Desolation (18 page)

Perturbed, but hardly surprised, Cain moved on. If anywhere would have contained hidden truths, it was this room with the wounded door.

Another sprawl of faded writing faced him from one of the posters:
They won't leave me alone
. It too was written in blood, and some of its message had flaked to the floor as if forgotten with its writer's death. Cain knew who the words referred to, and already a picture was beginning to build. Vlad must have come here, rented Flat Five—even though he relied a lot on his wheelchair—and then found himself vilified by the others in the house. Set upon. Toyed with.
I'm here because they think I'm just like them
, he had written, and in that strange dream Sister Josephine had said to Cain,
You know the Way already, for sure, you just need showing
.

And what was the Way, if not Pure Sight?

Perhaps I'm just like Vlad
, he thought.

There was another message painted on a circus admission price board. Cain had to lean down and blow away a layer of dust to reveal it fully, but when he sat back on his haunches he saw:
They tell me I'm not who I am
. That chilled Cain to the core. Not only had they abused Vlad, they had confused him as well, and what had happened to him in the end? Eaten, if Peter was to be believed. This crippled old trapeze artist had been found miles from here, minus his wheelchair, with his stomach eaten away.
Did he know himself when he died?
Cain
thought.
Or had they tortured him that much?

And as if to taunt him more, that was when Cain saw the wheelchair. It was folded neatly and tucked behind several split bags at the rear of the attic space. He could not reach it from where he squatted, and neither did he wish to. Even the light barely touched it. Chrome glowed, leather merged with the dark, and Cain was sure that dried bloodstains on the wheelchair would reveal their own obvious message.

Strange . . . they never even found his wheelchair
, Peter had told him on his first day here.

He had to leave. This place had been a refuge, a sanctuary for the crippled old man, and the difficulty he must have faced getting in here made it feel even more special. By leaving the room as it was after his death, the landlord had revealed the true extent of the invasion into Vlad's life. The bloody writing spoke of that, splayed as it was across important references to his history, as if to obscure his past just as the others in the house had endeavored to offend his identity. And much as Cain suddenly felt empathy for that victimized man, he did not feel that he should be here. This was a private place, made more so by its user's death. Perhaps it would change in the future, but right now it should remain as it was, lonely and sad.

Scrawled on the floor at Cain's feet, previously unseen, six words:
They know I'm going to tell
.

Those claw marks on the door?
Cain thought.
What put them here? And why?

His answer stared him in the face as he turned to
leave. Above the door hung an old photograph of Vlad in all his glory, swinging from a trapeze with one hand and waving to the photographer with the other. He was young, fit, full of life, and his smile promised nothing of his grim, lonely demise.

Across the picture were the words
They're going to kill me tonight
.

Cain closed the door behind him, and for some reason it felt like a betrayal.

Pushing his fear aside, he ran downstairs and across the street to Heaven, vowing that there he would find answers.

Once at the house, Cain felt slightly more relaxed. He was an hour early at least, but if Peter was in Cain would demand that they have their talk now. If the landlord was not there . . . then Cain would wait. It was a sunny day, he was out in the open, and he had plenty of time. He would sit on the low wall outside Peter's run-down property and watch the world go by.

Glancing over his shoulder back at Number 13, Cain saw a flicker of flesh pass by Magenta's window. Below hers, Sister Josephine's window was dark, curtains drawn, and he wondered whether she was in there magicking herself up even now.

He could not wait out here, exposed and watched.

Cain bashed on the corrugated iron door of Heaven. From inside there came a scampering sound, like dozens of small animals running for cover, and then a frantic hissing and squealing. He stepped back slightly from the door, still within
Heaven's shadow, and waited. He felt incredibly exposed with Number 13 at his back. He glanced around, but Magenta's window was bare.

Heaven fell quiet. The squealing had died down, leaving a loaded silence in its wake. Cain thought he heard footsteps, but they could just as easily have come from the next street as Heaven. What the hell had possessed Peter to give his house such a name? Irony obviously, but he did not really seem like the kind of person to court controversy.

Cain knocked again, louder and longer. The noise shocked him and he drew back, remembering the siren and how it had hollowed him out with each assault. He looked around guiltily, but no one appeared to be watching. The street was quiet, considering the time of day. People should be returning home from work, kids should be out playing. No cars, no strollers. Maybe . . .

“Fuck it!” he scolded himself. Paranoia was getting the better of him. The Face would smile and shake her head, and tell Cain that everyone's lives revolved around one another. The only person fixated on Cain was Cain.

He reached out to strike the door again as it was pulled open, squealing across bare concrete.

“You're early,” Peter said. “I'm not ready yet.”

“I don't care, we need to talk. I need to know what's going on here. And you have to tell me about my father.”

Peter looked angry, and that in turn angered Cain. What the hell did the landlord expect him to do? There was no explanation to the body in Whistler's room other than murder.

“Wait just a minute,” Peter said. “I have to get something, then I'll be out. There's a pub I know—we can go there, sit in the garden.”

“I want to know everything,” Cain said.

“I'll tell you what I can.” Peter pushed the door shut, and Cain heard him muttering something as he receded inside the house.

I'll tell you what I can
, he'd said, which was very different from saying,
I'll tell you what I know
. Cain still did not trust the landlord, not one bit, even if he
had
come along and rescued him from being caught red-handed by Whistler. There was design in that, too. There was too much hidden, a dozen mysteries just breaking surface but keeping their bulks riding below the waves of understanding. Cain was confused, frightened, and alone. He knew he should call Afresh, but he was terrified that they would ask him to return. And besides, now that he could possibly discover more about his father, and why he had done what he did, the surrounding enigmas seemed like tributaries of the same river. For now he would go with the flow.

He moved out of Heaven's small front garden and stood on the pavement. As if pleased that he had no intention of fleeing, the street had come to life. Cars passed left and right, filled with squabbling children and tired parents. A woman walked along the opposite pavement, holding a little girl's hand and talking into a mobile phone at the same time.
Perhaps Whistler just grabbed her off the street
, Cain thought, but there was much more to what he had seen. Peter had said that, and Cain believed him. Not because he thought the landlord was trustworthy,
but because of the look in the stuffed woman's eyes. She was not Magenta, he was sure of that now, but she had still seemed happy to be there.

And that chuckle, Cain thought. It must have been something tumbling from a shelf, or his ear popping, or maybe it was his unconscious utterance of fear as he heard the house's front door slam shut. But there was also the niggling idea that if he had stayed just a few moments longer, the woman would have broken down and started laughing at him.
Surprise!
she would have said.
Had you fooled! Oh, Cain, we're having
such
fun with you
. . .

Peter opened the front door behind him, slammed it shut, and joined him on the pavement. He was carrying a battered, oversized leather book, holding it to his side as if ashamed of whatever it contained.

“What's that?” Cain asked.

“It's a photo album,” Peter said. “Now, come on, I don't want to do this in sight of the house.”

That was the first time Cain had heard any hint of fear in Peter's voice. And he realized that Peter may be as much a pawn in whatever game was being played as he.

Intrigued, afraid, and yet filled with a vibrancy and excitement he had never felt before, Cain followed Peter along the road.

For a long time after he first arrived at Afresh, Cain believed that he was the only reality. He was real, the here and now, and everything else around him was the product of his mind. There was no proof
that a chair could exist, because Cain could be imagining its solidity. There was no evidence that the Face was real, because Cain could have dreamed her up himself.
Would you be so cruel to yourself?
the Voice asked, referring to the terrible things Cain had been through. But Cain only shrugged, and said that with nothing to relate his life to, cruelty was an empty concept.

 

 

 

It was a suburban pub, given over mainly to average pub food and big-screen sports viewings. Its facade was mock-Tudor, smothered with ivy and pocked here and there with bay windows and several entrance doors. A specials menu stood by the main door, proclaiming the quality of their lasagna, beef curry, and scampi. Guest ale this week was Dog's Dinner. Inside was all dark wood and chrome, sports prints on the walls, sticky carpet by the bar. A few couples sat eating a postwork meal, mostly silent and pale. A family occupied one corner, the parents hassled and the children happily picking up chips from the floor, flicking peas at each other, and generally reveling in the adventure.

Peter ordered a bottle of red wine and some chips, and he nodded toward the back of the pub where a stained glass door led out into the garden. The beer garden was an impressive size, and surprisingly well maintained. Tables were dotted here
and there at random, and one or two were nicely secluded, hidden from general view by large potted plants and well-cropped hedges. Peter headed for one of these, farthest from the pub and nestled between a high hedge and a wild rose garden. He placed the photograph album gently on the end of the table, as if keen to keep his distance, and poured some wine.

“It's not often I get out,” Peter said.

“Likewise.”

Peter smiled, and Cain thought it was the first genuine smile he had ever seen from the landlord. Perhaps being away from Endless Crescent made him more himself.

“So you were at Afresh from the time your father died, right up to now?”

Cain nodded. “It was all I knew as home. People cared for me there.” He said no more; his use of the word
care
spoke volumes.

“Still, that's a long time ago. He's been dead, what, five years?”

“Six.”

Peter nodded, sipped his wine, and looked around the garden. Cain followed his gaze and actually found himself enjoying the moment, pressured as it was by the potential of revelation. The wine was good, the weather was pleasant, the garden gave over a relaxed feel. Bees buzzed the bushes around them, and birds squabbled and squealed in the trees, arguing over dropped food. He glanced at the photograph album, leaned back on the seat and stretched his arms, looked at the album again.

“Let's talk about Whistler first,” Peter said quietly.

“You know so much and I know nothing!” Cain said. “You have me at a disadvantage. I thought you were just the landlord, but now you tell me you knew my father, what he was doing, doing to
me!
And what I saw in Whistler's flat, everything that's been happening to me there, you seem to know it all. You're not just the landlord, are you? You're involved.”

Peter nodded, sipped his wine, and sat back in his seat. “So tell me what's happened,” he said. “Tell me what
you
think has happened.”

“The others are casting me out,” Cain said, remembering the lonely, unrelated messages in Vlad's attic. He could mention that he had been in there . . . but for now he decided to keep that to himself. Having a secret or two may be to his advantage.

“They've lived there together for a long time,” Peter said. “You're a stranger, you've just moved in. It's bound to take them time to accept you.”

“There's more to it, and you know it! They're
playing
with me. Magenta, the nun, George, Whistler, all of them have toyed with me to some degree. Sometimes it seems almost harmless, other times not.”

“You sure you haven't imagined it all? Dreamed it?”

It's all a dream, Cain
, Peter had shouted from the basement.

“You told me I had it,” Cain said. “What did you mean by that? Don't avoid the issues here, Peter. You brought me here for a reason, you brought that album with you, so there's going to be more to
this conversation than you trying to persuade me I'm mad.”

“Oh, I know you're not mad,” Peter said quietly. “I know that.”

“So talk.
Please
.”

Peter's eyes darkened and his manner seemed to change, from casual to defensive. He glanced around the garden, into the bushes and up at the sky, and Cain remembered the sensation of being flown up the stairs by the naked nun.
A dream
, he thought, but that smear on his leg had not been his own spunk, he had always known that. It was Sister Josephine's magic cream, left there when she had put him to bed.

That had been no dream.

“It's very difficult,” Peter said.