I cry, matching her breath for breath, as the pain gathers and grows, as the air fills with smoke and the reek of burnt hair, burnt flesh, burnt blood.
*****
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
I'm still here, wandering from room to room, crying, looking for help. Trying to reach somebody, anybody. I find a new door and open it, but it isn't an undiscovered room this time, it's just more of the same — the Formica kitchen, the dark living room. Again and again.
The roof is gone, and the eight-lane highway now comes right through the house, and the fire is back, and she's here too and dying again, and nobody will come to save her in time, and nobody will come to save me in time — and it just goes on and on and on like this, around and around, an endless circle of dread and pain and sorrow and mournful heartbreak and failure and more pain, always more pain.
I wish I could wake up.
I know I won't.
This is home.
It's All Over
Paul Kane
They were the words that had haunted him for what seemed like years…
Words he'd said, tumbling from his lips before he could stop them. Words he'd wished — so much later after everything had gone to shit — that he'd never even heard of. That he didn't know the meaning of.
He'd known it after the fact; God, how he had then. Knew it now, even though circumstances were conspiring to trick him — to convince him things were far from over. Because it wasn't only the words that haunted him.
It was the person he'd said them to.
"Brian…" he heard her now, in spite of having his fists pressed up against his ears. "Brian, it's so cold out here, baby."
Cold? You bet it's fucking cold, he thought. But you shouldn't be able to feel it. After all, you've been dead six months, haven't you? You're cold as well. Beyond cold, or at least you should be.
A vision of a decomposing corpse floated into his mind: laying there in the coffin, buried so deep (an image he might once have taken great delight in). The face a virtual skeleton, that brown hair still splayed over the satin lining, as it had done the morning after they first made love.
Brian focussed on that instead: watching Sarah sleeping, her eyes flickering beneath the lids as she dreamed. That beautiful face, so young and innocent. Mouth full and lips ruby-red even without the aid of make-up. Had there ever been such a perfect moment as that one? He couldn't remember another like it in his life, not even his wedding day.
(As a contrast his mind flicked suddenly and without warning again to him grunting and sweating — another woman below him; blonde this time, her moans in perfect unison with his thrusts…perhaps a little too perfect? A hotel room surrounding him, instead of the college digs he'd been in when Sarah first opened her eyes…"Oh Brian, yes! Please, oh my God…Yes!")
"Brian…" There it came again. "Brian, please…Please, baby. Why won't you let me in?"
He'd let her in once. All the way in. Sarah couldn't have been more a part of his life, sharing those student days with him when he'd first started setting down his stories. Had he known she was the one when their eyes met across that lecture theatre? Clichéd crap, the kind some other writer might infect the page with, but not him. Not his kind of thing at all…And yet…
"Brian…Why won't you just answer me? Say something, please."
Because you're not fucking real! You can't be! I saw them bury you, Sarah. Shit, I was the one who had to identify you after—
For about the millionth time since this all started, Brian shook his head, trying to gather his thoughts. There were too many, all mixed up and fuelled by emotion: sadness, regret, fear, anger, loathing — of himself more than anything…And, of course, the guilt.
Now that last one. That was a biggie.
It was probably the cause of this whole damned thing. Did he somehow bring her back, even if it was only in his imagination — some grief-crazed hallucination that he was doomed to see and hear every single night? He often wondered if he was the one who'd died all along, maybe killed himself, and this was his punishment in Hell?
Crazy. It was like something out of one of his books…Precisely why it could be a blurring of fantasy and reality, the stress of everything that happened mixed with plots and characters from—
"Brian, please."
Shut up, shut up, shut up…Just shut the fuck up!
The words inside his head, or coming from that figure out there? They were too loud surely to be emanating from those ruby-red lips. Brian got up, about to go to the window. Then froze.
You've seen her. You've seen what's out there. You know all too well, without having to look again.
But maybe tonight would be different. Maybe tonight would be the night there'd be nothing there. At least then he could get some kind of handle on what this really was: him losing what little sanity he had left.
Brian recalled the first time it had happened. The first time he'd foolishly looked outside when he heard the voice calling to him. Telling himself — although he knew each and every inflection, knew the timbre like he knew the intro to his favourite song — that it wasn't her. Couldn't be Sarah. It was someone else out there shouting his name at eleven o'clock, interrupting his late night drinking session with old Jacky Daniels. Maybe some fan of his work who'd managed to get hold of this address (he'd kill whoever was responsible); this isolated farmhouse they'd chosen and overseen the conversion of together.
A sideways slip again, to one Sunday when they were alone and putting those final touches to the place. Picturing Sarah painting the walls — pushing the roller up and down, that old shirt of his covered in paint splatters, but clinging to her torso. The jeans she was wearing fitting tight against that perfectly-formed bottom of hers, moulded to the denim. He'd crept up behind and wrapped his arms around her stomach. She'd pretended to fight him off, but when his hands reached higher, cupping both breasts beneath the shirt, Sarah had relented, turned and kissed him full on the mouth. Eagerly, they'd undressed each other and rolled around right there on the floor. It wasn't as if anyone was going to see them, not out here. They were completely cut off, completely—
Cut, severed — just like the flesh she'd opened up, opening her veins in the process and allowing the blood to pour out onto that bed, in yet another faceless hotel room (the police told him that it was a common place for suicides, and that made sense — for fuck's sake, he'd even written stories about that before. Sarah had read them, too).
No…Don't think about that.
Okay, his mind seemed to say — taking him back to his original nightmare. The one where he'd gone to the window to peer out into the darkness, wondering why that state of the art security alarm they'd had installed hadn't kicked in. Only he knew the codes for it at the gate. Only him and—
There was the figure, shades of black on black. Standing in the middle of the yard, about twenty, thirty feet away from the door. He couldn't make much out, so his hand reached instinctively for the floodlights they'd also had installed. Floodlights which would have snapped on automatically if they'd been just a couple of inches closer…
"Brian…" came the voice once more, chilling his blood. "Brian!"
His fingers were quivering as they reached for the switches, as they brushed the edges but didn't flip them yet.
"Brian, answer me, baby."
Christ Almighty. Brian's fingers either slipped, or his subconscious decided that he'd had enough of this and was going to chase away these stupid suggestions, brought on by too much booze and not enough sleep these past few months.
And suddenly it was too late.
There she stood, the shadows no longer providing any comforting doubt. It was her, or at least a damned good look-alike (he hadn't dismissed that notion, especially back then; there were enough people who knew what Sarah looked like to pull something like this, photos of them out together at launches and parties; what had happened was a matter of public record, in the papers — even mentioned briefly on the local eve
ning news — though hardly the big topic of conversation that day).
Brian blinked. Got to get a grip — just get a grip. The rational part of his mind told him that he was imagining this. That Sarah was dead, and when you're dead…You're fucking dead! A line from one of his favourite flicks back in the eighties — the one with the guy with all the nails banged into his head.
A film, a novel, a fiction. But this was happening, right now, out there. The woman he'd loved, his wife. The woman he'd spent more than twenty years with. The woman who was in the ground, buried because of what he'd done. Because of what he'd said. Those words:
"It's all over…"
She looked pretty sprightly for a corpse, it had to be said. Pretty sexy, too. The more Brian stared out at this vision of his deceased spouse, the more details he took in. The flowing brown hair, more lustrous than it ever had been in life. Those piercing green eyes, framed with thick, black lashes — which she was batting against the sudden glare of the lights. The figure she'd always had, shown off in a flimsy satin nightdress (that, even more so than the shirt and jeans she'd wore when they'd been decorating, clung to her curves in all the right places). She must have been frozen out there, judging by how hard those nipples were jutting against the fine material. And, Heaven help him, he was getting aroused by it…
"Brian…" she said again, holding out her arms in a pleading gesture. "Please answer me, baby. It's Sarah. Your Sarah…"
He closed his eyes this time, squeezing them shut. Knowing that when he opened them again she would be gone. Knowing that it was only the stress, the sleeplessness, the whiskey, the—
"Brian…"
He opened them again.
Still there. Still. Standing. There.
More details now, like the fact that there were scars at her wrists, the blood congealed and scabbed over. She was so pale — wouldn't you be if you'd died half a year ago? he said to himself. He shook his head. Make-up, that's all. You could do all sorts these days, special effects and stuff. He'd seen enough evidence on the fleeting visit to that set, the one turning his short story into a movie — before it had been consigned to DVD oblivion.
Not that again, not now. No time for that bitterness. The set visit…He'd seen extras walking around with their arms hanging off; those effects guys were brilliant. They could make you believe anything.
Make you believe that your wife hadn't really killed herself at all. A bad dream. She'd returned to him, just like he'd prayed for all those nights he'd cried himself to sleep. After the rows with Melinda, after she'd fucked off because she knew she wasn't going to get anything more out of him — out of this…whatever it had been.
("Oh God, Brian, yes. Harder…please…Yes!")
It had started out as just a drunken fumble one night after a convention up North, where Brian had been Guest of Honour. Just two nights away from home. Was it his fault Sarah had been called away to go and see her sister again? "She's sick, Brian. I have to go and help look after the kids while she's in hospital."
He'd sighed. "The first fucking time I've ever been asked to do something like this, all expenses paid…Can't that waste of space ex of hers do something to help?"
"You know she doesn't want him going near the kids, Brian. And now Mum and Dad aren't around…"
"I wanted you there! You know how nervous I get about doing the public stuff. This is important to me."
"Yes, I know," she'd said, looking down.
"I'm not cancelling."
"I don't want you to," Sarah had whispered meekly.
"Well I'm not. It's too late to back out now, anyway."
"I don't know what to say. I'm sorry, baby."
"Ah, forget it!" he'd snapped. "Go on then, fuck off and go…"
Sarah had recoiled as if slapped, then gone and packed her bags. She'd tried to get around him before leaving, but he was having none of it. He'd sat sulking as the taxi came to collect her. The following day Brian had travelled to the convention alone, but he hadn't stayed that way for long.
Melinda had been there at the live onstage interview, in the very first row. He vaguely recognised her as someone who'd attended his last couple of signings. She was young, blonde, extremely pretty; such a sweet face. Low-cut top and a very tight leather skirt. As Brian sat uncomfortably on stage, thinking of interesting answers to give the fawning interviewer, he'd looked out and caught her eye.
(Had he known then, when he'd caught her eye…?)
From that moment on he'd been talking to her, and her alone.
Afterwards, once the handful of people who'd lined up to get their copies of books like The Chalice, Mayhem and Undaunted signed, drifted off, she'd been waiting to have a word with him.
"No books?" he asked.
"Already signed — personalised to me." She'd smiled. "I was wondering if you fancied a drink at the bar?"
Brian smiled back. "That sounds like a great idea."
Over the course of the next few hours, they chatted on one of the sofas in the lounge area. Others had come and gone, pulling up chairs to ask him about this and that, usually how to get into the industry, whose arse to kiss, if he'd give them a quote. Brian took it all in good nature, knowing he wouldn't bother using any of the email addresses being handed to him. And all the time there was Melinda. Laughing at his crap jokes, listening intently again as he gave her pearls of wisdom about the writing game accumulated over many years (so many years, and who had stood by him when he'd almost given up, when he was hardly making a bean from his stories?; it hadn't been Melinda, that was for damned sure). She admitted she'd had a go at some shorts, but they were nowhere near ready for sending out anywhere.
"I don't mind having a look," he'd said, as the wine flowed and they'd got closer and closer on the couch.
"Oh, you don't have to do that."
"Don't be silly, I'd love to read them," he was saying before he realised he was doing it.
He'd walked her to the lift that night, but nothing else happened — apart from a peck on the cheek.
When Brian got back to his room he checked the mobile he'd kept switched off all day and found a message from Sarah wishing him good luck with the interview, and another one sent later wishing him well for the panels tomorrow. Both were signed: 'luv u v. v. much, baby xxxxxx'.
For a moment that had got to him, even in his drunken stupor. But then he thought to himself that if Sarah loved him so much, why wasn't she here? With him? Why wasn't she the one who'd been on the front row at his interview, and in the bar celebrating afterwards? Not that it was her thing, being around crowds; she'd always said she preferred it to be just them.
He didn't surface until it was almost time for his first panel, the panicked runners looking for him when he reached the convention level. "This way, Mr Slater," the pimply twenty-something had said, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Melinda had been there again, sitting waiting for it to start.
And she'd been there again at the next one, and at his final appearance. He felt more than a little embarrassed and guilty about the night before, so slipped out without saying a word all three times. But, when Brian spotted her again in the bar, now chatting to some other guy, he'd felt more than a pang of jealousy.
Turning to make his way out of the hotel, off for dinner at the Con's expense — making the most of his last evening — she'd caught up with him.
"Brian…Brian? I've been trying to grab a moment all day. About last night, I hope you don't think I was being too…Well, you know," she said. Today she was wearing a dress, just as low cut as the top, and he struggled to keep his eyes above sea level. "It's just that, I've never really met a man like you before."
He cocked his head.
"You're so clever, you know so much about loads of things. You saw what you wanted and just went for it, you know? Are you all right? You haven't said a thing…"
("Why won't you answer me? Why won't you talk to me, baby?")
"Look, I'm just heading out for a bite to eat — o
n the organisers." Slick, Brian. Slick. "Would you like to join me?"
"Oh, I'd love a bite, thanks."
So they'd headed off for a meal in an Italian — a little beyond the 'reasonable expenses' the con had stipulated — and ate, drank, laughed, and talked again. Really talked this time.
"…So that's what I'm doing here on my own," he finished explaining to her after the second bottle of Merlot.
"Poor Brian. If that had been me, I would never have let you go to something as important as this alone. I'd be proud of you."
"Exactly," he slurred. "Exactly. But then she's never really been into the genre that much." That wasn't strictly true: she used to read it a lot, but got bored of it around the time his work started taking off. Found other interests, like her genealogy, delving into the past; who bloody cared where they all came from? All that mattered was the present.
That night, when it came time to say goodbye at the lifts, neither of them had been able to. Nothing was said, but Melinda took Brian's hand and led him inside the lift, then led him to her room on the third floor.
He hadn't been able to remember that much about what happened next, but he knew he'd had a bloody good time. A better time than he'd had with Sarah lately, the rolling around on the floor at the farmhouse a distant memory these days.
They said their goodbyes, sheepishly, the next morning and Brian had returned home to find Sarah waiting. She'd organised for the local authorities to help with her sister, telling her that she was needed back at home. That her husband needed her…
(Jesus, how he needed her right now; how he'd give anything to know if this was real or just—)
Though he'd barely been able to look her in the eye when he got back, and he suspected she knew something had happened on that trip, he'd fooled himself into thinking it was just a one off. Sarah seemed happy to ignore it, so life went on as usual.
Except it hadn't ended there. Melinda sent the first text a fortnight later, saying that she couldn't stop thinking about him. If Brian was honest, she'd crossed his mind more than once as well.
Scenes From the Second Storey Page 10