the same look: a need, a hunger for something they believe only I can get for them.
No other new faces, nothing out of place, so I made my way to the bar. The client turned to face me, and I got my first surprise of the evening. I knew him. Daniel Lennox, small-time solicitor. A faded, middle-aged man with tired, defeated eyes. I used to go out with his daughter, a long time ago. He didn’t recognise me at first. Back then, I used to change my appearance as often as my hideouts. But after a moment he nodded to me, and I nodded back.
“Been a while, Andrew.”
“I don’t use that name any more,” I said.
“Of course,” said Lennox. “You’re the infamous Gideon Sable, now. The man who can get you anything, for a price. It’s been years since I last saw you. Ten years since my daughter Julia disappeared.”
“What do you want, Lennox?” I said patiently. “Why track me down, after all this time?”
“Because I finally found her. She’s trapped, in a place she can’t get out of. I want her back. I want you to steal her back.”
Lennox’s words put a chill in my heart. Julia… I kept my face professionally calm and unmoved, and met Lennox’s gaze steadily.
“Why come to me?”
“Oh, you weren’t my first choice. I have my pride. I sent others to bring Julia home.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. They never came back. But they were good men, ready to help just because it was the right thing to do. It seems the place I sent them is too much for heroes. I’m hoping a professional thief might do better. I asked around, and your name kept coming up. There are a lot of stories about Gideon Sable. Did you really steal the Hand of Eibon, and the Box of Beyond?”
“I never talk about what I do,” I said. “That’s part of what you’re paying me for.”
“I understand you only steal things to order,” he said. “Never anything for yourself.”
“I don’t care about things.”
“Or people?”
“I haven’t cared about anyone since Julia walked out on me. All I care about now is cash. With enough money, you can buy whatever things or people you think you need.”
“Did you ever really love my daughter?” said Lennox. He seemed honestly interested in my answer.
“Yes,” I said. “You know where she is, now?”
“She’s being held in a house where the doors never open. Where no-one can reach her. But maybe you can, if you’re as good as everyone says.” He looked thoughtfully at me for a long moment, and then handed me a card. “Go to this address. She’ll be there.”
I took the card, looked at it, and then at him. “What’s the catch? Why can’t Julia leave?”
“Because Time itself has come to a halt, at that house. The people inside are trapped in a moment carved out of Time. Like insects preserved in amber.”
“How the hell am I supposed to get her out of that?” I said.
“I’m sure a uniquely experienced thief such as yourself will think of something,” he said, smiling faintly. “What’s your price, Mister Sable?”
“No price,” I said. “Not this time. It’s Julia.”
He nodded slowly. “I did hope… she might still mean something to you.”
“You should have asked me first,” I said. “How much has this cost you, so far?”
“She’s my daughter,” said Lennox. “I’d do anything for her.”
“She walked out on me,” I said. “She said I could never make her happy. But still, there hasn’t been a day in these past ten years when I haven’t thought about her. I have to rescue her. If only to prove to Julia that she was wrong about me.”
“I have no doubt… that you are what she needs, now,” said Lennox.
“What about all the other people trapped in the house?” I said. “Am I supposed to steal them, too?”
“This is all about Julia,” Lennox said steadily. “I don’t know any of the others. And I have been told that just maybe the house will let one of its victims go, when it would fight to keep all of them.”
“What is this house?” I said. “How is it doing… what it’s doing?”
He shrugged briefly. “Every jungle has its predators. All we can ever really do is try and save the ones we love.”
He finished his drink, and left. Didn’t look back at me once. I studied the address on the card he’d given me. The house where Time stands still…
* * *
Julia. Sometimes I think she was my last chance to be someone else, someone better. When I think of her, it’s always the small important things I remember. Walking hand in hand, shoulders pressed together, laughing quietly at some private joke. Slow dancing to a favourite song, lost in the music and the moment. Lying beside her in bed, in the night, watching her sleep. Watching over her.
I tried not to think about how happy we were. About the life we were going to have, and the promises we made to each other. I tried not to remember the look on her face when she told me it was over. Because she knew there was no room for her in the life of a professional thief. Because I wanted us to be rich, more than I wanted her to be happy. She turned her back on me and walked away, and I was left alone. I tried not to remember Julia, because then I wondered what my life might have been like if we hadn’t argued. If I might have been happy, instead of merely successful.
* * *
The address on the card was easy enough to find, just a house on a street in one of the more comfortable areas of the city. Not rich, or fashionable, but comfortable. The house before me seemed pleasant enough and perfectly respectable. Nothing out of place, nothing to draw the attention. But I only had to look at the house to know something was wrong. The placid exterior and calm facade were just that little bit too ordinary. Like the false face the monster wears, to fool you into thinking it’s just like you. I looked at the house, and I could feel it looking back.
The few people out taking the air that evening passed on by without even glancing at the house. As though it wasn’t there; and perhaps for them it wasn’t. The house was protecting itself with a nothing to see here glamour. But I could see it, and know it for what it was. Because I had trained myself to see what was really in front of me, instead of what I expected.
The secret to any good theft is to do your research. I found a great many references to this particular house, in the kind of books that tell true stories, as opposed to the ones that make it into history books. Like the hidden horrors of Undertowen, the world below; the subterranean galleries and forgotten enclaves where the unwanted people go. The ghost parades of murdered children, stumbling forever through the ea
rly hours, weeping silently. The streets that don’t go anywhere, and the signposts to places that might have been. The taxi cabs that pick up people who are never seen again. Cities attract people; and people attract predators.
The house where Time stands still was a recent addition. Nothing had moved inside that house since everyone inside was caught between the tick and tock of a stopped clock. No-one knew why. Various people had tried to get in, just on general principle, to see if they might be missing out on something. But how do you force an entrance into a moment of Time that has been taken out of the world?
Well, it helps if you have a key. I hefted it in my hand. Just a simple metal key, with engravings in a language no human being has ever spoken. It was able to undo any lock, open any door, give entrance to any place. The secret of my success. How did I come by such a fantastically useful thing? I stole it, of course.
I walked up the path to the house. All the lights were on, every curtain drawn back, but no sign of anyone. I could feel a tension on the air, and the pressure of unseen watching eyes. My key opened the front door, and I went inside.
* * *
There was a party going on, in absolute silence. The living room was full of men and women standing perfectly still, like living statues. Dressed in their best, like peacocks on parade, smiling happy smiles, posed for a photograph that would never end. Everyone having the best of times, forever. I walked slowly forward, and it was like moving underwater; struggling against the resistance of a constant pressure. Time clung to me like a dead man’s hands, trying to hold me back; but as long as I had my key nowhere was closed to me. I moved among the guests and none of them could see me.
They were all frozen in a particular moment, enjoying what pleased them most. Bright young things drank expensive wines, glasses forever tilted against open mouths. Couples danced together, elegantly poised, caught between one step and the next. Several were laughing, heads tilted back to enjoy a joke told ten years ago. All through the house it was the same. In every room unblinking eyes enjoyed the best party ever. No-one stood alone. It was couples everywhere. In the bedrooms, they were having sex. Forever. And when I pressed a cautious fingertip against a bare back, it felt cold and unyielding as stone.
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