Everything You Need: Short Stories (4 page)

Spike’s arms and legs felt stiff, but he kept walking, and walking, focusing his thoughts, until the light began to fade and the night rolled into the streets like a thick, dark fog coming up off the river.

Then he changed direction and headed down toward the little nest of pubs down by Charring Cross.

I
t was a long-shot
, he knew that. Not a total one — people tend to be habitual, when it comes to pubs — but the kind of men who go to the pub after work on Friday won’t necessarily be there on a Monday too. He had no other lead, however, and he’d come to understand the culture of London workers well enough (and seen the beginnings of a beer gut on each of the men) for it to be worth a try.

He didn’t go to that particular pub first. He’d be too early. It was only five o’clock. He went to the last one, the pub where he’d been drinking at the end by himself. It was fuller than it had been then, and the same man was behind the bar. Spike walked up to the counter and waited his turn. When the barman got to him he paused a moment, looking at the bruises on Spike’s face.

‘That coin didn’t bring much luck, by the look of it.’

‘Not yet,’ Spike said. ‘Did you know what was happening to me? On the street outside your pub?’

The barman shook his head.

‘Really? Didn’t hear raised voices?’

‘No mate,’ he said, and turned away. He was lying, and Spike knew it, and for a moment wanted to reach out and touch him. But he did not. He’d spent the day charging up. He wasn’t going to waste it.

H
e knew
four drinks were too many, but they went down so quickly. It didn’t matter. He felt totally in control as he left the pub and walked up the street.

Long-shot or not, when he glanced in through the window of the next pub he saw two of the men inside. They were at a table in the corner, deep in conversation. Reliving the glories of their Friday night, perhaps.

Spike smoked a cigarette as he watched. Beer and cigarettes and coffee. Maybe he was adapting to this environment after all. Perhaps the only thing holding him back was a feeling of control. He’d been very good, never once stepped out of line. Never broken any of the rules except for the way in which he earned a living.

Maybe
that
was a mistake.

It was too cold to stay out there. Spike went in the pub, keeping out of the men’s line of sight. It was easy, as this pub was very full. People moved out of his way, unconsciously, aware of something passing by them that they wanted to avoid, without having the least idea what it might be.

He stood to one side of a pillar, watching. Both men had only a couple of swallows left in their pints. Hopefully they’d stand to leave and he could follow them outside. If not, he’d wait. They’d waited for him on Friday. He’d do the same for them tonight.

That’s what he’d thought, anyway, but when the ‘Amaze Me’ man knocked back the rest of his beer and got up and came over toward the bar, Spike felt his resolve disappear.

He stepped back out of sight, monitoring the man’s progress at the counter, trying to keep his breathing even. His hands were trembling so much that he had to keep them down by his side. When the man turned from the bar with a pint in each hand, Spike altered position so that he couldn’t see his face as he passed by. The man moved quickly, in his element, keen to get back to his table and whatever bullshit he and his friend were merrily spouting back and forth, but he left a trail nonetheless, a stench that Spike had grown weary — so incredibly weary — of trying to ignore. These horrific creatures, their skins so sallow and without sparkle, none of them even touched with The Thing, pieces of perambulating meat, endlessly procreating as if in a futile spell against the stinking death coming toward each and every one of them. It was as if Spike had trapped himself in a vast abattoir.

He waited for the man to get seated and then walked over. He stood to one side of the table, saying nothing. Just waiting.

The men jabbered on to each other, voices raised against the hubbub, their eyes glittering not with magic but superficial cheer. Spike noticed both had scrapes on their knuckles, marks of contact with his face and body. They were in a much better state than Spike’s hands, however: Amaze Me had made a point of stamping on both. Only the man’s haste had allowed Spike to escape without fists full of broken bones — that and the fact that Spike’s limbs were made of strong stuff, firm trunks and twigs that were too vital and subtle to be snapped so easily.

At that moment the man glanced up. He saw Spike standing there looking down at him, head cocked a little to one side like a bird of prey.

There was a flicker in the man’s eyes.

The other man caught the frisson, and looked up too. ‘Fuck you doing here?’ he said. Spike didn’t say anything. ‘Seriously — did you not get the fucking message?’

‘I’m sure he did,’ Amaze Me said, in a more judicious tone. Either he was smarter than his friend or just more cautious. He evidently realized that if you and your friends beat the shit out of a man, and he then makes the effort to come track you down a couple of nights later, you’ve got a situation on your hands.

‘Probably just working this pub again, right? Earning a few quid to keep him in beer money.’

Spike said nothing.

‘Thing is, like I told you,’ the man went on. ‘I don’t like magic. So here.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a five-pound note. He held it toward Spike. ‘Let’s just take the silly tricks as read, and you can fuck off, eh?

Spike took the note and altered his position so he had his back to the rest of the pub, which was becoming yet more crowded. ‘Five quid,’ he said. ‘That’s very generous. But I’ve got to do a trick for you, okay? Magician’s code — where I come from, anyway. If you’re paid, you play.’

‘Look mate, just fuck off,’ said the other guy.

Amaze Me kept looking up at Spike. It seemed as though he realized this was an encounter that was going to need diffusing in a measured way. He and his colleague were both still seated, for a start, with Spike looming over them. If the pretty-boy with the magic tricks decided to start a fight, he had a clear advantage.

‘Go on then,’ he said, magnanimous and tough at the same time. ‘But remember — I’ve got good eyes.’

‘You do,’ Spike said. ‘So watch carefully.’

He held out his right hand. His fingers ached, but they were fluent enough to roll the five-pound note into a perfect tube. He took his time over it, getting it tight.

‘So?’ the other man said.

‘So,’ Spike said. He squatted by the table and held his hands up so he was gripping the two-inch tube of rolled bank note horizontally between the thumb and index fingers of both hands, other fingers held out high.

‘I want you both to be able to see this very clearly,’ Spike said. ‘I want there to be no doubt. You’ve got to watch the note very carefully now, okay? You’ve got to be eagle-eyed.’

Amaze Me was intent on being just that. His gaze was locked on the note.

‘That’s it,’ Spike said. ‘Perfect.’

He left a long, long beat... and then made the note disappear. Both men were in a position to clearly see that neither of his hands moved at all. The note simply vanished into thin air.

‘Fuck,’ one of them said, despite himself.

‘Did you see that?’ Spike asked. ‘Did you really, really see it?’

‘We saw it, you freak,’ Amaze Me said.

‘Good,’ Spike said, and then, with sudden grace, he turned both his hands palm out and wiped one gently down across the eyes of each man, at the same time, as if closing the eyes of sitting corpses.

Amaze Me’s mouth dropped open, as he realized that he couldn’t see. That, though his eyes were open and staring, he was wholly blind.

The other man lurched to his feet, flailing around with his fists. ‘What have you done?’ he shouted. ‘I can’t fucking see. I can’t fucking see
anything
!’

Amaze Men was blinking frantically now, rubbing his eyes with his fists, craning his head around, trying to do anything that might make a difference.

‘Stop it,’ he said, to Spike. ‘Turn it off. Look, I’m sorry, all right? But turn it off.’

‘Can’t,’ Spike said. ‘The big problem with life, I’ve come to see, is there’s never any going back.’

‘Please,’ the man said. ‘I’m sorry.’

He looked afraid but not afraid enough, and Spike decided he might as well go for broke. A lot of people were watching now.

He held both his hands to chest height, and then quickly snapped them into fists.

There were four quiet but irrevocable little popping sounds as two pairs of eyeballs burst, spurting glops of viscous liquid, and blood, out onto the table.

Spike turned and walked quickly out of the pub, to the sound of a lot of people screaming.

He wasn’t entirely surprised to see the black cat sitting waiting on the opposite side of the street. This time, when it ran off, he was in a position to follow.

H
e lost
sight of the cat at the bottom end of Soho, but it didn’t matter. He knew where he was going next, and he hoped he knew what the appearance of the cat had meant. It hadn’t crossed his path, after all.

As he ran into the alley he held up his hand and un-vanished the five-pound note. Found money was always an appropriate offering, and now he’d finally shown he wasn’t safe to be left languishing here. Maybe that’d been his error all along, he hoped. Maybe he’d been trying too hard to fit in, to keep his head down, to pretend to be like everyone else in this hellhole. What better way to punish him for leaving his own land than to strand him here? Surely what he’d just done
proved
that they had to do something else instead, to let him come home?

His heart was beating hard as he approached the end of the alleyway, money held out.

Then it gave a harsh double-thud.

The door was gone.

He blinked at the space in the wall where it had been for night after night after night, utterly confused, wondering if he’d somehow come down the wrong street.

But no, there was the old, ragged poster for a gay dance night at a venue that he knew had recently been torn down. And there, where he’d left it wedged into a crack in the brickwork, was the ten-pence coin from Friday night. And there was a faint smear of what he knew to be his own dried blood, from when he’d rested his face against the door. No door there now, though. Just wall.

Was there still a handle on the other side? Over where the air was sweet and fresh and the blades of grass sang songs every morning? Where the food did not make you feel sick, but whole? Where his kind went about their business and lived their endless lives, only slipping over into this hollow world when the King or Queen commanded it, to make little interventions into people’s lives, keeping the universe spinning and the spheres aligned?

‘There are other doors,’ a voice said.

Spike turned to see that a figure now stood at the entrance of the alleyway. Tall but stooped, with long, shaggy hair and beard and a big, hooked nose.

The man from the newsagents.

He held up his hand. Dangling off one huge finger, Spike saw, was a large bunch of keys. The edges of the big, silver keys glinted in cold moonlight.

‘Come,’ the man said. ‘It’s time.’

Believing that at last his fate had been reversed, and not realizing that — in his other hand, the one behind his back — the tall man held an axe — Spike hesitated, but then walked up the alley toward him.

That was his final mistake.

T
he big man
with the grey, sad eyes waited until Spike was within a couple of yards. Then he was in sudden, terrible motion, raising the old, notched axe high above his head — and then with a chop, chop, chop, the magician was dead.

Dead and afterward meticulously dismembered, his limbs severed one from another in the quiet of the newsagents, and then left out in the tiny yard behind it — a scrap of space lost and invisible in the shadowed depths of high, old buildings around — so that cold moonlight might fall on them, after the old methods, turning Spike’s body into lengths of dry wood which the woodcutter tied into neat bundles and added to the pile in the box out in front of his shop the following morning.

If you ever see such wood for sale, do not buy it. The bundles look pretty, but do not burn well. They look a lot like short sections of silver birch.

A
RCHIVAL RECORD
: CA/6857F

MEDIUM: digitized CCTV

DATE: [Labor Day, 2017]

C
ontextualizing statement
:

Following is a transcript of CCTV footage recovered from the LakeView Resort & Spa, 3534 Lake Tahoe Boulevard, South Lake Tahoe, CA 96150, United States (hereinafter designated “LVRS”). LVRS was a popular hotel and condominium resort on the shore of this key vacation and recreation destination until its desertion. Founded in 1962 and regularly upgraded, in its final form LVRS consisted of twenty-two blocks each holding four small wooden townhouses, arranged around paths in pine woods leading down to the lake. Six additional one-story beach houses flanked a facility at the shore consisting of a pool, children’s paddling pool, and hot tub, formerly serviced by a small café and surrounded by a terraced area. From this a wooden jetty reaches eighty feet out into the lake. On either side of the foot of the jetty were arranged a number of informal barbequing facilities, along with picnic tables on a small grassy area leading to a narrow sandy beach.

L
VRS remained sparsely inhabited
for several months after The Death, primarily by former staff members, people either aware that their homes elsewhere in the state had already been over-run, or those who believed that the resort would provide an easily defensible location. This hope proved unfounded. The second major wave of No Longer Living Individuals exiting the Bay Area over-ran LVRS during the weekend of October 13-15. All remaining inhabitants of the resort perished during that two-day period.

S
ince this time
the LakeView Resort & Spa, along with all other previous habitations and businesses along the South shore of Lake Tahoe, has remained deserted. A few generator-supported functions such as motion-sensitive lights and low voltage digital CCTV security imaging remain active; otherwise the resort is a dead facility.

T
RANSCRIPT
:

Footage is in black and white, with sound. Camera shows a fixed viewpoint of the edge of the terraced area associated with the spa café, a portion of the grassed area on the other side, and the beach, which is approximately twenty feet in depth. A basic cinderblock barbeque facility stands on the grass. The beginning of the jetty is also visible, stretching out into darkness. Initial sound consists of lapping sounds of water against the jetty supports. Visibility is limited.

R
ecorded events commence at 20
:38, according to time code, though there is evidence that the motion-sensitive CCTV camera failed to trigger at some earlier point, as a FIRST MAN is already in vision at the start of the recording. He is visible from behind, sitting against the edge of the terrace.

A
t 20
:38 a SECOND MAN enters the field of view. He is bulky, wearing denim jeans and a plaid shirt, and in middle age. He is carrying a supermarket paper sack under each arm, with some difficulty. When he gets close to the barbeque one of these starts to slip. He elects to place both hurriedly on the ground.

M
AN 2
: Fuck
me
that’s some heavy shit. I never realized how heavy all this shit
is
. You could have helped, man.

The FIRST MAN grunts.

MAN 2: Yeah, right. Wear the young ones out first, huh? Like dad always said. I get why, now.

Man 2 puts his hands on his hips and looks out into the darkness over the lake.

MAN 2: Fuck, bro. How long has it been? I mean... how long? Seriously. I was trying to work it out on the way here. But it’s like, I’m driving, and it’s dark and actually I’m pretty fucking drunk. ’Course we don’t have to worry about traffic on the roads, right? That’s one thing. But let’s work it out. I’m forty-seven, which is a fucking joke in itself. How did
that
happen? And the last time I remember us all being here, the entire family and cousins and dah dah dah, is... It was the year before I moved to Chicago, right? I was twenty nine. Which is like... a zillion years ago. No, hang on, come on. Forty-seven. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight? No way. It can’t be nearly thirty fucking years. Oh.
Eighteen
years, duh. Shit. That’s still long, man. That’s still really fucking
long
. Seems like it was, okay not yesterday, but, you know, not...
that
long.

Man 2 is silent for a few moments, swaying slightly.

MAN 2: That’s some pretty easy math I was fucking up there. I’m amazed we got here in one piece.

Man 1 grunts again. Man 2 turns back to look at him.

MAN 2: Right. Whatever. Let’s do this.

He squats down and starts removing things from the bags he put on the floor. He takes out a large bag. He takes out a smaller bag wrapped in white plastic.

MAN 2: Burgers, plain and simple. Steak? Ha. No fucking chance. When’s the last time you saw a steak? Right. Steak would have not been...
realistic
. Suits me fine. I always thought burgers kicked steak’s ass on a barbecue anyway.

He peers down at the barbecue.

MAN 2: Basic fucking grill this is, man. Guess you got to make the best of what you got though, right? If it was enough for Dad to work his magic, it’s good enough for us.

He takes out another, lighter bag.

MAN 2: Buns. Uh, right. Yeah. Buns. Fuck - did I remember mustard?

He leans down to rootle through the second bag. Loses his balance and keels over until he is lying on the grass.

MAN 2 [MUFFLED]: Crap.

After a moment he moves his head, peering.

MAN 2: Ha. Found the mustard, though. And the JD, halle-fucking-lujah.

He pushes himself up to a seating position and pulls a bottle of Jack Daniels from the nearest bag. He takes a large gulp, and holds it out toward Man 1. No response.

MAN 2: Good call, man. You’re wasted enough. Okay. Let’s get these burgers rock and rolling.

He gets up, surprisingly fluently, and starts unpacking bags onto the support area around the barbecue.

MAN 2: Duh. Might want to start the fire, right?

He picks up one of the larger bags, tears vaguely at one end, and eventually opens it. He pours charcoal into the grill. Then brings up a small tin, which he up-ends and squirts liberally over the coals. He pulls a box of matches from his pocket. Lights one, tosses it in. The fuel ignites noisily, momentarily whiting out the image on screen.

MAN 2: Whoops.

The image settles and the sound of flames dies down, to show Man 2 lighting a cigarette off another match. Man 1 grunts again, louder this time.

Man 2: Are you kidding? You’re giving me a hard time about
smoking
— when the world’s fucked to shit? Fuck it. Not to mention we’re in the fucking out
doors
, dude. Lake fucking Tahoe, man. First cigarette I ever
had
was by this lake, matter of fact. Your eighteenth birthday, did you ever know that? I remember... I remember you were standing with Mom and Dad, must have been pretty much right
here
, and I’d got this half pack of smokes somebody had given me at school, who was it: yeah, Jimmy Garwhen, fucking asshole he turned out to be. And I’m fifteen and Dad’s let me have two beers because it’s a
special
special occasion and I’m thinking fuckin’ A, this is the life.
This
is the grown-up thing, right here. And I went around the back of...

He indicates vaguely with his hand toward beach houses outside our FOV.

MAN 2: ... and lit one up. Coughed like a fucking maniac. Had two more later, though. I worked at it. You’ve got to work at that shit, right? Even bad habits don’t come easy.

He regards the fire for a moment.

MAN 2: You know what, I’m just going to put these babies right on there now. Going to take forever otherwise. I’m hungry. You hungry?

MAN 1 grunts, louder this time.

MAN 2: Right. Bet you are.

He opens the white plastic bag and takes out a couple of patties. Dithers for a moment, then holds both in one hand.

MAN 2: Dude... the
barbecue sauce
. Dad’s special blend, the secret recipe, made by my own good self. But you got to
remind
me of this shit. If we’re relying on me to get this thing done right, we’d be better off chewing on twigs.

He picks up a plastic bottle. He squirts the contents onto the burgers. And his hands, by accident. And his jeans. He slaps the burgers on the grill portion of the barbecue. There is a hissing sound and flames leap up, whiting out the screen again. He rears back, staggering slightly.

MAN 2: Guess they’re going to be pretty fucking chargrilled, huh.

He picks up the bottle of Jack Daniels and comes to sit on the wall fairly near Man 1. He takes a drag of his cigarette and flicks it out toward the lake. Thinks a moment.

MAN 2: Ah, shit.

He gets up, trudges into the darkness out of sight. There’s a faint splashing sound. Then he trudges back into vision, holding something, slumps back down near to the other man.

MAN 2: Still can’t do it. Nobody here, whole world’s gone to shit, and I can’t flick a butt in the lake. Not
this
lake. You know, in my whole life, I never smoked in front of Mom and Dad? Not once. Even at Dad’s funeral, I’m shaking and totally fucked up and I still went and hid behind a tree so Mom wouldn’t see even, though I was forty-two years old. But
you
, you used to do it right there at the table. And then you gave up smoking and they’re all “You rock, son”. Though of course I didn’t give it up. Ha. Looking back, I really do
not
regret the decision not to give up. That turned out okay for me. But I still remember you smoking the first time some year, you were like seventeen or something, right at that picnic table over there, and it’s Thanksgiving as usual and everyone’s hanging out and you just pull out the Marlboros and light up like it ain’t no thing. And nobody bats an eyelid. That was cool, man. You’re good at that shit. Seen you pull that all your life but I never learned the lesson. And now... nobody... gives... a... damn. I could drop my pants and fuck a dog in the middle of the street and nobody... would... care.

Man 2 takes another pull off the bottle of alcohol – holds it out to Man 1, who grunts, but doesn’t take it.

MAN 2: Burgers starting to smell good, though, right?

He laboriously get to his feet and lurches toward the barbecue. He picks up a burger with his fingers and turns it over.

MAN 2: Holy FUCK that’s hot.

Nonetheless, he does the same with the second. Then flaps his hand about, before slowly stopping. He is quiet for a full minute before speaking more quietly.

MAN 2: You know what I regret? Not coming that one year. When I was twenty fucking nine. I don’t even know what the fuck that was
about
. Okay, I’d gone to Chicago and it would have been a lot further to come, but... I still don’t actually know why I didn’t do it. I could have got on a plane, whatever. I guess it was an age thing, maybe. You think you’re getting too old for the family-all-together shit. Plus Julie didn't get why I’d do it and she didn’t want to come and... I really wish I’d come, man. And the next year too. I remember you calling me that second time, you were standing here with Mom and Dad and eating burgers and I was... I don’t know, in a bar, I think, drinking away the fact the dumb bitch Julie had then left me, I guess, and you called and I didn’t pick up because I was wasted and I figured you’d be wanting to give me a hard time for not making it to the big rah-rah family event... and in fact you just left a message saying “Wish you were here.”

He turns back to look at the seated man.

MAN 2: I got back into it after that but then Paul started skipping every other year and Marie did the same the other way around and the cousins stopped bothering and it just seemed like it was never the same as it had been when we were kids, except for Mom and Dad were always here. Feels sometimes like it was my fault it went that way. Like I fucked the whole thing up. Did I? Was it down to me? If I hadn’t skipped those two years, would it have kept... shit. Whatever. I don’t know. You think you know every damned thing when you’re young. You think great, thanks for all the years and I love you still but I’m out here on my own now. Big fucking mistake. If you got a family and it likes getting together once a year...
just fucking do it
. Bite the bullet and get on the fucking plane. There’s plenty of time and a million different ways to be an asshole. Don’t feel you got to get them all done at once.

He leans forward and peers at the barbecue.

MAN 2: Getting there, bro. Getting there. Better get the rest of the road on the show. And at least we’re here
now
, right? That’s something. And that’s down to me. If I hadn’t come got you, it wouldn’t have happened. Score one to me. ’Course getting there
earlier
would have been even better, but that’d have meant getting my shit together and not being a fucking asshole, and it’s too late for that now.

He starts pulling stuff out of the bags on the floor. Buns, a bag of lettuce, tomato, ketchup, mustard, two paper plates. Lays them out on the side. He starts moving things around, trying to things in a particular order.

MAN 2: You not going to do this? You
always
did this part. Me, I’d’ve probably just picked the meat up in my fingers, left to myself. You were always up in it with the got-to-be-just-so and do-it-right. And you were right, as I came to appreciate in the fullness of fucking time. And you know what? You know... what?