Four Past Midnight (40 page)

Shooting stars,
Brian thought wonderingly.
Shooting stars only.

The two children were the only ones who happened to be looking directly at the survivors of Flight 29 when the change took place; the children were the only ones who saw four men and two women appear in a place where there had only been a wall the second before.

“Daddy!” the little boy exclaimed, tugging his father's right hand.

“Dad!” the little girl demanded, tugging his left.

“What?” he asked, tossing them an impatient glance. “I'm looking for your mother!”

“New people!” the little girl said, pointing at Brian and his bedraggled quintet of passengers. “Look at the new people!”

The man glanced at Brian and the others for a moment, and his mouth tightened nervously. It was the blood, Brian supposed. He, Laurel, and Bethany had all suffered nosebleeds. The man tightened his grip on their hands and began to pull them away fast. “Yes, great. Now help me look for your mother. What a mess this turned out to be.”

“But they weren't there
before!”
the little boy protested. “They—”

Then they were gone into the hurrying crowds.

Brian glanced up at the monitors and noted the time as 4:17 A.M.

Too many people here,
he thought,
and I bet I know why.

As if to confirm this, the overhead speaker blared: “All eastbound flights out of Los Angeles International Airport continue to be delayed because of unusual weather patterns over the Mojave Desert. We are sorry for this inconvenience, but ask for your patience and understanding while this safety precaution is in force. Repeat: all eastbound flights. . .
”

Laurel turned to Brian and looked up into his face. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she made no effort to wipe them away. “Did you hear her? Did you hear what that little girl said?”

“Yes.”

“Is that what we are, Brian? The new people? Do you think that's what we are?”

“I don't know,” he said, “but that's what it feels like.”

“That was wonderful,” Albert said. “My God, that was the most wonderful thing.”

“
Totally tubular!”
Bethany yelled happily, and then began to clap out “Let's Go” again.

“What do we do now, Brian?” Bob asked. “Any ideas?”

Brian glanced around at the choked boarding area and said, “I think I want to go outside. Breathe some fresh air. And look at the sky.”

“Shouldn't we inform the authorities of what—”

“We will,” Brian said. “But the sky first.”

“And maybe something to eat on the way?” Rudy asked hopefully.

Brian laughed. “Why not?”

“My watch has stopped,” Bethany said.

Brian looked down at his wrist and saw that his watch had also stopped.
All
their watches had stopped.

Brian took his off, dropped it indifferently to the floor, and put his arm around Laurel's waist. “Let's blow this joint,” he said. “Unless any of you want to wait for the next flight east?”

“Not today,” Laurel said, “but soon. All the way to England. There's a man I have to see in ...” For one horrible moment the name wouldn't come to her ... and then it did. “Fluting,” she said. “Ask anyone along the High Street. The old folks still just call him the gaffer.”

“What are you talking about?” Albert asked.

“Daisies,” she said, and laughed. “I'm talking about daisies. Come on—let's go.”

Bob grinned widely, exposing baby-pink gums. “As for me, I think that the next time I have to go to Boston, I'll take the train.”

Laurel toed Brian's watch and asked, “Are you sure you don't want that? It looks expensive.”

Brian grinned, shook his head, and kissed her forehead. The smell of her hair was amazingly sweet. He felt more than good; he felt reborn, every inch of him new and fresh and unmarked by the world. He felt, in fact, that if he spread his arms, he would be able to fly without the aid of engines. “Not at all,” he said. “I know what time it is.”

“Oh? And what time is that?”

“It's half past
now.
”

Albert clapped him on the back.

They left the boarding lounge in a group, weaving their way through the disgruntled clots of delayed passengers. A good many of these looked curiously after them, and not just because some of them appeared to have recently suffered nosebleeds, or because they were laughing their way through so many angry, inconvenienced people.

They looked because the six people seemed somehow
brighter
than anyone else in the crowded lounge.

More actual.

More
there.

Shooting stars only,
Brian thought, and suddenly remembered that there was one passenger still back on the plane—the man with the black beard.
This is one hangover that guy will
never
forget,
Brian thought, grinning. He swept Laurel into a run. She laughed and hugged him.

The six of them ran down the concourse together toward the escalators and all the outside world beyond.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I
'm one of those people who believe that life is a series of cycles—wheels within wheels, some meshing with others, some spinning alone, but all of them performing some finite, repeating function. I like that abstract image of life as something like an efficient factory machine, probably because actual life, up close and personal, seems so messy and strange. It's nice to be able to pull away every once in awhile and say, “There's a pattern there after all! I'm not sure what it means, but by God, I see it!”

All of these wheels seem to finish their cycles at roughly the same time, and when they do—about every twenty years would be my guess—we go through a time when we end things. Psychologists have even lifted a parliamentary term to describe this phenomenon—they call it cloture.

I'm forty-two now, and as I look back over the last four years of my life I can see all sorts of cloture. It's as apparent in my work as anywhere else. In
It,
I took an outrageous amount of space to finish talking about children and the wide perceptions which light their interior lives. Next year I intend to publish the last Castle Rock novel,
Needful Things
(the last story in this volume, “The Sun Dog,” forms a prologue to that novel). And this story is, I think, the last story about writers and writing and the strange no man's land which exists between what's real and what's make-believe. I believe a good many of my long-time readers, who have borne my fascination with this subject patiently, will be glad to hear that.

A few years ago I published a novel called
Misery
which tried, at least in part, to illustrate the powerful hold fiction can achieve over the reader. Last year I published
The Dark Half,
where I tried to explore the converse: the powerful hold fiction can achieve over the writer. While that book was between drafts, I started to think that there might be a way to tell both stories at the same time by approaching some of the plot elements of
The Dark Half from
a totally different angle. Writing, it seems to me, is a secret act—as secret as dreaming—and that was one aspect of this strange and dangerous craft I had never thought about much.

I knew that writers have from time to time revised old works—John Fowles did it with
The Magus,
and I have done it myself with
The Stand
—but revision was not what I had in mind. What I wanted to do was to take familiar elements and put them together in an entirely new way. This I had tried to do at least once before, restructuring and updating the basic elements of Bram Stoker's
Dracula
to create
'Salem's
Lot, and I was fairly comfortable with the idea.

One day in the late fall of 1987, while these things were tumbling around in my head, I stopped in the laundry room of our house to drop a dirty shirt into the washing machine. Our laundry room is a small, narrow alcove on the second floor. I disposed of the shirt and then stepped over to one of the room's two windows. It was casual curiosity, no more. We've been living in the same house for eleven or twelve years now, but I had never taken a good hard look out this particular window before. The reason is perfectly simple; set at floor level, mostly hidden behind the drier, half blocked by baskets of mending, it's a hard window to look out of.

I squeezed in, nevertheless, and looked out. That window looks down on a little brick-paved alcove between the house and the attached sunporch. It's an area I see just about every day . . . but the
angle
was new. My wife had set half a dozen pots out there, so the plants could take a little of the early-November sun, I suppose, and the result was a charming little garden which only I could see. The phrase which occurred to me was, of course, the title of this story. It seemed to me as good a metaphor as any for what writers—especially writers of fantasy—do with their days and nights. Sitting down at the typewriter or picking up a pencil is a physical act; the spiritual analogue is looking out of an almost forgotten window, a window which offers a common view from an entirely different angle . . . an angle which renders the common extraordinary. The writer's job is to gaze through that window and report on what he sees.

But sometimes windows break. I think that, more than anything else, is the concern of this story: what happens to the wide-eyed observer when the window between reality and unreality breaks and the glass begins to fly?

“You stole my story,” the man on the doorstep said. “You stole my story and something's got to be done about it. Right is right and fair is fair and something has to be done.”

Morton Rainey, who had just gotten up from a nap and who was still feeling only halfway into the real world, didn't have the slightest idea what to say. This was never the case when he was at work, sick or well, wide awake or half asleep; he was a writer, and hardly ever at a loss when it became necessary to fill a character's mouth with a snappy comeback. Rainey opened his mouth, found no snappy comeback there (not even a limp one, in fact), and so closed it again.

He thought:
This man doesn't look exactly real. He looks like a character out of a novel by William Faulkner.

This was of no help in resolving the situation, but it was undeniably true. The man who had rung Rainey's doorbell out here in the western Maine version of nowhere looked about forty-five. He was very thin. His face was calm, almost serene, but carved with deep lines. They moved horizontally across his high brow in regular waves, cut vertically downward from the ends of his thin lips to his jawline, and radiated outward in tiny sprays from the corners of his eyes. The eyes were bright, unfaded blue. Rainey couldn't tell what color his hair was; he wore a large black hat with a round crown planted squarely on his head. The underside of the brim touched the tops of his ears. It looked like the sort of hat Quakers wore. He had no sideburns, either, and for all Morton Rainey knew, he might be as bald as Telly Savalas under that round-crowned felt hat.

He was wearing a blue work-shirt. It was buttoned neatly all the way to the loose, razor-reddened flesh of his neck, although he wore no tie. The bottom of the shirt disappeared into a pair of blue-jeans that looked a little too big for the man who was wearing them. They ended in cuffs which lay neatly on a pair of faded yellow work-shoes which looked made for walking in a furrow of played-out earth about three and a half feet behind a mule's ass.

“Well?” he asked when Rainey continued to say nothing.

“I don't know you,” Rainey said finally. It was the first thing he'd said since he'd gotten up off the couch and come to answer the door, and it sounded sublimely stupid in his own ears.

“I know
that,”
said the man.
“That
doesn't matter. I know
you,
Mr. Rainey.
That's
what matters.” And then he reiterated: “You stole my story.”

He held out his hand, and for the first time Rainey saw that he had something in it. It was a sheaf of paper. But not just any old sheaf of paper; it was a manuscript. After you've been in the business awhile, he thought, you always recognized the look of a manuscript. Especially an unsolicited one.