In This Skin (5 page)

    For a hundred years the Luxor's walls had absorbed tobacco smoke, liquor vapors and cologne, adrenaline and superheated pheromones of generation upon generation of Chicago's youth. Now the brickwork exhaled their exotic perfume. Ellery's bloodied nostrils sifted the aroma of cigars smoked when Buster Keaton still performed for adoring cameras and F Scott Fitzgerald sat writing his first novel. There was the phantom hint of cigarettes spiced with marijuana and cloves from when nascent hippie bands played here in 1965. Greatly attenuated vapors reduced to nothing but a molecular trace rose from the wooden floor. They carried faraway echoes of beer spilt in a riot when Splinter Davis boxed here in 1917.

    There was the tang of prohibition spirit when a Chicago gangster hired the hall for his daughter's wedding in 1931. Embedded in those scents lay the trace of a cocktail spilt in the days when you'd hear the hits of The Ramones and The Sex Pistols first playing on the radio. In the final set of some forgotten heavy metal band, during a howling guitar solo, a string broke and cut the guitarist's right cheek. In his mind's eye, Ellery saw the dime-sized brown mark on the stage where the blood had beaten the industrial cleaner. All the scents blended into one.

    Piquant aroma flowed over Ellery like a spirit of awesome power. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply. The pain from the punches could no longer reach deep enough into his brain to hurt him. In his imagination he walked a path along a fast-flowing river. Cool air played on his face. The hissing of the water played a mysterious song for him. Ahead lay a forest. The branches of the trees were contorted in weird shapes.

    Fungus sprouted from the trunks. Beyond the forest, hills rose toward crags where blades of rock thrust upward out of the ground. Moving faster along the path, Ellery sensed a growing excitement. In this place he was free. There was no one to insult him. No one attacked him or hurt him. He created this world with the power of his imagination. He ran through the forest his mind had extruded from nothing. His blood surged in his veins. He tingled with the sheer power of his creativity What else did he want in this forest? Birds with ten-foot wingspans-no make them twenty-foot spans. Above him vast birds the size of jet fighters glided through the air, calling across the treescape. The sky boiled with clouds. This was the weather he loved most. Passionate weather that was full of fury and thunder and lightning. Ellery whooped with triumph in the world he'd created.

    Now he wanted animals. Big, big animals with pelts of rough red fur. And he wanted them as big as woolly mammoths. But he didn't want grass eaters. He wanted carnivores that used their ten feet of curving tusk to tear open the bellies of their victims. And he wanted the trunks to suck the blood from the screaming men and then spray it so a red mist filled the air.

    Ellery got what he imagined. Meat-eating mammoths hunted down screaming men in the forest. The men he recognized. They had the faces of the gang that had beaten him earlier that night. Now he watched huge beasts with shaggy pelts of copper hair pursue the men, trample them into the dirt and shit on the forest floor, then rip open their chests with the points of massive tusks.

    This dream was so vividly powerful Ellery could smell moist soil beneath the trees and lick the dew from the leaves to quench his thirst. This was his world. He'd built it since childhood. He'd worked on every detail, every scent and sound. It was more real than the brutal city that he'd grown up in. For the moment he was happy to walk in the wood with it lying at peace again, without carnivore mammoths. Even the birds that had once glided overhead had vanished. He was content with the serenity of the place, the way the cool breeze whispered through the branches to stir the sticks into a faint hiss. So what he saw next took him by surprise.

    He came upon a sudden clearing in the forest. There stood dozens of pale figures. They were a bluish gray, the same color as corpse skin when the blood has drained from it. He paused for a moment to stare at this weird assembly They did not move, even though, somehow, they all appeared to be staring in his direction.

    Ellery gave an amused laugh and clapped his hands. The sound was startling in the peace of the forest. He'd intended the clap to animate his creations (although he didn't recall intentionally creating them in his imagination, but sometimes it played tricks like that… the beasts he created could appear spontaneously as if formed in his subconscious).

    These figures simply stood and stared. He moved closer for a better look. Hell, his subconscious had worked hard. They were monstrous figures that were vaguely human.

    Deformed? No, that wasn't the right description. It looked as if they'd become soft and pliable and some demon hand had remolded them into bizarre and horrifying forms. Heads were elongated. Eyes had plumped out to bulge from sockets. Mouths were misshapen. Some possessed naked bodies covered with blue-gray skin that puckered into lumpy hides on their chests, while shoulders were smooth with the exception of wartlike lumps from which silver bristling hairs grew. One had a bottom lip that was so grotesquely swollen it hung down as far as its chest. Their arms were apelike, with long powerful arms that terminated either in clawed hands or a single thick tentacle that dripped thick, glistening mucus onto the grass.

    His eyes were drawn back to their eyes again. They burned with an uncanny fire. Indeed, they were brighter now, as if they'd woken to see someone they knew. They were fascinating creatures. Ellery was tempted to stay longer but he knew it was time to quit the daydream and go home.

    Already his mother must be wondering what had happened to him. Even though he was nineteen, he didn't like to cause her worry. Ever since the operation she looked so fragile and vulnerable. Her other sons didn't notice-or care. They still demanded their meals at the same time every day, and their shirts washed and ironed, ready for when they cruised away into the night to chase women in bars, or play pool until dawn.

    This was the neat trick. Ellery didn't like to end a daydream by quitting it as if it was a computer game. He'd evolved a process of exiting the world he imagined just like it was real and he was taking the proper route out of a three-dimensional territory. In his mind's eye he turned his back on the collection of immobile figures and walked swiftly back into the wood. Ahead of him ran a straight path between the trees.

    It led to a pair of towering elms that had been joined at the tips to form an archway. Beyond that, a path ran into a shadowed void. Ellery's imagination conjured an image of him sitting in the armchair in the middle of the Luxor's dance floor. This was the exit from his world.

    He'd walk through the archway and back to his daydreaming self that sat with eyes closed, hands and forearms resting on the two arms of the chair. Ellery had done this so often the transition from one world to another seemed real. He passed from the cool, ozone-rich air of the forest to the hot, dry air of the Luxor. From fresh plant aromas to the smell of dust. From exotic bird song to the sound of trucks and cars rumbling on the freeway in the distance. Beneath his feet the leaf-covered ground gave way to a wooden floor. He was through.

    But as he passed into the main body of the building he glimpsed movement from the corner of his eye. A gray figure slipped through beside him.

    Just for a second Ellery glimpsed a monstrously elongated form with a misshapen head. It was close enough for him to see its glistening skin and ragged clothes. The thing glared out into the hall, not at him. Even so, he'd glimpsed the blazing eyes that bulged from its repulsive face.

    The figure ran on two powerful legs with a savage stride, the pace of a hunter seeking new prey. Seconds later it bounded into the darkened doorway that led to the rear of the stage and vanished. Footsteps receded into the distance.

    Ellery, sitting once more in the armchair, opened his eyes. He was pleased his imagined world had grown even more vivid. The quirky, spontaneous image of the weird beast-man slipping out of his dream world and into a dark Chicago night pleased him. He wished with a sudden passion that tightened his throat and made his heart beat furiously that the wonderful world he'd built in his mind could erupt into this grim state of affairs that people call reality Mate the two worlds together to create something beautiful! He clenched his fists as the sheer force of his wish tore through him. Please God, yes. Make it happen!

    

    

    The address in the wallet took Benedict to a place that looked a lot like a motel, a long, two-story block faced with white boards. You reached the second story by an external staircase that opened onto a walkway bolted along the face of the building. A dozen doors led to a dozen apartments.

    The odors changed radically with every step along the walkway as his eyes flicked over the plastic numerals, looking for number 21. The first step he smelled urine. The second step brought a blast of spicy chili from a kitchen window fan. The next brought tobacco smoke. The next step he was engulfed by the smell of toadstool decay from an apartment with boarded windows (although the bottom panel of the door had been kicked through, letting the stink ooze free). Another step took him into the cabbage-rich embrace of boiled leftovers. The landing here didn't look as pretty as a picture either. Every couple of paces a used diaper lay on the boards, while chained to the railing were the bare bones of a dozen bikes. Most had wheels or handlebars missing. One miserable specimen had been stripped down to nothing but a shabby red frame. The drive chain hung miserably from the cog.

    Stepping over diapers and strewn toys, Benedict West headed for the door bearing broken plastic numbers that he managed to decipher as 21. A rock ballad wailed from an open window.

    It's OK, Benedict reassured himself as a sour cabbage smell swamped his nostrils again; I'm just doing my good deed for the day. Even so, he wanted badly to return to his car. With the time nudging past noon and the sun shining bright on this raunchy suburb of Chicago, he didn't feel personally at risk. He feared for his car though. From up here he could see two burned-out car wrecks in the corner of a football field across the road, while down in the lot an unhappy SUV without wheels sat with its belly touching the asphalt. Every window had been smashed.

    Great, a little of the third world right in my hometown, Benedict thought sourly, then grimaced. Hardly the most sensitive observation.

    People didn't live here through choice. When factory owners decide they can reduce labor costs by shifting their gearbox plant from Idaho to Korea, or their plastic extrusion unit from Florida to Brazil, this kind of shit happens. Hell, even his old employer, who had paid him a nice fat salary for inserting them squarely into the groovy new electrocosmos of cyberspace, had recently fired their web site team. Then his former bosses had contracted out to a freelance operation on the other side of the globe in India. Just last week he'd been e-mailed by Ross Darnay who'd headed the team after Benedict's departure. Ross lamented that he'd had to sell the car just to meet his mortgage payments. If Ross didn't land some work soon, then he could be facing a move to a grungeville apartment block just like this one.

    Benedict thought, Get it over with and get out. The smell had begun to rake over the pasta he'd eaten for lunch. Meanwhile, in the next apartment a baby started to wail. A woman responded with a bad-tempered yell. With no bell that he could see on the door frame, Benedict West knocked on the panel. No reply In the apartment. Someone hiked the music volume to bury the baby's cries. Again, he hit the door.

    Looked like there was no one home in the old-fashioned sense that none of the occupants wanted to open the door. He was ready to give it one last rap before dropping the wallet in the mailbox when it sounded as if someone kicked the timber from the other side.

    A muffled voice came through the panel. ”Who keeps piling all this crap against the door. Can't you take it to the trash?”

    The door opened to reveal a man of around twenty-five. He wore a gray T-shirt with a ratty collar. It looked as if he'd spent the morning chewing on it. Benedict met the man's gaze, noting the irritable glint in his eyes. The man said nothing, waiting for Benedict to speak.

    ”Sorry to disturb you… ”Hell, why should I begin by apologizing? It's me doing the favor. He checked the name in the wallet again. ”Is Ellery Hann home?”

    The man in the gnawed T-shirt merely widened his eyes a little. Benedict interpreted that as, what's it to you?

    Benedict smiled. ”My name's Benedict West, I live over on Flyyte.”He realized he was giving irrelevant information but the occupant's lack of verbal response encouraged Benedict to fill the void. ”The reason I'm here is I found a wallet belonging to Ellery Hann and it gave this address.”

    ”Sure…”

    Result: The man speaks.

    ”Give it here. I'll see he gets it.”The man held out a hand with fingers prematurely yellowed by nicotine.

    ”Ah… I'd prefer to hand it to Ellery Hann in person.”First off, he wanted to see if the kid with the stammer, who'd suffered such a cruel beating, was still in the land of the breathing. Second, he now began to doubt if this was Hann's current address. He might simply be handing over the wallet, stuffed with dollar bills and credit cards, to new tenants.

    The man in the gray T-shirt looked insulted. ”I said I'd give it to him, didn't I?”

    Benedict stuck to his guns. ”Call Ellery Hann for me. It won't take a moment.”

    The man stared, the sullen brown eyes getting bad-tempered. The way a dog looks when its territory's being trampled.

    ”Is Ellery in?”

    ”Sure… probably," He shrugged. ”I dunno, I'm not his baby-sitter.”