things because married people, no matter how busy they are, get to know almost everything after awhile. And if they get really bored and stop listening, they pick it up anyway--by osmosis. Or do you think I'm wrong?"
"No," she said faintly. "You're not wrong, Bill."
"And we've always been able to talk to each other, haven't we? I mean, neither of us got so bored it ever had to be osmosis, right?"
"Well," she said, "until today I always thought so."
"Come on, Audra. You know everything that's happened to me over the last eleven years of my life. Every deal, every idea, every cold, every friend, every guy that ever did me wrong or tried to. You know I slept with Susan Browne. You know that sometimes I get maudlin when I drink and play the records too loud."
"Especially the Grateful Dead," she said, and he laughed. This time she smiled back.
"You know the most important stuff, too--the things I hope for."
"Yes. I think so. But this ..." She paused, shook her head, thought for a moment. "How much does this call have to do with your brother, Bill?"
"Let me get to it in my own way. Don't try to rush me into the center of it or you'll have me committed. It's so big ... and so ... so quaintly awful ... that I'm trying to sort of creep up on it. You see ... it never occurred to me to tell you about Georgie."
She looked at him, frowned, shook her head faintly--I don't understand.
"What I'm trying to tell you, Audra, is that I haven't even thought of George in twenty years or more."
"But you told me you had a brother named--"
"I repeated a fact," he said. "That was all. His name was a word. It cast no shadow at all in my mind."
"But I think maybe it cast a shadow over your dreams," Audra said. Her voice was very quiet.
"The groaning? The crying?"
She nodded.
"I suppose you could be right," he said. "In fact, you're almost surely right. But dreams you don't remember don't really count, do they?"
"Are you really telling me you never thought of him at all?"
"Yes. I am."
She shook her head, frankly disbelieving. "Not even the horrible way he died?"
"Not until today, Audra."
She looked at him and shook her head again.
"You asked me before we were married if I had any brothers or sisters, and I said I had a brother who died when I was a kid. You knew my parents were gone, and you've got so much family that it took up your entire field of attention. But that's not all."
"What do you mean?"
"It isn't just George that's been in that black hole. I haven't thought of Derry itself in twenty years. Not the people I chummed with--Eddie Kaspbrak and Richie the Mouth, Stan Uris, Bev Marsh ..." He ran his hands through his hair and laughed shakily. "It's like having a case of amnesia so bad you don't know you've got it. And when Mike Hanlon called--"
"Who's Mike Hanlon?"
"Another kid that we chummed with--that I chummed with after Georgie died. Of course he's no kid anymore. None of us are. That was Mike on the phone, transatlantic cable. He said, 'Hello--have I reached the Denbrough residence?' and I said yes, and he said, 'Bill? Is that you?' and I said yes, and he said, 'This is Mike Hanlon.' It meant nothing to me, Audra. He might as well have been selling encyclopedias or Burl Ives records. Then he said, 'From Derry.' And when he said that it was like a door opened inside me and some horrible light shined out, and I remembered who he was. I remembered Georgie. I remembered all the others. All this happened--"
Bill snapped his fingers.
"Like that. And I knew he was going to ask me to come."
"Come back to Derry."
"Yeah." He took his glasses off, rubbed his eyes, looked at her. Never in her life had she seen a man who looked so frightened. "Back to Derry. Because we promised, he said, and we did. We did. All of us. Us kids. We stood in the creek that ran through the Barrens, and we held hands in a circle, and we had cut our palms with a piece of glass so it was like a bunch of kids playing blood brothers, only it was real."
He held his palms out to her, and in the center of each she could see a close-set ladder of white lines that could have been scar-tissue. She had held his hand--both his hands--countless times, but she had never noticed these scars across his palms before. They were faint, yes, but she would have believed--
And the party! That party!
Not the one where they had met, although this second one formed a perfect book-end to that first one, because it had been the wrap party at the end of the Pit of the Black Demon shoot. It had been loud and drunk, every inch the Topanga Canyon "do." Perhaps a little less bitchy than some of the other L.A. parties she had been to, because the shoot had gone better than they had any right to expect, and they all knew it. For Audra Phillips it had gone even better, because she had fallen in love with William Denbrough.
What was the name of the self-proclaimed palmist? She couldn't remember now, only that she had been one of the makeup man's two assistants. She remembered the girl whipping off her blouse at some point in the party (revealing a very filmy bra beneath) and tying it over her head like a gypsy's scarf. High on pot and wine, she had read palms for the rest of the evening ... or at least until she had passed out.
Audra could not remember now if the girl's readings had been good or bad, witty or stupid: she had been pretty high herself that night. What she did remember was that at one point the girl had grabbed Bill's palm and her own and had declared them perfectly matched. They were life-twins, she said. She could remember watching, more than a little jealous, as the girl traced the lines on his palm with her exquisitely lacquered fingernail--how stupid that was, in the weird L.A. film subculture where men patted women's fannies as routinely as New York men pecked their cheeks! But there had been something intimate and lingering about that tracery.
There had been no little white scars on Bill's palms then.
She had been watching the charade with a jealous lover's eye, and she was sure of the memory. Sure of the fact.
She said so to Bill now.
He nodded. "You're right. They weren't there then. And although I can't absolutely swear to it, I don't think they were there last night, down at the Plow and Barrow. Ralph and I were handwrestling for beers again and I think I would have noticed."
He grinned at her. The grin was dry, humorless, and scared.
"I think they came back when Mike Hanlon called. That's what I think."
"Bill, that isn't possible." But she reached for her cigarettes.
Bill was looking at his hands. "Stan did it," he said. "Cut our palms with a sliver of Coke bottle. I can remember it so clearly now." He looked up at Audra and behind his glasses his eyes were hurt and puzzled. "I remember how that piece of glass flashed in the sun. It was one of the new clear ones. Before that Coke bottles used to be green, you remember that?" She shook her head but he didn't see her. He was still studying his palms. "I can remember Stan doing his own hands last, pretending he was going to slash his wrists instead of just cut his palms a little. I guess it was just some goof, but I almost made a move on him ... to stop him. Because for a second or two there he looked serious."
"Bill, don't," she said in a low voice. This time she had to steady the lighter in her right hand by grasping its wrist in her left, like a policeman holding a gun on a shooting range. "Scars can't come back. They either are or aren't."
"You saw them before, huh? Is that what you're telling me?"
"They're very faint," Audra said, more sharply than she had intended.
"We were all bleeding," he said. "We were standing in the water not far from where Eddie Kaspbrak and Ben Hanscom and I built the dam that time--"
"You don't mean the architect, do you?"
"Is there one by that name?"
"God, Bill, he built the new BBC communications center! They're still arguing whether it's a dream or an abortion!"
"Well, I don't know if it's the same guy or not. It doesn't seem likely, but I guess it could be. The Ben I knew was great at building stuff. We all stood there, and I was holding Bev Marsh's left hand in my right and Richie Tozier's right hand in my left. We stood out there in the water like something out of a Southern baptism after a tent meeting, and I remember I could see the Derry Standpipe on the horizon. It looked as white as you imagine the robes of the archangels must be, and we promised, we swore, that if it wasn't over, that if it ever started to happen again ... we'd go back. And we'd do it again. And stop it. Forever."
"Stop what?" she cried, suddenly furious with him. "Stop what? What the fuck are you talking about?"
"I wish you wouldn't a-a-ask--" Bill began, and then stopped. She saw an expression of bemused horror spread over his face like a stain. "Give me a cigarette."
She passed him the pack. He lit one. She had never seen him smoke a cigarette.
"I used to stutter, too."
"You stuttered?"
"Yes. Back then. You said I was the only man in L.A. you ever knew who dared to speak slowly. The truth is, I didn't dare talk fast. It wasn't reflection. It wasn't deliberation. It wasn't wisdom. All reformed stutterers speak very slowly. It's one of the tricks you learn, like thinking of your middle name just before you introduce yourself, because stutterers have more trouble with nouns than with any other words, and the one word in all the world that gives them the most trouble is their own first name."
"Stuttered." She smiled a small smile, as if he had told a joke and she had missed the point.
"Until Georgie died, I stuttered moderately," Bill said, and already he had begun to hear words double in his mind, as if they were infinitesimally separated in time; the words came out smoothly, in his ordinary slow and cadenced way, but in his mind he heard words like Georgie and moderately overlap, becoming Juh-Juh-Georgie and m-moderately. "I mean, I had some really bad moments--usually when I was called on in class, and especially if I really knew the answer and wanted to give it--but mostly I got by. After George died, it got a lot worse. Then, around the age of fourteen or fifteen, things started to get better again. I went to Chevrus High in Portland, and there was a speech therapist there, Mrs. Thomas, who was really great. She taught me some good tricks. Like thinking of my middle name just before I said 'Hi, I'm Bill Denbrough' out loud. I was taking French 1 and she taught me to switch to French if I got badly stuck on a word. So if you're standing there feeling like the world's grandest asshole, saying 'th-th-this buh-buh-buh-buh' over and over like a broken record, you switched over to French and 'ce livre' would come flowing off your tongue. Worked every time. And as soon as you said it in French you could come back to English and say 'this book' with no problem at all. If you got stuck on an s-word like ship or skate or slum, you could lisp it: thip, thkate, thlum. No stutter.
"All of that helped, but mostly it was just forgetting Derry and everything that happened there. Because that's when the forgetting happened. When we were living in Portland and I was going to Chevrus. I didn't forget everything at once, but looking back now I'd have to say it happened over a remarkably short period of time. Maybe no more than four months. My stutter and my memories faded out together. Someone washed the blackboard and all the old equations went away."
He drank what was left of his juice. "When I stuttered on 'ask' a few seconds ago, that was the first time in maybe twenty-one years."
He looked at her.
"First the scars, then the stuh-hutter. Do you h-hear it?"
"You're doing that on purpose!" she said, badly frightened.
"No. I guess there's no way to convince a person of that, but it's true. Stuttering's funny, Audra. Spooky. On one level you're not even aware it's happening. But ... it's also something you can hear in your mind. It's like part of your head is working an instant ahead of the rest. Or one of those reverb systems kids used to put in their jalopies back in the fifties, when the sound in the rear speaker would come just a split second a-after the sound in the front s-speaker."
He got up and walked restlessly around the room. He looked tired, and she thought with some unease of how hard he had worked over the last thirteen years or so, as if it might be possible to justify the moderateness of his talent by working furiously, almost nonstop. She found herself having a very uneasy thought and tried to push it away, but it wouldn't go. Suppose Bill's call had really been from Ralph Foster, inviting him down to the Plow and Barrow for an hour of arm-wrestling or backgammon, or maybe from Freddie Firestone, the producer of Attic Room, on some problem or other? Perhaps even a "wrong-ring," as the veddy British doctor's wife down the lane put it?
What did such thoughts lead to?
Why, to the idea that all this Derry-Mike Hanlon business was nothing but a hallucination. A hallucination brought on by an incipient nervous breakdown.
But the scars, Audra--howdo you explain the scars? He's right. They weren't there . . . and now they are. That's the truth, and you know it.
"Tell me the rest," she said. "Who killed your brother George? What did you and these other children do? What did you promise?"
He went to her, knelt before her like an oldfashioned suitor about to propose marriage, and took her hands.
"I think I could tell you," he said softly. "I think that if I really wanted to, I could. Most of it I don't remember even now, but once I started talking it would come. I can sense those memories ... waiting to be born. They're like clouds filled with rain. Only this rain would be very dirty. The plants that grew after a rain like that would be monsters. Maybe I can face that with the others--"
"Do they know?"
"Mike said he called them all. He thinks they'll all come ... except maybe for Stan. He said Stan sounded strange."
"It all sounds strange to me. You're frightening me very badly, Bill."
"I'm sorry," he said, and kissed her. It was like getting a kiss from an utter stranger. She found herself hating this man Mike Hanlon. "I thought I ought to explain as much as I could; I thought that would be better than just creeping off into the night. I suppose some of them may do just that. But I have to go. And I think Stan will be there, no matter how strange he sounded. Or maybe that's just because I can't imagine not going myself." "Because of your brother?"
Bill shook his head slowly. "I could tell you that, but it would be a lie. I loved him. I know how strange that must sound after telling you I haven't thought of him in twenty years or so, but I loved the hell out of that kid." He smiled a little. "He was a spasmoid, but I loved him. You know?"
Audra, who had a younger sister, nodded. "I know."
"But it isn't George. I can't explain what it is. I ..."
He looked out the window at the morning fog.
"I feel like a bird must feel when fall comes and it knows ... somehow it just knows it has to fly home. It's instinct, babe ... and I guess I believe instinct's the iron skeleton under all our ideas of free will. Unless you're willing to take the pipe or eat the gun or take a long walk off a short dock, you can't say no to some things. You can't refuse to pick up your option because there is no option. You can't stop it from happening any more than you could stand at home plate with a bat in your hand and let a fastball hit you. I have to go. That promise ... it's in my mind like a fuh-fishhook."
She stood up and walked herself carefully to him; she felt very fragile, as if she might break. She put a hand on his shoulder and turned him to her.
"Take me with you, then."
The expression of horror that dawned on his face then--not horror of her but for her--was so naked that she stepped back, really afraid for the first time.
"No," he said. "Don't think of that, Audra. Don't you ever think of that. You're not going within three thousand miles of Derry. I think Derry's going to be a very bad place to be during the next couple of weeks. You're going to stay here and carry on and make all the excuses for me you have to. Now promise me that!"
"Should I promise?" she asked, her eyes never leaving his. "Should I, Bill?"
"Audra--"
"Should I? You made a promise, and look what it's got you into. And me as well, since I'm your wife and I love you."
His big hands tightened painfully on her shoulders. "Promise me! Promise! P-Puh-Puh-Pruh-huh--"
And she could not stand that, that broken word caught in his mouth like a gaffed and wriggling fish.
"I promise, okay? I promise!" She burst into tears. "Are you happy now? Jesus! You're crazy, the whole thing is crazy, but I promise!"
He put an arm around her and led her to the couch. Brought her a brandy. She sipped at it, getting herself under control a little at a time.
"When do you go, then?"
"Today," he said. "Concorde. I can just make it if I drive to Heathrow instead of taking the train. Freddie wanted me on-set after lunch. You go on ahead at nine, and you don't know anything you see?"
She nodded reluctantly.
"I'll be in New York before anything shows up funny. And in Derry before sundown, with the right c-c-connections."
"And when do I see you again?" she asked softly.
He put an arm around her and held her tightly, but he never answered her question.
DERRY: THE FIRST INTERLUDE
"How many human eyes ... had snatched glimpses of their secret anatomies, down the passages of years?"
--Clive Barker, Books of Blood
The segment below and all other Interlude segments are drawn from "Derry: An Unauthorized Town History," by Michael Hanlon. This is an unpublished set of notes and accompanying fragments of manuscript (which read almost like diary entries) found in the Derry Public Library vault. The title given is the one written on the cover of the looseleaf binder in which these notes were kept prior to their appearance here. The author, however, refers to the work several times within his own notes as "Derry: A Look Through Hell's Back Door." One supposes the thought of popular publication had done more than cross Mr. Hanlon's mind.
January 2nd, 1985
Can an entire city be haunted?
Haunted as some houses are supposed to be haunted?
Not just a single building in that city, or the corner of a single street, or a single basketball court in a single pocket-park, the netless basket jutting out at sunset like some obscure and bloody instrument of torture, not just one area--but everything. The whole works.
Can