The Shore (Leisure Fiction)

Luckily, for me. Yes, I believe you've only just now found sense enough to be afraid.'

She hissed something against his weight. Beneath the fat, his muscles felt heavy as iron.

'Whether you're lying or not, dear Doctor, I can't afford to take the chance. You see nothing must be allowed to interfere with, well, with that project I mentioned.' She writhed beneath him, twisting her torso, kicking at nothing. Her eyes began to bulge. 'And, no, I'm afraid we won't be discussing it at a later date, because in a moment you will have ceased to exist.' She opened her mouth wide.

He reached behind him, brought down the end table, and the crash dried the unspent cry within her. 'Don't be afraid.' He picked up the phone. 'I won't hurt you,' he cooed as though to a small child. 'You know Daddy would never hurt you.' With an indulgent smile, he removed his glasses and slid them carefully into his shirt pocket. 'I loved my mother very much, Dr. Leland. Did I ever mention that?'

Tenderly, he began to twist the phone cord around her bulging windpipe.

He clutched the window frame. The circle of glass had steamed over again, and he wiped it clear with his forearm. Across the way, light had dimmed. How much longer did he need to wait? All the months of hiding and searching--even now the boy could be doing things to her that...

But he had to time this perfectly, because he knew how dangerous it could be. For her most of all.

Wrapping the blanket around his legs more tightly, he dragged the crate closer and resumed his post by the window.

XI

From the swirling chaos of his thoughts, one memory hardened into clarity: he recalled trying to reach the chair. Soaked with sweat, the boy twitched on the floor. His head thudded; muscles clenched in his throat, crushing his windpipe in anguished bulges. Slowly, the paroxysm ebbed, and the boy lay trembling, the chair an impossible distance across the room.

Tears and spittle streaked his face. He found he could barely move his fingers.

Time passed; he maintained some awareness of most of it. The linoleum felt lumpy on his back, and the stiffness in his shoulder finally forced him to twitch. Pain sang in his neck. As he writhed, a loud hum seemed to fill the room, vibrating across the ceiling. Sweat slicked his forehead, clammy, then hot as acid. Agony hollowed him.

The room went gray. He found himself in the chair.

He'd been on his way out--he remembered that much. His jacket still lay by the closet door, and he stared at it. Overhead light filled the kitchen cruelly, revealing the crusted dirt on the linoleum, the furring of dust on every surface.

got to clean

Stiffly, he rose, swaying.

never let them see

He almost fell back into the chair. I better check on her. With a grunt, he pulled himself erect and shuffled into the next room. She had a bad day. As he opened the door, the oblong of light swung across the mattress, unbalancing the room so that it seemed to tilt. Untied, she lay in the bed, clearly too exhausted to try anything, her mouth twitching in phantom grimaces. No moonlight penetrated the boarded window, but brightness from the doorway spilled across the jumble of laundry and blankets. Yellow locks stuck to her damp face, and through this tangled screen he saw the bruises that smeared her cheeks. Makes her look old. She'd cried so much the night before. Why couldn't she understand? Everything I do is for her. He listened to the flutter of her breath.

Perry felt a clenching pain in his stomach. Everything. Shutting the door on her whimpered sigh, he wandered back into the kitchen and found a gray rag under the sink, left by some summer tenant. He wet it, wiped down the table, then the counter. So much dirt. Shivering, he had to lean against the counter until the dizziness passed.

Groceries. He remembered why he'd been going out. They had nothing left in the apartment. And she always wakes up hungry in the morning. He threw the rag on the floor, thinking it would remind him to clean the room later, and grunting, stooped to retrieve his jacket. Her best blouse lay beside it on the floor, and he held it to his face, imbibing her scent. Still bending, he felt the second seizure begin.

He grabbed the door frame as fire spouted from his groin, smoking into the cavity of his chest. He tried to shout, but his head filled with the throb of water, with the drum of giant wings. Dimming, the room revolved. Pain flared through his legs, and he crumpled. As he plummeted into swirling nausea, it seemed his head circled away from his body. Terror spurted the blood through him in a wave of misery, and he whimpered as a fountain of flame sprayed up within him. He kicked once, and a thin shriek spiraled through.

Something cracked loudly.

He floated on thickening murk. It receded, draining away down his legs, gurgling behind his ears.

He opened his eyes. A tiny, hopeless cry fluttered. For an instant, his hand had looked like...like something else.

When he saw what he'd done to the woodwork of the door, he gritted his teeth on a moan. Unable to stop shuddering, he threw his arms around his face and tried to muffle the sobs.

In time, the horror passed, as it always did. Standing straight again, he struggled with his jacket, but the buttons resisted his fingers.

got to get

He decided not to risk waking her by strapping her down, settled for just locking the bedroom door. Just this once. He wouldn't be long. He fumbled with the window, then stumbled over the sill, but the chill seemed to wake only the outer parts of him, only the surface of his flesh.

we need

Feeling thick and stuporous, he made his way down the fire escape, grasping at the paint-blistered rail and trying to recall the purpose of his errand. At the bottom, he dropped as usual, but the fall seemed endless, as though he'd plunged into a well. Am I flying? His heart hammered. Cement drummed against the soles of his sneakers, and pain erupted in his ankle.

He put one foot ahead of the other. Got to be careful. Tonight, the alley offered scant shelter from the wind, seemed instead to funnel the blast directly into his face. Can't make a sound. Even in the darkest places, he imagined he could feel them watching him. Too many of them lurked about for him to venture out during the day now, so he moved only in the dubious shelter of nighttime, and then only when they needed supplies...or when the madness came, and he needed to do other things. Not my fault. His thoughts reeled away from bloody memories. I can't stop it. He emerged from the alley with his collar turned up and his shoulders hunched.

And I know they don't feel it when I do it. He hurried around the corner. Besides, I got to. The wind moaned past him, and a DEAD END sign beat against a pole with a hollow, repetitive clatter.

I got to.

'If memory serves, it's that very quality about goodlooking men that gets to one, I suspect--that type anyway. Sad and earnest.' Charlotte broke off for a moment and seemed to brood. 'They're quite like boys, so full of impossible longings, like my husband. For my part, I always wanted to help them somehow, to satisfy that terrible innocence. But truly such people are deadly.'

'You sound like such an expert,' Kit observed, smiling.

'I? Hardly. Only old and observant.'

'As though you were so ancient.'

Charlotte shook her head very slightly. 'I've known only one love. And what has it done to me? He's been dead longer than you, my dear, have been alive...and I still am hostage to our marriage. How many years since I've seen even the upper floors of my prison?'

'Charlotte.'