Necessary Monsters

by Richard A. Kirk

  "These events you mentioned, I wouldn't call them murders," said Jonathan. "Leaving aside poor judgment, real murder requires intent."

  "I'm building up to that. I killed a man in the city." Moss watched Jonathan carefully. "A bastard named Lamb." Moss clearly saw his companion absorb the news. Was it anger, fear, relief, or something else that crossed his face? Moss could not tell.

  "Well," said Jonathan, serious now. "I am, if nothing else, a good judge of character. You are a good man, so I say this Lamb doubtless got what he had coming to him."

  The two men ate in silence for some time. Eventually, they resumed talking. Jonathan complained about the plumbing in the building, the constant running battle with mice, and his love of complex chess problems. Eventually, the conversation led to board games in general. Moss spoke of how the board games, stacked in tattered boxes, had been a solace in prison. He described the routine of his life there, some of the characters he had known, the temporary respite that sinispore brought to his alternately boring and violent existence. He spoke of his growing struggles with the drug.

  It was late when the conversation dwindled to a standstill. Three empty wine bottles sat between them. Moss helped Jonathan tidy the kitchen. He dried the dishes that Jonathan washed, stacking them beside the sink. Each made a satisfying clink as it was nested in the one beneath. The dishes were stained and chipped, the glaze crackled. Moss reflected on the life of objects, how he well might live and die within the existence of a carefully handled kitchen plate. He was drunk, and his motions were slow and deliberate. He was disappointed when the work was done and Jonathan yawned in a way that was unmistakable in its meaning. The hours that they had spent talking seemed to have passed in half the time but now that it was dark, and there was little else to do but watch Jonathan drape wet tea towels over a radiator, Moss's lids felt heavy. He had not given a moment's thought to where he would sleep. Jonathan pointed at a door beside the pantry.

  Moss followed Jonathan up a flight of stairs. At the top, he was shown a plain but comfortable room. A mattress on a simple wood frame was positioned in front of an open window. There was a sink in which drips from a leaky faucet had eroded the enamel to reveal the pitted iron beneath. He again reflected on the life of objects. Moss wondered where he was when the sink had been installed. Had he even been born? He sat on the edge of the bed and yawned.

  "It's not much, but you should sleep well here, Murderer," Jonathan said, not unkindly.

  "Moss. My name is Lumsden Moss, but you know that already." He watched Jonathan for a reaction.

  Jonathan pretended to consider this with the utmost seriousness. "Not much better, actually," he pronounced finally. Both men chuckled grimly.

  "I know who you are, John." Moss had not planned to reveal this until the morning. It simply came out; impulse emboldened by alcohol. The other man sat down on the edge of the bed. He looked at Moss through watery eyes.

  "Of course. I guessed as much," he said. "Well, have you come to kill me?"

  "No," said Moss. "I'm not here to kill you. I had no idea you were here. How could I? But since we find ourselves together, I do have a few questions."

  John Machine put up a protesting hand and shook his head. "Questions are worse."

  "Why?

  "I've made some terrible decisions in my life. I've abused those who have loved me. My decisions led to terrible consequences, and I never had the strength to slow their momentum. The only solution I could find was to become a ghost."

  "That's not a solution, it's cowardice. Events don't stop because you've absented yourself. It just leaves other to clean up the fucking mess."

  "I know that. But eventually everything falls to its level and life can continue." John shift his bulk. "I'll answer one question. Only one."

  Moss shook his head, angrily.

  "Ask it," said John.

  "That day at the seawall was the first time in my life that I first felt implicated in death. Those other stories that I told you were horrible, but they simply confirmed what I already felt: there is a dark thread running through me. Because, John, a revelation like that isn't simply the consequence of a bad decision. It comes as a fundamental revelation of one's true nature. It poisons everything that comes after; it's bottomless."

  "Lumsden. One question—"

  "Did you ever love Memoria? Or was she just a meal ticket?"

  John seemed taken aback. He crossed his arms and looked at the floor. "Yes," he said finally.

  "Then why?"

  "As you so astutely pointed out, Moss, I am a coward. Cowardliness will make a man do things he can never forgive himself for."

  "You know she is alive?"

  John sighed heavily. "Yes, I'd heard."

  "I'm going to find her. I think she returned to Nightjar Island."

  "She may have. Maybe you should leave her alone."

  "You're not the first person to say that to me. I can't. Come with me, John. Make things right." Moss's eyes blazed with sudden enthusiasm. "Help me find her. We'll do it together."

  John shook his head, smiling sadly. "I cannot. I am still a coward, you see. You go, if you must. I am old now. I cannot face that place again. It's haunted." His face had a sheen of sweat and his skin had grown yellow and pale. "I cannot. Forgive me."

  "I don't know if I can," said Moss.

  John laughed explosively and straightened up. He smoothed his robe. "I suppose it wasn't to be." He slapped his hand. "Enough bedtime stories. We've both had a lot to drink. We should sleep. I'll be gone early. I have to travel to my monastery. I won't tell you where it is. Help yourself to whatever you want, but please tidy up. The mice, you know." He backed out of the hall, closing the door behind him. "The bog is down the hall to the left."

  Moss lay for some time, staring at the water-stained plaster above the bed. In the corner of the room, a spider plucked its web in silence. The house was quiet, but from outside he could hear music in the distance that seemed to thicken and run away with the wind. Once there was a loud shout from beneath his window followed by the sound of a breaking bottle and laughter.

  In his cell-like room, Moss, feeling detached from the flow of his life, drifted in and out of sleep, becoming aware as he dreamed of the rain against the windows. Long thunder came, and at its end, rattled the window casements. The vibration broke the cycle of his shallow rest.

  Awake now, he sat up on his pillow. The reflection of the water ran down the wall, a ghost that could not quite materialize. The evening's conversation replayed in his head and he regretted that he had told John far more about himself than he had intended. Maybe it was for the best. It had been an outpouring, like the cleansing sweat of a fever. On impulse he opened a drawer in a small bureau. He found paper and a battered fountain pen, which was coaxed to work after a few scribbled lines.

  He wrote for half an hour before he allowed himself to admit that he was writing to Imogene. Until that point he had tried to make sense of the events of the past few days. But then he found he was going further back in time, repeating the things he had told John. Finally, he expressed his feelings about her. He told her how he thought about her constantly and regretted the way they had parted. Moss had only said half of what was on his mind when he ran out of paper. He folded the sheets and put them in his coat pocket. The rest would have to wait. Outside, the windows had lightened with the coming of dawn. The house was still quiet. Was John still asleep?

  Lightheaded from a blossoming hangover and lack of sleep, Moss left the room and retraced his path through the house. The kitchen was empty, the chapel, cold and still. He stood in the doorway, watching as the fog of his breath rose above him like a departing soul. The sinispore vial sat where John had put it, smooth glass against brick. Moss carried it to the compartmented wall. Among the shoebox-sized openings, he found one with an open door and pushed the bottle as far back into the cobwebbed darkness as he could manage. After a few moments of deep breathing in the chilled air, Moss made his way back up to the
bedroom. He lay down on the bed to catch a couple of hours sleep before going in search of Gale. Once he located the collector he would cut him loose.

  He awoke many hours later to three surprises. He was covered in a blanket, an envelope was sitting on the bureau beside the fountain pen, and the room was filled with the unmistakable smell of a building on fire.

  OPERA FIRE

  The gilded theatre on the village waterfront was aflame. Moss followed the onlookers to the promenade, arriving as the roof collapsed. Horizontal geysers of fire roared from every window. Flames twisted into the clear morning sky and black smoke rolled over the slates of nearby rooftops. Moss stood with the sea at his back watching burning paper and fabric sift out of the sky, coating the street in soft ash. People careened in panic, laden with hoses and buckets, but it was obvious to those standing with the heat on their cheeks and the flames in their eyes that the building was lost.

  Moss watched the crowd in vain for Imogene or Gale, though at one point he thought that he saw Finch bobbing through the onlookers. Knowing that Gale would find the uproar irresistible, Moss plunged into the crowd in search of him.

  Moss jogged along a less crowded section of the promenade that gave him an elevated view of the crowd. Voices erupted as a section of the theatre crumbled, raining bricks and statuary onto the road. While most of the crowd stepped back, souvenir hunters ran out to grab smoking debris, careless of the danger. Moss had no time for the spectacle.

  He heard his name. It was Gale. The man did not seem himself. He was filthy and unkempt. Instead of his hunting coat, he wore an overcoat covered in ash. His pants were torn in several places and his hands and face were blackened with soot.

  "Where the hell have you been?" he asked, coming toward Moss. "I've been all over the town looking for you."

  "What happened? Were you in the fire?" asked Moss. He glanced around, uncomfortable with the attention they were attracting.

  "In it? I started it, you horse's ass," said Gale.

  Moss grabbed Gale and shoved him toward a staircase. He followed the man to the strand below.

  "What do you mean you started the fire?"

  "I found them, Moss. I found the great black horse carriage. It was hidden behind the theatre, covered by a tarpaulin. I looked everywhere but couldn't find you. What was I to do, I asked of myself. I didn't want them to slip away. I had to act. And act I did!"

  Moss shook the man by the shoulders. "What have you done?"

  "I waited for hours hoping they would come out. My plan was to shoot the wretched devils from a window of the building behind the theatre. But do you think they would emerge? No, the carriage just sat there. So I devised a plan. I'd smoke them out."

  "Idiot," said Moss, groaning.

  "Idiot? You're an ungrateful bastard. I did it for you." Gale rose to his full height with crossed arms.

  "Did what? Lit half the town on fire?"

  "As soon as it was light enough to see what I was doing I doused the straw around the carriage with petrol. Is it my fault the theatre was so untidy? The straw caught on to the old scenery flats leaning against the wall and before I knew what was happening the whole bloody place was ablaze. I thought that damned witch would come running out at the very least, but instead her creature came from somewhere, I have no idea where, and it pulled the carriage clear. Powerful as a dray horse. That's when I got a good look at the bloody, ah, demon, call it what you will."

  "What did you see?"

  "As I said, it came out of nowhere at all. It was made up of all manner of rubbish. Bones and rags, hair, sawdust, I don't know what all." Gale was waving his arms hysterically. "It had the most extraordinary eyes. Extraordinary!"

  "You didn't do this for me. Do you understand me? Do you? You did this on your own. There might have been innocent people in the theatre. Where is the carriage now?"

  "How should I know?" Gale sputtered, indignant. "I had my own skin to save." Moss slammed the man against a piling. He raised his fist to strike Gale but at the last second let him go.

  "Stay away from me," Moss growled. "I don't want to see you again. You're out of your mind. We're finished."

  Gale dusted off his clothing and spat on the ground at Moss's feet. "Finished, Moss? We had a bargain. Don't you forget it. If I don't get my prize you had better not set foot in the City of Steps again, or you'll be the one who's finished. It's no empty threat. You'll be back in the Brickscold Prison where you belong, I'll see to it." Gale laughed. "That is, unless the Red Lamprey catches up with you first. Do you think they'll let you get away with murdering Lamb? Do you? They're looking for you right now, Moss. So are the police."

  Moss turned his back and walked away. Making an enemy of Gale was a mistake. He sensed that, angry as he was. Who knew what connections Gale had, or what his motivations really were? Somehow, Gale had managed to follow them this far. Yet, the craftiness behind his fortuitous appearance in the field was seemingly absent in the terrible blunder of the fire. Or was it? Was Gale leading Moss to deliberately underestimate him? Since their first meeting in the bookshop Moss had felt like he was being manipulated. It had even crossed his mind that Imogene might be right in her fear that Gale was a member of the Red Lamprey, maybe someone tasked by Lamb to keep an eye out. Moss had written off the ruby pin as a coincidence, but perhaps it was not. He had reached the foot of the stairs when Gale shouted.

  "It must be comforting to be such a fool."

  Moss opened his mouth to answer but then realized he had nothing left to say to Gale. His only thought was to find Imogene and continue along the north road as quickly as possible. If they could get ahead of the carriage, they could find their way to the island and Little Eye. Surely they could travel over the island's treacherous terrain quicker than Echo and the carriage. He took the stairs at a run.

  The conflagration of the Opera House was likely the most exciting event the town had seen in a generation. The commotion around the collapsed structure had left the surrounding streets deserted. Moss ran to the inn without encountering a soul, arriving at the gate winded. His heart sank when he saw that the truck was gone.

  Shouting Imogene's name, he burst into an empty room. It felt dim and unfamiliar. The bed was unmade and the remains of a meal on a paper plate lay on the floor. The ballpoint pen had been put back together and left on the chair arm. Moss tore the drapes open and looked down at the yard, hoping as if by magic the truck might have reappeared. Adrenaline ebbing, he tried to think. The room was untidy, but there were no obvious signs of violence. Personal possessions had been removed. Moss checked the table, hoping for a note. He was disappointed. The floor creaked behind him. It was the teenaged daughter of the inn's owner standing in the doorway, sidling from foot to foot.

  "Um, sir?"

  "Yes?"

  "This is for you." She held out a piece of folded paper. "So, ah, that lady told me to give it to you." Moss nodded impatiently as he scanned the note.

  Moss,

  I'm sorry that we quarreled. I was hurt. That's my only defense for the way I acted, the words I said, which I would do anything to take back. Anyway, I am not safe here. I don't trust G., and the men that attacked last night are looking for us in the town. I know you will come back, but I can't wait for you. I will continue on in the hope that you will catch up to me—I certainly can't go back to the City of Steps, we decisively burned that bridge. Lamb will have been found by now and my disappearance noticed. I will wait for you at the narrowing of the path as long as I can. If you don't come, I will try to find M. myself. There is fire at my back, Moss, please hurry. I'll watch for you along the way.

  Until then,

  Love,

  Imogene.

  Moss looked up. "Did she give you this herself?"

  The girl nodded. "That's what I just said."

  He pocketed the piece of paper as he shoved past her.

  Outside, he noticed the old motorcycle propped against the back of the building. The girl hovered behind him.

&
nbsp; "What are you going to do now?" she asked, eyes wide, more curious than frightened.

  "Does that work?"

  "Pretty much."

  "Can I borrow it?"

  "I expect so, if you can have it back here before my brother gets back from work."

  "I will," Moss lied. "Get me the keys, okay?"

  "They're in it. Always in it so they don't get like lost, or whatever."

  As Moss stared at her, an idea came to him. "There isn't a gun around here that I could borrow, is there?" He grimaced theatrically, hoping it would be interpreted as an apology for the inconvenience he was putting her through.

  "Yes, in the kitchen. Want me to look?" she asked.

  Moss nodded with patience he did not feel. "That would be great if you could do that, thanks." He watched as she sauntered through the screen door of the inn's kitchen. When she was gone, he threw his leg over the motorcycle and kick-started the engine. It roared to life with a power that belied its dings and rust. The girl emerged from the kitchen with an ancient breech-loading military rifle dangling a canvas strap and an ammunition pouch.

  "This do?" she asked. "Dad uses it to kill the rats that get into the garbage shed." Moss took the rifle from her with both hands. In spite of its age it had been carefully maintained. He checked the magazine and discovered seven rounds. He slung the strap over his head and settled the weapon diagonally across his back.

  "It's perfect, thank you." He throttled the bike and it eased forward, taking a final look before heading out of the yard. The girl opened her mouth excitedly, holding both hands over her ears.

  BY SEA

  North of the village the landscape became more desolate with every mile. As the motorcycle clattered along the crumbling asphalt, Moss spied the odd farmhouse set in the rolling heather. Houses became less frequent as the hours passed. These outliers from the town were silvered husks, with their shingles lost in the high grass, roofs sagging inward.