The Private Life of Elder Things

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  THE PRIVATE LIFE OF ELDER THINGS

  by

  Adrian Tchaikovsky

  Adam Gauntlett

  And

  Keris McDonald

  Published by The Alchemy Press

  The Private Life of Elder Things © Adrian Tchaikovsky, Adam Gauntlett and

  Keris McDonald 2016

  All stories original to this collection except “Season of Sacrifice and Resurrection” which first appeared in Horror for the Holidays, Miskatonic River Press, 2011

  Cover painting © Christopher Shy

  Layouts by Peter Coleborn

  This publication © The Alchemy Press 2016

  First edition

  Print edition ISBN 978-1-911034-02-5

  All rights reserved

  The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the permission of The Alchemy Press. All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons is coincidental.

  The Alchemy Press, Staffordshire, UK

  www.alchemypress.co.uk

  Contents

  Donald by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  Pitter Patter by Adam Gauntlett

  Special Needs Child by Keris McDonald

  Irrational Numbers by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  New Build by Adam Gauntlett

  The Branch Line Repairman by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  Devo Nodenti by Keris McDonald

  Season of Sacrifice and Resurrection byAdrian Tchaikovsky

  Prospero and Caliban by Adam Gauntlett

  Moving Targets by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  The Play’s the Thing by Keris McDonald

  Story Notes

  About the Authors

  Published by The Alchemy Press

  Donald by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  Donald Toomey, yes. We were always good friends, which is surprising given what you and I both now know. I remember thinking when I first saw him – well, there’s a man who’s not going to win hearts and minds just by smiling at them. Yet he had a following, because he was keen, and topical, and he knew what he was talking about. A lot of young and dedicated people had time for Donald back then, despite his personal disadvantages.

  Oh, it was a conference, where I first saw him. I knew the name from somewhere, but our specialities were different enough that I don’t think I'd read anything of his, and vice versa. Seeing him up on the podium was an education: stooped, gangling, with a teenager’s bad skin carried over into his mid-twenties. Still, he had made his mark by action, not by looking pretty, and not by toeing the line either. I hadn’t really given a damn about sustainable fishing or all that sort of thing until I heard him talk about it. He had an energy about him, no mistake. I find that most of the time the people with that kind of drive to them know pitifully little about the subject, and those in the know are too jaded to get very excited, but Donald had the facts and the fervour, all in one package. You barely noticed the physical deficiencies, even the eyes.

  I very nearly failed to talk to him because of that. It’s small of me, but it’s hard to know where to focus when the man’s so wall-eyed that he’s looking two directions at once. But we got to talking – he on marine conservation, me on my beloved ichthyological taxonomy – and let me tell you, he was one of the few people who would sit still for it, and we kept in touch after the conference, simple as that.

  Oh, I found out soon that his reputation as a troublemaker was more than just hot air. Something of an activist, in his youth, chaining himself to this and sabotaging that. It meant that no serious research post would touch him. And yes, I had my own doctorate and a decent-sized grant, and because my life was very safe and slightly dull I did indulge in some vicarious rebellion and get him an assistant’s place under me for a year, just to kick-start his CV. So you might say I played some small role in what was to come.

  My demands on his time were small enough, and he devoted the rest to his own marine ecology research, with my blessing. It helped him build his professional reputation and start angling, if you'll forgive the pun, for another position. He gave a few talks while he was with me, too – all very green stuff, and this was just when green was becoming fashionable – all about responsible use of resources, sharing the planet, you know. Quite the darling of the smart set in those days, appearances notwithstanding.

  The year after, he secured that place in Hull, doing what he wanted. Sad to see him go, really, but I knew that taxonomy was never his interest. Still, he didn’t forget that he'd got his start from me. Every four or five months would come a package and a letter in his somewhat unruly handwriting – always the personal touches – and I would get the pleasure of some new specimen for my collection.

  Yes, my pride and joy, as you see all around. Partly it’s my own acquisitive nature, partly it’s Donald’s gifts, but as you can see, I've pretty much walled my office in glass cases and jars now, every specimen remarkable in its own way. If only you were in the field, you'd be all over them with magnifying glasses and reference books. I guarantee there are fish here which … or perhaps you’re not really interested. Such a pity, but I suppose that ichthyology is not one of the areas you pride yourself in being so well informed about. But surely, this juvenile Xiphactinus must at least excite … no, nothing? “That’s an ugly fish,” you say. Ah well.

  Where were we? Well yes, it must have been the best part of a decade then – or longer, I think – and Donald and I would write to one another, he in his scrawl, me with my dictation and my secretary; believe me, my own handwriting isn’t fit for a five year-old. Even later on, Donald’s was better.

  Yes, I have the letters still. If you go through them, you can see the change, but it was only the calligraphy that suffered. Once I could untangle it, the content was as educated and incisive as ever; more, perhaps.

  And then I went to visit him, as you know. I was in Hull to meet with a potential co-author, and I thought, why not drop in on Donald? All very short notice and unannounced, but I was sure he would be happy to grab a sandwich and talk about old times.

  Well, you can imagine my confusion when they told me he was gone. Missing for some time, actually. His colleagues at the institute were cagey, but I had the distinct feeling that they thought he might have, you know, topped himself, just walked into the sea. I did a little digging, and it was plain that, before that, his relationships with his peers had degenerated. He had become erratic, very conscious of his awkward appearance, seldom seen in public. I wondered at the time if there was not some sort of broken relationship or the like at the heart of it. Everyone was agreed, though, that my friend Donald had dropped off the map three years before.

  I had received five letters from him, complete with specimens, since his supposed disappearance. I had written to him, too. The address was just a PO Box, it’s true, but that had always been the way, because he did tend to move around a bit. Obviously I dropped him a line straight off asking what he was playing at, and whether I could help.

  Of course, that was when I first had a visit from your lot. All those questions, all that suspicion. Well, obviously I thought that Donald had gone back to his old activist ways, perhaps with a more radical agenda than before. He always did care so much about the future of the oceans. He got so angry about the pollution, the overfishing, well… You'll forgive me if I wasn’t very sympathetic to your interrogation, back then.

  I'm sure you've kept tabs on me since, and those letters I got started looking as though someone had opened them be
fore me. No doubt you examined the specimens he sent, too, and just saw, oh, another ugly fish. Or perhaps you have a tame ichthyologist on hand, and I'd have liked to have seen his face. Ever since Donald left his job, his gifts have been more and more fascinating, harder and harder to classify. I've stopped trying to publish about them. A man’s professional reputation can only take so much eccentricity. Now they're just for me, to look at, to gloat over. It’s enough.

  And you'll know I tend to travel more these days – seaside resorts and old port towns my speciality, the dingier the better, rubbing shoulders with maritime folk off foreign ships, hanging out at the docks like, hmm, a woman of negotiable affection. Yes, of course I had word from Donald that way, information he didn’t want to send by the old, compromised channels. And of course I lied to your colleagues when they asked about it. A man’s got to stick up for his friends, hasn’t he?

  I've become aware that there is a history involved here, a sort of clandestine war fought between certain little branches of the intelligence agencies and … the Donalds of this world, shall we say. I've seen some reports and I've spoken to some witnesses – wouldn’t you have liked to be there for that? – and I know that in the past there has been all sorts of nonsense: cults, apocalyptic prophecies, new age mysticism, the sort of occult business that Crowley would probably have thought twice about. You've had your differences, you and the Donalds.

  Charges? Against me? Well, no doubt you'll do what you must, but I'd advise against taking any hasty action, what with the recent news from Portsmouth and all.

  Now we come to the reason for this little tête-à-tête, or my reason. Your reason is to pry from me my knowledge of Donald’s whereabouts, which I don’t have in any event. My reason is to tell you his demands.

  I have it written out here, not in the rather disturbing script his writing has become, but in my own somewhat halting typing. Not something I’d trust to the secretary this time, after all. Take it, take it all, and pass it on. You’re just the messenger, and you'll see this needs to go to the top. After all, you’re not going to be at that big environmental summit they keep talking about, but the man in charge is, or at least the relevant cabinet minister.

  I think you'll find that our representative there will spontaneously propose a rather broad-ranging raft of environmental reforms concerning fishing policies: dramatic reductions in quotas, a new ethical directive on overfishing, fines and penalties for those who won’t listen. Pollution, too: cleaning up the oceans, preserving our planet. It’s the politician’s dream, after all. The green lobby will love it, a sure-fire vote-winner, and if the fishermen and the industrialists complain, well, what’s more important than the future of the world?

  And you'll be amazed at the number of other countries that jump on the bandwagon, because believe me, ours isn’t the only conversation of this sort that’s going on.

  And if saving the world doesn’t motivate you, small-minded thug that you are, I would hope that the rather curiously specific tidal wave that swamped Portsmouth yesterday might give you pause for thought, or why else have you come? How many was it, are they saying on the news? Only, I heard some sensationalist saying somewhere around forty thousand – drowned or crushed by the water or just … taken. Sorry, ‘missing’ is the word they used on the TV, but you and I both know better, don’t we. And, oh, the property damage, the buildings broken like eggshells, the insurance companies wringing their hands. Maybe that’s what concerns you most. But I can assure you, Donald and his friends are far more interested in the people. Donald’s kind like people. They have all sorts of uses for them.

  So let’s just take a moment to think about Portsmouth, and the way they’re going to have to redraw all the maps of the shoreline after what’s happened there. You can be sure that there’s more where that comes from – imagine if that had been London, hmm? Have you ever thought about just how coastal rather a lot of our civilisation actually is?

  Because they may have a rather different view of the world, the Donalds, and not just because they're seeing it from the other side of the meniscus – and they may have their crazy religions, and would you really say that we don’t have a few of our own? – but it’s like Donald used to say right at the start. We have to look after the planet, because we're sharing it with such a wealth of life.

  And if we don’t take care, some of that life may decide they don’t want to share it with us.

  Pitter Patter by Adam Gauntlett

  This statement (consisting of ….. page[s] each signed by me) is true to the best of my knowledge and belief and I make it knowing that, if it is entered into evidence, I shall be subject to prosecution if I have wilfully stated anything which I know to be false, or do not believe to be true.

  Well, that’s me fucked, I say to myself. There’s not a cat in hell’s chance they’ll believe this, but I can’t think of a better lie that will explain the facts. So I put pen to paper and start writing, my signature and the date up on the top of the first page: PS Johar MPS, October 18th.

  So let’s get started.

  *

  The targets we were meant to be keeping an obbo on had a garage across the way from a Territorial Army base. The TA building was pretty impressive, all heavy Victorian with lots of crinkly bits, none of which had been maintained in donkey’s. God knows what they did if ever they had to carry out a rapid response to any threat that breached the perimeter since trees and tall grass were growing up right to the walls of the place, and from the ground floor you couldn’t see much. We didn’t care about the ground floor. We cared about the third, south-western corner, which had a brilliant overlook on our target.

  It took a bit of blagging, our boss talking to their boss, but the TA blokes were willing to help. It wasn’t long before the sector surveyor was driving me over to examine our new accommodations. I forget his name. Sounded like Geffrey, but it wasn’t. Big, fat bloke. You couldn’t picture him going up a ladder, never mind poking his head in a roof void.

  “What’s the unit like?” I asked, more to make conversation than anything. I didn’t really care who the neighbours were, so long as they stayed out of our way.

  “Oh, you’ll have the place to yourself. It’s an artillery company, but this hasn’t been their real home for a long time. They’re out in Kent, now. But since this used to be theirs, and since they don’t want to let it go, it’s still on our books. To be honest, if this were a different part of London we’d have sold the bloody thing. We sold Holloway, after all, and the money’s snug deep in the MoD’s pockets. Of course, we had people wanting to buy Holloway. Not a cat in hell’s chance any developer would want this one, not to build new homes, anyway. Maybe a crematorium.”

  “So there’s nobody on site but us?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. There’s a caretaker, Barker, former RSM. Retired. He lives on site, but not in the main building. He’s got his own accommodation in one of the ancillaries. We used to have a cadet unit here, ACF, kids, you know, but they shut down a few years back.”

  The way Not-Quite-Geffrey let the conversation die off made me wonder a little bit, and then I made the connection. Rape and murder. Nasty business. They’d caught the bloke who did it, one of the cadet instructors. Not that he’d put up much of a fuss, easiest collar any PC ever had; found the slag wrist-deep in the victim. This far back I couldn’t remember what the sentence had been but it didn’t matter, since he topped himself about a month after we put him in. I couldn’t remember where, exactly, that had happened, and I didn’t like to ask Not-Quite-Geffrey. I had a sneaking suspicion it was on base, here. No doubt the stigma had put paid to recruitment. No wonder he didn’t want to talk about it much.

  So we drive through the gate, park the car, and walk to the main building, giving me a chance to get a proper eyes-on.

  It’s one of those buildings you figure has got to have a past. You know how you can walk by a block of flats and, even if it’s been there since Queen Liz’s daddy was a twinkle in his
daddy’s eye, it doesn’t look like anything ever happened there? Oh sure, it might be pretty, might have a blue plaque on the wall, but you think to yourself, nah, boring. Snore, snore. If walls could talk, these wouldn’t, you know what I mean?

  But this place, it had a past, all right. I could just picture all those sweating kids, uniforms and full pack, marching off to get butchered in the trenches, or shot up in North Africa. You could smell the years. God knows what you’d find if you poked around the garages or in the empty rooms. Hidden treasures.

  Not-Quite-Geffrey sighed. “It’s a bloody shame. We need more money to maintain places like this but really, what’s the point? Nobody wants it. Nobody even wants to buy it, so here it sits.”

  We go trumping along the drive to one of the smaller buildings. There were a few of these on the site. One of them was plainly the former cadet barracks, now a bit seedy with neglect. The rest were probably accommodation for the married blokes, back when the Territorial Army Centre was full up. Former RSM Barker lived in one of those. The front path was groomed within an inch of its life, and the place looked as if it had seen a coat of paint sometime this decade, which is more than could be said for the rest of the TAC.

  Barker opens the door to Not-Quite’s knock, and there’s a bit of explaining. Then Barker takes a long look at me, leads Not-Quite off for a private confab, and there is much confab to be had, apparently, ’cos I can see arms waving about like semaphores and Barker’s face going redder by the minute. Not that it made a quiet fart’s worth of difference to me, since we had the go-ahead from higher up, but I was left with the impression that friend Barker was less than enthusiastic about the presence of yours truly. Either someone hadn’t bothered to tell him we were coming, or they had and he’d hoped it was all bollocks.