The One Safe Place

by Ramsey Campbell

  "We'll leave you fucking open, pal. Fucking get it, Dave."

  The speaker had reached the foot of the steps. His companion started to tramp back up. Don flung out a hand, though for a moment he wasn't sure what he was reaching for. His hand closed on the phone receiver and snatched it to his face. "Either you both leave right now—"

  He ought to have shown them the gun. Neither of them faltered—the one who was climbing didn't even glance at him. "Or what?" said the other. "You'll shop us like you did Phil? You won't get the fucking chance."

  Don dropped the cordless phone on top of Out of Space and Time and fumbled at the drawer with his left hand while he poked the buttons with his right forefinger. He dialled 9 and realised that he was about to follow it with 11, but didn't the British dial 999 in an emergency, or had that been changed? His finger wavered, he glanced at his left hand so as to locate the handle of the drawer, and as he grasped the handle he stabbed a second 9. The man at the foot of the steps crossed the floor in three strides and swept the receiver away with his fist. It flew off the book and smashed against the end of a bookshelf and broke into even more pieces when it struck the floor. "Good one, Ken," shouted the man who was trying to kick the door shut.

  "Now what are you going to do, you Yank fuck?"

  "What I should have done in the first place," Don said almost evenly, giving silent thanks that the man hadn't damaged any of the first editions, and pulled out the drawer.

  He pulled too hard. The drawer shot out of the counter, and its sudden weight was more than his fingers could cope with. It bruised them as it fell, and his other hand clutched at the gun. As the drawer struck the floor with a splintering crash, his thumb and forefinger closed on the butt. The muzzle swung after the drawer, the weight of the gun tugged it out of his grip, and then his other hand caught the muzzle, and he was raising the weapon in both hands toward the man's forehead, his right forefinger hooking the trigger. "Tell Dave you're both leaving, Ken."

  Ken let out a snarl which dragged the skin back from his eyes and teeth. "Where'd you fucking get that?"

  "Never mind," Don said, lowering his left hand to cover the lack of a clip in the gun. "Just walk."

  Ken raised his fists like a furious child, so that Don was afraid he might be stupid enough to lash out at the gun. Instead he nearly screamed, "Dave!"

  "I'm fucking closing it. Give us a fucking chance."

  "Don't fucking close it, open it."

  "You just said—"

  "I know what I fucking said. Fucking open it. We're going out. The cunt's got a gun."

  "He's fucking never." Dave turned from finally locating the hasp that held the door open and peered down the steps. "Fuck."

  "Fuck," Ken seemed to be agreeing, though in a different tone, as he backed to the steps and almost tripped over them. "We'll have the law on you," he yelled at Don, and wiped his chin. "You're not allowed to have guns here."

  "Tell that to your relative in prison."

  That might be more provocative than they could bear to walk away from. Don wagged the gun at them to speed them on their way, and Ken retreated up the steps, snarling, "Crazy fucker." At the top he collided with Dave, who was still peering down at the gun. "Fucking mind," Ken said through his teeth, and shoved him out onto the sidewalk.

  As Don straightened up from leaning across the counter, an ache jabbed the base of his spine. He rubbed the place hard as he crossed the floor, keeping hold of the gun. There was no sign of the two men, but he couldn't assume they'd departed. In a moment he heard the less slow of the two voices mutter, "It isn't over."

  "Fucking believe it."

  "So where you going, Dave? The cunt's got to come out this way, and he can't call anyone. He's never going to use that on the street, not him."

  "Good one."

  They didn't know the worst of it, Don realised with a start which jerked his spine. Since Susanne wouldn't be able to return his call, she would almost certainly come to the shop. He had to get rid of them before she arrived or, maybe better, bluff his way past them so as to call her from a public phone. He fished out his keys and held them quiet in his fist as he tiptoed quickly up the steps, and had to take a breath which tasted of old books before he looked out. The two men were only a few paces away, and both of them lurched at him until he swung the muzzle toward them, keeping it low to ensure they couldn't see it wasn't loaded. "I'm coming out," he said urgently. "Stay back."

  A movement behind them came to a halt, and there was an outburst of red. A double-decker bus loaded with passengers had been stopped by traffic lights a hundred yards away. The nearness of so many people reassured him more than the weapon in his hand did. He stepped onto the sidewalk and pulled the door shut, and watched the men as he felt with the key for the lock. It found the hole, but wouldn't turn. He saw a dangerous grin twitch both men's lips, and waved the gun at their bellies, and glanced at the key so as to line it up. In that instant Dave strode at him.

  Don let go of the key and raised the gun with both hands. Ken tried to hold Dave back, but he kept coming. His clenched red face appeared to have squeezed all sense from his eyes and left nothing but animal fury in them. Don jabbed the muzzle in his direction, and thought at last to pull back the slide. Even then Dave didn't falter, and Don could only retreat a step. He knew instantly that he should have held his ground. Before he could think further, he reacted. His finger closed on the trigger, and the gun emitted a sharp click.

  It sounded far louder than was necessary, but mightn't it have been audible only to him? He tried to hold the weapon and his gaze steady as he aimed them at Dave. Then the man shouted, "It isn't fucking loaded." His fury turned gleeful, and he clubbed Don's forearm with both fists clasped together. Don gripped the weapon harder out of pure reflex, and it slammed into his crotch.

  The impact felt as though his right testicle had been hammered into his body. The whole of him went into spasm, his knees buckling, his hands clutching at his groin as the gun clattered across the sidewalk, his upper body jackknifing almost horizontal as the agony swelled and forced a scream past the flaring ache of his clenched teeth. The world lurched in sympathy, and then his blurring vision showed him that the traffic lights had changed. The bus was starting toward him. So was Ken, raising one foot too high to be merely running. Don fought to straighten up, but the pain at the centre of him was too great. The metal toecap of the heavy boot caught him in the face.

  Something broke—it felt like most of the right side of his head. He collapsed to his knees, scraping them across the sidewalk. His head, which had been jerked back like a punch-ball, sagged forward, and he raised a fearful hand toward his face. Before he could make himself touch it, evidence of his injuries appeared on his palm—blood and broken glass.

  The remains of his spectacles were still attached to his head. Through the surviving lens he saw the bus approaching. Passengers were pointing at him, and he thought he heard their muted cries of protest or distress. The bus drew alongside, and Don made out that the driver and passengers were less intent on him than on the gun. The bus accelerated, and in response to the signal it had given, Dave kicked him in the head as if to demonstrate to Ken how much better he could do.

  Don thought his glasses had been driven into his flesh until he heard them strike the sidewalk. He'd seen the boot rushing toward his right eye, but now that eye saw nothing—less than he could see without his glasses.

  Darkness which felt like white-hot chunks was spreading to fill that side of his head, and a wetness which he gathered wasn't only blood was spilling down his cheek. He imagined Susanne and Marshall seeing him like this, and it was the most terrible thought in the world. "Enough," he pleaded, just as a kick smashed his teeth into his mouth.

  The sidewalk tipped up to press itself, a cold rough grey blur, against his right cheek. Somewhere his hands were groping about, searching for some part of him to protect. There didn't seem to be much, especially once the boots commenced trampling on him, breaking him lik
e a pile of sticks. At least they were leaving his head alone, he found himself thinking, and when they'd finished someone would take him to hospital, to more than one hospital, first the eye hospital. At least he could no longer see the boots, but then one showed himself to him. It loomed above his head, and as he tried to work his mouth and find words to stop it, it came down. He broke as his skull did, and there was nothing left of him.

  13 Messages

  "Just explain tell me one thing. I've got to know."

  "Sure, now I've got put you where you can't do any more harm."

  "The crime in that novel book was perfect. There was no way he could have been caught. I did everything he did, so I shouldn't have been caught either."

  "Don't you think the guy who wrote the book author might have known something he didn't put in it the book?"

  "So what? You couldn't have asked him. It said he never gave gives interviews."

  "This is the only kind of interview he gives. Meet the author."

  Marshall hadn't shown any of his stories to his parents, but he thought he might let them see this one, which had earned him an A+ in English once he'd persuaded the teacher that he hadn't copied it from a book or been helped to write it. Perhaps he would wait until he was satisfied with it, since he was still rewriting it in his head. Maybe he could write a bunch of stories or even a novel about Don Marshall Varsit, the writer turned detective who specialised in solving crimes based on books. His father ought to be able to tell him whether any publisher would want to look at his work. Maybe this was Marshall Travis the author who was in the midst of the hundreds of schoolboys crowding along the corridor into the yard, where dark stains on the concrete were the only signs of the afternoon downpour. The crowd dissipated into the sunlight, and Marshall was heading for the gate when someone grabbed him by the shoulder. "Hey up a minute."

  Before he looked Marshall knew it was Ali Syed from the hint of spices lingering about his uniform. "I'll bring the tapes my mom borrowed from your dad's shop back later."

  "See you then, only here's the one Trevor said you could watch after me. Take it, quick."

  "What is it?"

  "John Woo's new one. It's amazing. There's one scene where, you know, the one who's always in them shoots nearly thirty people all in the same camera run."

  "My mom showed her students one of his. She was really grateful to your dad when he called up to say she could join, by the way."

  "She hadn't better show them that one when you aren't supposed to be able to get it. Christ, here comes Dickhead. Don't let him see. I'm off."

  The plastic of the supermarket carrier in which the videocassette was wrapped squeaked under Marshall's fingernails as he forced it into the space on top of his English workbook and zippered his bag shut. By the time he turned, Ali was out of the gate. The headmaster was stalking toward Marshall, his bald head gleaming as brightly as its twin wings of black hair.

  If he meant to ask what Ali had given him, why did he look embarrassed as his eyes met Marshall's? For most of his approach he seemed to be thinking of turning aside without speaking. He tapped his broad nose and then his thick pink lips with a forefinger, which he wagged to detain Marshall. The boy waited for him to come up, only to have to wait for him to speak. Then the headmaster took him by the shoulder and steered him with unexpected gentleness in the direction of the street. "Just walk out with me, Travis."

  As they passed out of the gate, Marshall was aware that everyone in the schoolyard was watching. Some boys were pretending not to, and he imagined they were thinking of fears too secret for him to admit to himself. Once Mr. Harbottle had aimed him at the main road he let go, keeping pace with him. He rubbed his chin as though it was a magic lamp such as figured in the fairy tales Marshall no longer read, and abruptly remarked, "I'm led to believe you're shining in English."

  "Doing okay, sir, I guess."

  "Doing well, I'm sure you intended to say." The headmaster cocked a frown at him; Marshall couldn't tell whether it was meant to look comical. "May we expect a contribution for the magazine?"

  This was so clearly not the subject Mr. Harbottle had been embarrassed to raise that for a moment Marshall was confused enough to think he was being asked for money. "What kind of stuff, sir?"

  "I'm glad you asked. Perhaps an essay setting out your impressions of the country in which you are a guest? Something to help banish any less fortunate associations."

  He might as well have been talking in code as far as Marshall was concerned. The boy felt small and vulnerable for nodding as though he knew what he was agreeing to. "Mr. Slater is the man to approach when you've produced a suitable piece," the headmaster said, and stopped walking. "Are you for town?"

  "I don't think so, sir," Marshall said, and wondered what on earth he was denying. "I mean, am I?"

  "Are you bound for the centre or home?"

  "Home, I think," Marshall said, searching for a reason why he should have been assumed to be going into Manchester. "Sure, home."

  "Then there would be little point in my offering you a lift. I hope to continue hearing good reports of you," Mr. Harbottle said, and let himself into the Renault beside which they were standing.

  The car winked and swung away from the curb, leaving a taste of its exhaust in Marshall's throat. He hurried after it, anxious to outdistance anyone who might want to know what Mr. Harbottle had wanted, because he was trying to decide that himself. The change in the headmaster's demeanour suggested he believed he had conveyed whatever he'd been embarrassed to say, but had he? Which less fortunate associations had he expected Marshall to recognise? Marshall ran across the road as the green man beckoned him, and made his way to his angular route home through the side streets. Several corners had blocked off the sounds of the main road when he realised what Mr. Harbottle had expected him to remember. The headmaster had proposed to tell the whole school about Marshall's behaviour in court, but the police raid had driven that prospect out of Marshall's head. Of course, it was the police raid which had changed the headmaster's mind. Marshall was no longer an example he wanted to hold up to the school.

  Marshall didn't care—not on his own behalf. It was the implication that his parents had been found wanting, that it was their fault, he didn't like. When he stopped at the corner before his house to pat Loper's head as the dog bounded up to the costume designer's gate, he was glad nobody would be home for his feelings to be hidden from. He gave the warm hard short-haired scalp a last pat, then crossed the road beneath the emptily blue sky, a rectangle of which had invaded his parents' bedroom. He glanced over his shoulder only twice, as he inserted the first key and as he pushed the front door open. He stepped quickly into the vestibule and pulled the door after him, making sure the lock clicked into place. The inner door swung away from him before he could touch it—the displacement of air had moved it, of course—and set off the alarm.

  He dumped his bag at the foot of the stairs and poked his key into the control panel, shutting off the alarm just as the siren raised its howl. He needn't be so nervous of it—it proved that nobody had broken into the house. He was opening the doors of all the downstairs rooms to admit more light and more sense of the house into the hall when he realised that there was a note from his mother on the pad slumped against the answering machine. Gone to the shop. Phone there out of order. Call you as soon as I've spoken to your father. Don't worry, everything's fine.

  Without that reassurance Marshall might have believed it was, and why shouldn't he still? The note didn't mean to remind him how alone he was in the house. He made to take the key out of the control panel, then left it there in case—in case of nothing in particular. Something which he didn't need to identify stirred in the sideboard as he hurried past the dining room to get himself a Coke from the refrigerator. As he pulled the tab above the sink, the can spat over the window, which he rubbed clean with a kitchen towel. The paper squeaked on the glass, the kitchen bin clattered like a plastic toy with a big dumb mouth as he trod on the pedal
. He was heading back along the hall, telling himself not to check the video Ali had given him because he would only end up watching it through before he did his homework, when he saw the pad had obscured the fact that the machine had a message for him.

  He twisted the switch and waited while the tape rewound. It appeared to be a long message—long enough to make him uneasy. The tape returned to zero, the mechanism emitted a series of clicks as it rearranged itself, and at last delivered its message. Only there was more than one: an order for books in an Irish accent so thick he thought at first it was meant as a joke, a call from his father which eventually proposed a meal at the Efes Kebab House, a reappearance by the Irishman. Marshall gathered his mother had rewound the tape only to that point so that his father could pick up the order. A beep separated the messages, but whoever had called next hadn't bothered to speak. Another beep, and Marshall wasn't sure if he heard breathing or just static. It might as well have been silence, and it lasted only a few seconds before being ousted by a call the tape had recorded weeks ago.

  Marshall stopped the tape and set it to record and picked up his bag, then relinquished it while he dialled the shop in case the phone there had been fixed. A long mournful drone answered him. He carried his bag and the glass of Coke into the dining room and told the rattle in the sideboard to shut up, and spread his homework over the table, and wondered how long ago his mother had gone to the shop. Wondering that would only get mixed up with his math, which they called maths in Britain although it seemed to be the same amount, and he took several deep breaths to clear his head before he wrote down the first equation. He was inscribing an x under the ledge of a square root sign when a car door slammed outside the house.