Restoration

by Guy Adams

  Hughie had thought himself quite mad, shouting at the flies that encircled him out there in the humid swamp. Crashing through the undergrowth with no concern about the creatures that might take a fancy to a piece of strolling T-Bone. "Go away!" he had screamed, opening up the skin of his knuckles as he punched the twisted trunk of a cypress tree.

  Soon, robbed of all sense of direction through his panic and the sound of the man in his head, he had dropped, exhausted, into the undergrowth. After a few minutes he had walked home, legs moving almost independently of his own mind, nothing but a marionette brought back and laid down in the toy box for future games.

  The second time had been much more cautious. Only too aware of his visitor's abilities – however impossible they might be – he had snuck out of the window in the middle of the night, like a teenager creeping away from his folks when he wanted to party. He had hopeful thoughts of a limited range to the man's powers, a zone around his old shack that, once breached, would see him away scot-free. He had no intention of risking the depths of the swamp this time, not in the dark. He made his way along the track that led from his home to the narrow access road that allowed the few houses around here to drive up to the Interstate and into civilisation. The ground was dry and it was easy going once his eyes got used to the lack of light. His head was mercifully silent as he approached the edge of his property. The visitor had been watching the television – wasn't he always? He had seen the second-hand flicker of a news station through the window as he had crept past. It was as if the guy had never seen the TV before, obsessed with everything it offered, from Fox News to I Love Lucy reruns. He was welcome to it, Hughie hoped it rotted his damned brain right out of his ears.

  Just as he was about to cross onto the access road a light-headedness surged up from his shoulders, as if he'd stood up too fast. He fought to keep standing but failed miserably, toppling into the grass by the side of the track. What the hell was that? he wondered, his body fizzing with pins and needles and utterly uninterested in responding to his attempts to move.

  "You really like to push your luck, don't you Hughie?" the stranger asked, floating into vision just above him. "You try a man's patience."

  Hughie tried to reply but his mouth was as slack and useless as his legs.

  "I've made no attempt to hurt you," the stranger continued, "beyond that little love-tap when we first met, anyway. Haven't I been a polite house guest?"

  Oh yeah, thought Hughie, real polite. Made yourself right at home, in my house and my head.

  "As if either were precious," the stranger replied. "Last chance, Hughie, do as your're told or I'm done with you. I'll leave you here to think about that." He walked out of Hughie's field of vision. "I'll make sure you're not lonely."

  Hughie had a few minutes to wonder what that might mean until he felt the weight of something creeping along his leg and onto his chest. It was too dark to see clearly but the gentle rattle of the Diamondback told him all he needed to know. The first was joined by another and another, all curling their way around his limbs, hovering near the warm air-vent of his mouth, running their tongues over his clenched teeth. He had stayed like that until dawn, the first light ushering the snakes home to their inherited holes or onto rocks where they could bask in the heat. Eventually his legs twitched back into use again and he stumbled, aching and scared, back to his house.

  The stranger was sat on his veranda, that slackmouthed companion of his propped up on the swing seat next to him. Hughie had no idea what was wrong with this guy, he had all the life of a coma victim. "So," the stranger said, "what's your answer?"

  "You know what it is," said Hughie, "I may not be much but I'm sure as hell not stupid. I won't try and leave again."

  "Good man," the stranger replied, "now why not get a bit of shut eye? Looks like you didn't get a wink last night."

  Hughie didn't grace that with a reply, though if the stranger was as at home in his thoughts as he suspected then he would hear Hughie's opinion of him clear enough. He pushed his front door open (having repaired the hole in his wall caused by the shotgun the door stuck like a bitch these days) and went straight to his room.

  The stranger had been speaking the truth about his lack of interest in killing Hughie. In fact the stranger only lied if it amused him, he had no other cause to. Lies are a defensive strategy and he was impervious enough to harm not to need them. He had threatened this reality on leaving the House – had in fact been clear about the jeopardy it was already in – but he had no intention of tearing it apart just yet. What would be the point? As he had explained to Hughie, his only real interest was entertainment and there was a limit to how entertaining this world would be if he snuffed it out of existence. This was not to say that he had no intention of roughing it up a little. He did and would. But it should survive his attentions well enough for as long as it continued to amuse.

  Hughie was also useful. He wasn't far from the truth when he had pictured the stranger rifling through his thoughts as if his head were a filing cabinet. It had only been a few years since the stranger had last walked this planet but they had been busy years. He found himself utterly enthralled by the things he saw in Hughie's mind. Not just the events that the man defined as major (the wars, the space missions, the assassinations) but also the trivia… He adored the television, he loved the pointless enthusiasm of it, its brightly-coloured shallowness, its lack of attention span. It would seem that mankind had taken one more step along the evolutionary ladder… it had made a number of scientific breakthroughs, advanced its thinking just that fraction… then promptly sat down and demanded to be entertained. To hell with advancement, mankind said, show me some cool shit and take me out of myself for awhile. Mankind had become just like him! He couldn't help but love them a little for that…

  He looked across at Chester, little more than a dull flicker of consciousness surrounded by meat. "There's hope for you lot yet!" the stranger said, poking Chester's pallid cheeks.

  7.

  Hughie had slept for awhile but the phone woke him just as he had begun to sink into worthwhile, deep sleep.

  "Bones," he murmured, trying to rub his face awake.

  "You're not fucking dead then?" Ted Loomis, his employer, shouted down the receiver. "I felt sure you must be, given that you hadn't showed up for work for two days."

  Shit… This Hughie did not need.

  "I've been real ill, Mr Loomis," he said, his voice sounding rough enough to convince, "tell the truth just now's the first time I've really woken up."

  "Ill?" Loomis asked, damned if he was going to believe a word of it.

  "Yes sir, sorry sir I should have called but it just kind of hit and I've been off my feet for…"

  "Damn right you should have called!" Loomis shouted, "I run a respected business here, one that relies on people knowing that if they ask me to do something that something gets done. How do you think it looks when I get a phone call telling me that my staff haven't showed up?"

  "Awful, Mr Loomis," Hughie said, omitting to suggest that perhaps Loomis could go and suck his own shit for a few days, he sure had the capacity for it. He needed his job and if that meant leaving things unsaid then that was just the way it would have to be.

  "So what do you intend to do about it?" Loomis asked. Loomis liked it when his staff hanged themselves, he was happy to provide the rope, hell yes, but he much preferred it when they tied the knots themselves.

  "I'll make up the time tomorrow, sir," Hughie promised. "I'll just pull a couple of double shifts until I'm caught up."

  "Well now," Loomis' voice softened a touch, "just mind you do. I'd hate to have to replace you and that's a fact."

  Sure it is, thought Hughie, you'd never find another nigger dumb enough to put up with your shit.

  "That won't be necessary sir," Hughie said. "It'll all get cleared by the end of the week."

  "Then we'll say no more about it." Loomis hung up, apparently determined to be true to his word.

  "Motherfuck
er," Hughie whispered.

  "Problem?" the stranger asked, loitering in Hughie's doorway.

  "My boss," Hughie replied, "wondering where I've been."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "Said I was sick,"

  "He believe you?"

  "What the fuck do you care?"

  The stranger shrugged. "Couldn't care less, you're quite right."

  "I need my job," Hughie said.

  The stranger shrugged again.

  "Seriously, if I don't turn up tomorrow then Loomis will fire me, then I'm fucked."

  The stranger wondered what business any of this was of his. He checked in Hughie's head about this "Loomis" he had mentioned and then drew up short. How interesting, he thought, there are patterns at work here…

  "Tell me about the Home Town project," he said.

  8.

  Hughie hadn't known what to expect after the stranger had made it clear that they were going to go and talk to Loomis. It was the first time the guy had wanted to leave the house and that was good enough for him. He would be lying if he hadn't hoped there might be an opportunity to lose his new tenant somewhere along the line – though that had soon turned out to be a fruitless hope, he had dragged him around like a dog on a leash the whole time they were out. "Just look at all this," the man had said, taking in the skyline of Orlando like a tourist, "how you've come on in just a few years."

  "I'll take you to Disney World tomorrow," Hughie said, "you'll cream your pants."

  The stranger looked at him askance, inclining his head like a bird on a telegraph wire listening to the hum of long distance calls. Hughie felt the tickle of the stranger's fingers inside his head, flipping through those mental folders one by one. The stranger chuckled.

  "Maybe I would," he said.

  Hughie didn't ask how the man had known where to find Loomis, didn't want to know. He wouldn't have understood the answer anyway so what was the point?

  They watched his boss come strolling out of that new bar, the sound of Dixieland and the murmur of drunken happiness rolling behind him like the train of a wedding dress.

  "That's his car," Hughie said, nodding towards the behemoth sat beside the sidewalk. "Damn thing's more comfortable than my house."

  Loomis climbed behind the wheel and the stranger pushed Hughie forward. "Go and speak to him."

  "And say what?"

  The stranger dismissed the question with an irritated flick of his hands. "Doesn't matter."

  Hughie walked forward, not having the first idea of how this clusterfuck was likely to pan out, knowing only that it would. Things were coming to a head, the bizarre events of the last few days bubbling over. Things wouldn't be the same after tonight, that was for sure. He wasn't stupid enough to think he could do a thing about it one way or the other. Hughie Bones, he thought, just another of life's passengers, here for the ride. He tapped on Loomis' window.

  His employer lurched in his seat, startled and afraid, just for a moment. Then he saw Hughie's face and, slowly, began to relax.

  "Bones?" he saw him mouth before, irritated, he pressed the electric switch for the window and let some of the night in. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

  Good question, Bones thought, before that phrase ran through his mind again: just here for the ride. Some of us are always just sitting shotgun.

  "He's with me," the stranger said. "We fancied a chat."

  Then he hit him, and just as he had done when he had popped Hughie's nose with the butt of his gun, the move appeared gentle and controlled. It was just as potent too, Loomis went out like someone had just pulled his plug, slumping in a dead weight over the wheel.

  "Oh Jesus," Hughie whined. That was it, as predicted, no going back now…

  "Shut up and drive," said the stranger. "Mr Loomis and I will keep each other company on the back seat."

  Hughie did as he was asked, things were too far gone now to sweat the small stuff. He drove the car back out of the city, glancing at the rear-view mirror when Loomis woke up with an agonised moan.

  "Shush," the stranger said. Hughie was unable to take his eyes off the mirror as the man pushed his index finger against the corner of Loomis' mouth and ran it across the man's lips. The lips came together like zippered fabric, the teeth vanishing beneath a perfect sheet of skin.

  "Oh fuck…" Hughie whispered, snapping his eyes back to the road and wishing like hell that he hadn't seen that.

  "Keep your eyes on the road, Hughie," the stranger said. "Safety first." Loomis was panicking… muffled noises puffing that smooth expanse of skin out in a fat bubble. "Shush now," the stranger whispered in the man's ear – though not quiet enough that Hughie couldn't hear, Christ how he wished otherwise – "or I'll seal those piggy little nostrils of yours too and you can suffocate, or split open your face with the pressure… whichever comes first."

  Loomis kept quiet all the way back.

  9.

  Hughie parked the Olds out front of his house. He didn't like leaving it there… felt as if it was a flashing neon sign that would shout to any passers-by that Hughie was complicit in Loomis' abduction. But then he didn't get any passersby, and he was complicit… complicit to the fucking hilt.

  The stranger dragged Loomis into the house but Hughie had no intention of watching what came next. He grabbed one of those damned warm beers and sat outside, trying not to look at the slack face of Chester, still propped up in the corner of his veranda.

  "Here's to not ending up like you," Hughie said, tipping the neck of the beer bottle towards the comatose man before draining half of it.

  10.

  Carruthers woke to a pain behind the eyes that brought to mind his recent experience in the House library. Unfortunately the effects of Mr Wallbanger and his deceptively refreshing drink didn't have the same effect on his memory as the bookworms had. In fact he could remember the night before only too well. He would have been happier were it not so.

  "You're a fool Roger Carruthers," he murmured, rubbing at his numb face.

  He shuffled into the en suite bathroom and sat on the edge of the bath to decipher the controls. The taps were linked to a pipe that fuelled some form of shower contraption. Carruthers had heard of such things but never used one. He stared, bleary eyed, at the diagram on the side of the bath, turned on the taps and then yanked the handle that alleged to control the shower. A burst of cold water landed on his head making him roar in surprise. It was not the most noble of mornings. Once he had managed to control the temperature he stripped off and climbed in, standing under the jet of hot water and sighing as it attempted to beat away the brittle edges of his hangover. After a few minutes of woolgathering, he found the wrapped bar of soap and began using it. By the time he had finished he was willing to allow the future some merit. Showers were good, he could get quite fond of them in fact.

  He towelled himself off and shuffled back into the bedroom. Being more aware of his surroundings than before his shower, he spotted a note propped up on the top of one of those viewing boxes they seemed to love so much in this century.

  Morning! it said, you will no doubt be feeling as rough as a donkey's arse. Typical Miles, always concerned with rumps. I'm in the room next door (704). Come and knock when you're awake and we'll have some breakfast.

  Breakfast. Carruthers wasn't convinced that he could survive such a thing.

  He pulled on his clothes and went to the next room. Miles opened his door with a smile that made Carruthers' eyes hurt.

  "Morning!" Miles said, in a voice too loud to be tolerable.

  "Yes it is," Carruthers replied, "though I would be grateful were you not to be so enthusiastic about it."

  Miles grinned again, but lowered his voice in sympathy. "Heavy night wasn't it?"

  "It was a living hell, I am sure I shall never restore my reputation for as long as I live."

  "Rubbish," Miles replied, "we've all ended up dancing with the decorative plants in our time."

  "Speak for yourself," Carruthers' memory w
as clearly not as intact as he had believed, he had quite forgotten about the dancing. Though now Miles mentioned it an image flashed through his head of him trying to climb a rubber plant "to see if the giant was home". Dear Lord… how could he ever hold his head high again? "You mentioned breakfast?"

  "Indeed I did, hang on," Miles dashed back into his room to turn his viewing box off and then returned to Carruthers in the corridor. "Let's see if Tom's up shall we?"

  "Hmm… I fear that man is a bad influence."

  "He certainly has a thirst on him," Miles agreed, knocking on Tom's door.

  11.

  Tom woke to a wet pillow and a mouthful of that old familiar, drunk musk. Just like old times, he thought, rubbing at the unruly pile of curly hair that had no doubt stiffened into a fat quotation mark after sleeping on it. Remembering the sensation of being visited in the night he reached out and patted the far side of the bed. It was empty of course. No doubt it always had been.