She bent down to stub out the cigarette she was smoking now, and put the butt in her pack. The action looked tidy and sneaky at the same time. Her voice was muffled, but audible. ‘At what point do we call the police, Dad?’
Now, Hannah thought, heart rising. In fact, we should have done it hours ago. That’s what you did when something like this happened, right? When you couldn’t find your dad. You called the police. And you called them NOW.
But then she thought instead: Never.
Because doing that would be like using Dad’s name. Both ‘police’ and ‘Steve’ were sounds that could change the world. They were short, dark spells that turned stories on their heads, trickster words that turned off all the lights.
For a moment, Hannah actually wished the Devil was with them. He’d know about this kind of thing. He’d be able to warn them to stop using these words, to be careful. They might listen to him. Hannah was feeling bad that when she’d been leader they hadn’t found anything. She’d failed. Now they wouldn’t let her do it again, and instead would start saying the wrong words until they cast a spell that couldn’t be broken and she never saw her father again. Unless …
Think, Hannah.
Think.
Ten minutes later she ran out into the yard.
‘He’s OK!’ she shouted.
Granddad and Aunt Zo turned quickly, and it hurt her to see the hope in their eyes: hurt most of all because it showed they were as worried as she was.
‘I don’t know where he is,’ she added hurriedly. ‘Sorry. But I’ve looked everywhere. In his study, the living room, the den, the kitchen, everywhere. The bag he uses for it has gone, and the charger isn’t where it normally is either. So he’s taken it. He must have done.’
‘Taken what, Hannah?’
‘His laptop,’ she said.
‘Um, so?’ Aunt Zo said.
‘So,’ Hannah said. There wasn’t time to explain that Dad and his MacBook were joined at the hip, and wherever one was the other would be too. More to the point, that if he’d left the house with it then he’d gone somewhere to work, not to … She didn’t even know what the alternative was, but she knew Aunt Zo was thinking about one. Something that was very serious, but not about working. If he had his laptop, it couldn’t be that, whatever it was. ‘So – he’s gone somewhere to work.’
‘But we’ve already looked everywhere,’ Granddad said.
‘I don’t mean here,’ Hannah said. ‘The car’s gone. If he goes downtown he always walks, because he says he sits on his ass all day and needs any exercise he can get. Twin Lakes is far enough that he’d take the car, but we checked and he’s not there. So he’s further. Another town, or …’
Suddenly she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, where her father had gone.
‘Come with me,’ she said.
They stood in the living room, in front of the painting the Devil had been glaring at before he left.
‘It cost a lot of money,’ Hannah said, reverently.
Granddad glanced at Aunt Zo, who looked as if she didn’t know what to say. Beneath the face adults learned to wear (the one that stopped you being able to tell what they were thinking), Hannah could see confusion, and concern. Zo looked how Hannah felt inside, and that could not be a good thing.
‘I don’t know,’ Zo said. ‘What do you think?’
Granddad considered. Then he nodded. ‘If he’s not back by tomorrow morning, then yes.’
Chapter 23
All this took place while the Devil was sitting in the Dragnet, spotted the man who came in for a beer, followed him into the mountains by car and then on foot into the forest, caused the skinny guy with meth mite scars to put an end to himself and then waited for the other man to come back out of the cabin. That’s the thing about stories. Lots happen at once, as I’ve said. If you could lay all the world’s tales end to end so they took place one after another instead, it would be a lot easier to make sense of them. But you can’t. Someone tried it once but the story got so long it went all the way around the world and eventually joined up with where it first started, creating an endless loop from which the poor guy never escaped. He became a story himself, a cautionary tale, which is what I’ve just told you.
Anyway.
The man outside the cabin stood looking cautiously at the Devil. He was cursing himself for not bringing his gun out of the lab, and wondering whether he’d have time to get to the one still clutched in Kenny’s fingers, while simultaneously being aware that having a weapon hadn’t seemed to help Kenny much.
The Devil knew what he was thinking, and was mildly interested to see what he’d decide.
After a few seconds the tension went out of the man’s body. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘What do you want?’
‘You,’ the Devil said. ‘Though not for higher office. You’ve found your level and it looks like a dollar sign.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Money. That’s what drives you.’
‘Anything wrong with that?’
‘It lacks ambition, that’s all. How much do you make from an operation like this?’
‘Depends.’
‘Answer the question, Brian.’
The man looked wary. ‘How do you know my name?’
‘I know everyone’s name. Everyone like you.’
Brian didn’t see how that could be, and he was starting to feel uncomfortable. This fragile-looking old guy was getting under his skin, like his dad used to. He was making Brian feel small and defensive, and as if someone needed to pay for him feeling that way. ‘I was in Oregon before. Well established, distribution in place. Cops came for me, but I got out ahead. I’m starting again. Only been up three months.’
‘How much?’
‘About twenty thousand last month.’
‘And that’s enough?’
Brian swallowed. The forest had started to feel odd. It was as if darkness was falling more quickly than usual, or from the sides, or even seeping out from the old man’s head. ‘Well, sure, I’d like it to be a lot more, but it takes time to—’
‘Oh, hush,’ the Devil said. ‘I don’t want your business plan. I’m checking that’s sufficient for you to overlook that the people who buy your wares from that barman in the Dragnet or other minions will wind up stealing and whoring, killing bystanders in car crashes or robberies, accidentally setting fire to mobile homes with children inside; all the while scratching their faces to shreds trying to get at bugs that aren’t there, turning skeletal because they forget to eat and their teeth are all fallen out of rotting, bleeding gums, to the point where dying alone in a muddy culvert one night is a blessed relief. Don’t get me wrong. Personally, I’m all in favour. This is good stuff, Brian. Solid workmanship. But I’m checking you’re OK with it.’
‘I don’t make them take the crap.’
The Devil laughed.
‘What? I don’t. I don’t force it into their hands. They come seek me out. They pay me. It’s their fault.’
The old man nodded. ‘You’re perfect.’
‘For what?’
The Devil drew the sides of his mouth back in something like a grin, and Brian realized abruptly that he really had to be somewhere else. Somewhere far away.
He couldn’t move his feet, however.
He urgently wanted his life to be totally different and happening somewhere else and he knew all he needed to do was start the process of change by taking one small step, and then another; but when he tried to do this his feet seemed nailed to the ground and it was impossible to get going, or too hard, or simply easier to be where he was and keep doing what he’d been doing – even though he knew deep inside that with every second that passed the shadows grew closer, heavier and colder. In this way, for the briefest moment, Brian received a glimpse into the lives of his customers, as if their stories had suddenly been translated into a language he could understand, but it was far too late and he’d never been much of a reader anyway.
He gave up trying
to run. His voice was strained, as if his chest was tightening. ‘What are you doing to me?’
‘Riding you to Hell,’ the Devil said.
‘I don’t …’
‘Look into my eyes.’
Brian had no choice. There was silence for a moment. Then there was not. Half a mile away a mountain lion heard Brian’s screams. It shivered, and ran away to hide.
Later, the Devil sat on the roof of the Rittenhouse Building, the tallest structure in downtown Santa Cruz. A symbol of optimism in the reconstruction of Pacific Avenue after the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989, the Rittenhouse has remained stridently empty ever since. This disjunction between hope and reality drew the Devil to it. It was precisely the flavour of disappointment he most enjoyed: the frailty of human dreams writ large. Also, it was tall. Sometimes you need an overview, and there’s no better place – both figuratively and literally – than sitting on the roof of a very high building.
The Devil was not in the best of moods. The encounter with Brian had not yielded the results he’d hoped – and at the end had turned disconcerting. He’d reached into the man’s soul, picking over the dreary details of his life and childhood and casting an amused glance at the root causes for his anger, insecurity and selfishness, before going deeper. A trickle of power leaked back, though nothing to write home about. Love of money is not the root of all evil. Greed is its own reward and its own motivation. Bad things are done by people in pursuit of wealth, and seeking material dominion over others involves diminishing their reality, and these are steps in the direction of evil.
But greed for neither money nor power has the heft and tang of doing wrong for the sake of it, and before long – well before, in fact, Brian had gone completely insane – the Devil had started to regret not spending longer with the guy he’d encountered in the Miami warehouse. What he called himself, was that his name? He’d been closer to the right verb. Much, much closer.
Eventually Brian’s eyes rolled in their sockets and his body started to shake, sounds forcing their way up from his throat and from between clenched teeth. Even this hadn’t been sufficient to cheer the Devil up, and he’d been about to cut the connection and drop Brian’s body to the forest floor to die and be eaten by rats and insects, when something unexpected happened.
Suddenly the man’s eyes rolled back forwards, snapping into focus. His body went still. At first the Devil thought the man had merely died ahead of schedule, but then he realized something was staring out from Brian’s eyes.
Not Brian. Somebody – or something – else. Something very cold and very strong.
‘Your days are over,’ Brian’s mouth said.
It was not his voice, however. It was deep and guttural – precisely the kind of voice, in fact, that it had often amused the Devil to cause to issue from the mouths of the possessed. It had been a particularly big hit in Salem, back in the day.
‘Who are you?’ the Devil asked.
‘We are legion. We are the coming tide.’
The Devil felt the presence inside Brian start to push back at him, shoving aside the tendrils he’d insinuated into every part of the man’s soul. Brian’s mouth began to move, but now more than one voice barked from his throat, so many voices, and so loud, that it was impossible to tell what they were saying.
The Devil disengaged quickly.
Brian’s eyes flared a final time; then his body dropped to the forest floor. Lifeless, suddenly small, merely another object amongst millions in the world: an object wrapped in other objects (clothes bought from Gap and the O’Neill store) and containing other objects (blood slackening to a standstill, the remains of the beer in the Dragnet, a Big Mac eaten at lunchtime) and associated via proximity with others in pockets (truck keys, a wallet and loose change, a receipt for an old photo of his parents he was having framed for their upcoming anniversary); now merely a pile of things in the woods, lying near another pile that had once been called ‘Kenny’.
The Devil had seen death countless times before. Approved it, caused it, revelled in it. This felt different.
He was still on the roof of the Rittenhouse, mulling this over, when something dropped chaotically out of the sky and landed with a thud behind him.
‘Bloody pelicans,’ muttered a voice. ‘Useless for riding on. Bony, flappy bastards.’
The Devil waited while Vaneclaw got himself to his feet and came to stand in front of him.
‘Well?’
‘Hello, boss. Had a good day?’
‘No. Give me good news, Vaneclaw, or none at all.’
The imp stood there and said nothing.
Chapter 24
After three minutes of Vaneclaw remaining silent, looking increasingly uncomfortable, the Devil rolled his eyes.
‘Imagine, imp, that for the time being I have lifted my recent proscription on the spoken word unless it contains news or information that I will find gratifying.’
‘Eh?’
‘Speak freely, you cretin.’
The imp looked relieved. ‘Ah, well, that was my point, see. ’Cos you did give me clear instructions which boiled down to “Don’t speak unless there’s good news”, and … well, you know, to be frank, boss, you can get tetchy if people don’t do what you tell them. Notoriously tetchy. Remember Pompeii? Whoa. That was a blinder.’
‘You weren’t there. You weren’t even spawned.’
‘But I heard about it. Burying a whole town under volcanic ash, eh, just because they wouldn’t glorify your despicable name? Classy use of natural disaster. Old school. But, so, you see, that kind of incident does make one a tad wary.’
‘I’m waiting.’
‘Right. Well. I had a look round this place, but, like you said, Santa Cruz hasn’t got the right vibe. Too chilled. Too “it is what it is”, and “can I have a soy latte?” So I headed south, thought I’d give the Santa Lucia Mountains a look, but I got a bit lost, be honest with you, so I came back up here, was just going to tell you I’d had no luck, but then I thought to myself: That’s not going to play, mate; you know what he’s like. He will smite you, big time.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Then I remembered something, and so I went up the road instead, to San Francisco.’
‘I told you to seek out wilderness, Vaneclaw. Places where they might shroud themselves in seclusion. I specifically mentioned the Santa Lucias, and Big Sur.’
‘You did, you did, which is why I went there. Or tried to go there. But then … I forgot. Well, I didn’t forget, so much, as … All right, here’s the thing. I remembered that I had a tip.’
‘A tip?’
‘Yeah. Few years ago, back when you was … not yourself. Having a nap. Whatever it was you was doing. Or not doing. Anyway, few years back I went to an imp convention up in Oregon, and you know how it is, awful lot of bollocks gets talked at those things, but I kept hearing rumours in the bar about San Francisco, and how maybe one of the Big Boys was lurking there. I thought, that’s interesting; but I didn’t know where you was at the time, and anyway I had to get home to North Dakota sharpish, to get back on that bloke Ron’s case.’
‘And you didn’t see fit to mention this before.’
‘Yeah. I mean, no. I forgot. Dunno how.’
‘Because you’re an idiot.’
‘That’s it. I knew there was a reason. Anyway, so I’m up in San Fran, having a nose around. Checking the underside of tricycles, the roof space of train stations, round the back of Nordstrom. All the obvious places. But I find nothing. So I’m thinking it’s a bust, just a bunch of imps had a few too many and made shit up, and I should head back down here … but then I see this bloke. Complete arse, he was – could tell from across the street. And so – and I know you and I differ on this point, boss, but I am always drawn to plague people what are wankers to begin with – I found myself following. I wasn’t going to throw myself at him, because we’re busy on other things, but you know how it is.’
‘Get on with it.’
‘Right. So. He
goes into this bar. It’s crowded, and I lose him almost immediately. But then I see this girl. I could tell straight away she’d been touched. So I went up and asked her. Well, not personally, but I hopped up on the bar and stuck me tongue into the ear of the guy standing next to her, used a Naughty Trick to make him ask the question. He asks her: “Are you fallen?” and she gives him a look and then slaps him across the face. Which I’m assuming probably means “No”, but I’m not sure, right? Especially because, now I’m closer to her, the feeling’s even stronger. Anyway, she’s storming out of the bar at this point and I decide to follow.’
‘I trust there’s a point to this, Vaneclaw. Or should I pulverize you into shards of broken tears right now, and get it over with?’
The imp started talking even more quickly. ‘I followed her all the way to Chinatown, which is stupid busy; they got some festival or something going on. Almost lost her, in fact – and, to be fair, idiocy may have played a part in that – but then I spotted her again, going into this manky old grocery store. Madame Chang’s, it’s called. In I go. Total chaos. Like they started selling things a hundred years ago and got busy and never had a chance to tidy up. Locals picking over things in buckets, shouting at each other, all that. And the girl goes up to the counter, buys something, then … leaves.’
The Devil stared at him. ‘Please don’t tell me that’s the end of the story.’
‘Ah, no. Because, see, I realize the woman that the girl’s just talked to behind the counter – she’s the one that’s been touched. The girl I been following, she comes in there every day for groceries and that, and so she’s had a second-degree brush – but it’s this older woman who’s been close. And then she does something that makes it certain-sure. She looks right at me.’
‘She could see you?’
‘That’s what I’m saying, boss. She’s ninety years old or something, but she clocks me straight off. She barks out: “Who are you, mushroom?”
Hannah Green and Her Unfeasibly Mundane Existence Page 14
