Haggopian and Other Stories

“I like Karl,” he said, “and so I’m glad it’s not real. On the other hand I’m also glad you are.”

“That’s nice,” she said.

He was silent for a moment, then asked: “Why Karl Ferd? He’s no true believer.”

“No, but he’s a deep one. I mean, not a Deep One, but inquisitive, questioning, investigative.”

“Everybody’s trying to get into the act,” said Slater. And after a moment: “But you know, I think I’ll stick with this one. There’s more to it than meets the eye. It warrants a little in-depth scrutiny.”

“And you’re good at that, right?”

“Once I get my teeth into something, yes.”

It had stopped raining when they got back to the hotel. They went up to Slater’s room where he produced his bottle. “If that’s what it takes,” she said, “go ahead. It’s unflattering, but flattery isn’t what I need right now.”

Suddenly nervous as a kid, Slater drank while she showered. Over her splashing, the telephone rang. The receptionist put Andrew Paynter on the line. “Hello, Jim? I’ve been trying to get you all night.”

“Make it short,” Slater slurred. “What’s up?”

“It’s nothing, really,” Paynter said. And now he sounded uncomfortable. “See, I just found out that Judy reads weird fiction. She’s a horror-freak!”

“Ho-hum,” Slater yawned. “Believe me, you’ve got more shocks than that coming.”

“No, listen—this is interesting. She mentioned how she’d like us to go up to a convention in Birmingham next week. The British Fantasy Society or some such outfit. All her favourite authors will be there. People like Curly Grant and J. Caspar Ramble—and Edward J. Waggler, the guy who did the Blaine series. So I’m thinking of taking her.”

“What you’re thinking of is a dirty weekend,” said Slater.

“Will you listen to me?” Paynter insisted. “There’s more.”

Slater sighed. “I’m listening,” he said.

“See,” said Paynter uneasily, “there’ll be a whole bunch of Mythos writers up there; and I just happened to be checking out a road route, and—”

“Birmingham sits right on your ley line, right?”

“That’s right! And the time-scale is right, too!”

“Ho-hum,” said Slater again. He began to sing: “They’re coming to take me away, ha-ha…”

“Well I think it’s interesting,” said Paynter. “You…you—oh, bollocks!” The phone went click and started to beep. Slater grinned and replaced it in its cradle.

“Huffy bastard!” he said. And then he sat very still for five minutes and listened to Belinda Laine splashing…

• • •

When she came out from the shower she was naked as newborn and scrubbed just as pink. Slater looked at her and discovered he’d forgotten how long it had been. The sight of her drew the alcohol like tweezers draw a bee sting; in a moment he was half sober again. Removing his clothes with fingers that weren’t quite his own—or which at least behaved like they were someone else’s, and someone stupid at that—he wondered: Christ, how long has it been?!

“You’re a hard one to get close to,” she said, drawing him stumbling into the bedroom. “I couldn’t tell if you wanted me or not. And I’m still not sure!”

But a cool one? Even stretching him out on the bed, she leaned over to adjust the position of her pager on the bedside table. Bloody “ace reporter”!

After that…obviously it wasn’t love, wasn’t even lust—it was need! Like a good meal after fasting for a week, or a drink after hiking across the Gobi Desert, or fresh air after an eight-hour stakeout in a smoky motel room with no air-conditioning. And it felt good! And while they were doing it he had to admit (if only to himself, and then grudgingly) that it was a sight better than risking wanker’s cramp in a tepid bath of scummy water.

But that was while they were doing it. Immediately after—when the weight was off and the sugar was melting from his brain, when he’d stopped groaning and could unclench his teeth, unscrew his eyes and look her in her lovely face—in short, when he could start thinking again…

…It was the same as it had always been. It was nothing. Or if anything, it was disgust. With himself, but even more so with her. So that he thought: Lord, as close up as this she isn’t even good-looking! And instead of the sugar she’d sprinkled there for a little while, now the acid was back in his brain, putting words in his mouth he knew he shouldn’t say to a dog let alone someone he’d just emptied himself into:

“For an ace reporter,” he heard himself say, “You make a bloody good hooker!” But having said it, instead of biting his tongue, it was as if the words themselves bred more acid. Acid that burned away his perceptions until they warped right out of shape and started lying to him and feeding him wrong information. Suddenly she didn’t even feel like a woman any more, and her face was like so much rubber and downright ugly!