The Inner City (18 page)

“So you would kill someone,” she said meditatively.

“I’m not sure; I like to think I would. What about you?”

“No,” she said, and she could tell he was disappointed.

“You can’t even imagine doing it, can you?” he asked. He was extremely annoyed; he had thought she would feel exactly as he did.

“Oh I can imagine it; I
have
imagined it. But doing it is another thing. I would stop there.”

“And who have you imagined killing?” he asked, surprised.

“You.” She watched him carefully. “To think how it would be without you. To be away from you.”

He considered this for a long time, letting the idea of it creep around them like an odour. He imagined the look on her face—raising a knife, cocking a pistol, surely it would be sudden?—and he moved the expression around, making it subtler, broader, combining it with satisfaction, lust, regret. These went rapidly through his head, but there were so many variations that the silence lengthened and enriched itself. And how would he feel, seeing her face (now dark with fury, now pale with nerves) and the weapon pointed at him, the moment centrifugal to him; how hard would his heart beat, his palms sweat; would his knees weaken or his hands shake; what would he see, what would he feel? He was aroused.

She laid her hand on his lap, but neither of them moved past that. They sat there, their breaths quickening, the air in the room filled with shadowy expectant figures—writhing, stalking, crying out.

“You gotta control your fish better,” Willis said. “They’re scaring my dog.”

Tom nodded. “Didn’t know they could go so far. It’s interesting.”

“The first time, yes,” Willis agreed. “After that, it’s nasty. The dog ain’t the same.”

“Easy now, it’s just a fish.”

“I hear they eat things you wouldn’t think. I hear they slide right under doors.”

“That ain’t true, about the doors. You’re thinking of mice, not fish. These fish eat mice, so they’re more like cats. Only not so fast, I think. At least, I haven’t seen ’em move that fast.”

“I hear,” Willis said slowly, “I hear they can get in the pipes. You know, you’re sitting on the john . . .”

“Now that’s damn foolish,” Tom said. “That’s maligning my fish.”

“Keep ’em on a leash,” Willis said flatly. “And put up some kind of fence.”

“It’s a good thing we’re friendly,” Tom said shortly. “Or I’d be annoyed.” With that, Tom lowered his head and left. He came across one of those special-order fish of his on the well-worn path back to his own house, and he kicked it a little. It made a kind of hissing sound.

“You watch it,” he said to the fish. “You were meant to be eaten, you know.” He looked at the fish, its big toothy mouth, its snaky head. “Though I wouldn’t want to see you on my plate. Not without gravy, anyway.”

He poked the fish back to the pond and set to putting up a fence around it. “Fencing a pond,” he grumbled. “Damn foreign fish.”

He pounded in the posts and put up the mesh. The fish sort of hopped along the ground so it didn’t have to be high. The job went easily.

He thought it was his imagination when he heard the pops against his window in the morning. He sat at the kitchen table and had his coffee first; that was his rule. He saw movements, like big flies, out of the side of his eyes, but he waited to catch them dead-on.

He saw one, finished his coffee, saw another, and got up.

They were leaving oval slimy smears on the windows and falling in the bushes around the house. A little stunned they were, obviously shook up ’til they got their wits about them again. It annoyed Tom when he saw them, because it meant there’d be trouble. He didn’t have the kind of neighbours that would let a thing like this go by without comment.

He never actually saw them take off—he always caught them flying, instead—but he had to assume they did a kind of leap first, so he put up a higher fence.

That didn’t stop them, and his windows were getting all smeared. Well, then, some kind of tent would do it. He stared at his little pond, which, when you started thinking about covering it, got a whole lot bigger. He sighed. It might be best if he got Willis to help him. It was hardly a secret he could keep.

Kind of strange he hadn’t heard from Willis anyway, he thought, as he walked the old path to his neighbour’s house. There were fish in the trees and they sometimes dropped on top of him with a wet thwack and an unpleasant snapping of teeth. They hadn’t quite got the hang of it yet; they landed upside down and their teeth went nowhere.

Willis’ place was looking a little off. The grass must have gone to seed because there was a whole flock of grackles standing off to the side making grackly cackles.

“Psst,” Willis said, tapping on his window from inside. “Get in here.”

Tom stepped inside.

“No problems getting through?” Willis whispered. “You didn’t hear anything?”

Tom frowned. “Well, there’s birds outside. I did hear that.”

Willis drew in a long breath. “What were they saying?”

With that, Tom started to actually listen to the murmur outside, which wasn’t exactly the regular kind of bird talk. He stepped to the window. The birds were walking around, meeting in groups. He listened hard.

The birds were saying, “WILLIS Willis Willis. WILLIS Willis Willis.”

He stepped away from the window. “Now, that’s creepy,” he said.

Willis nodded. “Did they say anything about you?”

Tom listened again, but there was nothing but Willis in the air. “No,” he said. “It’s just you.”

“What if they start lying?” Willis asked. “Won’t nobody believe me over birds.” His eyes got filmy. “How much do you think they know?”

Tom went out down the path and picked up a few of his fish. It seemed like they’d followed him part way. Some fish hopped along behind him back to Willis’ place, and when he got to the grackles one fish reared up and grabbed a bird by the wing. Tom kicked it free, watching that bird rise up and join the others scattering overhead. As long as they were talking, they could talk about that.

Willis peeked from his window until the yard was clear and then he came out. “Those fish of yours,” he said. “Mighty evil looking. They got a temper?”

“Sweet as can be,” Tom said. “They get attached, too, just like a dog.”

“I think my dog ran out on me. Kind of miss him.”

They stood for a while in silence, watching the fish. They were flapping on the ground, wiggling their tails back and forth till they started making a bunch of holes around the yard. Then they each settled into a hole and turned their heads towards the two men by the house.

“Well,” Tom said. “Looks like they’re planning on staying. You want ’em?”

Willis nodded. “I can see their attraction now. They’ll keep the yard free anyway. And they’re quiet—I like that.”

Tom nodded. “Real quiet,” he said. “You never hear them coming. You never know they’re there.”

Satisfied, the two men looked at the fish, and the fish in their trenches looked back at them.

“FishWish,” originally published in
Weird Tales
, Winter 2011.

“The Inner City” originally published in
Cemetery Dance
, February 2008.

“Down on the Farm
”
originally published in
Bandersnatch
, PrimeBooks, 2007.

“The Great Spin
”
originally published in
Confrontation Magazine
, Winter 2010; and
Wet Ink magazine
, September 2009.

“The Escape Artist” originally published in
International Quarterly
, 1997.

“The Large People”
originally published in
Daily Science Fiction
, July 2011.

“After Images”
originally published in
Phantom
, Prime Books, 2009.

“Creating Cow” is original to this collection.

“Beds”
originally published in
Moon Milk Review
, February 2010.

“How Lightly He Stepped in the Air” originally published in
Short Fiction by Women
, Issue 4.

“The Difficulties of Evolution
”
originally published in
Weird Tales
, June/July 2008.

“Thick Water
”
originally published in
Albedo One Magazine
, Spring 2011.

“The Hair”
originally published in
Michigan Quarterly Review
, Spring 2011.

“Ordinary” originally published in
Confrontation Magazine
, Spring/Summer 2002.

“Landscape, with Fish
”
originally published in
Weird Tales
, February 2008.

Karen Heuler’s stories have appeared in over sixty literary and speculative journals and anthologies, including several “Best of” collections. She’s published a short story collection and three novels, and won an O. Henry award in 1998. She lives in New York with her dog, Philip K. Dick, and her cats, Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte. Website: 
www.karenheuler.com

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