The Last Revelation Of Gla'aki (16 page)

He couldn't move. His hands might have been fastened to the pulpit, and his legs felt as if they would give way if he tried to flee. He did his desperate best to tell himself that he could bear the scrutiny if he closed his eyes, but worse was to come. A breath that smelled like the essence and the source of the stagnant Gulshaw odour overwhelmed him as the face descended to bestow a kiss that engulfed his head.

It made his skull feel malleable, close to gelatinous. As the sensations expanded through the whole of him he felt his flesh squirm like a grub. He even thought his brain shifted wakefully inside his cranium, an insect in a chrysalis. As long as the cold spongy lips lingered on him he seemed to forget how to breathe. At last they withdrew, and he heard a vast body shuffle backwards out of the church.

Was it dread or some other factor that made it hard for him to open his eyes? When he succeeded in raising the rubbery lids he saw that the windows beside the altar were empty, the wall bare except for the figure lolling off the cross. As he turned to the congregation he felt as if something apart from himself was looking out through his eyes; he might even have thought there was movement within them. The sensation wasn't quite enough to distract him from the spectacle before him—the sight of everybody in the church raising their heads to let the faces resume their positions on the skulls like jellyfish sliding down rocks. In a few moments he was almost able to think he couldn't have seen that, since the congregation was so innocently intent on him, as though waiting for a sign. He had no idea how to respond, but perhaps the sight of him was enough, because Father Sinclough was rising to his feet, helped by his companion. The priest shuffled forward and stooped lower still, bowing not to the altar but to Fairman.

Eunice Spriggs followed his example before supporting him along the aisle. His fellow keepers of the books stepped forward to bow, and the other occupants of the front rows did. By the time the entire congregation had done so and left the church Fairman had no sense of how long he'd spent in the pulpit, resting his loose hands beside the book. Even the crowd in the churchyard had bowed in his direction or otherwise inclined their shapes towards him. He'd glimpsed the most uncontrollably misshapen at the back of the crowd before they flopped away towards the woods, he guessed, or wherever else they hid.

When he emerged from the church with the book in his hands he found Father Sinclough waiting outside the porch. He wondered if the priest was clinging to a remnant of his old vocation until Father Sinclough said "We were guided in our choice, my son. I was never the man for the task."

Fairman moved his unwieldy tongue around his mouth until they felt more familiar. "What task?"

"When your books were entrusted to me I wasn't sure how to proceed. I confess it, I was afraid to keep them with me, to take all that upon myself. Until you spoke today I didn't realise why I was guided to distribute them." He seemed to be apologising for some presumption as he said "I'm sure I haven't got your calling. You're the one who can restore the word."

"Edit the books, do you mean?" Fairman felt as if he was trying to recapture his old self too. "You'll want to keep us in Gulshaw, then."

"Not at all." The priest shook his head so vigorously that his scalp wobbled, and so did the bald woman beside him. "We'll still have the benefit," Father Sinclough said. "You go forth and seed the world."

The last cars were departing uphill or along the sea front. The newborn sea glittered beneath a piercing sun all the way to the horizon. While the fog had dissipated as if Gulshaw no longer needed to be veiled, Fairman seemed to feel it on if not within him. Had it impregnated everything it touched? When he made his way along the promenade, clutching the book in both hands like a talisman, he thought he saw the hotels and the buildings beyond them swell up almost imperceptibly as a greyness merged with them.

Perhaps it was just the angle of the sun, although this didn't quite explain how they glistened while his flesh prickled in a feverish response.

In his room at the Wyleave he opened the safe, even though it seemed unnecessary to protect the book. He sensed how the darkness welcomed the newcomer. He shut the door and gazed at the marks his fingers left, moist blotches without whorls. He plodded downstairs to find Janine Berry behind the counter, adjusting the hair on her head. "Would you like us to move you to the honeymoon suite?" she said with nervous coyness.

"I think that might be most appropriate."

"You'll be in there when you've fetched your lady."

"It's appreciated," Fairman said and was accosted by a thought. "Whoever moves me will need the combination of the safe."

"You don't think anybody still needs to be told that, Leonard."

He might have produced some kind of a laugh at his thoughtlessness if his mobile hadn't clanked with an incoming message. "Well," he said, having read it, "Gulshaw does it again. Think of someone and they come."

"You go and get her. Everything will be ready when you're back."

Sandra's message said that she was fifteen minutes from Gulshaw. Coming to collect you, he responded on his way to the car. As he drove uphill he saw that all the shops were open, and the streets were peopled too. It occurred to him that the Gulshaw Players weren't the only townsfolk to put on a performance. He didn't need to tell any of the inhabitants that the town had a new visitor.

He parked on the station forecourt and was on the platform in time to meet the solitary figure who left the train.

She looked unexpectedly vulnerable—too slight and slim by local standards—while the profusion of red hair that framed her small delicate determined face seemed unfamiliar after his days in Gulshaw. He felt himself swell with a new emotion as he strode forward, stretching out his arms, not far enough to daunt her. "Sandra," he said. "Welcome to our town. There's so much more to see."

T
his book was written in quite a few locations as well as here at my desk. It started life at the Matina Apartments in Pefkos on Rhodes. It attended Fantasycon in Brighton and the Festival of Fantastic Films in Manchester. It went to Clevedon for the wedding of our good friends John and Kate Probert (who both saw how Jenny was inspired by an occult source to reveal the correct pronunciation of Gla'aki). It was in Hornsea to help celebrate the birthday of Nicky Crowther, PS Publishing's pretty face (but she's by no means just one).

As always Jenny was my first reader—at least, unless Gla'aki craned an eye or three at my back.