Dreams Underfoot n-1

by Charles de Lint

  But only I’d returned. Sam and the ghost were both gone.

  “Oh, Geordie,” Jilly murmured as she held me close. “I’m so sorry.

  * * *

  I don’t know if the ghost was ever seen again, but I saw Sam one more time after that night. I was with Jilly in Moore’s Antiques in Lower Crowsea, flipping through a stack of old sepiatoned photographs, when a group shot of a family on their front porch stopped me cold. There, among the somber faces, was Sam. She looked different. Her hair was drawn back in a tight bun and she wore a plain unbecoming dark dress, but it was Sam all right. I turned the photograph over and read the photographer’s date on the back. 1912.

  Something of what I was feeling must have shown on my face, for Jilly came over from a basket of old earrings that she was looking through.

  “What’s the matter, Geordie, me lad?” she asked.

  Then she saw the photograph in my hand. She had no trouble recognizing Sam either. I didn’t have any money that day, but Jilly bought the picture and gave it to me. I keep it in my fiddle case.

  I grow older each year, building up a lifetime of memories, only I’ve no Sam to share them with. But often when it rains, I go down to Stanton Street and stand under the streetlight in front of the old Hamill estate. One day I know she’ll be waiting there for me.

  Freewheeling

  There is apparently nothing that cannot happen.

  — Attributed to Mark Twain

  There are three kinds of people: those who make things happen, those who watch things happen, and those who wonder, “what happened?”

  — Message found inside a Christmas cracker

  1

  He stood on the rainslick street, a pale fire burning behind his eyes. Nerve ends tingling, he watched them go—a slow parade of riderless bicycles.

  Tenspeeds and mountain bikes. Domesticated, urban. So inbred that all they were was spoked wheels and emaciated frames, mere skeletons of what their genetic ancestors had been. They had never known freedom, never known joy; only the weight of serious riders in slick, leatherseated shorts, pedaling determinedly with their cycling shoes strapped to the pedals, heads encased in crash helmets, fingerless gloves on the hands gripping the handles tightly.

  He smiled and watched them go. Down the wet street, wheels throwing up arcs of fine spray, metal frames glistening in the streetlights, reflector lights winking red.

  The rain had plastered his hair slick against his head, his clothes were sodden, but he paid no attention to personal discomfort. He thought instead of that fatwheeled aboriginal onespeed that led them now. The maverick who’d come from who knows where to pilot his domesticated brothers and sisters away.

  For a night’s freedom. Perhaps for always.

  The last of them were rounding the corner now. He lifted his right hand to wave goodbye. His left hand hung down by his leg, still holding the heavyduty wire cutters by one handle, the black rubber grip making a ribbed pattern on the palm of his hand. By fences and on porches, up and down the street, locks had been cut, chains lay discarded, bicycles ran free.

  He heard a siren approaching. Lifting his head, he licked the rain drops from his lips. Water got in his eyes, gathering in their corners. He squinted, enamored by the kaleidoscoping spray of lights this caused to appear behind his eyelids. There were omens in lights, he knew. And in the night sky, with its scattershot sweep of stars. So many lights ... There were secrets waiting to unfold there, mysteries that required a voice to be freed.

  Like the bicycles were freed by their maverick brother. He could be that voice, if he only knew what to sing.

  He was still watching the sky for signs when the police finally arrived.

  “Let me go, boys, let me go ....”

  The new Pogues album If I Should Fall From Grace With God was on the turntable. The title cut leaked from the sound system’s speakers, one of which sat on a crate crowded with halfused paint tubes and tins of turpentine, the other perched on the windowsill, commanding a view of rainswept Yoors Street one floor below. The song was jauntier than one might expect from its subject matter while Shane MacGowan’s voice was as rough as ever, chewing the words and spitting them out, rather than singing them.

  It was an angry voice, Jilly decided as she hummed softly along with the chorus. Even when it sang a tender song. But what could you expect from a group that had originally named itself Pogue Mahone—Irish Gaelic for “Kiss my ass”?

  Angry and brash and vulgar. The band was all of that. But they were honest, too—painfully so, at times—and that was what brought Jilly back to their music, time and again. Because sometimes things just had to be said.

  “I don’t get this stuff,” Sue remarked.

  She’d been frowning over the lyrics that were printed on the album’s inner sleeve. Leaning her head against the patched backrest of one of Dilly’s two old sofas, she set the sleeve aside.

  “I mean, music’s supposed to make you feel good, isn’t it?” she went on.

  Jilly shook her head. “It’s supposed to make you feel something— happy, sad, angry, whatever—just so long as it doesn’t leave you braindead the way most Top Forty does. For me, music needs meaning to be worth my time—preferably something more than ‘I want your body, babe,’ if you know what I mean.”

  “You’re beginning to develop a snooty attitude, Jilly.”

  “Me? To laugh, dahling.”

  Susan Ashworth was Jilly’s uptown friend, as urbane as Jilly was scruffy. Sue’s blonde hair was straight, hanging to just below her shoulders, where Jilly’s was a riot of brown curls, made manageable tonight only by a clip that drew it all up to the top of her head before letting it fall free in the shape of something that resembled nothing so much as a disenchanted Mohawk. They were both in their twenties, slender and blueeyed—the latter expected in a blonde; the electric blue ofJilly’s eyes gave her, with her darker skin, a look of continual startlement. Where’ Sue wore just the right amount of makeup, Jilly could usually be counted on having a smudge of charcoal somewhere on her face and dried oil paint under her nails.

  Sue worked for the city as an architect; she lived uptown and her parents were from the Beaches, where it seemed you needed a permit just to be out on the sidewalks after eight in the evening—or at least that was the impression that the police patrols left when they stopped strangers to check their ID.

  She always had that upscale look of one who was just about to step out to a restaurant for cocktails and dinner.

  Jilly’s first love was art of a freer style than designing municipal necessities, but she usually paid her rent by waitressing and other odd jobs. She tended to wear baggy clothes—like the oversized white Tshirt and blue poplin lacefront pants she had on tonight—and always had a sketchbook close at hand.

  Tonight it was on her lap as she sat propped up on her Murphy bed, toes in their ballet slippers tapping against one another in time to the music. The Pogues were playing an instrumental now-“Metropolis”—which sounded like a cross between a Celtic fiddle tune and the old “Dragnet”

  theme.

  “They’re really not for me,” Sue went on. “I mean if the guy could sing, maybe, but—”

  “It’s the feeling that he puts into his voice that’s important,” Jilly said. “But this is an instrumental.

  He’s not even—”

  “Supposed to be singing. I know. Only—”

  “If you’d just—”

  The jangling of the phone sliced through their discussion. Because she was closer—and knew that Jilly would claim some old war wound or any excuse not to get up, now that she was lying down—Sue answered it. She listened for a long moment, an odd expression on her face, then slowly cradled the receiver.

  “Wrong number?”

  Sue shook her head. “No. It was someone named ... uh, Zinc? He said that he’s been captured by two Elvis Presleys disguised as police officers and would you please come and explain to them that he wasn’t stealing bikes, he was just setti
ng them free. Then he hung up.”

  “Oh, shit!” filly stuffed her sketchbook into her shoulderbag and got up.

  “This makes sense to you?”

  “Zinc’s one of the street kids.”

  Sue rolled her eyes, but she got up as well. “Want me to bring my checkbook?”

  “What for?”

  “Bail. It’s what you have to put up to spring somebody from jail. Don’t you ever watch TV?”

  Jilly shook her head. “What? Arid let the aliens monitor my brainwaves?”

  “What scares me,” Sue muttered as they left the loft and started down the stairs, “is that sometimes I don’t think you’re kidding.”

  “Who says I am?” Jilly said.

  Sue shook her head. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  Jilly knew people from all over the city, in all walks of life. Socialites and bag ladies. Street kids and university profs. Nobody was too poor, or conversely, too rich for her to strike up a conversation with, no matter where they happened to meet, or under what circumstances. She’d met Detective Lou Fucceri, now of the Crowsea Precinct’s General Investigations squad, when he was still a patrolman, walking the Stanton Street Combat Zone beat. He was the reason she’d survived the streets to become an artist instead ofjust one more statistic to add to all those others who hadn’t been so lucky.

  “Is it true?” Sue wanted to know as soon as the desk sergeant showed them into Lou’s office. “The way you guys met?” Jilly had told her that she’d tried to take his picture one night and he’d arrested her for soliciting.

  “You mean UFOspotting in Butler U. Park?” he replied.

  Sue sighed. “I should’ve known. I must be the only person who’s maintained her sanity after meeting Jilly.”

  She sat down on one of the two wooden chairs that faced Lou’s desk in the small cubicle that passed for his office. There was room for a bookcase behind him, crowded with law books and file folders, and a brass coat rack from which hung a lightweight sports jacket. Lou sat at the desk, white shirt sleeves rolled halfway up to his elbows, top collar undone, black tie hanging loose.

  His Italian heritage was very much present in the Mediterranean cast to his complexion, his dark brooding eyes and darker hair. As Jilly sat down in the chair Sue had left for her, he shook a cigarette free from a crumpled pack that he dug out from under the litter of files on his desk. He offered the cigarettes around, tossing the pack back down on the desk and lighting his own when there were no takers.

  Jilly pulled her chair closer to the desk. “What did he do, Lou? Sue took the call, but I don’t know if she got the message right.”

  “I can take a message,” Sue began, but Jilly waved a hand in her direction. She wasn’t in the mood for banter just now.

  Lou blew a stream of bluegrey smoke towards the ceiling. “We’ve been having a lot of trouble with a bicycle theft ring operating in the city,” he said. “They’ve hit the Beaches, which was bad enough, though with all the Mercedes and BMWs out there, I doubt they’re going to miss their bikes a lot. But rich people like to complain, and now the gang’s moved their operations into Crowsea.”

  Jilly nodded. “Where for a lot of people, a bicycle’s the only way they can get around.”

  “You got it.”

  “So what does that have to do with Zinc?”

  “The patrol car that picked him up found him standing in the middle of the street with a pair of heavyduty wire cutters in his hand. The street’d been cleaned right out, Jilly. There wasn’t a bike left on the block—just the cut locks and chains left behind.”

  “So where are the bikes?”

  Lou shrugged. “Who knows. Probably in a Foxville chopshop having their serial numbers changed.

  Jilly, you’ve got to get Zinc to tell us who he was working with. Christ, they took off, leaving him to hold the bag. He doesn’t owe them a thing now.”

  Jilly shook her head slowly. “This doesn’t make any sense. Zinc’s not the criminal kind.”

  “I’ll tell you what doesn’t make any sense,” Lou said. “The kid himself. He’s heading straight for the loonie bin with all his talk about Elvis clones and Venusian thought machines and feral fuck—” He glanced at Sue and covered up the profanity with a cough. “Feral bicycles leading the domesticated ones away.”

  “He said that?”

  Lou nodded. “That’s why he was clipping the locks—to set the bikes free so that they could follow their, and I quote, ‘spiritual leader, home to the place of mystery.’”

  “That’s a new one,” Jilly said.

  “You’re having me on—right?” Lou said. “That’s all you can say? It’s a new one? The Elvis clones are old hat now? Christ on a comet. Would you give me a break? Just get the kid to roll over and I’ll make sure things go easy for him.”

  “Christ on a comet?” Sue repeated softly.

  “C’mon, Lou,” Jilly said. “How can I make Zinc tell you something he doesn’t know? Maybe he found those wire cutters on the street—just before the patrol car came. For all we know he could—”

  “He said he cut the locks.”

  The air went out of Jilly. “Right,” she said. She slouched in her chair. “I forgot you’d said that.”

  “Maybe the bikes really did just go off on their own,” Sue said. Lou gave her a weary look, but Jilly sat up straighter. “I wonder,” she began.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Sue said. “I was only joking.”

  “I know you were,” Jilly said. “But I’ve seen enough odd things in this world that I won’t say anything’s impossible anymore.”

  “The police department doesn’t see things quite the same way,”

  Lou told Jilly. The dryness of his tone wasn’t lost on her. “I know.”

  “I want these bike thieves, Jilly.”

  “Are you arresting Zinc?”

  Lou shook his head. “I’ve got nothing to hold him on except for circumstantial evidence.”

  “I thought you said he admitted to cutting the locks,” Sue said. Jilly shot her a quick fierce look that plainly said, Don’t make waves when he’s giving us what we came for.

  Lou nodded. “Yeah. He admitted to that. He also admitted to knowing a hobo who was really a spy from Pluto and asked why the patrolmen had traded in their white Vegas suits for uniforms. He wanted to hear them sing ‘Heartbreak Hotel.’ For next of kin he put down Bigfoot.”

  “Gigantopithecus blacki,” Jilly said.

  Lou looked at her. “What?”

  “Some guy at Washington State University’s given Bigfoot a Latin name now. Giganto—”

  Lou cut her off. “That’s what I thought you said.” He turned back to Sue. “So you see, his admitting to cutting the locks isn’t really going to amount to much. Not when a lawyer with half a brain can get him off without even having to work up a sweat.”

  “Does that mean he’s free to go then?” Jilly asked.

  Lou nodded. “Yeah. He can go. But keep him out of trouble, Jilly. He’s in here again, and I’m sending him straight to the Zeb for psychiatric testing. And try to convince him to come clean on this—okay? It’s not just for me, it’s for him too. We break this case and find out he’s involved, nobody’s going to go easy on him. We don’t give out rain checks.”

  “Not even for dinner?” Jilly asked brightly, happy now that she knew Zinc was getting out.

  “What do you mean?”

  Jilly grabbed a pencil and paper from his desk and scrawled “Jilly Coppercorn owes Hotshot Lou one dinner, restaurant of her choice,” and passed it over to him.

  “I think they call this a bribe,” he said.

  “I call it keeping in touch with your friends,” Jilly replied and gave him a big grin.

  Lou glanced at Sue and rolled his eyes.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “I’m the sane one here.”

  “You wish,” Jilly told her.

  Lou heaved himself to his feet with exaggerated weariness.
“C’mon, let’s get your friend out of here before he decides to sue us because we don’t have our coffee flown in from the Twilight Zone,” he said as he led the way down to the holding cells.

  Zinc had the look of a street kid about two days away from a good meal. His jeans, Tshirt, and cotton jacket were ragged, but clean; his hair was a badly mown lawn, with tufts standing up here and there like exclamation points. The pupils of his dark brown eyes seemed too large for someone who never did drugs. He was seventeen, but acted half his age.

  The only home he had was a squat in Upper Foxville that he shared with a couple of performance artists, so that was where Jilly and Sue took him in Sue’s Mazda. The living space he shared with the artists was on the upper story of a deserted tenement where someone had put together a makeshift loft by the simple method of removing all the walls, leaving a large empty area cluttered only by support pillars and the squatters’ belongings.

  Lucia and Ursula were there when they arrived, practicing one of their pieces to the accompaniment of a ghetto blaster pumping out a mixture of electronic music and the sound of breaking glass at a barely audible volume. Lucia was wrapped in plastic and lying on the floor, her black hair spread out in an arc around her head. Every few moments one of her limbs would twitch, the plastic wrap stretching tight against her skin with the movement. Ursula crouched beside the blaster, chanting a poem that consisted only ofthe line, “There are no patterns.” She’d shaved her head since the last time Jilly had seen her.

  “What am I doing here?” Sue asked softly. She made no effort to keep the look of astonishment from her features.

  “Seeing how the other half lives,” Jilly said as she led the way across the loft to where Zinc’s junkyard of belongings took up a good third of the available space.

  “But just look at this stuff,” Sue said. “And how did he get that in here?”

  She pointed to a Volkswagen bug that was sitting up on blocks, missing only its wheels and front hood. Scattered all around it was a hodgepodge of metal scraps, old furniture, boxes filled with wiring and God only knew what.