No
Story in It
RAMSEY CAMPBELL
ęGrandad.ł
Boswell turned from locking the
front door to see Gemima running up the garden path cracked by the late
September heat. Her mother April was at the tipsy gate, and Aprilłs husband Rod
was climbing out of their rusty crimson Nissan. ęOh, Dad,ł April cried,
slapping her forehead hard enough to make him wince. ęYoułre off to London. How
could we forget it was today, Rod?Å‚
Rod pursed thick lips beneath a
ginger moustache broader than his otherwise schoolboyish plump face. ęWe must
have had other things on our mind. It looks as if IÅ‚m joining you, Jack.Å‚
ęYoułll tell me how,ł Boswell
said as Gemimałs small hot five-year-old hand found his grasp.
ęWełve just learned Iłm a
cut-back.Å‚
ęMore of a set-back, will it be?
Iłm sure therełs a demand for teachers of your experience.ł
ęIłm afraid youłre a bit out of
touch with the present.Å‚
Boswell saw his daughter willing
him not to take the bait. ęCan we save the discussion for my return?ł he said. ęIłve
a bus and then a train to catch.Å‚
ęWe can run your father to the
station, canłt we? We want to tell him our proposal.ł Rod bent the passenger
seat forward. ęLetłs keep the men together,ł he said.
As Boswell hauled the reluctant
belt across himself he glanced up. Usually Gemima reminded him poignantly of
her mother at her age - large brown eyes with high startled eyebrows, inquisitive
nose, pale prim lips - but in the mirror Aprilłs face looked not much less
small, just more lined. The car jerked forward, grating its innards, and the
radio announced ęA renewed threat of warł before Rod switched it off. Once the
car was past the worst of the potholes in the main road, Boswell said ęSo
propose.Å‚
ęWe wondered how you were finding
life on your own,ł Rod said. ęWe thought it mightnłt be the ideal situation for
someone with your turn of mind.Å‚
ęRod. Dadł
Her husband gave the mirror a
look he might have aimed at a child whołd spoken out of turn in class. ęSince
wełve all overextended ourselves, we think the solution is to pool our
resources.Å‚
ęWhich are those?ł
ęWe wondered how the notion of
our moving in with you might sound.Å‚
ęSounds fun,ł Gemima cried.
Rodłs ability to imagine living
with Boswell for any length of time showed how desperate he, if not April, was.
ęWhat about your own house?ł Boswell said.
ęThere are plenty of respectable
couples eager to rent these days. Wełd pay you rent, of course. Surely it makes
sense for all of us.Å‚
ęCan I give you a decision when Iłm
back from London?ł Boswell said, mostly to Aprilłs hopeful reflection. ęMaybe
you wonłt have to give up your house. Maybe soon Iłll be able to offer you
financial help.Å‚
ęChrist,ł Rod snarled, a sound
like a gnashing of teeth.
To start with the noise the car
made was hardly harsher. Boswell thought the rear bumper was dragging on the
road until tenement blocks jerked up in the mirror as though to seize the
vehicle, which ground loudly to a halt. ęOut,ł Rod cried in a tone poised to
pounce on nonsense.
ęIs this like one of your
stories, Grandad?Å‚ Gemima giggled as she followed Boswell out of the car.
ęNo,ł her father said through his
teeth and flung the boot open. ęThis is real.ł
Boswell responded only by going
to look. The suspension had collapsed, thrusting the wheels up through the
rusty arches. April took Gemimałs hand, Boswell sensed not least to keep her
quiet, and murmured ęOh, Rod.ł
Boswell was staring at the
tenements. Those not boarded up were tattooed with graffiti inside and out, and
he saw watchers at as many broken as unbroken windows. He thought of the parcel
a fan had once given him with instructions not to open it until he was home, the
present that had been one of Jeanłs excuses for divorcing him. ęCome with me to
the station,ł he urged, ęand you can phone whoever you need to phone.ł
When the Aireys failed to move
immediately he stretched out a hand to them and saw his shadow printed next to
theirs on a wall, either half demolished or never completed, in front of the
tenements. A small child holding a womanłs hand, a man slouching beside them
with a fist stuffed in his pocket, a second man gesturing empty-handed at them
. . . The shadows seemed to blacken, the sunlight to brighten like inspiration,
but that had taken no form when the approach of a taxi distracted him. His
shadow roused itself as he dashed into the rubbly road to flag the taxi down. ęIłll
pay,Å‚ he told Rod.
* * * *
ęHerełs
Jack Boswell, everyone,ł Quentin Sedgwick shouted. ęHerełs our star author.
Come and meet him.Å‚
It was going to be worth it,
Boswell thought. Publishing had changed since all his books were in print -
indeed, since any were. Sedgwick, a tall thin young but balding man with wiry
veins exposed by a singlet and shorts, had met him at Waterloo, pausing barely
long enough to deliver an intense handshake before treating him to a headlong
ten-minute march and a stream of enthusiasm for his work. The journey ended at a
house in the midst of a crush of them resting their fronts on the pavement. At
least the polished nameplate of Cassandra Press had to be visible to anyone who
passed. Beyond it a hall that smelled of curried vegetables was occupied by a
double-parked pair of bicycles and a steep staircase not much wider than their
handlebars. ęAmazing, isnłt it?ł Sedgwick declared. ęItłs like one of your
early things, being able to publish from home. Except in a story of yours the
computers would take over and tell us what to write.Å‚
ęI donłt remember writing that,ł
Boswell said with some unsureness.
ęNo, I just made it up. Not bad,
was it?ł Sedgwick said, running upstairs. ęHerełs Jack Boswell, everyone . . .ł
A young woman with a small
pinched studded face and glistening black hair spiky as an armoured fist
emerged from somewhere on the ground floor as Sedgwick threw open doors to
reveal two cramped rooms, each featuring a computer terminal, at one of which
an even younger woman with blonde hair the length of her filmy flowered blouse
was composing an advertisement. ęStarts with C, ends with e,ł Sedgwick said of
her, and of the studded woman ęBren, like the gun. Our troubleshooter.ł
Boswell grinned, feeling someone
should. ęJust the three of you?ł
ęSmall is sneaky, I keep telling
the girls. While the big houses are being dragged down by excess personnel, we
move into the market theyłre too cumbersome to handle. Carole, show him his
page.Å‚
The publicist saved her work
twice before displaying the Cassandra Press catalogue. She scrolled past the
colophon, a C with a P hooked on it, and a parade of authors: Ferdy Thorn,
ex-marine turned ecological warrior; Germaine Gossett, feminist fantasy writer;
Torin Bergman, Scandinaviałs leading magic realist . . . ęForgive my ignorance,ł
Boswell said, ębut these are all new to me.ł
ęTheyłre the future.ł Sedgwick
cleared his throat and grabbed Boswellłs shoulder to lean him towards the
computer. ęHerełs someone we all know.ł
BOSWELLÅ‚S BACK! the page announced in letters so
large they left room only for a shout-line from, Boswell remembered, the
Observer twenty years ago - ęBritainłs best SF writer since Wyndham and
Wellsł - and a scattering of titles: The Future Just Began, Tomorrow Was
Yesterday, Wave Goodbye To Earth, Terra Spells Terror, Science Lies In Wait . ..
ęItłll look better when we have covers to reproduce,ł Carole said. ęI couldnłt
write much. I donłt know your work.ł
ęThatłs because Iłve been
devouring it all over again, Jack. You thought you might have copies for my fair
helpers, didnłt you?ł
ęSo I have,ł Boswell said,
struggling to spring the catches of his aged briefcase.
ęSee what you think when youłve
read these. Some for you as well, Bren,ł Sedgwick said, passing out Boswellłs
last remaining hardcovers of several of his books. ęHerełs a Hugo winner and
look, this one got the Prix du Fantastique
Écologique. Will you girls excuse us now? I
hear the call of lunch.Å‚
They were in sight of Waterloo
Station again when he seized Boswellłs elbow to steer him into the Delphi, a
tiny restaurant crammed with deserted tables spread with pink-and-white checked
cloths. ęThis is what one of our greatest authors looks like, Nikos,ł Sedgwick
announced. ęLetłs have all we can eat and a litre of your red if thatłs your
style, Jack, to be going on with.Å‚
The massive dark-skinned
variously hairy proprietor brought them a carafe without a stopper and a brace
of glasses Boswell would have expected to hold water. Sedgwick filled them with
wine and dealt Boswellłs a vigorous clunk. ęHerełs to us. Herełs to your
legendary unpublished books.Å‚
ęNot for much longer.ł
ęWhat a scoop for Cassandra. I
donłt know which I like best, Donłt Make Me Mad or Only We Are Left.
Listen to this, Nikos. There are going to be so many mentally ill people they
have to be given the vote and everyonełs made to have one as a lodger. And a
father has to seduce his daughter or the human race dies out.Å‚
ęVery nice.ł
ęIgnore him, Jack. They couldnłt
be anyone else but you.Å‚
ęIłm glad you feel that way. You
donłt think theyłre a little too dark even for me?ł
ęNot a shade, and certainly not
for Cassandra. Wait till you read our other books.Å‚
Here Nikos brought meze, an oval
plate splattered with varieties of goo. Sedgwick waited until Boswell had
transferred a sample of each to his plate and tested them with a piece of
lukewarm bread. ęGood?ł
ęMost authentic,ł Boswell found
it in himself to say.
Sedgwick emptied the carafe into
their glasses and called for another. Blackened lamb chops arrived too, and
prawns dried up by grilling, withered meatballs, slabs of smoked ham that could
have been used to sole shoes . . . Boswell was working on a token mouthful of
viciously spiced sausage when Sedgwick said ęKnow how you could delight us even
more?Å‚
Boswell swallowed and had to
salve his mouth with half a glassful of wine. ęTell me,ł he said tearfully.
ęHave you enough unpublished
stories for a collection?Å‚
ęIłd have to write another to
bring it up to length.Å‚
ęWait till I let the girls know.
Donłt think they arenłt excited, they were just too overwhelmed by meeting you
to show it. Can you call me as soon as you have an idea for the story or the
cover?Å‚
ęI think I may have both.ł
ęYoułre an example to us all. Can
I hear?Å‚
ęShadows on a ruined wall. A man
and woman and her child, and another man reaching out to them, IÅ‚d say in
warning. Ruined tenements in the background. Everything overgrown. Even if the
story isnłt called We Are Tomorrow, the book can be.ł
ęShall I give you a bit of
advice? Go further than you ever have before. Imagine something you couldnłt
believe anyone would pay you to write.Å‚
Despite the meal, Boswell felt
too elated to imagine that just now. His capacity for observation seemed to
have shut down too, and only an increase in the frequency of passers-by outside
the window roused it. ęWhat time is it?ł he wondered, fumbling his watch
upwards on his thin wrist.
ęNot much past five,ł Sedgwick
said, emptying the carafe yet again. ęStill lunchtime.ł
ęGood God, if I miss my train Iłll
have to pay double.Å‚
ęNext time wełll see about paying
for your travel.Å‚ Sedgwick gulped the last of che wine as he threw a credit
card on the table to be collected later. ęI wish youłd said you had to leave
this early. IÅ‚ll have Bren send copies of our books to you,Å‚ he promised as
Boswell panted into Waterloo, and called after him down the steps into the
Underground ęDonłt forget, imagine the worst. Thatłs what wełre for.ł
* * * *
For
three hours the worst surrounded Boswell. SIX NATIONS CONTINUE REARMING ...
CLIMATE CHANGES ACCELERATE, SAY SCIENTISTS ... SUPERSTITIOUS FANATICISM ON
INCREASE ... WOMENÅ‚S GROUPS CHALLENGE ANTI-GUN RULING ... RALLY AGAINST
COMPUTER CHIPS IN CRIMINALS ENDS IN VIOLENCE: THREE DEAD, MANY INJURED .. .
Far more commuters werenłt reading the news than were: many wore headphones
that leaked percussion like distant discos in the night, while the sole book to
be seen was Page Turner, the latest Turner adventure from Midas
Paperbacks, bound in either gold or silver depending, Boswell supposed, on the
readerłs standards. Sometimes drinking helped him create, but just now a bottle
of wine from the buffet to stave off a hangover only froze in his mind the
image of the present in ruins and overgrown by the future, of the shapes of a
family and a figure poised to intervene printed on the remains of a wall by a
flare of painful light. He had to move on from thinking of them as the Aireys
and himself, or had he? One reason Jean had left him was that shełd found
traces of themselves and April in nearly all his work, even where none was
intended; shełd become convinced he was wishing the worst for her and her child
when hełd only meant a warning, by no means mostly aimed at them. His attempts
to invent characters wholly unlike them had never convinced her and hadnłt
improved his work either. He neednłt consider her feelings now, he thought
sadly. He had to write whatever felt true - the best story he had in him.
It was remaining stubbornly
unformed when the train stammered into the terminus. A minibus strewn with
drunks and defiant smokers deposited him at the end of his street. He assumed
his house felt empty because of Rodłs proposal. Jean had taken much of the
furniture they hadnłt passed on to April, but Boswell still had seats where he
needed to sit and folding canvas chairs for visitors, and nearly all his books.
He was in the kitchen, brewing coffee while he tore open the dayłs belated
mail, when the phone rang.
He took the handful of bills and
the airmail letter hełd saved for last into his workroom, where he sat on the
chair April had loved spinning and picked up the receiver. ęJack Boswell.ł
ęJack? Theyłre asleep.ł
Presumably this explained why Rodłs
voice was low. ęIs that an event?ł Boswell said.
ęIt is for April at the moment.
Shełs been out all day looking for work, any work. She didnłt want to tell you
in case you already had too much on your mind.Å‚
ęBut now you have.ł
ęI was hoping things had gone
well for you today.Å‚
ęI think you can do more than
that.Å‚
ęBelieve me, Iłm looking as hard
as she is.Å‚
ęNo, I mean you can assure her
when she wakes that not only do I have a publisher for my two novels and
eventually a good chunk of my backlist, but theyłve asked me to put together a
new collection too.Å‚
ęDo you mind if I ask for her
sake how much theyłre advancing you?ł
ęNo pounds and no shillings or
pence.Å‚
ęYoułre saying theyłll pay you in
euros?Å‚
ęIłm saying they donłt pay an
advance to me or any of their authors, but they pay royalties every three
months.Å‚
ęI take it your agent has
approved the deal.Å‚
ęItłs a long time since Iłve had
one of those, and now IÅ‚ll be ten per cent better off. Do remember IÅ‚ve plenty
of experience.Å‚
ęI could say the same.
Unfortunately it isnłt always enough.ł
Boswell felt his son-in-law was
trying to render him as insignificant as Rod believed science fiction writers
ought to be. He tore open the airmail envelope with the little finger of the
hand holding the receiver. ęWhatłs that?ł Rod demanded.
ęNo panic. Iłm not destroying any
of my work,ł Boswell told him, and smoothed out the letter to read it again. ęWell,
this is timely. The Saskatchewan Conference on Prophetic Literature is giving
me the Wendigo Award for a career devoted to envisioning the future.Å‚
ęCongratulations. Will it help?ł
ęIt certainly should, and so will
the story IÅ‚m going to write. Maybe even you will be impressed. Tell April not
to let things pull her down,ł Boswell said as he rang off, and ęSuch as youł
only after he had.
* * * *
Boswell
wakened with a hangover and an uneasy sense of some act left unperformed. The
image wakened with him: small child holding womanłs hand, man beside them,
second man gesturing. He groped for the mug of water by the bed, only to find
hełd drained it during the night. He stumbled to the bathroom and emptied
himself while the cold tap filled the mug. In time he felt equal to yet another
breakfast of the kind his doctor had warned him to be content with. Of course,
he thought as the sound of chewed bran filled his skull, he should have called
Sedgwick last night about the Wendigo Award. How early could he call? Best to
wait until hełd worked on the new story. He tried as he washed up the breakfast
things and the rest of the plates and utensils in the sink, but his mind seemed
as paralysed as the shadows on the wall it kept showing him. Having sat at his
desk for a while in front of the wordless screen, he dialled Cassandra Press.
ęHello? Yes?ł
ęIs that Carole?ł Since that
earned him no reply, he tried ęBren?ł
ęItłs Carole. Who is this?ł
ęJack Boswell. I just wanted you
to knowł
ęYoułll want to speak to Q. Q, itłs
your sci-fi man.Å‚
Sedgwick came on almost
immediately, preceded by a creak of bedsprings. ęJack, youłre never going to
tell me youłve written your story already.ł
ęIndeed Iłm not. Best to take
time to get it right, donłt you think? Iłm calling to report theyłve given me
the Wendigo Award.Å‚
ęAbout time, and never more
deserved. Who is it gives those again? Carole, youłll need to scribble this
down. Bren, wherełs something to scribble with?ł
ęBy the phone,ł Bren said very
close, and the springs creaked.
ęReel it off, Jack.ł
As Boswell heard Sedgwick relay
the information he grasped that he was meant to realise how close the Cassandra
Press personnel were to one another. ęThatłs capital, Jack,ł Sedgwick told him.
ęBren will be lumping some books to the mail for you, and I think I can say
Carolełs going to have good news for you.ł
ęAny clue what kind?ł
ęWait and see, Jack, and wełll
wait and see what your new storyłs about.ł
Boswell spent half an hour trying
to write an opening line that would trick him into having started the tale, but
had to acknowledge that the technique no longer worked for him. He was near to
being blocked by fearing he had lost all ability to write, and so he opened the
carton of books the local paper had sent him to review. Sci-Fi On The Net,
Create Your Own Star Wars™ Character, 1000 Best Sci-Fi Videos, Sci-Fi From
Lucas To Spielberg, Star Wars™: The BlufferÅ‚s Guide . . . There wasnÅ‚t a
book he would have taken off a shelf, nor any appropriate to the history of
science fiction in which he intended to incorporate a selection from his
decades of reviews. Just now writing something other than his story might well
be a trap. He donned sandals and shorts and unbuttoned his shirt as he ventured
out beneath a sun that looked as fierce as the rim of a total eclipse.
All the seats of a dusty bus were
occupied by pensioners, some of whom looked as bewildered as the young woman
who spent the journey searching the pockets of the combat outfit she wore beneath
a stained fur coat and muttering that everyone needed to be ready for the
enemy. Boswell had to push his way off the bus past three grim scrawny youths
bare from the waist up, who boarded the vehicle as if they planned to hijack
it. He was at the end of the road where the wall had inspired him - but he hadnłt
reached the wall when he saw Rodłs car.
It was identifiable solely by the
charred number plate. The car itself was a blackened windowless hulk. He would
have stalked away to call the Aireys if the vandalism hadnłt made writing the
new story more urgent than ever, and so he stared at the incomplete wall with a
fierceness designed to revive his mind. When he no longer knew if he was
staring at the bricks until the story formed or the shadows did, he turned
quickly away. The shadows werenłt simply cast on the wall, he thought; they
were embedded in it, just as the image was embedded in his head.
He had to walk a mile homewards
before the same bus showed up. Trudging the last yards to his house left him
parched. He drank several glassfuls of water, and opened the drawer of his desk
to gaze for reassurance or perhaps inspiration at his secret present from a fan
before he dialled the Aireysł number.
ęHello?ł
If it was April, something had
driven her voice high. ęItłs only me,ł Boswell tentatively said.
ęGrandad. Are you coming to see
us?Å‚
ęSoon, I hope.ł
ęOh.ł Having done her best to
hide her disappointment, she added ęGood.ł
ęWhat have you been doing today?ł
ęReading. Dad says I have to get
a head start.Å‚
ęIłm glad to hear it,ł Boswell
said, though she didnłt sound as if she wanted him to be. ęIs Mummy there?ł
ęJust Dad.ł
After an interval Boswell tried ęRod?ł
ęItłs just me, right enough.ł
ęIłm sure she didnłt mean - I donłt
know if youłve seen your car.ł
ęIłm seeing nothing but. We still
have to pay to have it scrapped.Å‚
ęNo other developments?ł
ęJobs, are you trying to say? Not
unless Aprilłs so dumbstruck with good fortune she canłt phone. I was meaning
to call you, though. I wasnłt clear last night what plans you had with regard
to us.Å‚
Rod sounded so reluctant to risk
hoping that Boswell said ęTherełs a good chance Iłll have a loan in me.ł
ęI wonłt ask how much.ł After a
pause presumably calculated to entice an answer Rod added ęI donłt need to tell
you how grateful we are. Howłs your new story developing?ł
This unique display of interest
in his work only increased the pressure inside Boswellłs uninspired skull. ęIłm
hard at work on it,Å‚ he said.
ęIłll tell April,ł Rod promised,
and left Boswell with that - with hours before the screen and not a word of a
tale, just shadows in searing light: child holding womanłs hand, man beside,
another gesturing . . . He fell asleep at his desk and jerked awake in a panic,
afraid to know why his inspiration refused to take shape.
He seemed hardly to have slept in
his bed when he was roused by a pounding of the front-door knocker and an
incessant shrilling of the doorbell. As he staggered downstairs he imagined a
raid, the country having turned overnight into a dictatorship that had set the
authorities the task of arresting all subversives, not least those who saw no
cause for optimism. The man on the doorstep was uniformed and gloomy about his
job, but brandished a clipboard and had a carton at his feet. ęConsignment for
Boswell,Å‚ he grumbled.
ęBooks from my publishers.ł
ęWouldnłt know. Just need your
autograph.Å‚
Boswell scrawled a signature
rendered illegible by decades of autographs, then bore the carton to the
kitchen table, where he slit its layers of tape to reveal the first Cassandra
Press books hełd seen. All the covers were black as coal in a closed pit except
for bony white lettering not quite askew enough for the effect to be
unquestionably intentional. GERMAINE GOSSETT, Women Are The Wave. TORIN
BERGMAN, Oracles Arise! FERDY THORN, Fight Them Fisheries . .
. Directly inside each was the title page, and on the back of that the
copyright opposite the first page of text. Ecological frugality was fine, but
not if it looked unprofessional, even in uncorrected proof copies. Proofreading
should take care of the multitude of printerłs errors, but what of the prose?
Every book, not just Torin Bergmanłs, read like the work of a single apprentice
translator.
He abandoned a paragraph of Ferdy
Thornłs blunt chunky style and sprinted to his workroom to answer the phone. ęBoswell,ł
he panted.
ęJack. How are you today?ł
ęIłve been worse, Quentin.ł
ęYoułll be a lot better before
you know. Did the books land?Å‚
ęThe review copies, you mean.ł
ęWełd be delighted if you
reviewed them. That would be wonderful, wouldnłt it, if Jack reviewed the
books?ł When this received no audible answer he said ęOnly you mustnłt be kind
just because theyłre ours, Jack. Wełre all in the truth business.ł
ęLet me read them and then wełll
see whatłs best. What I meant, though, these arenłt finished books.ł
ęThey certainly should be. Sneak
a glance at the last pages if you donłt mind knowing the end.ł
ęFinished in the sense of the
state thatłll be on sale in the shops.ł
ęWell, yes. Theyłre trade
paperbacks. Thatłs the book of the future.ł
ęI know what trade paperbacks
are. Theseł
ęDonłt worry, Jack, theyłre just
our first attempts. Wait till you see the covers Carolełs done for you. Nothing
grabs the eye like naive art, especially with messages like ours.Å‚
ęSo,ł Boswell said in some
desperation, ęhave I heard why you called?ł
ęYou donłt think wełd interrupt
you at work without some real news.Å‚
ęHow real?ł
ęWełve got the figures for the
advance orders of your books. All the girls had to do was phone with your name
and the new titles till the batteries went flat, and I donłt mind telling you
youłre our top seller.ł
ęWhat are the figures?ł Boswell
said, and took a deep breath.
ęNearly three hundred.
Congratulations once again.Å‚
ęThree hundred thousand. Itłs I
who should be congratulating you and your team. I only ever had one book up
there before. Shows publishing needs people like yourselves to shake it up.Å‚ He
became aware of speaking fast so that he could tell the Aireys his - no, their
- good fortune, but he had to clarify one point before letting euphoria
overtake him. ęOr is that, donłt think for a second Iłm complaining if it is,
but is that the total for both titles or each?Å‚
ęActually, Jack, can I just slow
you down a moment?Å‚
ęSorry. Iłm babbling. Thatłs what
a happy author sounds like. You understand why.Å‚
ęI hope I do, but would you mind
- I didnłt quite catch what you thought I said.ł
ęThree hundredł
ęCan I stop you there? Thatłs the
total, or just under. As you say, publishing has changed. I expect a lot of the
bigger houses are doing no better with some of their books.Å‚
Boswellłs innards grew hollow,
then his skull. He felt his mouth drag itself into some kind of a grin as he
said, ęIs that three hundred, sorry, nearly three hundred per title?ł
ęOverall, Iłm afraid. Wełve still
a few little independent shops to call, and sometimes they can surprise you.Å‚
Boswell doubted he could cope
with any more surprises, but heard himself say, unbelievably, hopefully ęDid
you mention We Are
Tomorrow?Å‚
ęHow could we have forgotten it?ł
Sedgwickłs enthusiasm relented at last as he said ęI see what youłre asking.
Yes, the total is for all three of your books. Donłt forget wełve still the
backlist to come, though,Å‚ he added with renewed vigour.
ęGood luck to it.ł Boswell had no
idea how much bitterness was audible in that, nor in ęIłd best be getting back
to work.Å‚
ęWe all canłt wait for the new
story, can we?Å‚
Boswell had no more of an answer
than he heard from anyone else. Having replaced the receiver as if it had
turned to heavy metal, he stared at the uninscribed slab of the computer
screen. When hełd had enough of that he trudged to stare into the open
rectangular hole of the Cassandra carton. Seized by an inspiration he would
have preferred not to experience, he dashed upstairs to drag on yesterdayłs
clothes and marched unshaven out of the house.
Though the library was less than
ten minutesł walk away through sunbleached streets whose desert was relieved
only by patches of scrub, hełd hardly visited it for the several years he had
been too depressed to enter bookshops. The library was almost worse: it lacked
not just his books but practically everyonełs, except for paperbacks with
injured spines. Some of the tables in the large white high-windowed room were
occupied by newspaper readers. MIDDLE EAST WAR DEADLINE EXPIRES ... ONE IN
TWO FAMILIES WILL BE VICTIMS OF VIOLENCE, STUDY SHOWS ... FAMINES IMMINENT IN
EUROPE ... NO MEDICINE FOR FATAL VIRUSES . . . Most of the tables held
Internet terminals, from one of which a youth whose face was red with more than
pimples was being evicted by a librarian for calling up some text that had
offended the black woman at the next screen. Boswell paid for an hour at the
terminal and began his search.
The only listings of any kind for
Torin Bergman were the publication details of the Cassandra Press books, and
the same was true of Ferdy Thorn and Germaine Gossett. When the screen told him
his time was up and began to flash like lightning to alert the staff, the
message and the repeated explosion of light and the headlines around him seemed
to merge into a single inspiration he couldnłt grasp. Only a hand laid on his
shoulder made him jump up and lurch between the reluctantly automatic doors.
The sunlight took up the
throbbing of the screen, or his head did. He remembered nothing of his tramp
home other than that it tasted like bone. As he fumbled to unlock the front
door the light grew audible, or the phone began to shrill. He managed not to
snap the key and ran to snatch up the receiver. ęWhat now?ł
ęItłs only me, Dad. I didnłt mean
to bother you.Å‚
ęYou never could,ł Boswell said,
though she just had by sounding close to tears. ęHow are you, April? How are
things?Å‚
ęNot too wonderful.ł
ęThings arenłt, you mean. Iłd
never say you werenłt.ł
ęBoth.ł Yet more tonelessly she
said ęI went looking for computer jobs. Didnłt want all the time mummy spent
showing me how things worked to go to waste. Only I didnłt realise how much
more there is to them now, and I even forgot what she taught me. So then I
thought IÅ‚d go on a computer course to catch up.Å‚
ęIłm sure thatłs a sound idea.ł
ęIt wasnłt really. I forgot where
I was going. I nearly forgot our number when I had to ring Rod to come and find
me when he hasnłt even got the car and leave Gemima all on her own.ł
Boswell was reaching deep into
himself for a response when she said ęMummyłs dead, isnłt she?ł
Rage at everything, not least
Aprilłs state, made his answer harsh. ęShot by the same freedom fighters shełd
given the last of her money to in a country IÅ‚d never even heard of. She went
off telling me one of us had to make a difference to the world.Å‚
ęWas it years ago?ł
ęNot long after you were married,ł
Boswell told her, swallowing grief.
ęOh.ł She seemed to have nothing
else to say but ęRod.ł
Boswell heard him murmuring at
length before his voice attacked the phone. ęWhy is April upset?ł
ęDonłt you know?ł
ęForgive me. Were you about to
give her some good news?Å‚
ęIf only.ł
ęYou will soon, surely, once your
books are selling. You know IÅ‚m no admirer of the kind of thing you write, but
IÅ‚ll be happy to hear of your success.Å‚
ęYou donłt know what I write,
since youłve never read any of it.ł Aloud Boswell said only ęYou wonłt.ł
ęI donłt think I caught that.ł
ęYes you did. This publisher
prints as many books as there are orders, which turns out to be under three
hundred.Å‚
ęMaybe you should try and write
the kind of thing people will pay to read.Å‚
Boswell placed the receiver with
painfully controlled gentleness on the hook, then lifted it to redial. The
distant bell had started to sound more like an alarm to him when it was
interrupted. ęQuentin Sedgwick.ł
ęAnd Torin Bergman.ł
ęJack.ł
ęAs one fictioneer to another,
are you Ferdy Thorn as well?Å‚
Sedgwick attempted a laugh, but
it didnłt lighten his tone much. ęGermaine Gossett too, if you must know.ł
ęSo youłre nearly all of
Cassandra Press.Å‚
ęNot any longer.ł
ęHowłs that?ł
ęOut,ł Sedgwick said with gloomy
humour. ęI am. The girls had all the money, and now theyłve seen our sales
figures theyłve gone off to set up a gay romance publisher.ł
ęWhat lets them do that?ł Boswell
heard himself protest.
ęTrust.ł
Boswell could have made plenty of
that, but was able to say merely ęSo my books . . .ł
ęMust be somewhere in the future.
Donłt be more of a pessimist than you have to be, Jack. If I manage to revive
Cassandra you know youłll be the first writer Iłm in touch with,ł Sedgwick
said, and had the grace to leave close to a minutełs silence unbroken before
ringing off. Boswell had no sense of how much the receiver weighed as he
lowered it, no sense of anything except some rearrangement that was aching to
occur inside his head. He had to know why the news about Cassandra Press felt like
a completion so imminent the throbbing of light all but blinded him.
* * * *
It
came to him in the night, slowly. He had been unable to develop the new story
because hełd understood instinctively there wasnłt one. His sense of the future
was sounder than ever: hełd foreseen the collapse of Cassandra Press without
admitting it to himself. Ever since his last sight of the Aireys the point had
been to save them - he simply hadnłt understood how. Living together would only
have delayed their fate. Hełd needed time to interpret his vision of the
shadows on the wall.
He was sure the light in the
house was swifter and more intense than dawn used to be. He pushed himself away
from the desk and worked aches out of his body before making his way to the
bathroom. All the actions he performed there felt like stages of a purifying
ritual. In the mid-morning sunlight the phone on his desk looked close to
bursting into flame. He winced at the heat of it before, having grown cool in
his hand, it ventured to mutter, ęHello?ł
ęGood morning.ł
ęDad? You sound happier. Are you?ł
ęAs never. Is everyone up? Can we
meet?Å‚
ęWhatłs the occasion?ł
ęI want to fix an idea I had last
time we met. IÅ‚ll bring a camera if you can all meet me in the same place in
letłs say half an hour.ł
ęWe could except we havenłt got a
car.Å‚
ęTake a cab. Iłll reimburse you.
Itłll be worth it, I promise.ł
He was on his way almost as soon
as he rang off. Tenements reared above his solitary march, but couldnłt hinder
the sun in its climb towards unbearable brightness. He watched his shadow
shrink in front of him like a stain on the dusty littered concrete, and heard
footsteps attempting stealth not too far behind him. Someone must have seen the
camera slung from his neck. A backwards glance as he crossed a deserted
potholed junction showed him a youth as thin as a puppet, who halted twitching
until Boswell turned away, then came after him.
A taxi sped past Boswell as he
reached the street he was bound for. The Aireys were in front of the wall,
close to the sooty smudge like a lingering shadow that was the only trace of
their car. Gemima clung to her motherłs hand while Rod stood a little apart,
one fist in his hip pocket. They looked posed and uncertain why. Before
anything had time to change, Boswell held up his palm to keep them still and
confronted the youth who was swaggering towards him while attempting to seem
aimless. Boswell lifted the camera strap over his tingling scalp. ęWill you
take us?Å‚ he said.
The youth faltered barely long
enough to conceal an incredulous grin. He hung the camera on himself and
snapped the carrying case open as Boswell moved into position, hand
outstretched towards the Aireys. ęUse the flash,ł Boswell said, suddenly afraid
that otherwise there would be no shadows under the sun at the zenith - that the
future might let him down after all. Hełd hardly spoken when the flash went
off, almost blinding its subjects to the spectacle of the youth fleeing with
the camera.
Boswell had predicted this, and
even that Gemima would step out a pace from beside her mother. ęItłs all right,ł
he murmured, unbuttoning his jacket, ętherełs no film in it,ł and passed the
gun across himself into the hand that had been waiting to be filled. Gemima was
first, then April, and Rod took just another second. Boswellłs peace deepened
threefold as peace came to them. Nevertheless he preferred not to look at their
faces as he arranged them against the bricks. He had only seen shadows before,
after all.
Though the youth had vanished,
they were being watched. Perhaps now the world could see the future Boswell had
always seen. He clawed chunks out of the wall until wedging his arm into the
gap supported him. He heard sirens beginning to howl, and wondered if the war
had started. ęThe end,ł he said as best he could for the metal in his mouth.
The last thing he saw was an explosion of brightness so intense he was sure it
was printing their shadows on the bricks for as long as the wall stood. He even
thought he smelled how green it would grow to be.
Ramsey Campbell lives in
Wallasey, Merseyside. He was presented with both the World Horror Conventionłs
Grand Master Award and the Horror Writers Associationłs Bram Stoker Award for
Life Achievement in 1999. His recent novels have included The House on
Nazareth Hill, The One Safe Place, The Long Lost, Silent Children, The Pact of
the Fathers
and the forthcoming supernatural tale, The Darkest Part of the Woods. An earlier
novel,
The Nameless,
has recently been made into the film Los Sin Nombre by Spanish
director Jaume Balaguero. As the author explains: Ä™ “No Story in It" was
written around an Alan M. Clark painting - the image the luckless protagonist
proposes for his book cover. As with “Never to be Heard" (in Dark Terrors 4), the Clark image
let me focus ideas IÅ‚d already scattered through my notebooks for possible
development. I had also recently been writing a memoir of the late John Brunner
for my column in
Necrofile.
While there is little of John in my protagonist, IÅ‚m afraid that John - were he
alive now - would have no difficulty in identifying with him. Nor would far too
many writers in our field as well as his.Å‚
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