The Best Horror of the Year. Volume 4

Yes, I suppose I was being dramatic. But Lucy didn’t think so; she laughed, very hard, and agreed.

“So what about you?” she asked. “Are you client or friend?”

“Something else.”

I explained how Lucy wasn’t the only one I’d offended with my bad behaviour that night — and again, I layered contrition on top of itself, and doing so took another step to winning her over.

Working through it, I could almost forget that Lucy was a woman containing a multitude — that as she sat here opposite me in the Pier District, the lids up and down her body squinted shut like tiny incision scars against the bright daylight.

Like clients.

I had to forget. Because I couldn’t mention them; Len was right — she didn’t want to talk about it. She may not have even been capable.

And keeping silent on the subject, and knowing of that alien scrutiny, resting behind translucent lids…

I couldn’t have done what I had to do.

Lucy’s next shift at the bookstore was Wednesday afternoon, so she had the rest of the day to herself, and as we finished our sashimi, she made a point of saying the afternoon shift meant she could stay out as late as she liked.

So we took a walk. We found my car. We drove back to my apartment. And behind drawn blinds, we stripped off our clothes and lay down together on fresh white sheets.

Oh dear. I can tell you’re upset — not by anything I’ve done, but what you think I’m about to do: relay some detailed account of how it was for Lucy and I, rutting on the very same sheets where you and I lolled, those long Sunday mornings, when… well, before you came to your senses is how you might put it…

I’ll try and be circumspect.

Lucy talked through it all, same as she had on the beach: those half-formed statements: “He’s the same,” and “The third floor,” and “I do not agree.” Of course, she was talking to them — fielding questions: Is he the handsome fellow from the beach? On what floor is this fellow’s apartment? Don’t you think he’s a bit much — being too…

too…

To which she answered: I do not agree.

I’d drawn the curtains in my rooms, to make it dim enough for the curious eyes to open without being blinded — and sure enough, this is what they did. As I ran my tongue along her shoulder-blade, I found myself looking into a tiny blue orb, no bigger than a rat’s. It blinked curiously at me as I moved past, to the nape of her neck, and there, in the wispy curls at the base of her skull, I uncovered two yellow eyes, set close together, in the forest of her hair. Were they disapproving? I imagine they must have been, affixed on Lucy’s skull, less than an inch from her brain. I winked and moved on.

“Tell them,” I whispered into her ear, looking into a squinting, infinitely old eye fixed in her temple, “that I understand.”

“He understands,” she murmured.

“Tell them I’m not afraid.”

“He’s not afraid.”

“Tell them,” I said, before I moved from her ear to her mouth, and rolled her onto her back, and slid atop her, “that I’m ready.”

And the rest of it?

Well, I did tell you I’d be circumspect. Suffice it to say… just as poor old Len would, not long after…

I entered her.

You looked good at my funeral. You and Jonathan both. The dress you wore — was it new? Did you buy it especially for the occasion? It would be nice to think that you had.

In any event, I must say that Jonathan was very supportive of you. He held your hand so very tightly through the eulogies. Had you needed it, I’m sure he would have provided a handkerchief; if it had rained at the graveside, he’d have held the umbrella. He seems that sort of upright fellow. A real keeper.

You look great now, too. You have a lovely smile, you always have, and the shorter haircut — it suits you. It really frames your face. I can’t hear what you’re saying, here in Emile’s house in town, over the dregs of what I recall as being an acceptable cab-franc from Chile.

Still, you’re laughing, and that’s good. You’ve left Kimi and poor dying Len behind. You’re cementing new friendships… with Prabh and Emile and, perhaps, Lucy?

Perhaps.

It’s impossible to say of course — I haven’t been at this long enough to learn how to read lips, particularly with that damned brooch in the way. I never could guess your mind on this sort of thing. But you seem… open to it, to this new friend who works the cash in your favourite bookstore. You are. Aren’t you?

Ah well. I must learn patience here in my new place. After all, Lucy will tell me everything — in due time, in a quiet moment, when the lights are low:

She says she misses you. She says she can’t believe she let you go. Now that you’re gone.

She says that she and I will be great friends.

And then, if all goes well… if you and Lucy really do hit it off…