Desolation (26 page)

Cain panted, heart racing, wondering whether he could make the front door without the shadow catching him.

“Of course not,” the shadow said. “I'm as attached to you as your smell.”

“You're my shadow,” Cain said, not quite sure whether that was a question or an admission.

“And something a little more,” it said. “I'm your potential. Heed me. Find me. Go through with what you decided to do. Follow them, watch them, know from their ways how different yourWay can be.”

Cain looked around the open-plan flat and wondered whether he could ever live here again. “Do I have any choice?” he asked.

“Yeah, sure,” the voice from the dark of Cain's mind drawled. “I'm just your shadow, after all.”

Cain sat down on the kitchen floor so that the is
land stood between him and the shadow. He could not smell it or hear it, and it remained on that side, aware of what he needed. He closed his eyes. But all he could see was that photograph with his father, hand resting on Magenta's shoulder. Cain had rejected her, his own mother, turned away from her ideas of what he needed from life. And now the shadow was inviting him to explore the same thing.

Cain knew that it was right. He knew that what it said was true. It spoke in his mind, and perhaps it was of his mind. And if he could not trust himself, there was no hope left.

As he sat there thinking, the shadow began to hum. It was the tune he had always recognized but never been able to name. It took him back to his father's house, and the sense of peace and safety that tune had once been able to inspire in him, whatever Leonard was putting him through at the time.

“What is that?” Cain said quietly, and the shadow replied, “I'm not quite sure.” It spoke the truth, because he had stopped lying to himself.

Cain made up his mind. He could turn away and flee, and never know how life could really be. Or he could stay, go out into the evening, find and feel his way through the worlds the others in the house had created in their own Ways. And thinking that way suddenly felt so right.

Once, Cain had tried to catch his own shadow. He chased it around the room, leaping, rolling, reaching out. But it always remained one step ahead of
him. At the time, he thought it was because it was so fast, but later, as he dwelled upon it, he wondered whether it was because he had yet to see the light.

 

 

 

He would hide in the front garden.

On the way out of the house that evening, there was no sign of Magenta, or anyone else. Cain made it past George's flat without being seen—conscious as ever of the peephole in the door and what may be behind it—and approached the front door. The shadow slipped along behind him, sometimes almost touching his heels, other times lagging a few steps behind as if giving Cain space to move. He opened the door onto dusk and cool air invited him out.

The shrubs in the front garden were waist-high and utterly dark. Even now, in the evening, they exuded a sense of watchfulness, as if whatever lived beneath them never slept, only lay there waiting for the next person to pass by.

“Good,” the shadow said, and Cain almost told it to keep quiet before remembering it was only in his head. “Good hiding place.”

Cain knelt on the path and moved aside several branches. The shadow went in first, emphasizing the darkness. Cain followed on hands and knees, wincing every time his hands touched down. But there was only soft ground beneath his palms, and the long-lost memories of last year's leaves rotting into the soil. He crawled forward, almost having to drop down onto his stomach to pass by below some thicker branches, looking around for the shadow all the while. He found it hunkered down toward what he thought must be the center of the garden. He knew the shadow because it had no texture or substance, not like the other deep shadows below here, those that were merely the absence of light. Knowing where the shadow was, Cain stopped and lay down on his side, propped on one elbow.

That sense of watchfulness remained, emphasized even more by the evening's silence. Cain had the impression that whatever lived beneath here had seen things, heard and known things, that most other creatures never would. He felt a hundred eyes upon him, questioning his presence with interest but no fear. These creatures remained constantly astounded, a living record of the unusual events in the house, and in their impenetrable minds resided so much that Cain needed to know. If only he could reach out, touch a mouse, and know its consciousness. If these watchful worms could talk, or these slugs and snails could explain history in their silvery trails, then perhaps this night would be unnecessary. Because Cain was sure that after tonight, everything would change. His
life would be different, and more important, his perception of the lives of others would never be the same again.

“I'm afraid,” he whispered into the dark, and the dark listened.

“That's only right,” it said.

Cain waited, and the shadow waited with him. Every now and then it would begin humming the tune, breaking off when Cain frowned in an effort to drive another memory down. At first he thought the shadow was doing it inadvertently, but once or twice the tone of the tune changed, as if hummed past a smile. He wanted to ask what it was doing and why, but he also knew that to succeed tonight he had to remain silent. George could be out of the house at any time—if, indeed, he was coming out at all—and to follow him without being seen, Cain could not afford to give him even a slight suspicion of being watched.

Cain hoped that George would not hear the shadow's humming.

He looked up, and between the leaves of the shrub canopy he could see the sky clearing as dusk gave way to night. The moon was waxing half-full, and yet he did not believe that this had anything to do with George. His monstrous transformation came wholly from within, not without.
That's just his Way
, Cain thought, and somewhere nearby he felt the shadow nod.

It was not the most comfortable of places to wait. Cain's arm went to sleep and he had to roll onto his other side, stirring a bush and bringing a few loose leaves down onto his face. Something
squeaked and scurried out from under him. The shadow shifted, disappearing and then manifesting again on Cain's other side. It leaned in close, and Cain smelled its odor, like fruit sweating in the sun. He looked from the corner of his eye to see if he could make out any expression. But it was a shadow in the night, darker than the dark. If it was still around come morning, perhaps he would see it then.

The front door opened. Cain held his breath, waiting for the footsteps, suddenly realizing that he would have no way to tell who was exiting the house. “We'll know,” the shadow whispered. “We'll
smell
them.” And Cain knew that it was right. If Sister Josephine came by, he would know her from her honey-scented skin, magicked up and ready for flight, or perhaps the bees that seemed to like her. If it was Magenta, he would register her lack of odor, cosmetic or otherwise. Whistler would smell of age and must, and George . . . with George, it would be meat.

The front door closed and footsteps came along the path.

“Do you know?” the shadow asked playfully.

Cain was annoyed at its condescension, but he breathed in and closed his eyes.
Oh yes
, he thought,
it's so obvious now
. The rich, bloody red stench of George.

George paused at the front gate, and Cain heard him sniffing at the air.
When's the last time I bathed?
Cain thought.
When did I last change my clothes?
He could not recall. But he had the feeling that George's attention was focused outward into
the street, rather than back into the garden. He wondered whether George felt the same way about the garden as he did—unnerved, suspicious, un-easy—but probably not. He was part of the reason the garden was the way it was, after all.

George opened the gate and stepped out into the street, turning left and moving quickly away from the house.

Cain went to move, but something cool brushed his cheek and snagged his ear. “Wait,” the shadow said, “not yet. We'll hear him and smell him; don't be too eager to give yourself away.” Cain shrugged the shadow's hand from his shoulder and moved forward, away. He hated that touch. Slick, like a corpse's breath on his skin. But he listened to what the shadow said and waited, leaning on his elbows, trying not to move in case he made the shrub canopy shudder with a life it had seldom exhibited before. George's footsteps faded into the distance. Cain went to get up again, felt the shadow's gaze on his back, remained still.

They stayed there for several minutes. “If we can hear him, he can hear us,” the shadow said. “His senses could be
changed
.” Then, a couple of minutes later: “We'll smell him. And soon we'll hear him.”

“How do you know so much?” Cain asked.

The shadow's voice cut in with its sarcastic edge again. “I know what you know but are too afraid to realize.”

“Well, fuck this, I'm going.” Cain crawled from under the bushes and stood, shaking off the gaze of the many living things beneath there. He was yet
another image and experience for them to keep to themselves forever. He walked to the front gate, leaned over to look in the direction George had taken, then lifted the latch and stepped beyond the garden. He set off immediately, trying to move as quickly as he could while making as little noise as possible. His shoes were soft leather, well-worn, and they barely whispered as they touched the pavement.

The shadow joined him, slinking along at the bases of walls and hedges like a cat on the prowl.

They reached the end of the street and Cain inhaled deeply, reminded of George's animalistic sniffing at the garden gate. The faint tinge of raw meat hung in the air—weak to the right, stronger to the left. He headed left, along the road that led eventually to the pub where he and Peter had sat and talked the previous afternoon. The shadow followed without comment.

It was not late—not yet midnight—but the streets were surprisingly quiet. Pubs had already let out and their patrons made their way home. Night shift workers were at work. Police cars were parked up. A couple of taxis cruised the streets, drivers already bored and awaiting their knock-off time. A couple of people passed Cain, keeping their eyes averted and putting purpose in their step. He slowed down each time, glancing down at the shadow where it frolicked at the base of a wall or in a doorway, arrogantly inviting discovery. He wanted to meet their gaze, smile, let them know how lucky they were to be on their way home tonight, a night when there was a mad thing like
George abroad. But he supposed such niceties as conversation took a backseat come dusk, when darkness did its best to unearth primeval fear. So they walked by without acknowledgment, and Cain knew each time that he would never see that person again. They had whole life stories—loves and hates, triumphs and tragedies, successes and failures—and he would never know any of them. They had lived up to this point utterly ignorant of Cain's existence, and their lives would continue on until death in that same state. His torment did not trouble them. There was simply this one minuscule point of contact, when the heat of their bodies had perhaps interfered across a few feet of space, their auras may have skimmed each other, and their thoughts had been slightly stirred by one another. A stranger in the night. That was all he was to them, and all he would ever be. His own story was most important to himself. He strode on with greater purpose.

The shadow loped alongside and marched defiantly through pools of illumination thrown down by streetlights.

“You feel he's near?” the shadow said.

“Do you?”

“I don't know.” The uncertainty in the shadow's voice pleased Cain immensely.

“Yes,” Cain said. “He's near.” In reality, he had no idea at all.

The street came to an end at a T junction, and Cain turned right with barely a moment's consideration. It was not a smell this time, just a feeling. Again the shadow followed, without question or
dissent. Cain took that as an indication that he had gone the right way.

The new road turned quickly right, then left, houses valiantly hanging on to its curves. Between two such houses ran a small lane, presumably leading to car parking and garages at the rear. Cain paused at the head of the lane and stared into the darkness. No streetlight probed that far, and tall houses on either side blocked out what little star and moonlight there was. He felt the weight of the unknown drawing him in.

“Here?” the shadow asked.

“What do you think?”

“You're the one with a nose.”

Cain sniffed, smiled. “You're the one who seems to know everything.” A car passed by, a pale face pressed to the front passenger window, mouth open as if trying to cry a warning.

“I think it looks like just the sort of place George would feel at home,” the shadow said.

“I think you're right,” Cain said, remembering the alley where Peter had been slaughtered, and the garage where he had seen and heard George ripping something apart. “But I don't want to go in there.”

“Do you realize you're talking to a shadow?” the shadow said. Cain glanced to his left where the shadow lounged against a parked car, and he burst out laughing. It was the first time he had laughed in what felt like forever. He had read somewhere that laughter was a natural reaction to outright terror.

“Let's go,” Cain said, and George ran out from the lane and straight into him.

Cain fell back under the sudden assault, tried to cry out, but George's hand pressed down over his face. He thrashed beneath the slight man's weight, kicked, clawed at George's clothing, trying to get a grip to haul the madman away before he had his throat torn out. George only pressed down more, crushing Cain's body against the pavement, the contact so complete and intimate that the horrible thought came:
Who's to say he just eats them?