No Light in August: Tales From Carcosa & the Borderland (Digital Horror Fiction Author Collection) (10 page)

It’s a
woman. She’s thin – too thin. Her arms are more like sticks than flesh and
blood. Her skin is pallid, a washed-out grey, which is why her shape was hard
to pick out.

Laura’s an
art critic, and her coffee table is often buried under a pile of brochures and
guides from the exhibitions she writes up. One of them caught my eye, and it
brought back memories I’d tried to put away in the box in my mind that the
therapist said I needed to construct.

“What’s
wrong, Eve?” She stood, trapped in her doorframe, on the threshold with a cup
in each hand.

“Nothing,”
I said, lifting the brochure without looking at it again. Once was enough.
“This, are you going?”

She came
forward, reassured a little. “Oh that? Yeah, it’s this weekend.” She set the cups
down, and they sat lopsided on the pile of papers and laminated books. “Want to
come?”

I’d seen
the paintings before, though not the one on the front cover. It was the style
that set my eyes stinging, but if Laura noticed, she didn’t say anything. Most
of my friends are good like that.

I knew the
artist from another place; the only time Lucia and I had ever met. She had
still been able to see then, but if the painting on the front of the brochure
was anything to go by, she could still
see —
just not in a way easily
understood.

Would she
remember me?

I wanted —
needed — to know.

“Yeah, if
you don’t mind…I know her.” “Really? Where from?”

I lied,
because the truth is something I have a hard time with, especially from when I
encountered Lucia.

Would she
remember me? Would it be better if she didn’t? Maybe if she didn’t, then I
could convince myself that none of it happened. That I was lying to myself, and
lying to my friends wasn’t something I was responsible for.

Living
rough since the breakup, not because I have to, but because I want to; there’s
a freedom in it. After Kyle, I need to be free. Not only from him, but from
life. Society and friends too; there’s nothing there for me right now. I wonder
if there will be again.

People
move around me as if I’m not there. When they do look, they either turn away or
look through me. I’d thought that was just a cliché before. How many times did
I do that? Just let a person fade into the background so they formed a void, a
life-shaped hole.

The
Others are not like me and see me for what I am: a faker, a tourist because I
have somewhere to go back to. I’m just visiting, not living it like they are.
Still, when Jake speaks with me, he acts like he understands.

“We’re
all runnin’ from somethin’, just is most of us can’t go back.” He smiles
through cracked and broken teeth, but apart from that, he’s not bad looking.
His smile adds rather than subtracts years. Even under the dirt, beard, and
hair, it’s hard to say how old he actually is.

“Been
on the street since eighty-five,” he said in our first conversation, which
tells me nothing useful.

I go
days without seeing him, but he turns up when it seems like I need someone to
talk to.

Moving
in the same circles would make it inevitable; it’s not like there are many
places people like us can go where we won’t meet Others.

It was
near the square. I forget which one; when you’re detached from reality, names
have little permanence unless you’re being specific. He sits on a bench,
sipping a cola. People give him a wide berth, forming a semicircle around him
as if he’s contagious.

“Hey.”
He smiles up at me, and I sit next to him. “How you been?” “Same, you?”

“Good,
actually.” Jake’s feet shuffle back and forth; heel-toe-heel-toe. “Kind of met
someone who seems kinda interesting,” he says, then catches my smile and waves
one hand. “No, no, not like that.”

“Like
what, then?”

“She’s
a street artist, just moved in under the bridge.” The bridge meant any one of
the four crossing the river. “Saw her in the park the other day, and we got to
talking.”

Looking
closer, I notice a sheen across his eyes, like he’s on something, but he’s too
lucid and Jake’s never been tempted. He always says there are plenty of things
can kill a person, no need to help them out.

“I
think you’d like her. I’m seeing her today, wanna come?” “Sure, you know where
she’ll be?”

“She’s
got a sweet spot in the park, right on the corner.”

We arrived
early at the gallery, about an hour before the doors open. The only people
inside were some low-key glitterati and press, along with the curators. The
paintings were covered over in white cloth, like in a house unopened for years
or one where someone died.

Laura
drifted away pretty quick, probably going to speak to other critics or the
curators about the show — things they’d heard and so on. I wondered if she
would mention I knew Lucia. No one had ever heard of her when she could still
see; it seemed logical they would want some idea of her art when her eyes
worked.

I strolled
around, looking at the covered paintings and fighting the urge to peek behind
the sheets. I doubted anyone would stop me, or at least they wouldn’t have time
to before I saw what was underneath.

The
gallery is split into six smaller exhibition rooms, with a seventh larger space
in the middle. All of them are connected by open doors. I found myself alone in
one with five paintings on the walls, each about the height of a full-length
mirror. Murmured conversation drifted through, echoing from the shiny walls
into the room.

Stopping
in front of one, I looked, my eyes becoming defocused like in a daydream. The
murmurs flitted around in a cloud — buzzing in my ears, almost vibrating in my
head.

“Please
don’t, miss.”

A young
man, one of the curators I supposed, was leaning around a door and looking at
me. I looked back at the painting. My arm had stretched forward with the hand
half open, fingers almost touching the fabric. I hadn’t been aware of moving
and pulled it back, though it moved slowly despite myself.

“Sorry,
couldn’t resist,” I said, and managed a smile that put him at ease.

“No
worries,” he replied as he came into the room and stopped next to me. He wasn’t
bad looking, but had a light dusting of acne on one cheek. No more than twenty;
a student here on internship, most likely. “I hear it’s going to be pretty
good.”

His smile
is sheepish, but he probably knows it. It softens his eyes and makes him seem
more like a boy than a man. He likes me, and while it’s nice to be liked, I
don’t have much of a taste for men anymore.

No need to
get ahead of myself and tell him that. He’s cute, and it’s been a while since I
talked to someone who doesn’t know me.

“Been here
long?” I point at his black shirt and dress trousers. The curators wear them as
a badge of office, by the way some of them walk.

“Only my
first year, but I feel lucky. It’s competitive to get into any gallery these
days; funding’s drying up fast.”

“I can
imagine.”

“Have you
seen her work before?”

“I didn’t
know she’d exhibited before,” I replied. Not strictly true. “Yeah, a couple of
places actually; it’s kind of a coup that she’s here.” “Eve,” Lisa called,
appearing in the door that I came through.

The
curator turned, and then faced me again.

“Gregg,”
he said as he offered his hand. His grip was gentle and his hand felt soft,
unused. “See you soon, I guess.”

Lucia
is a small woman, her hair prematurely grey. I never found out why that was.

We met
her at her spot in the park, where she was sketching with charcoal. A few
pieces of her work were mounted on cork boards along the fence rail. I was
impressed, even though I won’t claim I know too much about art.

“Lucia,
this is the woman I told you about.”

She
looks up from her work, setting the nub of charcoal down and wiping her hands
on jeans already covered in smears of black. Her face is round without being
chubby — almost too young, and in contrast with her aged hair. It’s her eyes
that grab me: one blue and the other green. A mismatched set for a broken doll,
both clear like glass beads.

“I like
your work.”

“Thank
you, you’re very kind.” She points to one of the drawings on display. “I prefer
paints, but charcoal’s best for out here.”

Looking
from Jake to Lucia, I notice their eyes are the same — not in color, but in
texture. Glassy and bright, like they’re in on something I’m not.

Living
outside the confines of society means you encounter all kinds of characters.
People with stories to tell and who have been places no one else has. Lucia
seems to be one of those people, but not in any easily definable way.

“Jake
says you’re under the bridge.”

“Not
anymore, old news.” Her hand absently plays with the charcoal stub, stroking
it, turning it around and around. “With some people now, other artists in a
squat near the park.”

“This
one?”

“Nope,
other side of town.”

“How
many?” Jake asks, old habits meaning he’s always looking for the chance of a
bed somewhere, even for a night.

“Five
and Billy.” The way she singles him out means he’s the leader or head of the
house.

Collectives
of any kind always grow a brain after a while; all it takes is time and human
nature. “We take drugs and make art,” she says it matter-of-factly, as if it’s
the most normal

thing
in the world. But then, normal is such a relative word, and the world I live in
now has different rules in comparison to the other Real.

“Sounds
cool.” Escape; I live in one world to get away from the problems in another.

Why not
take another step and go somewhere else for a while?

The
idea of being lost in my own head is appealing and also terrifying. Minds are
scary places, and the further down into your own you go, the greater the risk
you won’t come back.

Either
you come out more whole, or you take something back with you and it’s with you
every day afterwards.

The
last time I tripped, my parents committed me because of the things I started
seeing. If I fall this time, there’s nothing and no one to catch me.

“It is,
wanna come?”

Jack
looks at me like a kid, his eyes saying what he’s too shy to give voice to.
Really, though, it sounds like fun in its own way — and I want to see what’s so
fucking hot that these two have funny looks in their eyes.

“Sure.”

From
behind, I think it’s Billy, despite the impossibility of it. When he turns, I
see I’m wrong, but he has the same build and even the same way of standing. But
when I blink and look again, he’s different. Not like a moment ago.

“You
okay?”

My arm
twitched at Laura’s touch. “Sorry, yeah...no,” I muttered, hand on my forehead
to play it up. “Think I’ve got a headache coming on.”

She looked
around. “I’ll find you some water.” “Thanks, I just need to sit for a bit.”

She
wandered off, and I parked myself on one of the benches arranged in groups of
three around the big room. I should’ve brought something to take, but the
vision’s fading now. The man I see is just a man — taller than Billy ever was,
in fact. Being here and the chance of seeing Lucia probably triggering fuck
knows what in my head.

She
won’t remember me,
I think, almost
willing her not to. She’s blind now, so there’s that advantage at least. If
Laura tries to get me to talk to her, what then?

Say no,
obviously. Beg off, the “headache” will provide reason enough. She cares about
you enough to swallow it.

There’s
always been a coldly rational part of my mind; it’s seldom active, I only
notice it in times of stress. It was a mechanism I developed whenever to cope
with whatever came my way.

I can’t
remember when I first heard it, not exactly, but I think I was no more than
four or five.

One of the
times my dad tried to hit me, I just knew the best way to get out from under.

Laura
returned with a paper cup filled with cool water. She sat and smiled at me as I
sipped.

I was
right, she’d leave with me if I asked her to. God knows I wanted that then.
Going there was a mistake. A lot of stuff was starting to crowd my head; things
pushing against the dams I built so I wouldn’t have to think about them.

There was
also the curiosity.

Lucia was
a good artist before. Now people said she was great. That word was bandied
about too much these days, but hearing it here actually seemed to make sense.
As though the word still had most of its meaning; stripped of the cheapness it
has today, describing any pretentious wanker with time on his hands.