The Shore (Leisure Fiction)

depression swell in him again, not with so much at stake. Go out again in the morning and...

A snarl ripped at him, and claws skittered fiercely on the ice.

'Down, Queenie, you be good now.'

He stumbled backward on the slick sidewalk, clutched at a tree trunk.

'Behave, Queenie.' Fear clouding her face, a woman dragged the fat little dog away. The animal strained at its leash with moronic malevolence, and they disappeared around the side of the nearest house.

He hung on the tree for a long time, one arm held up to shield his throat.

X

'Perry, please, why are you doing this to me?' The fabric of the chair chafed stiffly through her clothes. 'Answer me. You can untie me. I promise.'

'Shut up. I mean it.'

'We'll always stay together.' Though she knew the penalty for making him angry, her voice wheedled. 'That's what you want, isn't it? Perry? Talk to me, please.'

At first, it seemed he wouldn't answer. With a frayed kitchen towel, he methodically wiped the knife in his hand. 'If I untie you, you'll try to run away and stuff.'

'I promise I...'

'You know what happened the last time I let you loose. Quit talking about it.'

Her chest heaved deeply, and she pressed her head back against the chair to keep from shaking. '...want to be somewhere...' With a flush of something like relief, she felt her sanity crack a little. '...anywhere else...I...' She shut her eyes hard, until she seemed to feel the chair fall away beneath her, then the floor, then the room, as she imagined herself floating to the window and...

'Stell?'

Her eyes snapped open.

He stood before her. 'What's wrong with you?'

'You're getting just like him.' The words came out of their own volition, as though she had no power to stop them. 'Just like Ramsey.'

'You shut up!'

She throttled the sobs down inside herself, felt them burst in silence. 'You're getting just like he got before he killed her.'

The knife shook in his fist. 'Don't you never say that!' His face clotted darkly. 'Don't you never say that to me!'

'Don't! Oh please. No! I'm sorry. I didn't mean it!' She bowed her head, trying to double over against the ropes. 'Help me, somebody.' It came out like a prayer, and her shoulders quivered. 'Please.'

He slammed the knife on the counter and stalked to the window, grabbing his jacket from the chair as he passed. Trembling, he shoved the window up and clambered onto the fire escape. The wind growled in his ears. As he stabbed an arm into the sleeve of his jacket, he stamped up the metal stairs until they narrowed and became a sort of ladder. At last, the tar and tin of the roof crackled underfoot.

Faint ripples of sound drifted up the airshaft: a passing car, a distant boat horn. Behind him, a hinge creaked, and a metal door banged in the wind. He'd have to remember to fix that door soon. But now the wind buoyed him like a tide, until he seemed to float. The whole town glittered beneath him, jagged and flattened, and he sucked the evening chill in deeply and wondered if he'd ever feel warm again.

Last summer had become a dream, a dissipating ghost of sunlight and breezes that grated hotter until the blood throbbed in his temples. Would he live to see another summer? Would either of them? He remembered his face wet in the heat and his hands sticky, clotted grayness on his shirt. The fever always came worse in summer. Now, the winter encased them, hid them, kept them safe.

The wind pierced him, and he fumbled at his jacket pockets. His hands shook so badly he could barely open the cigarette pack, and the first few matches went out instantly. Finally, cupped by his palms, one gave off a bead of warmth, diminishing his vision to just the bright cave of his fingers. Before he'd taken his second drag, his ears stung. Already, the familiar, jangled feelings had settled in his stomach again, and in vain, he tried to recapture that sensation of soaring on the night wind, above the hunt, above the terrible change that...

Pacing to the edge of the roof, he imagined he could make out words in the whispering hiss of the wind. Below, a few streetlights fought back the night. Nothing moved. But their enemies were out there somewhere in the night, he knew, searching, hunting...for them. It made him think of one of his brother's old books, especially the one about the only person left alive on a planet full of vampires. He surveyed the streets as he paced the perimeter, cigarette slanting from his lips. Blowing smoke through his nose, he started to choke and wheeze. At last he stood still, allowing his vision to glide across the antennas and roofs and wires, until he stared straight into the sea, an undulating blackness that encircled his world.

So he's started smoking, has he? On the roof across the courtyard, a red dot brightened, and the man in the window watched, smiling. Naughty boy. Up on the roof on a night like this--something only a dumb kid would do. He'd never tried smoking himself, perhaps because he'd not been allowed matches after having tried to burn the house down at the age of nine. Nine had been an especially rough year--he remembered it vividly...and his fingers strayed to the pale line of scars across his forehead.

Naked except for the parka around his shoulders, the big man trembled. And the dear boy is growing careless as well. In the apartment across the way, all the lights were lit and chintz curtains trailed through the open window.

It must be getting terribly chilly in there, and anyone might see. He didn't worry about being observed himself: he'd painted the windowpane black except for a roughly circular area over which he'd taped a sheet of newspaper. Holding the paper in one hand, he leaned his face to this porthole and strained to catch a glimpse of her, but flapping curtains revealed only fragments of the kitchen. Only let me see you, my love. He lifted the paper higher. Show me you're still alive in there.

Beside him on the wall, his own shadow bowed grotesquely. If he's hurt you...

The candle on the cold radiator guttered, swinging shadows up from the floor until they merged with a greater darkness near the skylight. No, I mustn't even consider that possibility. That's why I'm here. Objects in the room, the wooden crate that served both as stool and table, and the sleeping bag, bunched in the corner with some clothing, seemed to sway in unison with the candle flame, as icy air trickled up his legs. To protect her. To rescue her from him. Shivering again, he pulled the parka closer. He'd taken it from a man who'd bought him dinner at a truck stop, and it fit him perfectly, as though the man had simply been delivering it. Certainly, his need had been greater. In addition, there'd been enough cash in the man's wallet for the few purchases he'd needed to make in order to ensure that he looked like the rest of them. Or close enough at any rate. He ran his fingers across the leather toiletry kit he'd taken from the man's luggage. Wouldn't do to attract attention. Not now.

Night rattled at the painted glass, getting in around the frame, and the newspaper fluttered between his fingers. So close. Glittering dimly, the hairs on his legs stood straight, while his testicles, shriveled from the chill, pulled close beneath his overhanging stomach. The air in the room circled, a faint echo of the wind outside, and his breath steamed the clear oval of glass that candlelight coated with a filmy gloss. The damp patch spread, trickled, a single drop rolling down the pane. As the candle sputtered, his doppelganger capered on the wall. Shuddering at his post, he felt that he knew every molecule of this window: the dust clot in the corner, the plaster crumbs on the fallen strands of cobweb.

Across the way, the red point of the cigarette rose, brightening.

He slapped the sheet of paper down as a sudden draft made the candlelight in the room swell. Mustn't let him see me. The flame swayed tenderly, and the shrinking tongue trembled. No, that would never do. He took his glasses off and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. When he stared too closely at the flame, the rest of the room blurred into rough shapes, ever more indistinct, until at last the world became a deep brown cave, this hot point its center. His chattering teeth sounded like the rattle of