"Don't do that!" she said abruptly. "I hate anyone doing that!"
One bad mark. Frank counted seconds as he reached for the light switch. With darkness she squirmed, pushed herself free of his arms.
"I hate the dark! Must you be like all the others?"
Two bad marks. Twenty seconds to go. Time for one more quick exploration. His hands groped, made contact, moved with educated determination. She sighed with pleasure.
He activated the ring.
"Frank!"
He reached out and took her in his arms, this time making no attempt to either nibble or bite. Her clothing rustled to the floor and the skin gleamed like pearl in the light. He looked at her, boldly admiring, and his hands moved in the way which gave her pleasure.
She closed her eyes, fingernails into his back. "Talk to me," she demanded. "Talk to me!"
He began counting seconds.
Later, as she lay in satiated sleep, he rested, smoking, thinking, oddly amused. He had been the perfect lover. He had said and done the exact things she wanted in the exact order she wanted them and, more important than anything else, had said and done them without her prompting him at any time. He had been a reflection of herself. An echo of her needs—and why not? He had worked hard to map the blueprint of her desires. Exploring, investigating, erasing all false starts and mistakes. What else could he have been but perfect?
He turned, looking down at the woman, seeing her not as flesh and blood but as the rung of a ladder leading to acceptance. Frank Weston had come a long way. He intended to keep climbing.
She sighed, opened her eyes, looked at the classical beauty of his face. "Darling!"
He said what she wanted him to say.
She sighed again, same sound different meaning. "I'll see you tonight?"
"No."
"Frank!" Jealousy reared her upright. "Why not? You said—"
"I know what I said and I meant every word of it," he interrupted. "But I have to fly to New York. Business," he added. "After all I do have to make a living."
She caught the bait "You don't have to worry about that. I'll speak to Daddy and—"
He closed her lips with his own. "I still have to go," he insisted. Beneath the covers his hands did what she wanted them to do. "And when I return—"
"I'll get a divorce," she said. "We'll be married."
Christmas, he thought, as dawn paled the sky.
Come fly with me! Said the song, me being a gleaming new Comet, two stewardesses all legs and eyes and silken hair with a "you may look at me because I'm beautiful but you must never, ever touch" attitude, a flight crew and seventy-three other passengers only eighteen of which were travelling first class. Room for everyone and Frank was glad of it.
He felt tired. The night had been hectic and the morning no better. It was good to sit and relax neatly strapped in a form-fitting chair as the jets gulped air and spewed it behind in a man-made hurricane which sent the plane down the runway and up into the sky. London fell away to one side, the clouds dropped like tufts of dirty cotton and then there was only the sun, a watchful eye in an immense iris of blue.
Go West, young man, he thought smugly. Why? For no reason other than he liked to travel and a little absence could make a heart grow fonder. And there was a kick in flying. He liked to look down and think of all the emptiness between him and the ground. Feel his stomach tighten with acrophobia, the delicious sensation of fear experienced in perfect safety. Height had no meaning in a plane. All you had to do was to look straight ahead and you could be in a Pullman.
He unstrapped, stretched his legs, glanced through a window as the captain's voice came over the speakers telling him that they were flying at a height of 34,000 feet at a speed of 536 miles per hour.
Through the window he could see very little. The sky, the clouds below, the tip of a quivering sheet of metal which was a wing. Old stuff. The blonde stewardess was far from that. She swayed down the aisle, caught his eyes, responded with instant attention. Was he quite comfortable? Would he like a pillow? A newspaper? A magazine? Something to drink?
"Brandy," he said. "With ice and soda."
He sat on the inner seat close to the wall of the cabin so that she had to step from the aisle in order to lower the flap and set out his drink. He lifted his left hand and touched her knee, slid the hand up the inside of her thigh, felt her stiffen, saw the expression on her face. It was a compound of incredulity, outrage, interest and speculation. It didn't last long. His right hand reached out and dug fingers into her throat. Congested blood purpled her cheeks, eyes popped, the discarded tray made a mess as her hands fluttered in helpless anguish.
Within his mind the automatic clock counted off the seconds. Fifty-two . . . fifty-three . . . fifty-four . . .
He pressed the stud on his ring.
The flap made a little thudding sound as it came to rest, the brandy a liquid gurgling as it gushed from the miniature bottle over the ice. She smiled, poising the punctured can of soda. "All of it, sir?"
He nodded, watching as she poured, remembering the soft warmth of her thigh, the touch of her flesh. Did she know that he had almost killed her? Could she possibly guess?
No, he decided as she moved away. How could she? To her nothing had happened. She had served him a drink and that was all. That was all, but—?
Brooding he stared at the ring. You activated it and went back fifty-seven seconds in time. All you had done during that period was erased. You could kill, rob, commit mayhem and none of it mattered because none of it had happened. But it had happened. It could be remembered. Could you remember what had never taken place?
That girl, for example. He had felt her thigh, the warm place between her legs, the yielding softness of her throat. He could have poked out her eyes, doubled her screaming, mutilated her face. He had done that and more to others, pandering to his sadism, his love of inflicting pain. And he had killed. But what was killing when you could undo the inconvenience of your crime. When you could watch the body smile and walk away?
The plane rocked a little. The voice from the speaker was calm, unhurried. "Will all passengers please fasten their safety belts. We are heading into an area of minor disturbance. You may see a little lightning but there is absolutely nothing to worry about. We are, of course, flying well above the area of storm."
Frank ignored the instruction, still engrossed with the ring. The unpolished stone looked like a dead eye, suddenly malevolent, somehow threatening. Irritably he finished his drink. The ring was nothing but a machine.
The blonde passed down the aisle, tutted when she saw his unfastened belt, made to tighten it. He waved her away, fumbled with the straps, let the belt fall open. He didn't need it and didn't like it. Frowning he settled back, thinking.
Time. Was it a single line or one with many branches? Could it be that each time he activated the ring an alternate universe was created? That somewhere was a world in which he had attacked the stewardess and had to pay for the crime? But he had only attacked her because he'd known he could erase the incident. Without the ring he wouldn't have touched her. With the ring he could do as he liked because he could always go back and escape the consequences. Therefore the alternate universe theory couldn't apply. What did?
He didn't know and it didn't matter. He had the ring and that was enough. The ring they had offered a lousy hundred dollars for.
Something hit the roof of the Cabin. There was a ripping sound, a blast of air, an irresistible force which tore him from his seat and flung him into space. Air gushed from his lungs as he began to fall. He gulped, trying to breathe, to understand. Arctic cold numbed his flesh. He twisted, saw through streaming eyes the plane with one wing torn loose, then metal tearing free as he watched, the plane accompanying his fall to the sea five miles below.
An accident, he thought wildly. A fireball, a meteor, metal fatigue even. A crack in the cabin wall and internal pressure would do the rest. And now he was falling. Falling!
His fingers squeeze
d in frenzied reaction.
"Please, Mr. Weston." The blonde stewardess came forward as he reared from his seat. "You must remain seated and with your safety belt fastened. Unless—?" Diplomatically she looked towards the toilets at the rear of the cabin.
"Listen!" He grabbed her by both arms. "Tell the pilot to change course. Tell him now. Hurry!"
A fireball or a meteor could be dodged that way. They could find safety if the course was changed fast enough. But it had to be fast! Fast!
"Quick." He ran towards the flight deck, the girl at his heels. Damn the stupid bitch! Couldn't she understand? "This is an emergency!" he shouted. "The pilot must alter course immediately!"
Something hit the roof of the cabin. The compartment popped open, metal coiling like the peeled skin of a banana. The blonde vanished. The shriek of tearing metal was lost in the explosive gusting of escaping air. Desperately Frank clung to a seat, felt his hands being torn from the fabric, his body sucked towards the opening. Once again he was ejected into space to begin the long, stomach-twisting five mile fall.
"No!" he screamed, frantic with terror. "Dear God, no!"
He activated.
"Mr. Weston, I really must insist. If you do not want to go to the toilet you must allow me to fasten your safety belt."
He was standing by his seat and the blonde was showing signs of getting annoyed. Annoyed!
"This is important," he said, fighting to remain calm. "In less than a minute this place is going to fall apart. Do you understand? We are all going to die unless the pilot changes course immediately."
Why did she have to stand there looking so dumb? He had told her all this before!
"You stupid cow! Get out of my way!" He pushed her to one side and lunged again towards the flight deck. He tripped, fell, came raging to his feet. "Change course!" he yelled. "For God's sake listen and—"
Something hit the roof. Again the roar, the blast, the irresistible force. Something struck his head and he was well below the clouds before he managed to regain full control. He activated and found himself still in space, gulping at rarified air and shivering with savage cold. To one side the shattered plane hung as though suspended, a mass of disintegrating debris as it fell. Tiny fragments hung around it; one of them perhaps the blonde.
The clouds passed. Below the sea spread in a shimmer of light and water. His stomach constricted with overwhelming terror as he stared at the waves, his lurking acrophobia aroused and tearing at every cell. Hitting the sea would be like smashing into a floor of solid concrete and he would be conscious to the very end. Spasmodically he activated and immediately was high in the air again with almost a minute of grace in which to fall.
Fifty-seven seconds of undiluted hell.
Repeated.
Repeated.
Repeated over and over because the alternative was to smash into the waiting sea.
I WONDER WHAT HE WANTED . . . by Eddy C. Bertin
Selected fragments from the diary of Miss Francie Denvar, former teacher at Cornoudghe College, found among the possessions of the late inhabitant of Number Nine, Nowhill Street.
June 2nd:
Wonderful! The rest, the peace! At last I'm finished with the school turmoil, the endless mountains and mountains of examination copies to be corrected, the exhausting interrogations of uninteresting and uninterested youngsters who really couldn't care less, the reports in X duplicates to be made, and all the rest! College has fallen from my shoulders like a badly-smelling dusty cloak, and I feel as if I'm arisen like a phoenix. The restfulness is like a soft wine, it reanimates me, thrills through my whole body. A real pity Georges couldn't be here with me now for the whole vacation. But it was impossible, he said. Within the next week he has to leave for France, for some special article or other which he has to do for his paper. He thinks he'll be away for at least three weeks, or maybe even more. Well, I'll manage by myself, I suppose.
June 3rd:
Poor diary, I'm sorry but I'm much too happy to spend much time in writing today! It is now half past eleven, and Georges has just left. I'm dreaming on my old, worn seat, and I'd rather go on doing nothing, but it would be unfair to you, my old companion, not to record this evening for the future. Georges has just asked me to marry him. Oh, the way he did it, so simple and straightforward, like everything he does, in fact not so very romantic. He just put his arm around me, and said, "Darling, when do we get married?" It seems so awfully down-to-earth and practical, when I see it written down; he should have done it with a kiss and a bunch of flowers (he knows I love roses—every young girl does . . .) but that's just not HIS way of doing things. He caught me completely off guard, I didn't know what to say. I just nodded. He'll buy me an engagement ring tomorrow, first thing he'll do in the morning before he goes to the office, he said. A very pretty one in platinum gold, with a sparkling diamond in its heart. But only a small one, he added as an afterthought. A small diamond, but a big heart. Georges can be romantic, if he wants to. As soon as he gets back from his Parisian assignment, we'll announce our engagement officially. The wedding will be in October, we can't make it sooner. Georges has too many things to do, and he won't be able to get a vacation from the paper until that time. It doesn't matter. I'm so happy, so happy!
June 8th:
I have taken Georges to the train. He kissed me and said, "I'll be back soon darling. Don't run too far." I cried a bit, after the train had left, but I still feel so happy I could sing the whole day through. I'll be married in October! Of course I knew he'd ask me one day but he waited so long . . .
June 10th:
I've found a marvel of a little house with a pretty though neglected garden, just what I've wanted all my life. It all came about accidentally. I was lonely and took a bus out of town, and then started walking . . . and I really stumbled upon it. A very small villa house, a bit old and rather isolated, but I'm sure it will be beautiful once I've finished with it. It's almost the only house left in an old street, all the others on both sides have been torn down a long time ago. I liked it at first sight—what a cliche—and out of curiosity went into the garden to have a good look at it. Imagine, it was for rent! I immediately went to the address mentioned on the sign (you know how impulsive I am) and see! Now I already have the keys and the signed contract in my purse. Maybe I have been rather hurried with it, but after all I only rented it for one year to start with. I must phone the removal company, so that they can bring my few bits of furniture from the studio. I already phoned my landlord, Miss Esphalton, and she's probably only too glad to be rid of me, though she didn't say it in so many words. She never liked me anyway, and she has already got several people on her waiting list. I must send the great news to Georges immediately, and give him my new address.
June 13th:
Today they have brought the furniture. The fools broke the legs of one of my best chairs, and I didn't tip them. That'll show them, though they said that I will be refunded by their insurance company. I doubt that, but it hasn't spoilt my good humour. The house simply is a jewel. Dusty and in need of painting, but a gem all the same. It has a kitchen, a living room and a library room downstairs, two big bedrooms and a work-room upstairs, and a big attic above. I brought someone to fix a few small holes in the walls, and one broken window. I'll need other windows, though, as the glass is murky and soiled. There are no cellars, and even in the attic there is hardly a trace of real decay. No holes in the roof either, I checked that but I didn't stay long. I don't like attics. In the living-room there is a big fireplace with antique Flemish brickwork, and beside it a colossal mirror, with only a few small spots. I think I'll go into town and choose a suitable wallpaper. I must pick up some of my savings from the bank too, after having paid a guarantee deposit and two months' rent in advance.
June 17th:
Georges just wrote me a long and lovely letter. He's doing fine, and hopes to finish his "reportage du coeur de Paris" much sooner than he thought. He's very excited about our house, and can't wait to see it, t
hough he writes that he would have preferred to inspect it himself first before I moved in. I should really start giving the house a good cleaning now, but I don't feel like it. That's not like me, but I think it's the heat which makes me feel so listless and tired. These last days, the sun seems almost to have burned a blazing hole in the cloudless sky, and the heat is lying over the house and me like some enormous suffocating hand. I hope it'll rain soon. It usually does in this country. Just try taking a really long walk when the sun is so hot, and you're very likely to return completely soaked by the rain.
June 19th:
I took a short walk this morning to get some supplies from the grocer. When I got back, I thought at first there was somebody there, waiting for me. But I was wrong, there was nobody. Still, the whole day I have had the impression that somebody is in the house, somebody always watching me, spying on me. I couldn't shake that impression off, and I'm usually not a nervous woman. I've taken the big mirror away from beside the fireplace because it frightened me nearly to death this morning. I had just got up, and went downstairs, and somebody else came suddenly walking up to me. Of course I was still partly asleep, like I always am before I've had my first cup of coffee, but I should have known that it was only my reflection in that mirror. Well I do feel better, more at ease now that it's gone, though the place where it hung shows clearly now against the discoloured wallpaper.
June 20th:
I can't write much, I'm nervous, the slightest sound outside makes me jump as if the earth is opening under me. I can't get rid of that weird feeling that somebody or something is looking over my shoulder, following me wherever I go. Another letter came from Georges this morning, a short hurried note. Something unforeseen happened, and he won't be back till the end of August.
The Year's Best Horror Stories 1 Page 9
