Suspended In Dusk

by Ramsey Campbell

  He’s growing hysterical. These aren’t the sorts of comments he should leave; he can’t afford to antagonise his family just now. His unwieldy fingers have already terminated the call—surely the mobile hasn’t lost contact by itself. Should he ring his son and daughter back? Alternatively there are friends he could phone, if he can remember their numbers—and then he realises there’s only one call he should make. Why did he spend so long in trying to reach his family? He uses a finger to count down the blurred keypad and jabs the ninth key thrice.

  He has scarcely lowered the phone to his ear when an operator cuts off the bell. “Emergency,” she declares.

  Coe can be as fast as that. “Police,” he says while she’s enquiring which service he requires, but she carries on with her script. “Police,” he says louder and harsher.

  This earns him a silence that feels stuffed with padding. She can’t expect callers who are in danger to be polite, but he’s anxious to apologise in case she can hear. Before he can take a breath a male voice says “Gloucestershire Constabulary.”

  “Can you help me? You may have trouble believing this, but I’m buried alive.”

  He sounds altogether too contrite. He nearly emits a wild laugh at the idea of seeking the appropriate tone for the situation, but the policeman is asking “What is your name, sir?”

  “Alan Coe,” says Coe and is pinioned by realising that it must be carved on a stone at least six feet above him.

  “And where are you calling from?”

  The question seems to emphasise the sickly greenish glimmer of the fattened walls and lid. Does the policeman want the mobile number? That’s the answer Coe gives him. “And what is your location, sir?” the voice crackles in his ear.

  Coe has the sudden ghastly notion that his children haven’t simply rushed the funeral—that for reasons he’s afraid to contemplate, they’ve laid him to rest somewhere other than with his wife. Surely some of the family would have opposed them. “Mercy Hill,” he has to believe.

  “I didn’t catch that, sir.”

  Is the mobile running out of power? “Mercy Hill,” he shouts so loud that the dim glow appears to quiver.

  “Whereabouts on Mercy Hill?”

  Every question renders his surroundings more substantial, and the replies he has to give are worse. “Down in front of the church,” he’s barely able to acknowledge. “Eighth row, no, ninth, I think. Left of the avenue.”

  There’s no audible response. The policeman must be typing the details, unless he’s writing them down. “How long will you be?” Coe is more than concerned to learn. “I don’t know how much air I’ve got. Not much.”

  “You’re telling us you’re buried alive in a graveyard.”

  Has the policeman raised his voice because the connection is weak? “That’s what I said,” Coe says as loud.

  “I suggest you get off the phone now, sir.”

  “You haven’t told me how soon you can be here.”

  “You’d better hope we haven’t time to be. We’ve had enough Halloween pranks for one year.”

  Coe feels faint and breathless, which is dismayingly like suffocation, but he manages to articulate “You think I’m playing a joke.”

  “I’d use another word for it. I advise you to give it up immediately, and that voice you’re putting on as well.”

  “I’m putting nothing on. Can’t you hear I’m deadly serious? You’re using up my air, you––Just do your job or let me speak to your superior.”

  “I warn you, sir, we can trace this call.”

  “Do so. Come and get me,” Coe almost screams, but his voice grows flat. He’s haranguing nobody except himself.

  Has the connection failed, or did the policeman cut him off? Did he say enough to make them trace him? Perhaps he should switch off the mobile to conserve the battery, but he has no idea whether this would leave the phone impossible to trace. The thought of waiting in the dark without knowing whether help is on the way brings the walls and lid closer to rob him of breath. As he holds the phone at a cramped arm’s length to poke the redial button, he sees the greenish light appear to tug the swollen ceiling down. When he snatches the mobile back to his ear the action seems to draw the lid closer still.

  An operator responds at once. “Police,” he begs as she finishes her first word. “Police.”

  Has she recognised him? The silence isn’t telling. It emits a burst of static so fragmented that he’s afraid the connection is breaking up, and then a voice says “Gloucestershire Constabulary.”

  For a distracted moment he thinks she’s the operator. Surely a policewoman will be more sympathetic than her colleague. “It’s Alan Coe again,” Coe says with all the authority he can summon up. “I promise you this is no joke. They’ve buried me because they must have thought I’d passed on. I’ve already called you once but I wasn’t informed what’s happening. May I assume somebody is on their way?”

  How much air has all that taken? He’s holding his breath as if this may compensate, although it makes the walls and lid appear to bulge towards him, when the policewoman says in the distance “He’s back. I see what you meant about the voice.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” Coe says through his bared teeth, then tries a shout, which sounds flattened by padding. “What’s the matter with my voice?”

  “He wants to know what’s wrong with his voice.”

  “So you heard me the first time.” Perhaps he shouldn’t address her as if she’s a child, but he’s unable to moderate his tone. “What are you saying about my voice?”

  “I don’t know how old you’re trying to sound, but nobody’s that old and still alive.”

  “I’m old enough to be your father, so do as you’re told.” She either doesn’t hear this or ignores it, but he ensures she hears “I’m old enough for them to pass me off as dead.”

  “And bury you.”

  “That’s what I’ve already told you and your colleague.”

  “In a grave.”

  “On Mercy Hill below the church. Halfway along the ninth row down, to the left of the avenue.”

  He can almost see the trench and his own hand dropping a fistful of earth into the depths that harboured his wife’s coffin. All at once he’s intensely aware that it must be under him. He might have wanted to be reunited with her at the end––at least, with her as she was before she stopped recognising him and grew unrecognisable, little more than a skeleton with an infant’s mind––but not like this. He remembers the spadefuls of earth piling up on her coffin and realises that now they’re on top of him. “And you’re expecting us to have it dug up,” the policewoman says.

  “Can’t you do it yourselves?” Since this is hardly the best time to criticise their methods, he adds “Have you got someone?”

  “How long do you plan to carry on with this? Do you honestly think you’re taking us in?”

  “I’m not trying to. For the love of God, it’s the truth.” Coe’s free hand claws at the wall as if this may communicate his plight somehow, and his fingers wince as though they’ve scratched a blackboard. “Why won’t you believe me?” he pleads.

  “You really expect us to believe a phone would work down there.”

  “Yes, because it is.”

  “I an’t hea ou.”

  The connection is faltering. He nearly accuses her of having wished this on him. “I said it is,” he cries.

  “Very unny.” Yet more distantly she says “Now he’s aking it ound a if it’s aking up.”

  Is the light growing unreliable too? For a blink the darkness seems to surge at him––just darkness, not soil spilling into his prison. Or has his consciousness begun to gutter for lack of air? “It is,” he gasps. “Tell me they’re coming to find me.”

  “You won’t like it if they do.”

  At least her voice is whole again, and surely his must be. “You still think I’m joking. Why would I joke about something like this at my age, for God’s sake? I didn’t even know it was Halloween.”<
br />
  “You’re saying you don’t know what you just said you know.”

  “Because your colleague told me. I don’t know how long I’ve been here,” he realises aloud, and the light dims as if to suggest how much air he may have unconsciously used up.

  “Long enough. We’d have to give you full marks for persistence. Are you in a cupboard, by the way? It sounds like one. Your trick nearly worked.”

  “It’s a coffin, God help me. Can’t you hear that?” Coe cries and scrapes his nails across the underside of the lid.

  Perhaps the squealing is more tangible than audible. He’s holding the mobile towards it, but when he returns the phone to his ear the policewoman says “I’ve heard all I want to, I think.”

  “Are you still calling me a liar?” He should have demanded to speak to whoever’s in charge. He’s about to do so when a thought ambushes him. “If you really think I am,” he blurts, “why are you talking to me?”

  At once he knows. However demeaning it is to be taken for a criminal, that’s unimportant if they’re locating him. He’ll talk for as long as she needs to keep him talking. He’s opening his mouth to rant when he hears a man say “No joy, I’m afraid. Can’t trace it.”

  If Coe is too far underground, how is he able to phone? The policewoman brings him to the edge of panic. “Count yourself lucky,” she tells him, “and don’t dare play a trick like this again. Don’t you realise you may be tying up a line while someone genuinely needs our help?”

  He mustn’t let her go. He’s terrified that if she rings off they won’t accept his calls. It doesn’t matter what he says so long as it makes the police come for him. Before she has finished lecturing him he shouts “Don’t you speak to me like that, you stupid cow.”

  “I’m war ing ou, ir––”

  “Do the work we’re paying you to do, and that means the whole shiftless lot of you. You’re too fond of finding excuses not to help the public, you damned lazy swine.” He’s no longer shouting just to be heard. “You weren’t much help with my wife, were you? You were worse than useless when she was wandering the streets not knowing where she was. And you were a joke when she started chasing me round the house because she’d forgotten who I was and thought I’d broken in. That’s right, you’re the bloody joke, not me. She nearly killed me with a kitchen knife. Now get on with your job for a change, you pathetic wretched––”

  Without bothering to flicker the light goes out, and he hears nothing but death in his ear. He clutches the mobile and shakes it and pokes blindly at the keys, none of which brings him a sound except for the lifeless clacking of plastic or provides the least relief from the unutterable blackness. At last he’s overcome by exhaustion or despair or both. His arms drop to his sides, and the phone slips out of his hand.

  Perhaps it’s the lack of air, but he feels as if he may soon be resigned to lying where he is. Shutting his eyes takes him closer to sleep. The surface beneath him is comfortable enough, after all. He could fancy he’s in bed, or is that mere fancy? Can’t he have dreamed he wakened in his coffin and everything that followed? Why, he has managed to drag the quilt under himself, which is how the nightmare began. He’s vowing that it won’t recur when a huge buzzing insect crawls against his hand.

  He jerks away from it, and his scalp collides with the headboard, which is too plump. The insect isn’t only buzzing, it’s glowing feebly. It’s the mobile, which has regained sufficient energy to vibrate. As he grabs it, the decaying light seems to fatten the interior of the coffin. He jabs the key to take the call and fumbles the mobile against his ear. “Hello?” he pleads.

  “Coming.”

  It’s barely a voice. It sounds as unnatural as the numbers in the answering messages did, and at least as close to falling to bits. Surely that’s the fault of the connection. Before he can speak again the darkness caves in on him, and he’s holding an inert lump of plastic against his ear.

  There’s a sound, however. It’s muffled but growing more audible. He prays that he’s recognising it, and then he’s sure he does. Someone is digging towards him.

  “I’m here,” he cries and claps a bony hand against his withered lips. He shouldn’t waste whatever air is left, especially when he’s beginning to feel it’s as scarce as light down here. It seems unlikely that he would even have been heard. Why is he wishing he’d kept silent? He listens breathlessly to the scraping in the earth. How did the rescuers manage to dig down so far without his noticing? The activity inches closer—the sound of the shifting of earth—and all at once he’s frantically jabbing at the keypad in the blackness. Any response from the world overhead might be welcome, any voice other than the one that called him. The digging is beneath him.

  Outside In

  Brett Rex Bruton

  6

  I swing my feet from beneath the warmth of the covers and down onto the cold, hard copy of the opening paragraph. I slip a cigarette from the crumpled packet lying on the bedside table and light it with a shielded flame from a beaten, copper lighter. A thick cloud of smoke and vapour drifts from my open mouth and disappears into the darkness of the bedroom. The shape beneath the covers behind me stirs. I reach back with one hand, trace the depression where the waist meets the curve of a buttock, then stand. A robe hangs from the back of the bedroom door. I lift it from its hook and slip it over my shoulders as I leave the room.

  Is this all going as planned? Hell, who knows? I’m not even sure I have a plan anymore. Private investigators—private dicks—we’re a resourceful lot. Always got a card up our sleeve. Trust a woman to muddle the narrative.

  I move towards my desk, past the open window that looks down upon the glowing lights of the Old City District. Far below, long strings of winding halogen mark the steady progress of city traffic as it winds between the towering arches of the magno-rail. The hum of Higgs-Boson engines drifts up from the streets far below, and a glowing snake of light slips by almost silently as a rail carriage winds its way between the rooftops on its cushion of air.

  The landscape of lights and curious architecture momentarily distracts the narrator. By the time his attention returns to me, I’m stubbing out my cigarette in an old, brass ashtray and opening the top-right drawer of my desk. I ignore the folded bundle of oilcloth and the .38 snub-nose it contains and instead remove a small, carved box. The light of the desk lamp catches the intricate engravings, and as it flows across their edges, their shapes ripple and change. They swirl across its surface. Their clusters grow tighter. As I lift the small clasp and open the lid, I feel reality re-align. A compression of gravity warps the text around me. I hold the maguffin up to the light. Something in the narrative goes ‘click’. As does the hammer of Starla’s revolver.

  The glowing tip of her cigarette reflects in the polished gold of her .22 Purse Protector. Accessory haute couture. Never leave home without it. Silhouetted in the bedroom doorframe; the lights of the city turn her hair into a faint halo. She’s left the sheet on the bed.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” she says, her voice the whisper of a Hollywood starlet, her lips the colour of cherries, “I told you that thing was no good.”

  Damn. This is too early for a twist.

  1

  A field mouse walked through my door a week ago. A tiny thing with large eyes made larger by the glasses they hid behind. The old dirt on her shoes said one of the rural districts. Her modest blouse said maybe one of the outer burbs instead. Either way, she hadn’t been in the city long.

  My receptionist, Connie, brought her tea, no sugar, while she sat across from me and begun her story. She introduced herself as Tabitha Berg. I said: “Hi, my name is Hank Jewel”, daring the narrator to contradict me. Tabby passed me a picture of an angel—hair like spun gold and lips the colour of cherries—and told me: “She’s my sister, Starla Berg, though she’s called herself Starla Bright for about as long as I can recall. Always had a head on her. Thought the world was just waiting to be her oyster. Couldn’t wait to crack it. We lived out on a turbine
farm by the Plateau. That was before Starla disappeared.”

  I backtracked a paragraph or two, mentally underlined my first guess, then politely asked her to continue.

  “Almost five years ago, Starla vanished. We searched everywhere—even dragged the river—but she was gone. Then I see this in the newspaper.” She handed me a clipping of the angel on the arm of Four Finger Kennedy and a dart of jealousy stuck me in the gut. “I asked around,” she said, “That’s the Kennedy Club. And that’s Keith Kennedy.”

  Four Finger Keith Kennedy. One time goodfella, now a top-ranking untouchable. I whistled in through my teeth and slid the photograph and snippet of newspaper back towards her. I told her in my best condolence voice that if her sister wanted to stay lost, that was her concern. Tabby knew where she was. If she wanted Starla back so bad, she could fetch her herself.

  Tabby’s wide, mousy eyes closed to thin, hard chips and I began to rethink my previous assumptions. “She can stay dead,” she hissed, each word hitting the page with the clink of broken glass, “but when she left, she took something from me. I want it back.”

  I leant back in my chair as the story suckered me in, then told her what it would cost.

  She paid.

  2

  The Kennedy Club was a hornet’s nest painted a pretty shade of maroon. Goodfellas, oldboys and made men crawled in every corner, while top dollar alley cats strutted their heels between the tables. The bartender served me a whiskey in a crystal tumbler worth a little more than my suit, but a fifty slid back beneath the glass got me directions and a password through a green door at the back. Powerful men in an assortment of fedoras locked eyes with poker-cube retina lenses, matching their willpower with equally despicable personas across the globe. No smoked spectacles here.

  “What can I get you?” asked bartender number two, and I gazed up at the pantheon of bottles ranked behind him. No green glass here either. Prism bottles climbed the wall, the colours of their contents shimmering, their ostentatious names too numerous for the narrator to list. I pointed and mumbled. I could hear my credit chip sobbing. The tender poured me a glass of ember spirits and sparkles, but before the credit link registered, a voice beside me said; “Put it on my tab, Deek.”