Black Wings: New Tales of Lovecraftian Horror

They walked toward where the road crossed over the canal, and Joe was the first to enter the bar. Rock music played loudly from speakers bracketed to the walls. They sat on stools at a high table in a little booth, and a bartender brought them beers. Joe observed Mains while the scriptwriter was watching the lads in the next booth, and he wondered what anyone would think, looking at them. Would they be able to spot the difference between them? Was Mains's precious track record visible to the naked eye?

Mains looked back and it was Joe's turn to redirect his gaze.

Mains said something and Joe had to ask him to repeat it.

'I said I haven't booked into a hotel yet.'

'It's not exactly high season.'

'No.' He took a sip of his beer. 'Could you not have taken the train? Or the ferry?'

'What?'

'It's not very environmentally friendly to fly, especially such a short distance.'

'It was cheaper.'

'Not in the long run, Joe. You've got to take the long view.'

Joe looked at the other man's dark eyes, small and round and glossy like a bird's. A half-smile.

'So what have you got for me?' Mains asked.

Joe hesitated. He wondered if it was worth making the point that he was working for Vos. He decided that since neither of them was paying him, it didn't make much difference. He was about to answer when Mains spoke again.

'Look, Joe, I know you pitched to write this script, but we do have to work together.'

'I know, I know,' Joe shouted into a sudden break between tracks. The boys in the next booth looked over at them. Joe returned their stare, then turned to look at Mains. 'I know,' he continued. 'Here, have a look.'

He handed Mains the camera phone on which he'd taken his pictures, and Mains flicked through them using his thumbs.

'Great,' he said, not particularly sounding like he meant it. 'I suppose I was expecting something more atmospheric.'

Joe tried to keep the irritation out of his voice — 'I guess the Germans weren't thinking about that when they bombed the place to fuck' — and failed.

Another group of young men entered the bar. Joe didn't consider himself an expert on the outward signifiers of particular social groupings, particularly in foreign countries, but he wondered if Mains had brought him to a gay bar. One of the newcomers glanced at Joe, then switched his attention to Mains, his eyes lingering on the tattoos on the Scot's forearms.

'Are you hungry?' said Mains.

'I haven't eaten all day.'

'Let's go get something to eat.'

As they got down from their stools, Joe felt his head spinning again. He really did need something to eat, and quick.

They ate in a Thai restaurant. Joe smiled at the waitress, but it was his dining partner she couldn't take her eyes off.

'You'd better write a decent script, that's all I can say,' Joe said to Mains, argumentatively, as the waitress poured them each another Singha beer. 'It better not be shit.'

Mains laughed.

'I'm not fucking joking. When's it set, for example? Is it contemporary?'

'It's timeless, Joe. It's a timeless story, after all. I'm sure you agree. Grave-robbing — it's never a good idea.'

'Tell me you're not writing it as a fucking period piece.'

'Like I say, it's timeless.'

'Fuck's sake.'

As they left, Mains slipped the tip directly into the waitress's hand. Joe thought he saw her fingers momentarily close over his.

Out on the street, Joe wanted nothing more than to drink several glasses of water and get his head down, but Mains wasn't done yet, insisting that they go to a club he'd read about near Centraal Station.

'I'm fucked,' Joe said, pulling a face.

'Ah come on, man. It's new. I want to check it out and I can't go on my own.'

Why not? Joe wanted to yell at him. Why the fuck not?

But instead he allowed his shoulders to slump in a gesture of acquiescence.

'Good man!' Mains clapped him on the back. 'Good man! Let's go.'

They walked together through the city streets, dodging bicycles. Joe knew he was making a mistake. He just didn't know how big.

They reached West-Kruiskade. The nightclub — WATT — was located between a public park and an Asian fast food restaurant. Dozens of bikes were parked outside. Bouncers looked over a steady stream of clubbers as they entered. Joe and Mains joined them.

They waited to be served at the bar.

'The glasses are made from recycled materials,' Mains said.

'Right,' said Joe.

A bartender cracked open two brown bottles and poured the contents into two plastic glasses.

'They have a rainwater-flush system for the loos,' Mains went on.

'Brilliant,' Joe said in a deliberately flat voice.

'The lighting is all LEDs. Renewable energy sources.'

'This is why you wanted to come here?' A disgusted grimace had settled on Joe's face.

'The best part is over there.' Mains turned and pointed toward the dance floor, accidentally brushing the shoulder of the girl next to him, who turned and stared at the two men. 'It's a brand new concept,' he continued, ignoring the girl, who eventually looked away. 'Sustainable Dance Club. Energy from people's feet powers the lights in the dance floor.'

Joe concentrated on trying to remain upright. He drank some beer from his recycled plastic glass. Something Mains had said in the restaurant came back to him.

'You know you said grave-robbing is never a good idea?' Joe looked at Mains, whose face was unreadable. 'Surely what we're doing is a form of grave-robbing? Adapting the work of a dead man without his approval.' Joe finished his beer. 'I'm not saying I wouldn't have done the adaptation, offered the chance, but still, eh?'

Mains stared back into Joe's eyes and for a moment Joe thought he had outwitted the scriptwriter.

'I prefer to think of it,' Mains said eventually, 'as recycling.'

Joe held his beady gaze for a second or two, then, with an air about him of someone conceding defeat but slipping a card up his sleeve at the same time, said, 'I have some ideas.'

'Uh-huh?'

'Mike Nelson.'

'The installation artist?'

'Works a lot with abandoned buildings, something Vos told me to keep an eye out for. Plus, he's a fan of Lovecraft. He entitled one of his works To the Memory of H. P. Lovecraft. Admittedly he's quoting a dedication from a short story by Borges, but why would he do that if he wasn't a fan?'

'So what about him?' Mains asked.

'Get him on board as production designer. I suggested it to Vos. Do you know what he said? 'Production design's not art, it's craft.''

Mains appeared to alter the direction of the conversation. 'Vos optioned your novel, didn't he?'

Joe nodded.

'You realize if the Lovecraft adaptation gets made it increases the chances of yours going into development?'

Joe nodded again.

'It would make a good movie,' Mains added.