If I'd woken up a little earlier, Duke might still be alive, he thought bitterly. Perhaps true, but if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. This wasn't the time for recriminations.
One police-bat had been left to stand sentry on the porch, but it was turned in the direction of the street, possibly watching for unwanted interference. Pearson leaned through the open door toward it and said, "Hey, you ugly ringmeat asshole--got a cigarette?"
The bat turned.
Pearson blew its face off.
4
Shortly after one the next morning, three people--two men and a woman, wearing torn nylons and a dirty red skirt--ran beside a freight-train pulling out of the South Station shipping yards. The younger of the two men leaped easily into the square mouth of an empty boxcar, turned, and held out his hands to the woman.
She stumbled and cried out as one of her low heels broke. Pearson put an arm around her waist (he got a heartbreakingly faint whiff of Giorgio below the much fresher smell of her sweat and her fear), ran with her that way, then yelled for her to jump. As she did, he grabbed her hips and boosted her toward Cameron Stevens's reaching hands. She caught them and Pearson gave her a final rough shove to help Stevens haul her aboard.
Pearson had fallen behind in his effort to help her, and now he could see the fence which marked the edge of the trainyards not far ahead. The freight was gliding through a hole in the chainlink, but there would be no room for both it and Pearson; if he didn't get aboard, and quickly, he would be left behind in the yard.
Cam glanced around the open boxcar door, saw the approaching fence, and held his hands out again. "Come on!" he shouted. "You can do it!"
Pearson couldn't have--not back in the old two-pack-a-day life, anyway. Now, however, he was able to find a little extra, both in his legs and in his lungs. He sprinted along the treacherous bed of trash-littered cinders beside the tracks, temporarily outrunning the lumbering train again, holding his hands out and up, stretching his fingers to touch the hands above him as the fence loomed. Now he could see the cruel interlacings of barbed wire weaving in and out of the chainlink diamonds.
The eye of his mind opened wide in that moment and he saw his wife sitting in her chair in the living room, her face puffy with crying and her eyes red. He saw her telling two uniformed policemen that her husband had gone missing. He even saw the stack of Jenny's Pop-Up books on the little table beside her. Was that really going on? Yes; in one form or another, he supposed it was. And Lisabeth, who had never smoked a single cigarette in her whole life, would not be aware of the black eyes and fanged mouths beneath the young faces of the policemen sitting across from her on the couch; she would not see the oozing tumors or the black, pulsing lines which crisscrossed their naked skulls.
Would not know. Would not see.
God bless her blindness, Pearson thought. Let it last forever.
He stumbled toward the dark behemoth that was a westbound Conrail freight, toward the orange fluff of sparks which spiraled up from beneath one slowly turning steel wheel.
"Run!" Moira shrieked, and leaned out of the boxcar door farther, her hands imploring. "Please, Brandon--just a little more!"
"Hurry up, you gluefoot!" Cam screamed. "Watch out for the fucking fence!"
Can't, Pearson thought. Can't hurry up, can't watch out for the fence, can't do any more. Just want to lie down. Just want to sleep.
Then he thought of Duke and managed to put on a little more speed after all. Duke hadn't been old enough to know that sometimes people lose their guts and sell out, that sometimes even the ones you idolize do that, but he had been old enough to grab Brand Pearson's arm and keep him from killing himself with a scream. Duke wouldn't have wanted him to be left behind in this stupid trainyard.
He managed one last sprint toward their outstretched hands, watching the fence now seeming to leap toward him out of the corner of his eye, and seized Cam's fingers. He jumped, felt Moira's hand clamp firmly under his armpit, and then he was squirming aboard, pulling his right foot into the boxcar a split second before the fence would have torn it off, loafer and all.
"All aboard for Boy's Adventure," he gasped, "illustrations by N. C. Wyeth!"
"What?" Moira asked. "What did you say?"
He turned over and looked up at them through a matted tangle of hair, resting on his elbows and panting. "Never mind. Who's got a cigarette? I'm dying for one."
They gawped at him silently for several seconds, looked at each other, then burst into wild shouts of laughter at exactly the same moment. Pearson guessed that meant they were in love.
As they rolled over and over on the floor of the boxcar, clutching each other and howling, Pearson sat up and slowly began to investigate the inside pockets of his filthy, torn suitcoat.
"Ahhh," he said as his hand entered the second one and felt the familiar shape. He hauled out the battered pack and displayed it. "Here's to victory!"
*
The boxcar trundled west across Massachusetts with three small red embers glowing in the dark of the open doorway. A week later they were in Omaha, spending the midmorning hours of each day idling along the downtown streets, watching the people who take their coffee-breaks outside even in the pouring rain, looking for Ten O'Clock People, hunting for members of the Lost Tribe, the one that wandered off following Joe Camel.
By November there were twenty of them having meetings in the back room of an abandoned hardware store in La Vista.
They mounted their first raid early the following year, across the river in Council Bluffs, and killed thirty very surprised mid-western bat-bankers and bat-executives. It wasn't much, but Brand Pearson had learned that killing bats had at least one thing in common with cutting down on your cigarette intake: you had to start somewhere.
Crouch End
By the time the woman had finally gone, it was nearly two-thirty in the morning. Outside the Crouch End police station, Tottenham Lane was a small dead river. London was asleep . . . but London never sleeps deeply, and its dreams are uneasy.
PC Vetter closed his notebook, which he'd almost filled as the American woman's strange, frenzied story poured out. He looked at the typewriter and the stack of blank forms on the shelf beside it. "This one'll look odd come morning light," he said.
PC Farnham was drinking a Coke. He didn't speak for a long time. "She was American, wasn't she?" he said finally, as if that might explain most or all of the story she had told.
"It'll go in the back file," Vetter agreed, and looked round for a cigarette. "But I wonder . . ."
Farnham laughed. "You don't mean you believe any part of it? Go on, sir! Pull the other one!"
"Didn't say that, did I? No. But you're new here."
Farnham sat a little straighter. He was twenty-seven, and it was hardly his fault that he had been posted here from Muswell Hill to the north, or that Vetter, who was nearly twice his age, had spent his entire uneventful career in the quiet London backwater of Crouch End.
"Perhaps so, sir," he said, "but--with respect, mind--I still think I know a swatch of the old whole cloth when I see one. . . or hear one."
"Give us a fag, mate," Vetter said, looking amused. "There! What a good boy you are." He lit it with a wooden match from a bright red railway box, shook it out, and tossed the match stub into Farnham's ashtray. He peered at the lad through a haze of drifting smoke. His own days of laddie good looks were long gone; Vetter's face was deeply lined and his nose was a map of broken veins. He liked his six of Harp a night, did PC Vetter. "You think Crouch End's a very quiet place, then, do you?"
Farnham shrugged. In truth he thought Crouch End was a big suburban yawn--what his younger brother would have been pleased to call "a fucking Bore-a-Torium."
"Yes," Vetter said, "I see you do. And you're right. Goes to sleep by eleven most nights, it does. But I've seen a lot of strange things in Crouch End. If you're here half as long as I've been, you'll see your share, too. There are more strange things happen right here in this quiet six or ei
ght blocks than anywhere else in London--that's saying a lot, I know, but I believe it. It scares me. So I have my lager, and then I'm not so scared. You look at Sergeant Gordon sometime, Farnham, and ask yourself why his hair is dead white at forty. Or I'd say take a look at Petty, but you can't very well, can you? Petty committed suicide in the summer of 1976. Our hot summer. It was . . ." Vetter seemed to consider his words. "It was quite bad that summer. Quite bad. There were a lot of us who were afraid they might break through."
"Who might break through what?" Farnham asked. He felt a contemptuous smile turning up the corners of his mouth, knew it was far from politic, but was unable to stop it. In his way, Vetter was raving as badly as the American woman had. He had always been a bit queer. The booze, probably. Then he saw Vetter was smiling right back at him.
"You think I'm a dotty old prat, I suppose," he said.
"Not at all, not at all," Farnham protested, groaning inwardly.
"You're a good boy," Vetter said. "Won't be riding a desk here in the station when you're my age. Not if you stick on the force. Will you stick, d'you think? D'you fancy it?"
"Yes," Farnham said. It was true; he did fancy it. He meant to stick even though Sheila wanted him off the police force and somewhere she could count on him. The Ford assembly line, perhaps. The thought of joining the wankers at Ford curdled his stomach.
"I thought so," Vetter said, crushing his smoke. "Gets in your blood, doesn't it? You could go far, too, and it wouldn't be boring old Crouch End you'd finish up in, either. Still, you don't know everything. Crouch End is strange. You ought to have a peek in the back file sometime, Farnham. Oh, a lot of it's the usual . . . girls and boys run away from home to be hippies or punks or whatever it is they call themselves now . . . husbands gone missing (and when you clap an eye to their wives you can most times understand why). . . unsolved arsons . . . purse-snatchings . . . all of that. But in between, there's enough stories to curdle your blood. And some to make you sick to your stomach."
"True word?"
Vetter nodded. "Some of em very like the one that poor American girl just told us. She'll not see her husband again--take my word for it." He looked at Farnham and shrugged. "Believe me, believe me not. It's all one, isn't it? The file's there. We call it the open file because it's more polite than the back file or the kiss-my-arse file. Study it up, Farnham. Study it up."
Farnham said nothing, but he actually did intend to "study it up." The idea that there might be a whole series of stories such as the one the American woman had told . . . that was disturbing.
"Sometimes," Vetter said, stealing another of Farnham's Silk Cuts, "I wonder about Dimensions."
"Dimensions?"
"Yes, my good old son--dimensions. Science fiction writers are always on about Dimensions, aren't they? Ever read science fiction, Farnham?"
"No," Farnham said. He had decided this was some sort of elaborate leg-pull.
"What about Lovecraft? Ever read anything by him?"
"Never heard of him," Farnham said. The last fiction he'd read for pleasure, in fact, had been a small Victorian Era pastiche called Two Gentlemen in Silk Knickers.
"Well, this fellow Lovecraft was always writing about Dimensions," Vetter said, producing his box of railway matches. "Dimensions close to ours. Full of these immortal monsters that would drive a man mad at one look. Frightful rubbish, of course. Except, whenever one of these people straggles in, I wonder if all of it was rubbish. I think to myself then--when it's quiet and late at night, like now--that our whole world, everything we think of as nice and normal and sane, might be like a big leather ball filled with air. Only in some places, the leather's scuffed almost down to nothing. Places where the barriers are thinner. Do you get me?"
"Yes," Farnham said, and thought: Maybe you ought to give me a kiss, Vetter--I always fancy a kiss when I'm getting my doodle pulled.
"And then I think, 'Crouch End's one of those thin places.' Silly, but I do have those thoughts. Too imaginative, I expect; my mother always said so, anyway."
"Did she indeed?"
"Yes. Do you know what else I think?"
"No, sir--not a clue."
"Highgate's mostly all right, that's what I think--it's just as thick as you'd want between us and the Dimensions in Muswell Hill and Highgate. But now you take Archway and Finsbury Park. They border on Crouch End, too. I've got friends in both places, and they know of my interest in certain things that don't seem to be any way rational. Certain crazy stories which have been told, we'll say, by people with nothing to gain by making up crazy stories.
"Did it occur to you to wonder, Farnham, why the woman would have told us the things she did if they weren't true?"
"Well. . ."
Vetter struck a match and looked at Farnham over it. "Pretty young woman, twenty-six, two kiddies back at her hotel, husband's a young lawyer doing well in Milwaukee or someplace. What's she to gain by coming in and spouting about the sort of things you only used to see in Hammer films?"
"I don't know," Farnham said stiffly. "But there may be an ex--"
"So I say to myself"--Vetter overrode him--"that if there are such things as 'thin spots,' this one would begin at Archway and Finsbury Park . . . but the very thinnest part is here at Crouch End. And I say to myself, wouldn't it be a day if the last of the leather between us and what's on the inside of that ball just . . . rubbed away? Wouldn't it be a day if even half of what that woman told us was true?"
Farnham was silent. He had decided that PC Vetter probably also believed in palmistry and phrenology and the Rosicrucians.
"Read the back file," Vetter said, getting up. There was a crackling sound as he put his hands in the small of his back and stretched. "I'm going out to get some fresh air."
He strolled out. Farnham looked after him with a mixture of amusement and resentment. Vetter was dotty, all right. He was also a bloody fag-mooch. Fags didn't come cheap in this brave new world of the welfare state. He picked up Vetter's notebook and began leafing through the girl's story again.
And, yes, he would go through the back file.
He would do it for laughs.
*
The girl--or young woman, if you wanted to be politically correct (and all Americans did these days, it seemed)--had burst into the station at quarter past ten the previous evening, her hair in damp strings around her face, her eyes bulging. She was dragging her purse by the strap.
"Lonnie," she said. "Please, you've got to find Lonnie."
"Well, we'll do our best, won't we?" Vetter said. "But you've got to tell us who Lonnie is."
"He's dead," the young woman said. "I know he is." She began to cry. Then she began to laugh--to cackle, really. She dropped her purse in front of her. She was hysterical.
The station was fairly deserted at that hour on a weeknight. Sergeant Raymond was listening to a Pakistani woman tell, with almost unearthly calm, how her purse had been nicked on Hillfield Avenue by a yob with a lot of football tattoos and a great coxcomb of blue hair. Vetter saw Farnham come in from the anteroom, where he had been taking down old posters (HAVE YOU ROOM IN YOUR HEART FOR AN UNWANTED CHILD?) and putting up new ones (SIX RULES FOR SAFE NIGHT-CYCLING).
Vetter waved Farnham forward and Sergeant Raymond, who had looked round at once when he heard the American woman's semi-hysterical voice, back. Raymond, who liked breaking pickpockets' fingers like breadsticks ("Aw, c'mon, mate," he'd say if asked to justify this extra-legal proceeding, "fifty million wogs can't be wrong"), was not the man for a hysterical woman.
"Lonnie!" she shrieked. "Oh, please, they've got Lonnie!"
The Pakistani woman turned toward the young American woman, studied her calmly for a moment, then turned back to Sergeant Raymond and continued to tell him how her purse had been snatched.
"Miss--" PC Farnham began.
"What's going on out there?" she whispered. Her breath was coming in quick pants. Farnham noticed there was a slight scratch on her left cheek. She was a pretty little hen with nic
e bubs--small but pert--and a great cloud of auburn hair. Her clothes were moderately expensive. The heel had come off one of her shoes.
"What's going on out there?" she repeated. "Monsters--"
The Pakistani woman looked over again . . . and smiled. Her teeth were rotten. The smile was gone like a conjurer's trick, and she took the Lost and Stolen Property form Raymond was holding out to her.
"Get the lady a cup of coffee and bring it down to Room Three," Vetter said. "Could you do with a cup of coffee, mum?"
"Lonnie," she whispered. "I know he's dead."
"Now, you just come along with old Ted Vetter and we'll sort this out in a jiff," he said, and helped her to her feet. She was still talking in a low moaning voice when he led her away with one arm snugged around her waist. She was rocking unsteadily because of the broken shoe.
Farnham got the coffee and brought it into Room Three, a plain white cubicle furnished with a scarred table, four chairs, and a water cooler in the corner. He put the coffee in front of her.
"Here, mum," he said, "this'll do you good. I've got some sugar if--"
"I can't drink it," she said. "I couldn't--" And then she clutched the porcelain cup, someone's long-forgotten souvenir of Blackpool, in her hands as if for warmth. Her hands were shaking quite badly, and Farnham wanted to tell her to put it down before she slopped the coffee and scalded herself.
"I couldn't," she said again. Then she drank, still holding the cup two-handed, the way a child will hold his cup of broth. And when she looked at them, it was a child's look--simple, exhausted, appealing . . . and at bay, somehow. It was as if whatever had happened had somehow shocked her young; as if some invisible hand had swooped down from the sky and slapped the last twenty years out of her, leaving a child in grownup American clothes in this small white interrogation room in Crouch End.