The Stranger

CRITICS RAVE ABOUT SIMON CLARK!

“I’m going to seek out and read everything Clark writes. He’s a true talent.”

—Bentley Little,
Hellnotes

“Not since I discovered Clive Barker have I enjoyed horror so much.”

—
Nightfall

“A master of eerie thrills.”

—Richard Laymon, author of
Flesh

“Clark has the ability to keep the reader looking over his shoulder to make sure that sudden noise is just the summer night breeze rattling the window.”

—CNN.com

“Simon Clark is one of the most exciting British horror writers around.”

—
SFX

“Clark may be the single most important writer to emerge on the British horror scene . . .”

—
The Dark Side

“Watch this man climb to Horror Heaven!”

—
Deathrealm

“Clark writes with compelling characterization and indelible imagery.”

—
DarkEcho

Other books by Simon Clark:

THIS RAGE OF ECHOES
DEATH’S DOMINION
THE TOWER
IN THIS SKIN
STRANGER
VAMPYRRHIC
DARKER
DARKNESS DEMANDS
BLOOD CRAZY
NAILED BY THE HEART

STRANGER

SIMON
CLARK

For Janet

DORCHESTER PUBLISHING

April 2011

Published by

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

200 Madison Avenue

New York, NY 10016

Copyright © 2003 by Simon Clark

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 13: 978–1–4285–1631–1
E—ISBN: 978–1–4285–1630–4

The “DP” logo is the property of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

Printed in the United States of America.

Visit us online at
www.dorchesterpub.com
.

To the man on the train
To the girl in the library
To the family on the beach
To lovers asleep in their beds

For strangers everywhere

One

“Where did you find him?”

“Down in Lime Bay, right at the water’s edge. He’d made it across in one of those fiberglass canoes.”

“All that way?”

“He’s a lucky man. There’s a good westerly blowing today. He said it carried him across in less than three hours.”

“How is he?”

“Tired. Got a little burned by the sun, but—”

“No, has he spoken?”

“Don’t worry, he’s a blue-eyed boy. He’s one of us.”

“Are you sure?”

“Right down to the accent. He says he used to attend school in Lewis before the shit piled into the fan.”

“Your people are looking after him?”

“They’re feeding him coffee and sandwiches. He looks as healthy as a horse to me.”

I’d tagged along with the crowds who were eager to see what that big, dirty old lake had washed up on our shores. The old boys and girls tried to look as if they were in control and taking this in their stride. But you could tell different. You see, a stranger was in town. A stranger was big news. They were excited. They wanted to feast their eyes on a fresh face.

Ben looked at me. “Greg, there’s no need for you to come.” He grinned, happy as a kid on his birthday. “He’s one of us.”

“There’s no harm in me checking then, is there?”

“Suit yourself. But he’s local. They say he’s from across the water in Lewis.”

“Lewis is deserted.”

“Maybe he was already out of town,” crowed an old dear who I can never fix a name to.

“Or maybe he got away before it happened?”

“Maybe,” I agreed. “Yeah.” A kid scowled at me. “So you leave him alone, right?”

“OK.” I shrugged. “No problem.”

Come to that, they all looked like a bunch of kids on their birthdays. Eyes bright, all eager-beaver smiles, rushing down the road that led to the beach. Where no doubt more smiling residents of this sweet little town of Sullivan were giving that hungry—and once hunted—kid nice fresh sandwiches and hot coffee.

If you ask me, the people of Sullivan were rehearsing for the day when a convoy of national guard, or regular army, or even the residents of fucking Disneyland turned up on the edge of town to tell them that everything was back to normal. That America was exactly how it was ten months ago. Yeah. Some hope. Some fucking hope.

Don’t get me wrong. These weren’t people who’d spent the last year crying over spilt milk. No, to me, they were all pretending the milk had never actually spilt in the first place.

It had, of course. It had spilt big time.
BIG TIME
.

I watched the crowd go jigging and arm-waving and talking and smiling at one another. They thought this was the first sign of a return to normality. Me? I went to perch myself on the hood of a Mercedes that sat gathering dust in the shade. The sun burned good and hard that morning in May. It was a day to catch you out. A stiff one blew off the lake making it feel cool. But the sun would broil six inches of skin off your face if you stayed out in it too long.

I sat there as blobs of sunlight slithered like drunken spiders across the ground. Ben calls it “dappling” when light falls through the branches. Crap on that. To me, it’s drunken spiders made of light dancing all over the place. I drew doodles in the dust. Mainly gallows with hanging men. But more than anything I burned to stand on the car and shout at that bunch of happy townspeople.

IDIOTS!

Most of them were old. At least the tomb side of fifty.

IDIOTS!

That sheer goofy optimism did it for me. They were too damn optimistic. Even though they’d seen most of their children leave town to head for cities where they believed in their heart of hearts that everything would be as it once was. With bright lights, busy stores, theater shows, and men, women and children crowding the sidewalks. Those territories out there beyond the hills had sucked those young people in, of course. Only it hadn’t spat them back out again. They were (in the words of the song)
gone, gone, gone. . . .

And without a spit of doubt, hearts chock-full of hope beat in those chests of men and women scuttling down to the beach as they asked themselves:
Has my Petey come back?

Or:

Please God, make it my dear son, Ben. Please make it be him that you’ve brought safely back to me after all this time.
. . .

Keep praying. Because it won’t be him. None that left after the big BAD June the freaking first ever came back. All we got in the last few months were strangers. And you can paint that word bold and you can paint it black:
STRANGERS
.

Speak of the devil.

I watched as the crowd returned. They walked with a guy of around seventeen. And, yeah, he was a blue-eyed boy. With neat blond hair, too, like he’d just turned up for his sister’s wedding. Clothes tidy. Shoes clean . . . fairly clean, that is. Maybe he’d broken into a store on the other side of the lake to help himself to a new pair. He walked, drinking from a paper cup full of coffee. He seemed tired. But his blue eyes were bright enough. He chatted with the townies who guided him toward the house at the edge of Sullivan where strangers lodged until we placed them with a family. He looked catalogue friendly. The kind who’d ng bamodel clothes your mom would like. The kind you wouldn’t be seen wearing on a morgue slab. As they passed, the kid who’d warned me off earlier stared at me. A few townies glared as well. Hell, you could read the warning loud and clear.
Leave him, Valdiva. He’s one of us. He’s OK, Valdiva. Leave him be . . .

I watched him pass surrounded by this bodyguard of sorts. As he sipped his coffee he said something complimentary about the town church. The old folk smiled. They were pleased and proud that this
nice
young man said something
nice
about their town.

Then the guy looked at me. I sat drawing hanged men in the dust on the car and looked him back in the eye. Bright blue eyes, remember. The kind that made you think of Jesus eyes in stained glass. People glared at me, daring me to speak out as they headed for the lodging house. Ben smiled at me, then shrugged.
Don’t let them bug you
, he seemed to be saying.
They’re excited, that’s all. They’re like excited kids with a new playmate. They want to keep him all to themselves.

I waited an hour before walking up to the lodging house. I had to wait a little while longer. The sun burned hard enough against my neck to push me into the shade of the trees. There, I listened to the sounds of Sullivan. Someway off the sound of a piano. Light sparkling notes that matched a day full of sunshine. I heard a dog barking farther in the distance. Children called to each other as they tossed a ball into the sky. Bees buzzing in blossom. Birds calling to each other. An old man sawing wood in his yard. They were the normal sounds I heard every day.

And I stood there, looking up at the face of the lodging house. Its windows stared right back at me.

At last the stranger came out. He wasn’t alone. More than a dozen men and women were with him. Maybe they were going to show him something of the town and to meet the civic leaders—maybe even the chamber of freaking commerce—before they’d leave him to rest in his room. I watched him come down the steps onto the white concrete path that led to the sidewalk. The guy looked relaxed. He smiled the friendly smile.

I looked hard at him. I looked until my eyes watered from the effort. At first it didn’t come. In fact, I was ready to walk away. But then that little knot came inside me. I don’t know how to describe it. A knot of anxiety? A knot of tension? Almost the kind of feeling you get before jumping off the highest board at the pool for the first time. It gets tighter and tighter inside me. Muscles in my neck and legs become hard as they tense so fiercely you’d think they’d rip apart. Even the muscles in my back writhe like they’re infested with a life all their own and are trying to worm out of my skin.

The townsfolk walking with the stranger stopped. Stopped dead. Just as if I’d pointed a gun at their heads. But there was this single expression on all their faces. It was sheer disappointment. They could have been kids who’d got up on Christmas Day to find that Santa Claus hadn’t called after all.

As I’d waited there I’d leaned the big ax against the tree. Even though I’d chopped wood for months to earn my keep the ax still made my arms ache if I carried it too long. Huge son of a bitch it was. With a halfmoon blade that glittered like silver. And a long, thick shaft stained dark from my sweat. I know I haven’t mentioned the ax until now. Maybe I hoped I could skip this bit. But I won’t do that. I’ve promised myself to tell you everything—warts, blood blisters and all. Right? You follow?

So.

I picked up the ax.

Stepped out into the sunlight.

Then I hit the stranger.

First blow. To the head. Knock him to the ground
. I struck so hard that it sliced off his bottom jaw. The chin full of perfect white teeth plopped onto the path.

Second blow. To the center of the back as he falls. Cut the spinal cord. Arms might flail; head might flip; but without two working legs he’s going nowhere.

Third blow. Fourth blow. Fifth blow. As he lies there, strike chest, belly and groin. Open up the rib cage like a bunch of celery. Split the belly to free his intestine. Bloody snakes all over the floor. See how they run, my man. Oh, see how they run!

OK. How did he take it? He may have screamed. He may have tried to run. Or did he know what I’d do? Did he just stand there and wait for the ax to bite into him?

I don’t know. Something comes over me. Afterward there are only freeze-frame images. Ribs protruding from raw meat. Blood, certainly. Lots of blood painting the path this brilliant, brilliant red.

As the stranger lay dead at my feet I remember shouting at the stupid stone faces of the men and women.

“You fucking knew it! You knew he wasn’t one of us. Why didn’t
you
kill him? Why did you wait for me to do your own fucking dirty work?”

When I first arrived in Sullivan nine months ago someone gave me chocolate cake. I was so hungry I told them chocolate cake was my favorite. That’s the kind of code you use when you want more. If they’d fed me an ass’s head I’d have told them that was my favorite food. I was
that
hungry.

As I sat later that day on the bench that overlooks the lake to what’s left of Lewis, Mr. and Mrs. Angstrom brought me chocolate cake. They said nothing. They just set the cake down. Then quiet, even stealthy, as if leaving a sleeping baby, they went.

Chocolate cake. I wasn’t its biggest fan really. I couldn’t eat that piece turning all glossy in the sun beside me any more than I could sprout big feathery wings and fly up to heaven.

They always give me chocolate cake afterward.

I wonder: Is it supposed to be an offering? A way of saying,
Sorry, son. Sorry you had to go through that
. Comfort food? Or just the executioner’s fee?

If it is, I come pretty cheap.

No one else came near me for the rest of the day. My face started to blister in the heat, but I didn’t notice. I just sat until the sun went down and the stars came out one by one.