Hallow

  *

  Zachary Bergson lived on the other side of town, in a two-bedroom apartment next to a children's playground. He had bought it at a bargain price from a sex offender who had been released from jail and wasn't allowed to live that close to children. His main occupation was as a professional blogger, meaning companies would pay him for enthusiastic reviews about their products. His second and third occupations were, respectively, as a hypochondriac and an antisocial drunk. He was also best friends with Walt Jenkins, but only because he didn't have any choice in the matter.

  He was nurturing a hangover and trying to fill half a page on the computer screen in front of him with reasons to buy a specific company's brand new curling iron. It wasn't going well. He moved the curling iron in his hands. He had read the instruction booklet. It didn't seem complicated, but he still couldn't even turn the thing on. If he did, what would happen then? Looking around him, in search of inspiration, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Zachary was bald and had been since he was around nineteen. But Chandra had hair. She was his female pseudonym on the beauty and fashion blog he managed, a very profitable area for people who, like himself, were willing to sell their opinions.

  It was a relief when he heard the bell ringing. The curling iron was put down and he got up to open, finding Walt on the other side.

  Walt didn't wait to be invited in. Zachary's house was like his house. Or like the house he no longer had anymore.

  "I need a place to stay," he said, going straight to the point and dispensing with formalities. "Here?"

  "Why?" asked Zachary.

  "It's a long story," he explained.

  Zachary said nothing. Instead, he sat down and crossed his arms and legs, making it abundantly clear that he had all the time in the world. Whatever the story, it couldn't be duller than the efforts of a bald man to find uses for a curling iron.

  "Sarah kicked me out."

  "Why?

  "She came home and I had company."

  "Ah. Linda?"

  "Who?"

  "Wasn't that her name? The skinny brunette who believed you were a former Olympic gymnast."

  "Ah, her," said Walt. "Jesus. I didn't even remember her anymore. Do you keep a list or something?"

  "So it was another one?" asked Zachary.

  "Yeah. Rosie."

  "What happened to Linda?"

  "She googled me eventually. Don't know why she took so long, really," said Walt. "So, can I stay here?"

  "There isn't much space," said Zachary. He didn't fancy the idea of taking a tenant and it was true that the apartment was full of junk everywhere. Things he was sent to review and which he couldn't get rid of afterwards. Walt had helped him selling some of the more sought-after items in the past, but there wasn't much demand for yoghurt makers, salad spinners and dubious medicinal shampoo.

  "All right, then," Walt said. "I'll take the spare room."

  That wasn't what Zachary intended when he informed him of his lack of space, but Walt had a talent for interpreting other people's words in the way that was most convenient to himself.

  He took his bag to the bedroom Zachary kept for guests he made sure he never had (until Walt decided to break his immaculate record). It was also full of junk. There were boxes piled on the floor, on top of the scarce furniture, on the bed, on top of other boxes.

  "There isn't much space," said Walt, raising his voice to be heard by Zachary.

  "That's what I said."

  He came back without his bag.

  "I'll manage," he said, looking puzzled by something. "The laundry basket in there..." He pointed back at the room with a thumb.

  "Ah. That," said Zachary.

  "Was it... well... Was it what it looked like?" asked Walt.

  "That depends," said Zachary. "What do you think it looked like?"

  "I'd say it looked a lot like a laundry basket full of dildos," said Walt, displaying the full extent of his powers of observation.

  "That's exactly what it is. Well done. Except some are vibrators. Dildos don't vibrate."

  That wasn't enough to quench Walt's curiosity.

  "Can I ask why or will the answer scar me for life?"

  "It's very simple," said Zachary. "I reviewed sex toys for a couple of months." The look on Walt's face told Zachary that an urgent clarification was needed. "It's not that!"

  "Isn't it?" asked Walt.

  "No. I have blogs where I post with a female alias to review women's products. Like dildos. Or this crap," he said, grabbing the curling iron. "It's all made up."

  "Ok then," said Walt. "I'll take your word for it. No need to get testy."

  "I'm not testy," assured Zachary. "How long will you stay here?"

  "I don't know yet," said Walt. That wasn't the answer Zachary was hoping for. "A couple of days... one week... a month... Does it bother you too much?"

  "Of course not," lied Zachary. "What are friends for?"

  "Exactly."

  "How are the tours going?"

  "They're not. There was a problem."

  "What?"

  "I sort of accidentally headbutted an unhappy customer," explained Walt.

  "I see," said Zachary. "Why was he unhappy?"

  "He questioned the factuality of the tour."

  "You mean he figured out you made most of it up?"

  "Not on his own, but yeah. That's what happened."

  "What now?"

  Walt looked around for a place to sit.

  "You can start by taking down that website you made for me," he said. "I won't be needing it anymore."

  "Okay. That was time well spent," said Zachary. "What will you do for money?"

  "I don't know," Walt said. "Care to give me some reviews to make? No dildos."

  "You can't write for shit."

  "Yeah, that's right." Walt found a large box that seemed sturdy enough to support his weight and sat on it. He waited for an instant to see if the box would give. It didn't and he relaxed. Looking around, he found himself surrounded by piles of boxes of different sizes, some were blank cardboard and others had printed pictures and text. To his right, a stack of machines for converting home movies from VHS into DVD, supporting a smaller pile of yoga videotapes. To his left, a large open box filled to the top with plastic CD cases. Walt picked one and looked at it. There was a bluish-black background with white dots of varying size, likely aspiring to represent the universe. In the foreground, a round blue ball with brown landmasses: Earth. Hovering alarmingly over it and glowing like a sun, a colossal human brain, about half the size of the planet. Below all of that, it said in imposing block letters: ATKINSON ENCYCLOPEDIA OF REVISED HUMAN KNOWLEDGE - Vol. 3 - C. "What is this?" asked Walt.

  Zachary moved his eyes from the computer screen, having just thought of the perfect sentence to start his curling iron review and immediately forgetting it when Walt spoke.

  "A CD-ROM encyclopedia," he said. "In twenty-two disks, though it would fit easily in a single one. The publisher felt it would make the whole thing look more serious. That box, the one you're sitting on and two more somewhere around here are, pretty much, all the copies ever made."

  "And you're reviewing it?" Walt picked up another disk. Vol. 7 - PQ. The cover was the same. The universe. Planet Earth. The disturbing glowing brain-satellite.

  "No," said Zachary. "The publisher went bankrupt and his inventory was sold in auction. The guy who bought that wanted to sell it based on 'vintage value'. He asked me to take a look and see what I could do to spread the word around. I said yes and he agreed to send me one full set. Instead, he sent me everything he had. I never heard from him again."

  "Then sell it yourself and keep the money," suggested Walt.

  "I can't. It's unsellable."

  "Why?" Walt put the disk down and stuck his hand inside the box for no reason, burying his arm up to the elbow in REVISED HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. "What's wrong with it?"

  "It was compiled by a guy named James Atkinson, an industrialist who made a fortu
ne selling metal ore to weapon factories," explained Zachary. "He spent his entire life working on it. He meant to have it published in paper originally, but it took so long that, when he finished, back in 2001, computers were a big thing and CD-ROM encyclopedias were considered the way of the future. Wikipedia started that same year and gradually ruined it for everyone. When Atkinson's work was finally converted to digital form, in 2008, it was already too late."

  "Did he feel like an idiot for devoting his whole life to something that went nowhere?" asked Walt, pulling his arm out of the box and feeling the plastic case edges scratch his skin.

  "No. He died in 2003. But he left a lot of money to a foundation named after him who continued the work. Apparently, his children didn't get any."

  "What a nice guy."

  "Yeah. Real nice. He wanted to enlighten the world. Taking care of his family wasn't grandiose enough."

  "Why do you say it's unsellable?" asked Walt. "2008 wasn't that long ago. Most of it will still be valid."

  "It's not only that," said Zachary. "Atkinson had some unusual ideas and he wanted to spread them around."

  "What kind of unusual ideas?" asked Walt, with growing interest.

  "I'll show you."

  Zachary got up, approached the CD-ROM box and started going through the cases until he found a specific volume.

  "This one will do," he said, before sitting in front of the computer again. Walt approached and looked over his shoulder while he placed the disk in the drive.

  "It should load right away, but it's not compatible with newer operating systems so I'll have to run it manually," said Zachary.

  Walt's computer knowledge was minute, but he didn't like sounding stupid and said: "Sure."

  "I'll give you an example," said Zachary. "Evolution theory, right?" He typed the two words into the search field and, immediately, a page of results came up. There were links to articles with the words 'evolution' and 'theory' in the title, but no exact matches. "See what I mean?"

  Walt didn't see what he meant. He nodded and said: "Hmm."

  "Let's try this." Zachary typed 'Charles Darwin' into the search field. Lots of articles about people named Charles from various periods of history came up but, again, no exact match. There was also an article about the city of Darwin, in Australia. "Or this." He typed 'contraception' and, this time, there were zero results.

  "Well," started Walt, "there may be a few subjects missing, but I'm sure that happens in other encyclopedias as well." He realized he had never used an encyclopedia in his life. "Doesn't it?"

  "Not with essential matters like these," considered Zachary.

  "You may find them essential, but other people—"

  "Wait," Zachary cut in, turning around and looking straight at Walt. "You do think evolution is an essential subject, don't you? You don't believe Adam and Eve are historical figures, right?"

  Walt had never spent any time thinking about it. What did it matter if God had created the world and the creatures in it or if mankind evolved from some sort of furry monkey? He failed to see the relevance.

  "Of course I do," he said, anyway. "That's not what I meant. In an encyclopedia made by one guy, you'll have to forgive the occasional omission."

  "That's also debatable," Zachary said. "The bit about him making it alone. He did write a significant part of it, but lots of the articles about subjects that didn't interest him too much seem plagiarized from Encyclopaedia Britannica. And there is nothing accidental about the omissions. He only excludes things that didn't fit in with his view of the world. That's dishonest."

  Walt picked up the CD case and pointed at the cover.

  "It does say 'revised'."

  "It should say 'occasionally delusional' instead. For instance, did you know that slavery was sometimes voluntary?"

  "What?" said Walt, putting the case down again.

  "I'll show you." He typed 'slavery' into the search field and opened an article illustrated by an old drawing of two black men with chains on their wrists. "This one is almost exactly like the article in Encyclopaedia Britannica, but he added something." He scrolled down and started to read. "From the time of the first contact between European explorers and African populations, it became relatively common for Africans to travel to the New World willingly, in search of a better life or just for the thrill of discovery." He stopped reading and looked at Walt again. "What do you say to that?"

  "Well... I say that Mr. Atkinson had very peculiar notions," said Walt.

  "He was batshit crazy."

  "That's another way of putting it, yes."

  "Also, dinosaurs were hunted to extinction by cavemen, the ancient Egyptians built pyramids as cosmic radars to allow them to sail out of the Mediterranean, through the Atlantic and all the way to America. This discovery would later allow the resurrected Jesus and an assortment of his followers to settle in the New World, while the Chinese travelled to Europe, building the Alps as a colossal wall to defend their settlements in Italy from cannibalistic demon-worshipping Celtic druids moving in from the North."

  "The man had an active imagination," said Walt, feeling a need to argue mostly out of stubbornness. "Nothing wrong with that."

  "There is something wrong with it if you start believing it," Zachary said. "And even more if you build an agenda to spread it around."

  Seeing there was no way he could win, Walt let it go.

  "Yeah. I guess," he said.

  "And that's why it's unsellable." Zachary closed the encyclopedia and removed the disk, putting it back in the case. Walt was already going through a pile of self-help books, all with photos of sunsets on the cover, when he heard Zachary add: "It's kind of ironic. Lots of people would love an encyclopedia that either ignores subjects they're not comfortable with or replaces the truth with preposterous allegations."

  Walt picked a book from the pile and looked at the title printed over the sunset photo. Make Today the Best Day of Your Life - 20 Steps to Personal Fulfillment, Prosperity and Happiness. The author's photo was on the back cover. He was smiling too much for his own good, almost like he was begging for someone less fulfilled, prosper and happy to bash in his perfectly white teeth. He flipped through the pages, not reading any of the words and thinking. There was definitely something there, jumping up and down at the end of his consciousness, demanding to be noticed. Suddenly, there it was.

  "There we go," he said.

  Zachary was fiddling with the curling iron again and looked at him, puzzled.

  "What?" he asked.

  2.1

  Margrit Lorne double-checked the location on her marker's screen. She was in the part of the city known as 'downtown' and both the small screen and the sign above the building's door proclaimed there was a police station in front of her. An actual, working early 21st century police station. She crossed the street and went in.

  Inside the lobby, she saw a desk with a police offer in uniform sitting behind, looking at a vintage plastic and glass screen. A female police officer. They were supposedly rarer than the male variety back in that time. For a moment, she almost felt like she was looking at a long-extinct animal, like a tiger or an elephant. The woman felt watched and saw her standing there.

  "Can I help you?" she asked.

  Margrit approached and forced all traces of amazement out of her mind.

  "I'm looking for a man," she said.

  "I know the feeling," the policewoman said. She gave Margrit a look she couldn't interpret, apparently waiting for a specific reaction. When she didn't get it, she let it go and continued. "Sorry. That was inappropriate. Do you wish to report a missing person?"

  Margrit thought about it for a second.

  "The man I'm looking for has been found," she said.

  The nametag pinned to her blue shirt informed the world about the officer's name: Jody Walton. She was staring at Margrit in confusion.

  "I'm not sure I follow you," she said.

  "Where?" asked Margrit.

  Officer Walton'
s expression got very close to turning into one of annoyance.

  "Look, we'd better start over, okay?" she said. "How can I help you?"

  Margrit was determined to make the most of the second chance she was given.

  "I am looking for a man. I was informed you had him here."

  "Much better," said Officer Walton. "What's his name?" She moved her fingers to the keyboard, ready to start typing. Margrit realized she didn't know the old-timer's name, but it was too late to go back.

  "Calvin... Smith," she improvised.

  The policewoman typed it in.

  "We have no one by that name. Who informed you he was here?"

  "A friend of his," she said.

  "And why does this friend say we have him?"

  "He says you've taken him before," Margrit explained.

  Officer Walton looked at her blankly for a second, then got an idea and typed something else, keeping her eyes on the screen.

  "We do have an unidentified elderly male with possible mental issues," she said. "But it's someone who lives on the street."

  "That's him," said Margrit.

  The policewoman gave her a strange look.

  "Don't you think the description I gave you was a bit broad?" she asked.

  "I'm almost sure that's him," said Margrit.

  "Almost. Okay," said the officer. "What's your relation to him, then?"

  "I am... his daughter," she lied.

  "Really?" asked Officer Walton, not looking very convinced. "And you let your father live in the street?"

  She was right. That wasn't the most likely of stories.

  "He has been gone for a long time," she said, doing her best to sound believable. "I've been looking for him for many years and only found him now."

  Officer Walton still wasn't buying it, but she wouldn't let herself be too bothered to do something about it.

  "Okay, then." She pointed at a row of chairs next to a wall, under some colorful posters. "Give me a moment, please."

  Margrit looked at the chairs, then the posters. They were dull things and didn't look very enjoyable to look at.

  "Why?" she asked.

  Again, the officer looked confused.

  "Would you prefer standing up while you wait?" she said, very slowly. "That's also a possibility."

  "Ah, while I wait," Margrit said. "Of course." She approached the chairs, feigning interest in a poster with a message saying something about the need to watch out for some type of pocket picker, whatever that was, and sat down. It was only then that she realized how tired her legs felt from walking all the way there from the dark hole where the old-timer took shelter. She hadn't found any taxis or other means of public transportation for the entire journey.

  There was a glass door in front of her and she could see herself reflected in it. The outfit she had been given was hideous enough to fit with local-timer fashion, but, still, it could have been much worse. Plaid pants, a navy blue velvet pea coat, white shirt and black leather shoes. Much better, at least, than the ridiculous suits the pioneers were forced to wear, following the advice of archaeologists that didn't know as much about period clothing as they pretended and couldn't be forced to admit it.

  She hadn't been sitting long when a large male policeman approached her. She got up and shook the thick hand he was extending.

  "Was it you asking about the old homeless man we picked up?"

  "Yes. That was me," she replied.

  "May I have your name, please?" the officer asked. Officer Thompson, according to his nametag.

  "Margrit Lorne," she answered. Basic timenaut training advised not lying to local-timers unless there was need for it. Lies demanded constant attention to prevent going against previous statements and it was safer that way.

  "And you're his daughter, Ms. Lorne?" he asked.

  "Yes, I am."

  "You confirm that his name is..." He lifted a printed piece of paper and read from it. "Calvin Smith?"

  "I do," said Margrit.

  "Why don't you share a last name?" the officer asked.

  Margrit felt like slapping herself hard on the face. One detail she had overlooked. The problem with lies. There it was.

  "I use my mother's maiden name," she said, hoping to sound convincing. She read her failure in the officer's face.

  But he couldn't be bothered.

  "Very well. Follow me, please."

  He walked to a door and held it open for her. There was a short corridor on the other side and a flight of stairs at the end of it, at the bottom of which a wooden door with a thin glass rectangle between twin layers of metal mesh. Officer Thompson unlocked it with a set of keys he took out of his pocket and there was another corridor on the other side, with a grey brick wall on the left and a succession of compartments blocked by iron bars on the right. The first one had a man with shaved hair and a tattooed face sitting on a cot.

  "He did it again," he said.

  "What?" said the officer. "God damn it!" He hurried along the corridor, passing by two empty cells and stopping in front of one where a grey-haired man in a dirty yellow-brown suit could be seen lying on a pool of what looked, and smelled, like vomit. Officer Thompson picked a smaller key and opened the cell door, taking a step inside and stopping. "Mr. Smith, someone's here for you."

  The old man groaned, tried to lift his head from the vomit and gave up.

  Officer Thompson looked understandably disgusted. He turned to Margrit.

  "Second time this happened," he said. "We tried giving him medication to calm his stomach and let him keep his food down, but he wouldn't take it. Is that your father."

  The man farted.

  "Yes," said Margrit, feeling an urge to move several steps backwards and controlling herself with great cost.

  "Is this vomiting thing normal?" the policeman asked.

  "Yes," Margrit replied, for the lack of something better to say.

  "Can we release him under your responsibility?"

  She needed to be alone with the old-timer to debrief him. That would be a convenient way of doing it.

  "Yes," she said, for the third time.

  "Okay," said Officer Thompson. "Any tips on how we can get him up?"

  She looked at the balding grey head and tried her luck.

  "Hey, old-timer," she said.

  The man lifted his head and looked around for her, settling his unfocused eyes on her face. He managed to get on his knees and did his best to stand up, but he was shaking too much from the effort. Officer Thompson moved in and pulled him by an elbow, while wrinkling his nose away from the stench.

  When the old man finally seemed steady enough to stand on his own he pointed at the cell door, making him move that way with hesitant steps. His face kept turned to Margrit, with an almost avid expression, but without saying anything. They were almost at the door to the stairs, when the policeman spoke again.

  "Old-Timer," he said. "That's an interesting nickname for your father."

  "I've been called worse by my daughters," said the tattooed man in the first cell. He looked bored more than he looked upset for being locked up. His attempt at taking part in the conversation was ignored and they went up the stairs, with Officer Thompson trying to prevent the old man from falling and, at the same time, keeping as much distance as he could.

  Back in the lobby, the policeman asked Margrit to wait, exchanged a few words with his colleague behind the reception desk and came back with a clipboard, a pen and a black plastic bag. He handed her the clipboard and the pen.

  "Sign this," he said, pointing a line at the bottom of the paper rectangle. Margrit signed and gave it back, receiving the plastic bag in exchange. Officer Thompson turned to the old-timer. "We're letting you go one more time. But if you keep yelling and scaring people like that, you'll get in serious trouble. Do you understand me?

  While he spoke, Margrit opened the bag. She recognized one of the objects inside. It was a stylus. The other thing was harder to identify. A thick black box,
larger than her hand. She took it out. It had a closed lid. She didn't open it. There was no need.

  "My marker," the old man said, moving one hand towards it. Margrit put it inside the bag again and he seemed like he couldn't understand where it had disappeared to.

  "What did he say?" asked the officer.

  "Nothing," Margrit said. "Old men keep saying things that mean nothing at all."

  She pulled him towards the door and they were out of there.