The Best New Horror 2

by Ramsay Campbell

“You have?” Anne went back to her chair. “What do you mean, you’ve seen it up close?”

  “Look at me, Miss Zaccaria. You think the love of the Lord do this to me?”

  There were then three nurses’ heads at the door, clustered on the frame like Japanese beetles on a rose stem. “Turn that down, Michael, or the player’s ours for the next week.”

  “Shit,” said Michael. He grappled the button; pushed it off. “I ain’t no goddam student!” he told the nurses who were already gone. “It’s my business how loud I play my music!”

  “Tell me about your accident,” said Anne. But she was thinking, ‘Hell, oh, yes, it must be like hell, living in a coma.

  ‘But he’s not in a coma. He is conscious. He is alive.

  ‘And when you are already in hell, what is hell to that?’

  Her next session with Michael was canceled because he was in the infirmary with the flu. And so Anne sought out Julia, and spent an hour with her, and then with Cora, who did not want to talk but wanted Anne to paint a picture of a horse for her. Randy and Ardie were again at the billiard table and would have nothing to do with her. Then she visited the faculty lounge, and listened with feigned interest to the disgruntled banter and rehab shop-talk. A few questions were directed her way, and she answered them as cordially as possible, but she wanted to talk about Stephen. She wanted to know what they knew.

  But she could not make herself bring up the subject. And so she went to the west wing, and let herself into Michael’s unlocked room.

  She went to the curtain and took the edge in her fingers. Her face itched but she shook it off. ‘No,’ said the adrenalin. “Yes,” she said. And she pulled the curtain back.

  The tubes flowed, nutrients in, wastes out. The monitor beeped. Bags dripped and pumps growled softly. Anne moved to the end of the bed. She forced herself to see what was before her, what she needed to see, and not be distracted by the machinery about it.

  The flesh of the chest twitched slightly and irregularly with the work of the wires. Every few seconds, the shuddering breath. It would be cold, Anne thought, yet the blanket was folded back at the foot of the bed, a regulation piece of linen which served no purpose to the form on the pillow. With the wires and tubes, a blanket would be a hindrance. The neck did not move; swallowing was for the wakeful. The head as well did not move, except for the faint pulsing of the nostrils, working mindlessly to perform their assigned job.

  Anne moved her hands to the railing of the bed. She slid around, moving along the side to the head of the bed. Her feet felt the floor cautiously as if the tiles might creak. She reached the pillow; her hands fell from the railing. Her face itched and again she refused to give in to it.

  Through fear-chapped lips, she said, “Stephen?”

  The monitor beeped. The chest quivered.

  “Stephen?”

  The sleeping face drew up as if in pain, and then the eyes opened. As the lids widened, the muscles of the cheeks seemed to ease. He blinked. His eyes were slate blue.

  “I hope I’m not bothering you,” she said.

  “No,” he said. And the eyes fluttered closed, and Anne thought he was asleep again. Her hands went to her face and scratched anxiously. She pulled them down.

  Stephen’s eyes opened. “No, you aren’t bothering me. Why would you think that?”

  “You were sleeping.”

  “I always sleep.”

  “Oh,” Anne said.

  “You’ve been spending time with Michael. What do you think of him?”

  “He’s . . . fine. It’s good to spend time with him.”

  The head nodded, barely, sliding up and down the pillow, obviously an effort. “You are Miss Zaccaria.”

  “Anne,” she said.

  “Anne,” he repeated. His eyes closed.

  “Do you want me to go now?”

  His eyes remained closed. “If you wish.”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “No.”

  And so she stood those very long minutes, watching Stephen slip into sleep, trying to absorb the reality of what was before her, counting the beepings of the heart monitor.

  Again the eyes opened. “You are still here.”

  “Yes.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “Only a few minutes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, that’s all right. I don’t mind.”

  Stephen sighed. “Why don’t you sit? There is a chair over there somewhere.”

  “I’ll stand.”

  “Michael is wrong. I do mind his music. I hate it.”

  “I could ask him to keep it down.”

  “It’s not the volume. It is the music. Music was created for movement, for involvement. I feel a straight jacket around my soul when Michael plays his music.”

  Anne said nothing for a moment. Stephen looked away from her, and then back again.

  “Why do you let them think you are comatose?” Anne asked.

  “That way I can sleep. When I sleep, there are dreams.”

  “What kind of dreams?”

  “Ever the clinical social worker,” said Stephen. And for the first time, a small smile crossed his lips.

  Anne smiled also. “That’s me,” she said.

  “My dreams are my own,” he said. “I would never share them.”

  “All right.”

  “And I would not ask you to share yours,” he said.

  “No,” said Anne.

  “I’m tired,” he said.

  And when she was certain he was asleep once again, Anne left.

  “I liked college, my studies there. The psyche of the human is so infinite and fascinating. I thought I could do something with all I’d learned. But I wasn’t smart enough to become a doctor.”

  “How do you know?”

  Anne shrugged. “I know.”

  “And so you are a therapist,” said Stephen.

  “Yes. It’s important. Helping people.”

  “How do you help?”

  “I listen to them. I help them find new ways of seeing situations.”

  “Do you like your patients?”

  “I don’t call them patients. They are clients.”

  “Do you like them?”

  “Michael asked me something like that when we first met. He wanted to know if I liked him.”

  “Do you?”

  Anne crossed her feet and angled her face away from Stephen. There was a lint ball on the floor by the bed. The nurses and orderlies were obviously quick about their business here.

  “Of course I do,” she answered.

  “That’s good. If you like people you can help them.”

  “That’s not a prerequisite, though. Liking them.”

  Stephen closed his eyes momentarily. Then he looked at Anne again. “You have a husband?”

  “No.”

  “A boyfriend, certainly.”

  “No, not really. I’ve not wanted one.” Anne hesitated. “It’s not what you think.”

  “What do I think?”

  “That I’m a lesbian or something.”

  “I haven’t thought that.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You have family, though.”

  Anne’s crossed arms drew in closer. Family, yes, she did. God knows what wonders she could have accomplished had it not been for her beloved family.

  “A mother,” she said. “An older brother.”

  “What are their names?”

  “My mother is Audrey. My brother . . .” Suddenly Anne was acutely aware of the utility sink behind her. She could see it brimming with water, cold water, stopped up and ready . . . “My brother’s name is Phillip.”

  “Are you close?”

  Anne’s shoulders flinched at the nearness of the sink. Dark water; thick, stinking, and hungry water. Eager. She swallowed, then looked down at her hands. ‘Pathetic things,’ she thought. She flexed them. ‘Goddam it all.’ She looked up at Stephen. His forehead was creased, with a barely discernible
shadow over his eyes.

  “Sure,” she said. “We’re close.”

  Then Stephen went to sleep. Anne stared at the dust ball, and at the tubes running from beneath Stephen’s ribs. And her fingers, wanting to move forward, were stopped, and were locked onto her lap like a colony of trapped souls.

  Janet Warren was chuckling as she ushered Anne into the office. “It’s no big deal,” she said, obviously seeing through Anne’s tight smile. “Honestly, I just want to talk with you for a minute.”

  Anne took one of the chairs that sat before the desk; Janet sat on the edge of the desk.

  “It’s Julia,” Janet said.

  Anne recrossed her arms and frowned slightly. “Julia? What’s wrong with her?”

  “Now, don’t get me wrong. Sorry, I don’t need to talk with you like that. You know what you’re doing, you know how people react sometimes. I’m sure you’ve had clients freak out during sessions, things like that.”

  Anne said, “Certainly.”

  “Julia went a little crazy after your last visit. She started throwing things; she even threatened bodily harm to herself if you came back again.”

  “Mrs Warren, certainly you don’t think . . .”

  “I don’t think anything, Anne. We’re in this together, remember? Julia has always been easily set off. It seems you remind her of someone she hated back when she was a child. In school, somewhere back then. You’ve done nothing wrong. As a matter of fact, you seem to be making real progress with Michael.”

  Anne tapped the rug lightly with the ball of her foot. “Michael likes to joke around. I seem to be a good receptacle for that.”

  “So be it,” said Janet. “That could be just what he needs at this point.”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “So what I wanted to say was just forget about Julia for the time being. I’ll get another volunteer assigned to her. With your own work at the Association, I’m sure a smaller volunteer load won’t disappoint you.”

  Anne nodded, stood, and started for the door. She turned back. “Mrs Warren, what do you know about Stephen?”

  “Stephen?”

  “Michael’s roommate.”

  “Ah, yes,” Janet said. She slipped from the desk top and went around the desk to the swivel chair. She did not sit. “It may sound bad to say that we assigned Michael to that room because we didn’t think any other student could tolerate Michael and his moods. Stephen’s in a coma; you probably already know about that. We have brainwaves, and they seem quite active, but who can figure what kinds of unconscious states the human can fall into? But whatever it is, Stephen is not to be disturbed. I would appreciate it if you would remind Michael to stay on his side of the curtain.”

  “Of course I will,” said Anne.

  “Thanks.”

  Anne looked out the office door, toward the activity in the main hall. Several wheelchaired students were talking with visitors; family, possibly. She looked again at Janet. “Before Stephen came here, who was he? I mean, what did he do?”

  Janet sat, and dug her fingers beneath a pile of manilla folders, in search for a particular one. “What? Oh, music, he was a musician. A pianist. On the way up, I was told. Into classical concerts, things like that. A pity.”

  It felt as though cold water had been poured over Anne’s lungs. She held her breath and slid her balled fists into her pockets. “And what,” she began, “happened to him?”

  The phone burred on the desk, and Janet raised an apologetic hand to Anne before picking up the receiver. She dropped to her seat with her “hello”, and Anne left the office.

  Michael seemed glad to be out of the infirmary. He waggled his eyebrows at Anne as she came into the room and raised up on his elbow. “Miss Zaccaria! Did you miss me?”

  Anne sat in the visitor’s chair. “Sure, Michael. Are you feeling better?”

  Michael snorted. “Not a whole hell of a lot better, but enough to get me out of there. God, you should see the nurses they have for us sick students. The old ones all look like Marines, and the young ones look like willing virgins. Like going from hot to cold and back to hot again all the time. It’s enough to pop your nads, if you got some.”

  “Are you well enough to start back into the electronics program? You haven’t done anything for nearly a month; and you know you can’t stay unless you are working toward a future.”

  “I’ve been sick. I had my emotional problems, right? I mean, you can vouch for that. That’s why you’re here.”

  Anne scratched her calf. “You have to look at your goals, Michael. Without goals you just stay put in time, and don’t make progress.”

  “I got a goal.”

  “What’s that?”

  “To get my butt scratched. You ever scratch your butt with a hook?”

  Anne shook her head.

  “You scratch my butt for me, Miss Zaccaria?”

  “Michael, don’t start . . .”

  “I ain’t trying to be gross, honest. I just got an itch.”

  “Michael, it’s not my place to do that. There are nurses.”

  “Tell me about it. Okay, then my back. You scratch my back? Please?”

  Anne felt her hands catch her elbows. She sat straight, shifting as far from Michael as she could without getting from the chair. “I’m not supposed to.”

  “Why?”

  “I just can’t. It’s not professional. Therapists aren’t supposed to touch clients.”

  “I’m not talking like you being my shrink now. Just my friend. Please. My back itches.”

  “No, Michael.”

  Michael was silent for a moment. He looked away from Anne, and studied a faint spot on his blanket. When he looked back, his face was pinched. “I ain’t trying to be gross,” he said softly. “How about my face? Can you scratch my nose for me?”

  Anne, slowly, shook her head.

  “Please,” he said. “Nobody ever wants to touch me.”

  “I can’t,” said Anne.

  Michael watched her, and then with a quick motion, he reached out and jabbed the play button on his tape player. Shrieking music cut the air. “Fine,” he cried over it. “Sorry I asked. I didn’t mean it, anyway. It was a joke. A butt scratch, shit, I just wanted a butt scratch for some jollies is all.”

  And then the nurses came and threatened Michael and he turned the music off.

  “One of the last sets of visitors I had was quite a long time ago,” said Stephen. “But it is one I’ll never forget.” He blinked, and his dark brows drew together, then apart. A strand of black, curled hair had been moved nearly into his eye, and Anne wondered what it would be like to reach out and push it back. “They were from a church. Pentecostal something. Holiness something. Young people, all of them. Neatly dressed, each in a pure white outfit that made me think of angry young angels. Even their Bibles were white. They didn’t want to be here; I could hear them whispering behind the curtain. They were very frightened. But the leader, a young girl of about eighteen, quieted them, saying ‘Even as you do it unto the least of the flock you do it unto Jesus.’ And in they came, smiles flashing. The girl told me I needed to turn my life around, I needed to turn to the Lord. I told her I wasn’t turning anywhere, couldn’t she see that? She became flustered with my responses, then furious. I believe I was supposed to shake in the presence of their godly and bodily wholeness. Her face was as paled as her dress. When she finally ushered out her little group, she told me ‘You better accept the love of the Lord. There isn’t anyone else in this world who would love something like you.’”

  “Christ, Stephen.”

  “No, it’s all right,” he said. His eyes closed, held, then opened slightly. “It was a long time ago.”

  “You said one of the last sets of visitors were the church people. Who were the last?”

  “Two insurance salesmen. I saw who they were, and went to sleep. I think they were more than relieved. I’ve been asleep most of the time since.”

  “Stephen.”

  �
��It’s all right,” he said. “Really.”

  Stephen shut his eyes. Anne watched his face. The nurses had done only a fair job of shaving. There was a small red cut on his chin. Then Stephen looked at her.

  “Why wouldn’t you touch Michael?”

  Anne started. “You were listening.”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t. It’s not part of the job, you know. People might take it the wrong way.”

  “Why are you a counselor, Anne?”

  “So I can help people.”

  “There are lots of ways to help. Doctors, physical therapists, teachers.”

  “Yes.” ‘But they have to touch people. I can’t touch, not now, not ever. Phillip touched me. Sweet God, he touched me and touching is nothing but pain and . . .’

  “Your family hoped you’d be a counselor?”

  “No, I don’t think it mattered to them.” ‘. . . anger and disgust. Touching is filth, degradation. It is losing control.’ Anne’s feet planted squarely on the floor. She was ready to run. ‘Touching is cold and hateful, like putrid, black water.’

  “Tell me about your family.”

  “I already did.”

  “You have a mother. A brother.”

  “I already did!” Anne’s hand flew to her mouth and pressed there. She had screamed. “Oh, God,” she said then. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right.”

  Anne’s throat felt swollen. She swallowed and it hurt. “I didn’t mean to shout. It was rude.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Stephen,” Anne began, and then hesitated. She inched herself forward on her chair. Stephen’s eyes watched her calmly, and they were not eyes of a blue and frightening ocean, but of a blue and clear sky. She saw an understanding there, and she wanted to reach out for it.

  She wanted it, but knew the only way to have it was to touch it.

  She sat back. “Good-night, Stephen,” she said.

  “Good-night,” he answered. And he slept.

  Randy was being released from the center. The staff threw him a good-bye party, complete with balloons and ridiculous hats and noisemakers which Randy pretended to hate but obviously loved. He made a point of hooting his paper horn into the ear of everyone present. Randy had landed a job in the camera room of the local newspaper. His going away gift was a framed, fake newspaper front page, complete with the headline “RANDY MYERS, AKA CLARK KENT, SECURES POSITION AT DAILY PRESS.” Beneath the caption was a large black and white photo of Randy, cigar in teeth, leaning over the billiard table. A cue stick was in his hand.