Aickman's Heirs

by Simon Strantzas

  Bentley pointed at one of the armchairs. “Sit you down, Raymond,” he said. “Oh—you don’t mind if I call you by your first name, do you? Now we are not at work, ‘Mr Thomas’ and ‘Mr Bentley’ would seem so unnecessarily formal, don’t you think?” Without leaving time for Thomas to reply, Bentley continued, “I’m Gordon. We use first names here. Now I’ll see what’s happening about those drinks. Please excuse me for a moment.”

  Left alone in the room, Thomas gazed at the empty fireplace, which gaped like an open mouth. Books and papers were stacked on the mantelpiece, seemingly mocking gravity. On the wall over them was a framed picture, what looked like a drawing, black on white, of a distorted, rimless wheel or giant insect. It was hard to tell, in the congealed light. Whatever it was seemed to possess six spokes or limbs. He looked around, longing to find evidence of a working gas or electric fire, or any sort of portable heater, but there was none to be seen. He wondered what Bentley had meant by ‘drinks’. He had certainly not expected anything alcoholic—at least, not this early in the afternoon—and it was surely too cold for lemonade or fruit cordial to be offered. Thomas wanted a cup of hot, strong, sweet, tea. He wanted a cup or mug to cradle in his hands and its heat to warm him through.

  The door opened. “Here we are,” Bentley said. “It was easier for me to bring them up myself. Edith can be very slow on those stairs. She has to be careful at her age, especially carrying things.”

  Bentley placed a large tray squarely on the table. There was a plate with a mound of plain, rectangular biscuits, two tall glass tumblers, and a glass jug full of a greenish-grey liquid.

  “Ginger beer all right?” Bentley asked, as he filled the glasses. “We don’t have hot drinks here. Or hot food either, for that matter.”

  Thomas dumbly took the glass held out to him, and picked a biscuit from the plate that Bentley also offered.

  “Yes, Edith owns this house, and I rent the first floor. It’s ideal for our little, well, society, you see, Raymond. At the present time there are but few of us. There should be six in all. Any more than that and it would have to be twelve, formed into a second group. Here we need six. There’s the right amount of room for our meetings. Myself and Edith live in this house, and Timothy and Derek join us. Timothy lives in Richmond, and Derek in—oh, I keep forgetting, it’s either Feltham or Sunbury. And there’s Mr Heldman.”

  “I thought you said you were on first-name terms,” Thomas said, swallowing the last of his biscuit.

  “Ah, yes, you caught that. Very good!” Bentley laughed. “Yes indeed, except that Mr Heldman founded and leads our little group so is accorded a small but important honour. We are allowed to use his first name on our festive day.”

  Thomas took another biscuit from the plate Bentley held out in front of him. “Your festive day?”

  “Yes, Raymond, our festive day. It’s the Winter Solstice. The shortest day—‘least light, most night’ as Mr Heldman is wont to remind us. Unfortunately even though the solstice is the darkest day it is not usually the coldest day. We believe that’s normally around now, the middle of January. It’s certainly when a great number of people seem to be feel at their lowest ebb, if I may put it like that. It’s also Mr Heldman’s birthday. The seventeenth, that is.”

  “That’s today,” Thomas said.

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it,” Bentley said. “Here, let me help you to some more ginger beer. Edith makes it herself.”

  Thomas leaned forward, putting his glass on the table. He wished he had the courage to stand up, ask for his coat and hat, and leave. But he would only have to face Bentley again on Monday morning. He turned his head to look at the picture above the fireplace. The movement caused the frigid air to stir and brush past his face. He clamped his teeth together, in case they should start to chatter. He slipped his hands under his thighs, pushing them between the fabric of his trousers and the rougher material covering the armchair. If he could crush his hands hard enough perhaps his body would try to warm them. He felt heat draining from him.

  “We don’t have hot drinks or food here, Raymond,” Bentley said kindly. “In our little group we have no need of them. Even a little abnormal heat is so unproductive.” He poured more ginger beer into Thomas’ glass. “There. I did say there should be six of us, didn’t I?”

  Thomas nodded. Perhaps the effort in the movement could help warm him. The friction of his shirt rubbing against his shoulders and neck: something like that.

  “You only named five people,” he said.

  Bentley took a biscuit, broke it, and crammed both halves into his mouth. He chewed vigorously, and swallowed. Then he gazed at Thomas expectantly.

  “You are fast to catch on,” he said. “I think you have little difficulty in putting two and two together, Raymond.” He reached for another biscuit. “And I am rather hoping you will not end up with four. We are not operating mere calculating machines now! Mr Heldman would be very pleased, I’m sure I may say that much.”

  The room was silent, except for the sound of Bentley breaking his biscuit into several pieces, which he ate slowly, one by one.

  Thomas tried to make it seem that he was not looking anywhere, or at anything, in the room except Bentley. His gaze came to rest on the bay window. The small diamond-shaped panes, held together—or was it apart—by their strips of lead, were a net flung over grey cotton wool. For the first time he realised there were no curtains. The afternoon light seemed to have achieved some sort of equilibrium. It didn’t seem to have grown any darker since he had last taken any notice of it.

  The other man followed Thomas’ stare.

  “I remember those old pea souper fogs, don’t you, Raymond?” he said. “When you’d step outside and not be able to see your hand in front of your face. Anything could happen, and often did, eh? We agree with all the new measures to cleanse the air. Our London fogs are pretty clean fogs these days, with so much less in the way of dirt and soot contaminating them. I suppose they will be eliminated altogether, one day.

  “I always think and I know Mr Heldman agrees with this—that white fog is colder. It does the job more effectively. White is our colour, you see, Raymond—or is it lack of colour? I’m never sure. Mr Heldman would know. Now it is the coldest, dreariest, lowest time of the year—the most ‘immemorial’ as Poe might have said of it—but it’s the time when the cold mist can glow a spotless white, when the ice can take us beyond all that.

  “But no fog at all is the best. One day we, the human race, will never be dreary or ‘down’ again, because we will be white and clean and frozen through. We will be unmoving and unthinking in an endless worship, clear as crystal and doing nothing but reflecting the light of the sun and moon. And for ever.”

  Bentley swallowed the last of his ginger beer and stood up. “Raymond, come and look at this.”

  Thomas followed him over to the empty fireplace. They stood in front of the picture.

  “That is the most beautiful thing there can be,” Bentley whispered. “A single flake of snow.” He paused. “No, Raymond, I’m not quite correct there. The most beautiful sight of all must be an infinitude of snowflakes, dancing in a bright storm or crystallized, at rest in ice or in a snowfield extending to the horizon and beyond. But this one here—that’s actually a photograph. Did you know that, Raymond? Out of all the millions and billions and trillions, no-one has ever seen two exactly the same. Did you know that? It was George, our last sixth, who captured that one and photographed it. He reversed the image and expanded it to make the lovely icon we keep here and which I have let you see now.

  “Who would have thought that from this dull, ordinary stretch of London the six great arms will one day radiate outwards? When the time is right, and at Mr Heldman’s decision, all the infinite number of snowflakes, ice crystals—each one different, Raymond, remember that—will join and their numberless differences will be swallowed. Each unique will join the Unique. There will be safety and security, oneness, and pure, everlasting, rest. And it will be fo
r all.”

  Bentley’s looming proximity and what seemed his increasing bulk brought Thomas out of his reverie. Had he already been frozen in place? The gloomy room was full of a musty dampness: the smell of winter mist and very slightly moist clothing clinging to everything, and impossible not to breathe. His collar felt tighter around his neck; he felt bloated, awkward and misshapen. Sweat broke out on his forehead, despite the chill of the room. Surely it had been Bentley who had eaten nearly all the biscuits and drunk most of the ginger beer. Thomas looked around for the door. When he had finally located it, he moved.

  “Please, you must excuse me…”

  “Of course. The door at the top of the stairs. Don’t be too long, Raymond. I haven’t finished yet.”

  Soon Thomas did feel better. He stood up. The pale linoleum crackled beneath his shoes. Although he let the hot tap run for as long as he felt he could, there was only icy water for washing his hands. He wiped his face and looked in the mirror. One of its corners was cracked, and forming around the edges was a flaky white discolouration, apparently in the depths of the glass. In the hazy light it seemed to grow slightly even as he leaned in, squinting, to examine it.

  He considered he options. No doubt Bentley was expecting that he return to him in the room at the front of the house. Perhaps, even now, Bentley was outside on the landing, waiting to conduct him back to his sanctum. If not, he could attempt to go downstairs and make his escape. On Monday morning he could plead an onset of stomach upset or some other ailment. He would be magnanimous with his conjectures on its origin. But the moment passed, with his resolve. He would have had to take the time to retrieve his coat, scarf, and hat, and Bentley might have come upon him. And there would have been Edith to consider.

  Thomas unlocked the bathroom door. The first door on the landing—behind which lay, presumably, Bentley’s bedroom—was now ajar, and a sliver of light fell across the increasingly viscid carpet. In contrast to all other light in the house, it was sharp and effective. It actually illuminated. Thomas gently pushed at the door. It rubbed against the carpet with the hiss of the sea gently ebbing. The only other sound, growing into audibility as he continued to push, was a low and monotonous droning. As soon as he had enough space, Thomas put his head around the door, clutching the handle and ready to retreat and pull the door back to how it had been.

  The bedroom was as murky as the late afternoon expiring on the other side of the window. The source of the light, and noise, revealed itself to Thomas as a refrigerator, its door flung wide and kept from closing by a pile of books. Rearing up monumentally from the centre of the floor, it dominated the room, pouring forth a tide of bright creamy light. The fridge was unmistakably brand new, straight from the showroom. Its enamelled expanses were still a pristine sparkling white, and its chromium trimmings gleamed. The exposed interior yawned, coated with a thin layer of frost or even ice, but was otherwise utterly empty. The shelves and other fittings had been removed. The motor, hard at work, hummed an unvarying note.

  Somehow the sight commanded his respect. Standing as if before a vacated tabernacle, or one as yet bare of a presence, Thomas heard again childhood hymns of the wilderness and holy places. In the desert or waste was all passion stilled. He did not advance any further into the room. Was that frost budding on the carpet? Eventually he backed away and pulled the door closed. He went on to where he knew that Bentley, rejoicing in the stolid patience of a glacier, was still awaiting his return.

  *****

  More ginger beer and biscuits had been placed on the table during Thomas’ absence.

  “Ah, Raymond. Better, I trust?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Good. Now, Raymond, I hope I shall have good news to tell Mr Heldman when he arrives?” Bentley glanced at his watch. “He shouldn’t be long now. Then later, when Edith and the others –”

  “Mr Heldman? Coming here?”

  “Why, yes, Raymond. My dear chap, I thought you had been listening—as well as looking, eh?”

  Bentley got up from the sofa and reached out, gripping Thomas’ elbow. There was no pain, but he had to move as Bentley moved. They stood, once more, in front of the photograph hanging over the crowded mantelpiece.

  “How can you not –”

  “It’s changed to a new shape,” Thomas said.

  “What? Oh, yes, very likely it has. I sometimes think so, too, but I can never be certain. I expect it means something—either way.”

  Thomas wrenched himself free.

  “I want to go now,” he said. “I have to get home. Forgive me, Gordon.”

  *****

  Thomas walked quickly, stumbling on uneven paving slabs, buttoning his coat as he went. When he reached the end of the road he stopped to adjust his scarf and hat. His breath crystallized. It was dusk. The sky was dirty concrete, with everything beneath it entirely shaded in grey and brown. The mist seemed to have purpose: poised, about to regather in strength. The only relief came from windows not yet curtained, from streetlights and the headlights of slowly moving vehicles.

  In the bus he dug in his pocket for coins to pay his fare. The first he found was a half crown, worn and dull. Clutching it as the conductor made his away along to him, he saw a rime of frost spread like a rash over the smooth metal, engulfing the barely distinct head of a king. He almost dropped his money.

  “Sorry, it’s the smallest I’ve got,” he told the conductor. The ticket machine clattered and vomited. The conductor poured Thomas’ change into his palm. The coins were very new, shiny and warm. Thomas smiled broadly.

  “Jackpot,” the conductor said, grinning as he moved on.

  Thomas thought about staying on the bus past his stop, travelling on until it reached the terminus. Hands in his pockets he relaxed and immersed himself in the warmth and closeness of animated, breathing bodies. He welcomed the chatter and laughter, the banter and grumbles pressing in all around him. The misted windows, dripping with condensation; the garish adverts, the official notices; a bulging shopping bag placed squarely on his foot, which left a dull ache even after the woman, young and harassed, had smiled an apology and moved it: all cheered him. Cigarette smoke drifted across the aisle. There was a wave of coughing. Newspapers and magazines rustled like a gentle rain.

  Routine asserted itself, and Thomas jumped off the bus as it started to pull away from his usual stop. He turned off the High Road, walking home along his normal route. As he approached the railway bridge the mist thickened. In the fog he could be anywhere: standing at the end of Bentley’s cul-de-sac or still inside the house. Above him, a train clattered out of the station.

  Thomas was grateful for the fog. He recognised it as the opposite of everything he had been told about during the afternoon. He strode on. He had never cared for surprises or departures from his tried and tested ways, but now the last of the day had drained away, the idea of further and different days lying in wait—all unformed, arbitrary—held, at last, pure appeal for him.

  Later, he thought, he might forsake his little sitting-room with its bookcase and radio, and take the Tube into the West End. On the trains, in the stations beneath the streets, it would again be warm and bright, crowded and noisy. Thomas looked forward to the clamour and disorder—even to the dirt and grime, gathered, unyielding. Anything could happen. Perhaps it would begin to snow.

  Camp

  David Nickle

  Before everything, they had to get married.

  That had happened just two days prior, at a little woodland bed and breakfast outside South River. There was some family, but it was mostly friends—in from Ottawa and Toronto, and Chicago where James had grown up. They laughed and drank and danced among the black flies and pine trees, the vivid afternoon light that laid the land in such sharp relief. When finally the friends and family went home they swapped out wedding luggage for camping gear from James’ sister Evelyn’s van, strapped their sea kayaks to the roof of the Honda... and James and Paul Berringer headed alone into the northern Ontario h
igh summer.

  The truck passed them the first time on a straight-away outside New Liskeard. It was a big silver GM pickup that rode high and was designed for sport more than work. James, driving, gave a polite wave, and Paul had thought he’d been waving at some road-weary toddler. Not so, as it turned out. Some old bat, James’d said. More than that it was hard to say, because the truck rode a good two feet higher than the Honda. To show what he meant, James gunned the motor the next straight-away and sailed past the truck. Paul waved out the window as they passed. He bent to look in the side-view mirror, saw a hand emerge, salute off the top of the cab like it was a captain’s hat.

  The truck made its next pass on a curve, as the highway cut down close to a lake of tufted islands and wind-warped conifers. Two hands emerged from the passenger window that time, bestowing garlands of air kisses down onto the Honda. Paul tried to return the salute by jutting out his passenger window, propping ass on car door and waving over the top of the roof. But he remembered that the kayaks were there, about the same time as James shouted at him to quit fooling around and put his goddamn seatbelt on.

  They laughed and drove, and turned up the music, and turned it down again when they wanted to talk and back up when they’d made their points, as the highway cut through blasted-out shield rock and trees that seemed to hang just over their heads. The truck showed up in the rear-view from time to time but it was gone as often as it was there. After awhile, they stopped checking for it. They were two guys on their honeymoon. They had other things on their mind. Christ.

  They stopped, finally, in the late afternoon—at a place called Curt. The town wasn’t much more than a co-op grocery store, a liquor store and a filling station, all along the highway. They slowed down and pulled into the grocery store’s parking lot. It was late in the afternoon, and things didn’t stay open that long up here. And the truck appeared again, pulling into the spot right beside them.