by K W Taylor
Damned raccoons.
Lucy gripped the dagger.
What emerged from a copse of shrubbery wasn’t what Lucy expected. Tall, tawny in the moonlight, with a heart-shaped face and dark, inquisitive eyes.
Lucy and the deer locked eyes for several long moments.
“I’m sorry,” Lucy whispered.
The work was hard and bloody. By the time she was done, Lucy’s nightgown was destroyed. She stared at the heart in her hand until it stopped beating.
She didn’t see Ricky again until 1969, in a logging town just outside Seattle. She’d been swaying in front of a sad piano in a resort lodge, singing songs about death and drugs and loss and love. Her hair was long and brown now, nails polished bright red like her hair used to be. No one from the old days would have recognized her, with her new name and new breasts, purchased by the rich man who owned the lodge and kept her a secret from his wife.
But Ricky hadn’t changed; he was still tan and Bryl-Creemed and smoking cigarillos in his neat black suit. A spotlight seemed to follow him in the crowd, even though Lucy knew that was impossible. She expected a scene but didn’t get one—he stayed in his seat, stirring his drink and gazing up at her on stage as if he still loved her.
As if he’d ever loved her.
She felt the coldness in her chest, felt it spread through her like a breeze on a hot day, taking away the sting of memory. Now it was just a series of photographs of someone else, another girl, another husband, another life. Not hers.
Her dress swept the stage steps as she walked to his table. He took her hand in his and, without a word, brushed his lips against her knuckles. A waiter deposited drinks in front of each of them.
“Your usual,” Ricky said.
“I don’t have a usual.”
Ricky shrugged. “Your old usual, then.”
When Lucy raised the glass to her face, she smelled apples. She put it back down without drinking.
“So who is this person on the card outside the bar, this Latina? She is you?” He laughed.
“She’s me, my future,” Lucy replied.
Ricky’s smile faded. He leaned forward. “Whose heart did I bury?” he asked, his voice low. “Who did our son mourn?” His eyes flashed with rage, but he stayed composed. He leaned in even closer. “There was a murder case, Lucy! Do you even realize? Maldito! Ellos pensaban que era yo! They thought it was me, that I killed you!”
The rich man slipped inside the club. His eyes locked with Lucy’s, and he grinned at her. He wore a tuxedo and an expensive wristwatch, which he tapped to indicate it was time to go. Lucy lifted one edge of her mouth in a lazy half smile and drained the rest of her drink.
She rose and put her hand on Ricky’s shoulder. “You did kill me,” she said. “I’ve been a ghost for a long, long time.”
Lucy slipped away, all clingy dress and sequins and perfume, and walked with the rich man out into the mist.
Arcus Senilis
This was not where Edgar Smith went to sleep, that much was certain. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, a bed very much absent of Sarah. “Darling?” he called. No response. Another glance about the room revealed a decided lack of the Eastlake furniture with which she’d filled their bedroom. Instead, there was a sterile metal bureau and the low, narrow bed.
He looked down at himself and saw his own pyjamas, blue and orange stripes that ran horizontal on the trousers and vertical on the jacket. This comforted him, at least. He stood, rolling his neck from side to side and trying to recall if last night’s dinner had included copious amounts of pineau d’aunis. Rather not, he decided. The headache was more akin to lambrusco, and a cheap one at that. And then there was a hint of a memory of a dream. War, explosions, rocks blowing up and—oh, hang it, it was all gone. Worst thing for a dream’s to try to remember it. He raised an arm over his head and tugged on the elbow, loosening up the stiffness in his rotator cuff, and then repeated the action with his other arm.
Edgar was just moving to the bureau when the door flew open and a young man poked his head in. “Oh! Oh, right, yes, sorry.” The man had a head of shaggy brown hair that fell almost to his ears. He grinned and gave a nervous laugh. “Sorry, wrong room, I expect,” he told Edgar. He waved and swept out.
“Hang on!” Edgar called. He strode to the doorway and leaned out. The room adjoined an austere hallway with plain, white-plastered walls. The young man was still visible, though he’d gotten rather farther along the corridor than Edgar thought possible in so short a time. “You there! Wait!” Edgar raised his arm and whistled. The man paused and turned back around.
“Yes?” The young man waited, but he made no move to bridge the gap between himself and Edgar. His mouth was screwed up into a small frown, and lines stood out in arcs above his prominent brow bone. “What’s the trouble, sir?”
Edgar shook his head as he approached the other man. “Ah, it appears I imbibed a bit too much last night, friend, so I’m hoping you could remind me where I am.” He held up his hands. “I know, I know, I’m a bit old to be getting up to such shenanigans, but do humor me, please.”
The other man’s frown disappeared, his expression dissolving into a wide, lopsided grin. “Good for you, sir. Good for you.” He clapped Edgar on the shoulder. “Well done. I’m surprised you were able to smuggle it in, point of fact. How’d you manage it, eh”
“Smuggle it in?” Edgar asked. “Lad, I dare say my wife was probably to blame. She puts me under the table some nights!” Her face darted before his eyes, her pale skin bathed in candlelight as she poured herself a glass of wine. “Always sticks to seltzer in public, but that woman can polish off a bottle if left to her own devices.”
Again, the young man frowned. “So your wife brought it to you? Well, I suppose they wouldn’t check her, would they?” He got a faraway look in his eye.
Edgar snapped his fingers in front of the man’s face. “Not trying to be rude, but I need to get home.” His voice took on a stern edge.
The young man pointed to the doorway from which Edgar had just exited. “Believe you were in there, sir,” he said. He took a step backward. “I’m late, so please excuse me. I’m sure someone can assist you if you need help.” He turned around and sprinted around the corner.
Edgar frowned as the man disappeared from view. He turned the other way and was faced with a similarly blank corridor, all white and nothingness and quiet. “Oh, bother,” he muttered. He patted his pockets before remembering he had none, and was momentarily scandalized that he’d wandered out to talk with a stranger in his night clothes.
The young man had pointed at the room he’d just left. Good a place as any to return to, especially when one hasn’t his trousers on. Edgar wondered at the strangeness of a hangover free of headache. Other than not knowing where the devil I am, he thought, I feel just smashing, like I’ve had a long, healthy sleep.
Back in the room, he found unfamiliar slacks and a plain grey tee shirt but no shoes. At least decent enough to not scandalize anyone. Edgar returned to the corridor and headed toward the unexplored left branch. He’d found nothing else of his, no wallet amongst the clothes in the dresser, and so he felt confident leaving the door ajar as he departed.
Silence. Blank walls. No one and nothing, not even a pay telephone. He was unconcerned that he had no coins. It would serve Sarah right to get rung up collect if she’d misplaced him. He imagined her laughing and then pictured her sleeping it off next door on the Bakers’ davenport, unable to take the call. Perhaps he’d done this to himself. Oh, such a damnable thing! Stupid man, he thought. Once I get home, I’m laying off the sauce for good!
At last, he saw a hint of light around a corner. Edgar turned right and ...still nothing. The light was just a buzzing, flickering fluorescent panel in the ceiling. There were no other rooms this way and no discernable way to the outside.
For the first time since waking, Edgar began to wonder if this wasn’t just a hangover. Where the devil am I? he wondered. And then, boldly,
he wondered this aloud, first in a normal tone, then louder and louder until he felt himself shouting.
“I demand to know where I am!” he called.
He heard his own voice echo in the corridor and nothing else.
The other fellow, the one with the simian brow. He had to find that other fellow and fast. Could be there was nobody else here. Could be that man was keeping him here, even. Perhaps he’d been kidnapped. He started to jog back down the opposite direction.
“Oh, darling,” he heard Sarah scoffing in his head. “I do love you, but are you important enough to be kidnapped? Who’d want a retired medical corps officer? You weren’t even a proper doctor, dear. Unless the mafia want its own paramedic on retainer, you’re likely just in the drunk tank.” She’d laugh then. “Now, me, I’m a scientist, dear. Plenty of folks want to snap me up and torture some information out of me! But you, I’m afraid...your true purpose in this world is to make me happy. Yes, drunk tank for you, that’s all this is, love.”
He stopped running. Too true, too true. But was this any sort of drunk tank? Jail had bars and was stuck inside the police station, wasn’t it? This was more like—
His train of thought was interrupted by a sudden burst of laughter. It was two different voices, both masculine, but not far off and in the same direction he was moving. Heartened, Edgar picked up his pace.
Soon, he was back in sight of his room once more. The laughter was coming from inside, and now he could make out the soft rumblings of words, indistinct conversation. Thank heavens! Perhaps Sarah’d sent ‘round their nephew to come collect him, and good old Jim was just paying his...bail? Oh, what an embarrassing thought. Still, if it got him home soon, he’d apologize to one and all.
“Jim! What a thoughtless old bugger I’ve been!” he called, sweeping through the doorway. “Oh!” He stopped short. “You’re...well, sorry, gentlemen. I thought perhaps my nephew was here.” He started to laugh at his own foolishness until he saw that the faces of the men in his room remained stoic.
“Mister Smith, is it?” The man closer to the door was short and stout, wearing an odd white costume with buttons down the front. “Mister Smith, you’ll need to stop running about. You’re agitating everyone.”
His associate nodded. “Sorry, sir. Need to stay calm for a bit.” This one was the same height but stranger in countenance. His face ...Edgar gasped as the other man’s face seemed to almost blur in and out of clarity. That couldn’t be normal.
“What’s wrong with your head, boy?” Edgar demanded.
The blurry man’s face shifted into shadow, and Edgar felt a pin prick in his arm. Darkness swelled around the corners of his field of vision. He looked around for the shorter man. “You stuck me,” he mumbled. “You stuck me with something, and you’re keeping me ...where?” His tongue felt thick and fuzzy, and then everything went black.
When he awoke, he was back in his pyjamas, back in the bed, and alone again. Only he didn’t stay that way long. The door swung open, and the first young man he’d encountered—the tall, slender one with the forehead like a monkey—came in. “Oh! Heavens, you’re awake!” He grinned and plopped himself down uninvited on the end of Edgar’s bed. “That is good news, isn’t it? Well done, sir. Very well done indeed!”
Edgar blinked at him. “What’s everyone want with me?” he asked. His voice was low, slow, and thick. He moved his jaw around and tried to clear his throat. “Where am I?”
The young man’s face fell, and he clucked. “What a pity. And here I thought you were all better after your sleep! Sarah will be so disappointed.”
It seemed Edgar shut his eyes for mere instants, but when he opened them again, the young man was gone. How on earth did he know Sarah’s name? I must’ve told it, Edgar reasoned. He tried to think back to their earlier encounter—hallway, talking of drink, and then the other fellow was gone, lickety-split, scampering off on too-long legs, ankles peeking out of the bottoms of his trousers. He’d had an odd gait to his stride, Edgar recalled. Sort of a quick shambling, almost sideways way of running, as if he were on new, unsteady legs. And the ill-fitting clothes . . .
Edgar groaned as he struggled out of bed for the second time that morning. Or was it the next morning already? Confounded lack of windows! Edgar felt like shouting. He wasn’t mucking about to look for a proper outfit this time. Hang the lot of them if these strange men couldn’t handle seeing someone in his night things. He looked down at himself as he stood. Yes, still the same old stuff. Stripes and—
He frowned. Something was off. He lifted the hem of his pyjama top closer to his face and bent forward until he was peering at the very fibers of the fabric.
It’s faded, he realized. Faded more than usual. And threadbare. He scrambled to unbutton the jacket and examined the inside, the lining and label. Should read “Peters Clothiers” inside, he knew. Edgar fumbled for the inside collar and was greeted with a fuzzy stub of cloth with the barest hint of lettering on it.
“No, no, no, this can’t be!” he said aloud. He felt his eyes bulge. “The words were there!” He tried to recall when he’d bought this set. It was years ago, certainly, but not so many that the label was worn away. Or was it? He cursed and wadded the top up into a ball before throwing it as hard as he could against the wall above the bureau.
“The devil take all this!” he shouted. He flung the door aside and proceeded out to the corridor. “All right, lads, where are you? Olly olly oxen free!”
A freckled head peered out from around the far left corner. It was the short man whose associate had no face. “Ah! My drug dealer, I presume!” Edgar called. He knew he was grinning madly now, but he didn’t care. “You think I’m insane, I’d wager, and I probably am.” He felt a surge of anger swell within him. “But that’s only because I’ve been kidnapped!” The last few words exploded from him in a torrent of rage. He stomped to the man, who moved out from behind the corner, his expression placid.
“Mister Smith, if you would calm yourself—”
“No!” Edgar roared. “I won’t be kept here against my will, not for one bloody moment!”
The shorter man sighed. He withdrew a small device from his pocket and spoke into it, too low for Edgar to hear.
“What on earth is that?” Edgar demanded. A thought occurred to him. “Oh, that’s it, isn’t it? The key to everything. We’re not even on earth any longer, are we?” He pointed at the man. “You’re an alien! That’s the thing, isn’t it? That’s why your friend back there looked so odd. He’s not as good as you at pretending to be human!” He looked around the blank hallway. “Spaceship, right? Or some kind of underground facility? Perhaps your air system is poor and you lot have to live in a...in a dome or some such.” He clenched his fists. “I won’t let you run more experiments on me, do you understand? I’m going home to my wife!”
The other man sighed again. “I do wish you’d make this easier, Mister Smith. Honestly. You were just fine earlier.” He spoke into his device again, still too quietly for Edgar to hear the exact words, but his tone this time was more insistent.
Edgar feinted to the left but moved right, and it seemed to confuse the short man, who lunged in exactly the wrong direction. “Ha!” Edgar barked. He spun around the opposite way, only to find his path blocked by a large man in a black suit. He stared down at Edgar through a pair of spectacles far too small for his meaty, round face. The lenses were thick and caused the man’s eyes to look large and bug-like.
“Mister Smith, you need to do as Coyle here asks of you.” The man’s voice was deep and stern. “Otherwise, you’ll get another injection. Is that what you want?”
Edgar felt the laughter bubble up from his throat, unbidden. He tried to keep it from escaping by clamping his hands over his mouth, but still some muffled giggles erupted forth.
The round-faced man responded by snapping his fingers towards Coyle, who sprang to Edgar’s side and brandished another syringe. This time, Edgar managed to collect himself quickly enough to swat the needl
e away, leaving it to clatter along the floor tiles. Coyle tried to scamper after it, but Edgar shoved him farther away and tried to run past the other man blocking the hallway.
He managed to get past the large man, only to find the first person he’d encountered standing just beyond, waving at him almost stupidly. “Hey, it’s Edgar! Edgar Smith! Well done again, sir!”
Edgar stared at him, not moving even as he felt Coyle’s hands upon him once more, the needle pricking his skin. “Who are you?” he asked. “You know me...”
The young man nodded. “You’re just about there, old man. Give it half a tick, I think. It’ll sort itself.”
Edgar blinked and saw the young man standing before a minister in a tuxedo, Sarah by his side. A dreadful realization set in, and then, once again, the horrible blackness took over.
In the darkness, Edgar was gifted with dreams, a full slate of them, all featuring the young man—no, himself, he knew now—and Sarah. Dancing, laughing, talking, drinking, loving, all of it. Somewhere during the dreams, the young man grew a little older, a little more stiffly-gaited, a little less trim and a little more grey-haired. Until, finally, it was himself, Edgar as he knew himself to look at fifty with a shaggy mop of salt-and-pepper curls and a nose made more hawkish as the decades wore on. But the browline, yes, he did look a bit ape-like even now, didn’t he? Bloody hell, he was me all along! But then—
“You’re not here,” he muttered as he awoke, knowing the younger Edgar was sitting on the edge of the bed. “You were never here. You’re a damn delusion, boy.”
“Oh, details, details,” younger Edgar said. “Pish. You want me here, so I’m here. I’m trying to help.”
Edgar struggled to sit up. “Help me what, exactly?”
Younger Edgar clasped his hands together and bounded to his feet. “Why, get out, of course! Hasn’t that been what you’ve wanted ever since you woke up here?” He held out his hand and waved it about until Edgar took it. “So, what’re you waiting for? Let’s go!”