Hannah Green and Her Unfeasibly Mundane Existence
Page 30
The Devil looked up at her. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Then I’ll see what I can do.’
All around them the fallen birds slowly stirred, and righted themselves, and flexed their unbroken wings, and flew away, soaring up into the clear blue sky.
Hannah Green has become involved in many other stories since then, and also now has a kitten, finally. She’s currently busy with being very nearly twelve, and so it falls to me to round things off on her behalf.
Nobody talks any more about the events that happened in those strange days, and after a while Hannah came to understand that her parents and Aunt Zo didn’t really even remember them. The tendency of memories to fade is both terribly sad and one of life’s great blessings. There’s always plenty of other things to worry about, after all, and to enjoy, so you put the things you want to keep safe in a box somewhere deep inside, and sit back and let the world show you what else it’s got.
So there were gaps and edges in Hannah’s life. Glimpses of the Behind. That’s OK. She could fill them. If Dad was quiet sometimes she could cheer him up, as he did with her. He’d been happy before. He would be again, and some days already was. Hannah realized that, weird though life had become, it was a good weird sometimes. That the days on which you despair are as much a part of life as the ones on which you laugh or get ice cream – and often more valuable in the long run.
No, you don’t get to rub anything out. But you can always turn the page and write something new.
So far, though he has still not left Santa Cruz, the Devil has kept his word, keeping Hannah’s life wonderfully mundane. She has glimpsed him from time to time: as an old man disappearing round a corner; a black dog alone in twilight on the beach; and, once, as a passing chicken. The Devil is adapting fast, and considering some more modern form of loyalty programme. Maybe even an app. He’s caused the untimely deaths of a few people who didn’t deserve it, and is also toying with the idea of giving the San Andreas Fault a nudge sometime soon, which is not very nice of him, but I suppose it’s what he does.
A couple of times Hannah has thought she’s seen Vaneclaw, too, though it’s possible it was just some other unfeasibly large mushroom. Wearing a cape.
Life goes on. Always. We make it, together. Hannah does, through learning to be herself. Her father – my son – does it telling stories that are untrue, the better to help people understand what is true. For myself, I build things.
I am the Engineer.
You might ask if, were I to have my time again, I’d choose to work for my master, knowing about him what I do now – and understanding that he would forever have a hand in our lives. I hope you won’t be disappointed to hear that my answer would be in the affirmative. We all serve the fates. Life will happen to us come what may. Not everyone gets to be a grandparent, but we’re all someone’s grandchild. We have no choice therefore but to carry someone else’s weight, enacting their long-ago choices and duties of care. There’s no point blaming others for what happens next, however: responsibility for shaping and unearthing our stories, following the bouncing squirrel of our destinies, lies with us alone. Our victories and losses, our gains and lacks, the challenges we decline and those we accept – all resonate through the generations that follow.
Nothing ever ends, and no one truly dies.
I’m unusual merely in that the deal I struck means that I have a body to keep living in, creaky though it may be on winter mornings. On the other hand I still get to eat peppermints. There are always upsides. And there is life.
But that’s enough about us, for now.
How have you been?
Acknowledgements
My thanks to those who spent time in the Behind with Hannah, and helped encourage her (or me) along the tangled path: Chris Schelling, David Smith, Stephen Jones and Jo Fletcher; to Cas Austin, Deborah Beale, Craig Zerf and Patrick Goss for comments and kindness; to my editor Jane Johnson for – as always – helping me kick it into shape, and to Natasha Bardon and Lily Cooper for their contributions; to my agent Jonny Geller; and finally to my wife Paula, for convincing me this story was worth showing to someone, and for everything else.
About the Author
Michael Marshall Smith is a novelist and screen-writer. Only Forward, his groundbreaking first novel, won the Philip K. Dick and August Derleth Awards. Its critically acclaimed successors Spares and One of Us were optioned by major Hollywood studios. He has since written the internationally bestselling novels The Straw Men, The Lonely Dead and Blood of Angels, and his menacing thriller, The Intruders, was adapted as a major BBC television series. He lives in California with his wife, son and two cats.
www.michaelmarshallsmith.com
@ememess
Also by Michael Marshall Smith
Only Forward
Spares
One of Us
What You Make It: Selected Short Stories
WRITING AS MICHAEL MARSHALL
The Straw Men
The Lonely Dead
Blood of Angels
The Intruders
Bad Things
Killer Move
We Are Here
WRITING AS M.M. SMITH
The Servants
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