Greg Egan - SS - Scatter My Ashes.pdf - Greg Egan - przemosta

Scatter My AshesScatter My Ashes by Greg Egan “Neighbourhood Watch” |

“Scatter My Ashes” | “Mind Vampires” Horror Stories Back to home page |

Site Map | Framed Site Map Every night, at exactly a quarter past three,

something dreadful happens on the street outside our bedroom window. We peek

through the curtains, yawning and shivering in the life-draining chill, and

then we clamber back beneath the blankets without exchanging a word, to hug

each other tightly and hope for sound sleep before it's time to rise. Usually

what we witness verges on the mundane. Drunken young men fighting, swaying

about with outstretched knives, cursing incoherently. Robbery, bashings,

rape. We wince to see such violence, but we can hardly be shocked or

surprised any more, and we're never tempted to intervene: it's always far too

cold, for a start! A single warm exhalation can coat the window pane with

mist, transforming the most stomach-wrenching assault into a safely cryptic

ballet for abstract blobs of light. On some nights, though, when the shadows

in the room are subtly wrong, when the familiar street looks like an

abandoned film set, or a painting of itself perversely come to life, we are

confronted by truly disturbing sights, oppressive apparitions which almost

make us doubt we're awake, or, if awake, sane. I can't catalogue these

visions, for most, mercifully, are blurred by morning, leaving only a vague

uneasiness and a reluctance to be alone even in the brightest sunshine. One

image, though, has never faded. In the middle of the road was a giant human

skull. How big was it? Big enough for a child, perhaps six or seven years

old, to stand trapped between the jaws, bracing them apart with outstretched

arms and legs, trembling with the effort but somehow, miraculously, keeping

the massive teeth from closing in. As we watched I felt, strange as it may

sound, inspired, uplifted, filled with hope by the sight of that tiny figure

holding out against the blind, brutal creature of evil. Wouldn't we all like

to think of innocence as a tangible force to be reckoned with? Despite all

evidence to the contrary. Then the four huge, blunt teeth against which the

child was straining began to reform, tapering to needle-fine points. A drop

of blood fell from the back of each upraised hand. I cried out something,

angry and horrified. But I didn't move. A gash appeared in the back of the

child's neck. Not a wound: a mouth, the child's new and special mouth,

violently writhing, stretched open ever wider by four sharp, slender fangs

growing in perfect mimicry of the larger fangs impaling the child's palms and

feet. The new mouth began to scream, at first a clumsy, choking sound, made

without a tongue, but then a torn, bloody scrap of flesh appeared in place,

the tongue of the old mouth uprooted and inverted, and the cries gave full

voice to an intensity of suffering and fear that threatened to melt the glass

of the window, sear away the walls of the room, and drag us into a pit of

darkness where one final scream would echo forever. When it was over, we

climbed into bed and snuggled up together. I dreamt that I found a jigsaw

puzzle, hidden in a dark, lost corner of the house. The pieces were in a

plain cardboard box, unaccompanied by any illustration of what the assembled

puzzle portrayed. Wendy laughed and told me not to waste my time, but I sat

frowning over it for an hour every evening, until after many weeks only a

handful of pieces remained unplaced. Somehow, even then, I didn't know what

the picture was, but as I lazily filled in the very last gap, I felt a sudden

overpowering conviction that whatever the jigsaw showed, I did not want to

see it. I woke a little before dawn. I kissed Wendy very softly, I gently

stroked her shoulders and breasts with my fingertips. She rearranged herself,

pulled a face, but didn't wake. I was about to brush her forehead with one

hand, which I knew would make her open her eyes and give me a sleepy smile,

when it occurred to me that if she did, there might be small, fanged mouths

behind her eyelids. When I woke again it was half past seven, and she was

already up. I hate that, I hate waking in an empty bed. She was reading the

paper as I sat down to breakfast. “So, what's happening in the world?” “A

fifth child's gone missing.” “Shit. Don't they have any suspects yet? Any

evidence, any clues?” “A fisherman reported something floating on the lake.

The police went out in a boat to have a look.” “And?” “It turned out to be a

calf foetus.” I gulped coffee. I hate the taste of coffee, and it sets my

stomach squirming, but I simply have to drink it. “It says police will be

diving all day today, searching the lake.” “I might go out there, then. The

lake looks fantastic in this weather.” “When I'm snug in my office with the

heater on full blast, I'll think of you.” “Think of the divers. They'll have

the worst of it.” “At least they know they'll get paid. You could spend the

whole day there for nothing.” “I'd rather take my kind of risk than

theirs.” Once she was gone, I cut out the article on the vanished child. The

walls of my study are papered with newsprint, ragged grey odd-shaped pieces

affixed only at their top corners, free to rustle when the door is opened or

closed. Sometimes, when I'm sitting at my desk for a moment after I've

switched off the lamp, I get a strong impression of diseased skin. “Put them

in a scrap book!” says Wendy, whenever she ventures in to grimace at the

state of the room. “Or better still, put them in a filing cabinet and see if

you can lose the key!” But I need to keep them this way, I need to see them

all at once, spread out before me like a satellite photograph, an aerial view

of this age of violence. I'm looking for a pattern. My gaze darts from

headline to headline, from STRANGLER to STALKER to RIPPER to SLASHER, hunting

for a clue to the terrible unity, hunting for the nature of the single dark

force that I know lies behind all the different nightmare stories, all the

different fearful names. I have books too, of course, I have shelves stuffed

with volumes, some learned, some hysterical, from treatises on Vlad the

Impaler to discussions of the entrails of London prostitutes to heavy

psychoanalysis of the Manson gang. I have skimmed these works, read a page

here and a page there only, for to clutter my mind with details can only

distract me from the whole. I recall precisely when my obsession began. I was

ten. A convict, a murderer, had escaped from a nearby prison, and warnings

were broadcast urging us to barricade our homes. My parents, naturally, tried

not to alarm me, but we all slept together that night, in the room with the

smallest window, and when the poor cat mewed to be let in the back door, my

mother would let nobody, not even my father, budge. I dozed and woke, dozed

and woke, and each time dreamt that I was not sleeping but lying awake,

waiting for the utter certainty of the unstoppable, blood-thirsty creature

bursting through the door and slicing us all in two. They caught him the next

morning. They caught him too late. A service station attendant was dead, cut

up beyond belief by an implement that was never found. They showed the killer

on TV that night, and he looked nothing like the stuff of nightmares: thin,

awkward, squinting, dwarfed between two massive, smug policemen. Yet for all

his apparent weakness and shyness, he seemed to know something, he seemed to

be holding a secret, not so much about murder itself as about the cameras,

the viewers, about exactly what he meant to us. He averted his eyes from the

lenses, but the hint of a smile on his lips declared that everything was, and

always would be, just the way he wanted it, just the way he'd planned it from

the start. I drove to the lake and set up my camera with its longest lens,

but after peering through the viewfinder for ten minutes, keeping the police

boat perfectly framed, following its every tiny drift, I switched to

binoculars to save my eyes and neck. Nothing was happening. Faint shouts

reached me now and then, but the tones were always of boredom, discomfort,

irritation. Soon I put down the binoculars. If they found something, I'd hear

the change at once. I drank coffee from a flask, I paced. I took a few shots

of divers backflipping into the water, but none seemed special, none captured

the mood. I watched the water birds and felt somehow guilty for not knowing

their names. The sky and the water were pale grey, the colour of soggy

newsprint. Thick smoke rose from a factory on the far shore, but seemed to

fall back down again on almost the same spot. The chill, the bleakness, and

the morbid nature of my vigil worked together to fill me with an oppressive

sense of gloom, but cutting through that dullness and despair was the acid

taste of anticipation. My back was turned when I heard the shouts of panic. It

took me seconds to spot the boat again, forever to point the camera. An inert

diver was being hauled on board, to the sound of much angry swearing. Someone

ripped off his face mask and began resuscitation. Each time I fired the

shutter, I thought: what if he dies? If he dies it will be my fault, because

if he dies I'll have a sale for sure. I packed up my gear and fled before the

boat reached the shore, but not before the ambulance arrived. I glanced at

the driver, who looked about my age, and thought: why am I doing my job, and

not his? Why am I a voyeur, a parasite, a vulture, a leech, when I could be

saving people's lives and sleeping the sleep of the just every night? Later,

I discovered that the cop was in a coma. Evidently there'd been a malfunction

of his air supply. I sold one of the pictures, which appeared with the

caption KISS OF LIFE! The editor said, “That could easily win you a prize.” I

smiled immodestly and mumbled about luck. Wendy is a literary agent. We went

out to dinner that night with one of her clients, to celebrate the signing of

a contract. The writer was a quiet, thoughtful, attractive woman. Her husband

worked in a bank, but played football for some team or other on weekends, and

was built like a vault. “So, what do you do for a crust,” he asked. “I'm a

freelance photographer.” “What's that mean? Fashion models for the front of

Vogue or centrefolds for Playboy?” “Neither. Most of my work is for

newspapers, or news magazines. I had a picture in Time last year.” “What

of?” “Flood victims trapped on the roof of their farm.” “Yeah? Did you pay

them some of what you got for it?” Wendy broke in and described my day's

achievement, and the topic switched naturally to that of the missing

child. “If they ever catch the bloke who's doing it,” said the footballer, “he

shouldn't be killed. He should be tortured for a couple of days, and then

crippled. Say they cut off both his legs. Then there's no chance he'll escape

from prison on his own steam, and when they let him free in a year or two,

like they always end up doing, who's he going to hurt?” I said, “Why does

everyone assume there's a killer? Nobody's yet found a single drop of blood,

or a fingerprint, or a footprint. Nobody knows for sure that the children are

dead, nobody's proved that at all.” The writer said, “Maybe the Innocents are

ascending into Heaven.” For a moment I thought she was serious, but then she

smirked at the cleverness of her sarcasm. I kept my mouth shut for the rest

of the evening. In the taxi home, though, I couldn't help muttering a vague,

clumsy insult about Neanderthal fascists who revelled in torture. Wendy

laughed and put an arm around my waist. “Jealousy really becomes you,” she

said. I couldn't think of an intelligent reply. That night, we witnessed a

particularly brutal robbery. A taxi pulled up across the road, and the

passengers dragged the driver out and kicked him in the head until he was

motionless. They virtually stripped him naked searching for the key to his

cashbox, then they smashed his radio, slashed his tyres, and stabbed him in

the stomach before walking off, whistling Rossini. Once Wendy had drifted back

to sleep, I crept out of the bedroom and phoned for an ambulance. I nearly

went outside to see what I could do, but thought: if I move him, if I even

just try to stop the bleeding, I'll probably do more harm than good, maybe

manage to kill him with my well-intentioned incompetence. End up in court.

I'd be crazy to take the risk. I fell asleep before the ambulance arrived. By

morning there wasn't a trace of the incident. The taxi must have been towed

away, the blood washed off the road by the water truck. A sixth child had

vanished. I returned to the lake, but found it was deserted. I dipped my hand

in the water: it was oily, and surprisingly warm. Then I drove back home, cut

out the relevant articles, and taped them into place on the wall. As I did so,

the jigsaw puzzle dream flooded into my mind, with the dizzying power of déjà

vu. I stared at the huge grey mosaic, almost expecting it to change before my

eyes, but then the mood passed and I shook my head and laughed weakly. The

door opened. I didn't turn. Someone coughed. I still didn't turn. “Excuse

me.” It was a man in his mid-thirties, I'd say. Balding slightly, but with a

young, open face. He was dressed like an office worker, in a white shirt with

the cuffs rolled up, neatly pressed black trousers, a plain blue tie. “What

do you want?” “I'm sorry. I knocked on the front door, and it was ajar. Then I

called out twice.” “I didn't hear you.” “I'm sorry.” “What do you want?” “Can

I look? At your walls? Oh, there! The Marsden Mangler! I wonder how many

people remember him today. Five years ago there were two thousand police

working full time on that case, and probably a hundred reporters scurrying

back and forth between the morgue and the night club belt. You know, half the

jury fainted when they showed slides at the trial, including an abattoir

worker.” “Nobody fainted. A few people closed their eyes, that's all. I was

there.” “Watching the jury and not the slides, apparently.” “Watching both.

Were you there?” “Oh, yes! Every day without fail.” “Well, I don't remember

you. And I got to know most of the regular faces in the public gallery.” “I

was never in the public gallery.” He crossed the room to peer closely at a

Sunday paper's diagram detailing the modus operandi of the Knightsbridge

Knifeman. “This is pretty coy, isn't it? I mean, anybody would think that the

female genitalia —” I glared at him, and he turned his attention to something

else, smiling a slight smile of tolerant amusement. “How did you find out

about my collection of clippings?” It wasn't something that I boasted about,

and Wendy found it a bit embarrassing, perhaps a bit sick. “Collection of

clippings! You mustn't call it that! I'll tell you what this room is: it's a

shrine. No lesser word will do. A shrine.” I glanced behind me. The door was

closed. I watched him as he read a two-page spread on a series of unsolved

axe murders, and though his gaze was clearly directed at the print, I felt as

if he was staring straight back at me. Then I knew that I had seen him before.

Twenty years before, on television, smiling shyly as they hustled him along,

never quite looking at the camera, but never quite turning away. My eyes

began to water, and a crazy thought filled my head: hadn't I known then,

hadn't I been certain, that the killer would come and get me, that nothing

would stand in his way? That the man had not aged was unremarkable, no, it

was necessary, because if he had aged I would never have recognised him, and

recognition was exactly what he wanted. Recognition was the start of my

fear. I said, “You might tell me your name.” He looked up. “I'm sorry. I have

been discourteous, haven't I? But —” (he shrugged) “— I have so many

nicknames.” He gestured widely with both hands, taking in all the walls, all

the headlines. I pictured the door handle, wondering how quickly I could turn

it with palms stinking wet, with numb, clumsy fingers. “My friends, though,

call me Jack.” He easily lifted me over his head, and then somehow (did he

float up off the floor, or did he stretch up, impossibly doubling his

height?) pinned me face-down against the ceiling. Four fangs grew to fill his

mouth, and his mouth opened to fill my vision. It was like hanging over a

living well, and as his distorted words echoed up from the depths, I thought:

if I fall, nobody will ever find me. “Tonight you will take my photograph.

Catch me in the act with your brightest flashgun. That's what you want, isn't

it?” He shook me. “Isn't it?” I closed my eyes, but that brought visions of a

tumbling descent. I whispered, “Yes.” “You invoke me and invoke me and invoke

me!” he ranted. “Aren't you ever sick of blood? Aren't you ever sick of the

taste of blood? Today it's the blood of tiny children, tomorrow the blood of

old women, next the blood of … who? Dark-haired prostitutes? Teenaged baby

sitters? Blue-eyed homosexuals? And each time simply leaves you more jaded,

longing for something crueller and more bizarre. Can't you sweeten your long,

bland lives with anything but blood? “Colour film. Bring plenty of colour

film. Kodachrome, I want saturated hues. Understand?” I nodded. He told me

where and when: a nearby street corner, at three fifteen. I hit the floor

with my hands out in front of me, jarring one wrist but not breaking it. I

was alone. I ran through the house, I searched every room, then I locked the

doors and sat on the bed, shaking, emitting small, unhappy noises every few

minutes. When I'd calmed down, I went out and bought ten rolls of

Kodachrome. We ate at home that night. I was supposed to cook something,

but I ended up making do with frozen pizzas. Wendy talked about her tax

problems, and I nodded. “And what did you do with yourself

today?” “Research.” “For what?” “I'll tell you tomorrow.” We made love. For a

while it seemed like some sort of ritual, some kind of magic: Wendy was

giving me strength, yes, she was fortifying me with mystical energy and

spiritual power. Afterwards, I couldn't laugh at such a ludicrous idea, I

could only despise myself for being able to take it seriously for a moment. I

dreamt that she gave me a shining silver sword. “What's it for?” I asked

her. “When you feel like running away, stab yourself in the foot.” I climbed

out of bed at two. It was utterly freezing, even once I was fully dressed. I

sat in the kitchen with the light off, drinking coffee until I was so bloated

that I could hardly breathe. Then I staggered to the toilet and threw it all

up. My throat and lungs stung, I wanted to curl up and dissolve, or crawl

back to the warm blankets, back to Wendy, to stay hidden under the covers

until morning. As I clicked the front door shut, it was like diving into a

moonlit pool. Being safe indoors was at once a distant memory, lying warm in

bed was a near-forgotten dream. No cars, no distant traffic noises, no

clouds, just a huge night sky and empty, endless streets. It was five to

three when I reached the place. I paced for a while, then walked around the

block, but that only killed three minutes. I chose a direction and resolved

to walk a straight line for seven minutes, then turn around and come back. If

I didn't turn around, if I kept walking, would he catch me? Would he return

to the house and punish me? What if we moved, to another city, another

state? I passed a phone box, an almost blinding slab of solid light. I jingled

my pockets, then remembered that I'd need no coin. I stood outside the booth

for two minutes, I lingered in the half-open doorway for three, and then I

lifted and replaced the handset a dozen times before I finally dialled. When

the operator answered, I slammed the phone down. I needed to defecate, I

needed to lie down. I dialled again, and asked for the police. It was so

easy. I even gave them my true name and address when they asked, without the

least hesitation. I said “thank you” about six thousand times. I looked at my

watch: thirteen past three. I ran for the corner, camera swinging by the

carrying strap, and made it back in ninety seconds. Someone was climbing out

through a dark window, holding a gagged, struggling child. It wasn't the man

who'd called himself Jack, it wasn't the killer I'd seen on TV when I was

ten. I raised my camera. Drop it and do something, drop it and save the child,

you fool! Me against him? Against that? I'd be slaughtered! The police are

coming, it's their job, isn't it? Just take the pictures. It's what you

really want, it's what you're here to do. Once I'd fired the shutter, once

I'd taken the first shot, it was like flicking through the pages of a

magazine. I was sickened, I was horrified, I was angry, but I wasn't there,

so what could I do? The child was tortured. The child was raped. The child

was mutilated. The child suffered but I heard no cries, and I saw only the

flashgun's frozen tableaux, a sequence of badly made waxworks. The killer and

I arranged each shot with care. He waited patiently while the flash

recharged, and while I changed rolls. He was a consummate model: each pose he

struck appeared completely natural, utterly spontaneous. I didn't notice just

when the child actually died. I only noticed when I ran out of film. It was

then that I looked around at the houses on the street and saw half a dozen

couples, peeking through their bedroom windows and stifling yawns. He sprinted

away when the police arrived. They didn't pursue him in the car; one officer

loped off after him, the other knelt to examine the remains, then walked up

to me. He tipped his head at my camera. “Got it all, did you?” I nodded.

Accomplice, accomplice, accomplice. How could I ever explain, let alone try

to excuse, my inaction? “Fantastic. Well done.” Two more police cars appeared,

and then the officer who'd gone in pursuit came marching up the street,

pushing the hand-cuffed killer ahead of him. The best of the photographs

were published widely, even shown on TV (“the following scenes may disturb

some viewers”). A thousand law-abiding citizens rioted outside the

courthouse, burning and slashing effigies, when he appeared to be placed on

remand. He was killed in his cell a week before the trial was due to start. He

was tortured, raped and mutilated first. He must have been expecting to die,

because he had written out a will: Burn my body and scatter my ashes from a

high place. Only then will I be happy. Only then will I find peace. They did

it for him, too. He has a special place on my wall now, and I never tire of

Greg Egan - SS - Scatter My Ashes.pdf

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika: