The Year's Best Horror Stories 16

by Karl Edward Wagner (Ed. )

  NEIGHBOURHOOD WATCH by Greg Egan

  Greg Egan is an Australian author, born in Perth in 1961. He has written several books, including the novel An Unusual Angle, Nostrilia Press), and is a maker of amateur films. His short fiction has appeared in England’s Interzone and in Australia’s Aphelion, in which “Neighbourhood Watch” first appeared. Regrettably Aphelion has ceased publication—doubly regrettable in that Aphelion was Australia’s most ambitious science fiction magazine by far, and that another Egan story was slated for its next issue. Had it not been for problems in acquiring rights, Egan’s story from Interzone would also have appeared in this collection—which makes me keen to read his orphaned story from Aphelion.

  Recently moving from New South Wales back to Perth, Greg Egan writes: “I’m returning to my home town after five years, to take up studying maths again. Should inspire plenty of new horror stories!” Editors take note.

  My retainers keep me on ice. Dry ice. It slows my metabolism, takes the edge off my appetite, slightly. I lie, bound with heavy chains, between two great slabs of it, naked and sweating, trying to sleep through the torment of a summer’s day.

  They’ve given me the local fall-out shelter, the very deepest room they could find, as I requested. Yet my senses move easily through the earth and to the surface, out across the lazy, warm suburbs, restless emissaries skimming the sun-soaked streets. If I could rein them in I would, but the instinct that drives them is a force unto itself, a necessary consequence of what I am and the reason I was brought into being.

  Being, I have discovered, has certain disadvantages. I intend seeking compensation, just as soon as the time is right.

  In the dazzling, clear mornings, in the brilliant, cloudless afternoons, children play in the park, barely half a mile from me. They know I’ve arrived; part of me comes from each one of their nightmares, and each of their nightmares comes partly from me. It’s day time now, though, so under safe blue skies they taunt me with foolish rhymes, mock me with crude imitations, tell each other tales of me which take them almost to the edge of hysterical fear, only to back away, to break free with sudden careless laughter. Oh, their laughter! I could put an end to it so quickly ...

  “Oh yeah?” David is nine, he’s their leader. He pulls an ugly face in my direction. “Great tough monster! Sure.” I respond instinctively: I reach out, straining, and a furrow forms in the grass, snakes toward his bare feet. Nearly. My burning skin hollows the ice beneath me. Nearly. David watches the ground, unimpressed, arms folded, sneering. Nearly! But the contract, one flimsy page on the bottom shelf of the Mayor’s gray safe, speaks the final word: No. No loophole, no argument, no uncertainty, no imprecision. I withdraw, there is nothing else I can do. This is the source of my agony: all around me is living flesh, flesh that by nature I could joyfully devour in an endless, frantic, ecstatic feast, but I am bound by my signature in blood to take only the smallest pittance, and only in the dead of night.

  For now.

  Well, never mind, David. Be patient. All good things take time, my friend.

  “No fucking friend of mine!” he says, and spits into the furrow. His brother sneaks up from behind and, with a loud shout, grabs him. They roar at each other, baring their teeth, arms spread wide, fingers curled into imitation claws. I must watch this, impassive. Sand trickles in to fill the useless furrow. I force the tense muscles of my shoulders and back to relax, chanting: be patient, be patient.

  Only at night, says the contract. After eleven, to be precise. Decent people are not out after eleven, and decent people should not have to witness what I do.

  Andrew is seventeen, and bored. Andrew, I understand. This suburb is a hole, you have my deepest sympathies. What do they expect you to do around here? On a warm night like this a young man can grow restless. I know; your dreams, too, shaped me slightly (my principal creators did not expect that). You need adventure. So keep your eyes open, Andrew, there are opportunities everywhere.

  The sign on the chemist’s window says no money, no drugs, but you are no fool. The back window’s frame is rotting, the nails are loose, it falls apart in your hands. Like cake. Must be your lucky night, tonight.

  The cash drawer’s empty (oh shit!) and you can forget about that safe, but a big, glass candy jar of Valium beats a handful of Swiss health bars, doesn’t it? There are kids dumb enough to pay for those, down at the primary school.

  Only those who break the law, says the contract. A list of statutes is provided, to be precise. Parking offences, breaking the speed limit and cheating on income tax are not included; decent people are only human, after all. Breaking and entering is there, though, and stealing, well, that dates right back to the old stone tablets.

  No loophole, Andrew. No argument.

  Andrew has a flick knife, and a death’s head tattoo. He’s great in a fight, our Andrew. Knows some karate, once did a little boxing, he has no reason to be afraid. He walks around like he owns the night. Especially when there’s nobody around.

  So what’s that on the wind? Sounds like someone breathing, someone close by. Very even, slow, steady, powerful. Where is the bastard? You can see in all directions, but there’s no one in sight. What, then? Do you think it’s in your head? That doesn’t seem likely.

  Andrew stands still for a moment. He wants to figure this out for himself, but I can’t help giving him hints, so the lace of his left sand-shoe comes undone. He puts down the jar and crouches to retie it.

  The ground, it seems, is breathing.

  Andrew frowns. He’s not happy about this. He puts one ear against the footpath, then pulls his head away, startled by the sound’s proximity. Under that slab of paving, he could swear.

  A gas leak! Fuck it, of course. A gas leak, or something like that. Something mechanical. An explanation. Pipes, water, gas, pumps, shit, who knows? Yeah. There’s a whole world of machinery just below the street, enough machinery to explain anything. But it felt pretty strange for a while there, didn’t it?

  He picks up the jar. The paving slab vibrates. He plants a foot on it, to suggest that it stays put, but it does not heed his weight. I toss it gently into the air, knocking him aside into somebody’s ugly letter box.

  The contract is singing to me now. Ah, blessed, beautiful document! I hear you. Did I ever truly resent you? Surely not! For to kill with you as my accomplice, even once, is sweeter by far than the grossest bloodbath I can dream of, without your steady voice, your calm authority, your proud mask of justice. Forgive me! In the daylight I am a different creature, irritable and weak. Now we are in harmony, now we are in blissful accord. Our purposes are one. Sing on!

  Andrew comes forward cautiously, sniffing for gas, a little uneasy but determined to view the comprehensible cause. A deep, black hole. He squats beside it, leans over, strains his eyes but makes out nothing.

  I inhale.

  Mrs. Bold has come to see me. She is Chairman of the local Citizens Against Crime, those twelve fine men and women from whose dreams (chiefly, but not exclusively) I was formed. They’ve just passed a motion congratulating me (and hence themselves) on a successful first month. Burglaries, says Mrs. Bold, have plummeted.

  “The initial contract, you understand, is only for three months, but I’m almost certain we’ll want to extend it. There’s a clause allowing for that, one month at a time ...”

  “Both parties willing.”

  “Of course. We were all of us determined that the contract be scrupulously fair. You musn’t think of yourself as our slave ...”

  “I don’t.”

  “You’re our business associate. We all agreed from the start that that was the proper relationship. But you do like it here, don’t you?”

  “Very much.”

  “We can’t increase the payment, you know. Six thousand a month, well, we’ve really had to scrape to manage that much. Worth every cent, of course, but ...”

  That’s a massive lie, of course: six thousand is the very least they could bring themselves to pay me. Anyth
ing less would have left them wondering if they really owned me. The money helps them trust me, the money makes it all familiar: they’re used to buying people. If they’d got me for free, they’d never sleep at night. These are fine people, understand.

  “Relax, Mrs. Bold. I won’t ask for another penny. And I expect to be here for a very long time.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful. Come the end of the year I’ll be talking to the insurance companies about dropping the outrageous premiums. You’ve no idea how hard it’s been for the small retailers.” She is ten feet from the doorway of my room, peering in through the fog of condensed humidity. With the dry ice and chains she can see very little of me, but this meager view is enough to engender wicked thoughts. Who can blame her? I’m straight out of her dreams, after all. Would you indeed, Mrs. Bold? I wonder. She feels two strong hands caressing her gently. Three strong hands. Four, five, six. Such manly hands, except the nails are rather long. And sharp. “Do you really have to stay in there? Trussed up like that?” Her voice is even, quite a feat. “We’re having celebratory drinks at my house tomorrow, and you’d be very welcome.”

  “You’re so kind, Mrs. Bold, but for now I do have to stay here. Like this. Some other time, I promise.”

  She shakes the hands away. I could insist, but I’m such a gentleman. “Some other time, then.”

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Bold.”

  “Goodbye. Keep up the good work. Oh, I nearly forgot! I have a little gift.” She pulls a brown-wrapped shape from her shopping bag. “Do you like lamb?”

  “You’re too generous!”

  “Not me. Mr. Simmons, the butcher, thought you might like it. He’s a lovely old man. He used to lose so much stock before you started work, not to mention the vandalism. Where shall I put it?”

  “Hold it toward me from where you are now. Stretch out your arms.”

  Lying still, ten feet away, I burst the brown paper into four segments which flutter to the floor. Mrs. Bold blinks but does not flinch. The red, wet flesh is disgustingly cold, but I’m far too polite to refuse any offering. A stream of meat flows from the joint, through the doorway, to vanish in the mist around my head. I spin the bone, pivoted on her palms, working around it several times until it is clean and white, then I tip it from her grip so that it points toward me, and I suck out the marrow in a single, quick spurt.

  Mrs. Bold sighs deeply, then shakes her head, smiling. “I wish my husband ate like that! He’s become a vegetarian, you know. I keep telling him it’s unnatural, but he pays no attention. Red meat has had such a bad name lately, with all those stupid scientists scaremongering, saying it causes this and that, but I personally can’t see how anyone can live without it and feel that they’re having a balanced diet. We were meant to eat it, that’s just the way people are.”

  “You’re absolutely right. Please thank Mr. Simmons for me.”

  “I shall. And thank you again, for what you’re doing for this community.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Mrs. Bold dreams of me. Me? His face is like a film star’s! There are a few factual touches, though: we writhe on a plain of ice, and I am draped with chains. It’s a strange kind of feedback, to see your dreams made flesh, and then to dream of what you saw. Can she really believe that the solid, sweating creature in the fall-out shelter is no more and no less than the insubstantial lover who knows her every wish? In her dream I am a noble protector, keeping her and her daughters safe from rapists, her son safe from pushers, her domestic appliances safe from thieves; and yes, I do these things, but if she knew why she’d run screaming from her bed. In her dream I bite her, but my teeth don’t break the skin. I scratch her, but only as much as she needs to enjoy me. I could shape this dream into a nightmare, but why telegraph the truth? I could wake her in a sweat of blood, but why let the sheep know it’s headed for slaughter? Let her believe that I’m content to keep the wolves away.

  David’s still awake, reading. I rustle his curtain but he doesn’t look up. He makes a rude sign, though, aimed with precision. A curious child. He can’t have seen the contract, he can’t know that I can’t yet harm him, so why does he treat me with nonchalant contempt? Does he lack imagination? Does he fancy himself brave? I can’t tell.

  Streetlamps go off at eleven now; they used to stay on all night, but that’s no longer necessary. Most windows are dark; behind one a man dreams he’s punching his boss, again and again, brutal, unflinching, insistent, with the rhythm of a factory process, a glassy eyed jogger, or some other machine. His wife thinks she’s cutting up the children; the act appalls her, and she’s hunting desperately for a logical flaw or surreal piece of furniture to prove that the violence will be consequence-free. She’s still hunting. The children have other things to worry about: they’re dreaming of a creature eight feet tall, with talons and teeth as long and sharp as carving knives, hungry as a wild fire and stronger than steel. It lives deep in the ground, but it has very, very, very long arms. When they’re good the creature may not touch them, but if they do just one thing wrong ...

  I love this suburb. I honestly do. How could I not, born as I was from its sleeping soul? These are my people. As I rise up through the heavy night heat, and more and more of my domain flows into sight, I am moved almost to tears by the beauty of all that I see and sense. Part of me says: sentimental fool! But the choking feeling will not subside. Some of my creators have lived here all their lives, and a fraction of their pride and contentment flows in my veins.

  A lone car roars on home. A blue police van is parked outside a brothel; inside, handcuffs and guns are supplied by the management: they look real, they feel real, but no one gets hurt. One cop’s been here twice a week for three years, the other’s been dragged along to have his problem cured: squeezing the trigger makes him wince, even at target practice. From tonight he’ll never flinch again. The woman thinks: I’d like to take a trip. Very soon. To somewhere cold. My life smells of men’s sweat.

  I hear a husband and wife screaming at each other. It echoes for blocks, with dogs and babies joining in. I steer away, it’s not my kind of brawl.

  Linda has a spray can. Hi, Linda, like your hair-cut. Do you know how much that poster cost? What do you mean, sexist pornography? The people who designed it are creative geniuses, haven’t you heard them say so? Besides, what do you call those posters of torn-shirted actors and tight-trousered rock stars all over your bedroom walls? And how would you like it if the agency sent thugs around to spray your walls with nasty slogans? You don’t force your images on the public? They’ll have to read your words, won’t they? Answering? Debating? Redressing the imbalance? Cut it out, Linda, come down to earth. No, lower. Lower still.

  Hair gel gives me heartburn. I must remember that.

  Bruno, Pete and Colin have a way with locked cars.

  Alarms are no problem. So fast, so simple; I’m deeply impressed. But the engine’s making too much noise, boys, you’re waking honest workers who need their eight hours’ sleep.

  It’s exhilarating, though, I have to admit that: squealing around every corner, zooming down the wrong side of the road. Part of the thrill, of course, is the risk of getting caught.

  They screech to a halt near an all-night liquor store. The cashier takes their money, but that’s his business; selling alcohol to minors is not on my list. On the way back, Pete drops a dollar coin between the bars of a stormwater drain. The cashier has his radio up very loud, and his eyes are on his magazine. Bruno vomits as he runs, while Pete and Colin’s bones crackle and crunch their way through the grille.

  Bruno heads, incredibly, for the police station. Deep down, he feels that he is good. A little wild, that’s all, a rebel, a minor non-conformist in the honourable tradition. He messes around with other people’s property, he drinks illegally, he drives illegally, he screws girls as young as himself, illegally, but he has a heart of gold, and he’d never hurt a fly (except in self-defense). Half this country’s heroes have been twice as bad as him. The archetype (he begs me)
is no law-abiding puritan goody-goody.

  Put a sock in it, Bruno. This is Mrs. Bold and friends talking: it’s just your kind of thoughtless hooliganism that’s sapping this nation’s strength. Don’t try invoking Ned Kelly with us! In any case (Bruno knew this was coming), we’re third generation Australians, and you’re only second, so we’ll judge the archetypes, thank you very much!

  The sergeant on duty might have seen a boy’s skeleton run one step out of its flesh before collapsing, but I doubt it. With the light so strong inside, so weak outside, he probably saw nothing but his own reflection.

  David’s still Up. Disgraceful child! I belch in his room with the stench of fresh blood; he raises one eyebrow then farts, louder and more foul.

  Mrs. Bold is still dreaming. I watch myself as she imagines me: so handsome, so powerful, bulging with ludicrous muscles yet gentle as a kitten. She whispers in “my” ear: Never leave me! Unable to resist, I touch her, very briefly, with a hand she’s never felt before: the hand that brought me Linda, the hand that brought me Pete.

  The long, cold tongue of a venomous snake darts from the tip of her dream-lover’s over-sized cock. She wakes with a shout, bent double with revulsion, but the dream is already forgotten. I blow her a kiss and depart.