Walkers (13 page)

Springer edged his left hand across
the table and laid it on the tablecloth right in front of her. ‘Go ahead.’

Gingerly, Susan reached out, until
her fingertips were only a quarter of an inch away from the back of Springer’s
hand.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ Springer
encouraged her.

Susan stroked his knuckle. There was
no outward evidence of it, no visible sparks, but she felt as if she had
brushed a bare terminal, fizzing with electricity. The sensation was shocking,
but at the same time curiously pleasant, as pleasant as having your scalp
massaged or somebody’s fingers drawn lightly down your naked back. She stared
at Springer, right into Springer’s eyes, and Springer said, ‘Touch me again.
Lay your hand right on top of mine, and hold it there.’

Susan turned to Henry and Gil, but
Henry and Gil said nothing. Slowly, tentatively, she laid her hand fully on top
of Springer’s hand, and stared into his eyes again, waiting and watching for something
to happen.

For a moment, nothing did happen.
Then suddenly Susan felt as if she had been plucked out of her chair and
hurtled at enormous velocity right the way across the restaurant, right through
the doors, which slammed open and then slammed shut again behind her, right
through another set of doors, which also slammed open and then slammed shut,
and then another and another and another, door after door after door. And at
the end of the rows of doors – she took her hand away. She stopped.

She was still at the table, with
Henry and Gil and the extraordinary person called Springer.

‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘I felt
like I was flying, almost. Flying through all these double doors, and they
opened and closed to let me through. I could actually hear them banging!’

Henry lifted his glass, and
swallowed a large mouthful of neat vodka, without taking his eyes off Springer
and without offering any kind of toast. ‘You’re a hypnotist,’ he told Springer.
‘I don’t know what you’ve been trying to do to us, and I don’t think I’ll be
very enthralled when I find out, but I for one would like some kind of coherent
explanation for this evening’s little get-together, or else I’m finishing off
this drink and going home.’

‘Finish your drink and come with
me,’ said Springer.

‘Where do you have in mind?’ asked
Henry. ‘Mugger’s Cove? Or Dope’s Leap?’

Springer shook his head. ‘I will not
harm you. I think you are conscious of that already. There
is
harm around us; you
are
threatened,
but not by me.’

‘Then by whom?’

Springer finished his dry white
wine, and raised his hand towards the waiter. The waiter turned towards them,
but as soon as he caught sight of Springer he turned away again. ‘Come along,’
said Springer, and he stood up, and helped Susan out of her chair.

‘Aren’t you going to pay?’ asked
Gil.

Springer shook his head. ‘I have no
money. But there is no question of theft. They will find when they check their
inventory that they are missing nothing, no wine, no beer, not even a measure
of Smirnoff.’

Henry looked at Springer
interrogatively, but kept his questions to himself. He preferred to hold back,
and see how this confrontation with Springer turned out. But there was no doubt
that it was deeply disturbing. At least forty-seven degrees of stress on the
Holmes-Masudu scale. He kept his eye on the waiter and the maître d’ as the
four of them walked towards the exit without making any attempt to pay for
their drinks. Nobody noticed them. They might have been invisible. Henry passed
only inches away from the maître d’, and the man didn’t even turn to bid him
goodnight, or ask why he was leaving only five minutes after he had arrived.

Gil said, ‘This is weird with a
capital “W”.’ Susan said, ‘It’s just like they can’t even see us.’ She paused
for a moment, and went over to the bar, and peered straight into the face of a
leather-jacketed man who was sitting alone drinking Piña Coladas. She stared
directly into his eyes – first, from about a foot away then closer and closer,
until her nose was almost touching his. He remained completely motionless,
unblinking, as if he couldn’t see her at all. But just as Susan was about to
turn away from him, and rejoin the others, the man unexpectedly kissed her on
the tip of the nose, and laughed. ‘You want a kiss, sugar, you only have to
ask.’

Susan, red faced and furious,
stalked out of the restaurant in front of Henry and Gil and wouldn’t even look
at Springer. Henry and Gil both chuckled; and even Springer seemed to allow
himself a neutral smile.

‘We are not invisible, I regret,’ said
Springer. ‘We have simply failed to make an impression on the memories of the
staff.’

They left the restaurant. Susan was
sulking, but didn’t want to go home, not yet, especially if the others were
staying. Springer beckoned, and they followed him along Camino del Mar as far
as the block just before the Bennett Coast Hotel. The night was still foggy and
humid, although a light wind was getting up. In the middle of the block, in
between Cord Realty offices and Eleganza fashion boutique, there stood a three-storey
stucco-fronted house, its shutters tilting from corroded hinges, its pink paint
stained black with damp, its front yard densely overgrown with wild
bougainvillaea, its railings broken and rusty. It was a house that spoke
silently but eloquently of neglect, and decay, and lost lives.

‘In here?’ asked Gil, wrinkling up
his nose in distaste. ‘Come on, man, this has to be a put-on. Either that, or
the most creative mugging I ever heard of.’

‘Follow me,’ said Springer, and
walked up the weedy concrete path. He unlocked the front door, and hesitantly
the three of them followed him inside. The door closed behind them, quite
silently. Springer crossed the hallway, found the light switch, and flicked it
on. The interior of the house was completely bare. No furniture, no carpets,
only naked light bulbs dangling from the ceiling. At one time, it must have
been a house of considerable elegance. The mahogany staircase curved down to
the hallway in a graceful sweep, and all the doors were solid panelled oak, with
detailed beading. Despite the decrepitude of the outside, inside the rooms
seemed dry and clean, as if they had been freshly swept. Their footsteps
clattered and squeaked on the bare boards, and their voices echoed as if the
house were already occupied by furtive spirits. There was a strong and curious
smell of laurels.

‘We have to go upstairs,’ said
Springer. Without hesitation, he led the way up the staircase, one
long-fingered hand trailing on the banister rail. Henry, who came up close
behind him, noticed that his shoes were more like moccasins than street shoes,
black leather made all of a piece.

They crossed the upstairs landing,
and Springer opened a door on the opposite side, which led into a large room
with two french windows at one end. These windows were as black as ink now, but
during the day they must have offered a wide view of the gardens behind the
house, and beyond, possibly, as far as the sea-shore. Henry and Gil and Susan
could see themselves reflected in the glass, the anxious occupants of a strange
and empty room.

The walls of the room had been
painted turquoise, many years ago. There were rectangular marks where pictures
had once hung, and scars on the plaster where light-fittings had been removed
from the side of the fireplace. Springer closed the door, and then turned to
face Henry and Gil and Susan, his straw-coloured eyes as pale as the dry white
wine he had been drinking.

Henry said, ‘All right. Here we are.
Now, are you going to tell us why you brought us here?’

‘This house is built at one of the
nine hundred key locations in America,’ said Springer. When he saw that they
didn’t understand him at all, he explained, ‘There are nine hundred places in
the United States where the power may be tapped, and this is one of them.
‘‘Power?’ asked Henry, suspiciously.

‘The power that created me, and
ultimately, the power that created you,’ said Springer. He pointed upwards, to
the ceiling.

‘Are we talking about the power of
God?’ asked Gil. ‘Is that what we’re talking about?’

Springer smiled. His hand made a
brushing motion in the air, as if he were stroking a soft, invisible animal.
‘You may call it the power of God, if you wish, but that is to suppose that it
is wholly good. That is the popular human conception of God. A divine Being
without fault and without weakness. The reality is rather different, as most
realities are. The reality is that there is a power which is capable of being
turned against those who rob and those who murder and those who corrupt the
lives of the young, but this power is only
relatively
good. It would not be effective if it were wholly good – good without
compromise – because no war can be fought on terms of totality. Extremism in
the name of whatever cause is the most destructive of all human
characteristics. It is equally the most destructive of all spiritual
characteristics.

No, my friends, this power is wise
and this power is terrible and this power is hugely creative, but this power is
not perfect.’

Henry asked, with undisguised
scepticism, ‘Does the power have a name?’

Springer nodded. ‘The power is
called Ashapola, after the ancient word which means avenger of great wrongs.’

Susan, in a thin, quiet voice said,
‘Are you trying to tell us that Ashapola is God?’

‘God is whatever you want Him to
be,’ Springer explained. ‘But the true power of creation is not’ ‘God” or’
‘Buddha’’ or “Gitche Manitou”; it is Ashapola, who embraces all of these
deities, and more. It was Ashapola who made man in his own image, with all of
his own strengths and weaknesses. Unlike the deity you worship as God, who is
forever punishing his children for failing to be perfect, Ashapola recognises
their imperfections as his own, and teaches them instead to overcome them, to
use their weaknesses as strengths.’

Henry thoughtfully rubbed his chin.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I think I’ve heard just about everything I need to hear. In
my opinion, Mr Springer, you’re cracked. You’re welcome to your own religion,
your own point of view. This is a free country. But I regularly turn the
Mormons away from my door, as well as the Seventh Day Adventists; and while
you’ve found a much more novel way of claiming my attention, I’m afraid that
Ashapola doesn’t impress me any more than Moroni or Boroni. I’m going now, and
I expect these two young people will want to come with me.’

He took a step towards the door,
just one step, and it was then that Springer lifted his right arm, straight up
in the air, and the room began to darken, until Henry could scarcely see
anything but the glistening reflection of Springer’s eyes, and the whiteness of
his upraised hand. There was a soft crackling, spitting sound, like a fire
burning, or cellophane being crumpled, and the atmosphere inside the room grew
dense with the smell of laurel.

Gil said, ‘Jesus Christ, Henry,
what’s that?’ and Susan sharply drew in her breath.

In the centre of the room, a tall
transparent figure had suddenly appeared, indeterminate at first, but quickly
growing clearer and clearer. Henry stared in horror.

The crackling sound grew louder,
until it sounded more like ferocious radio interference; and then louder still,
so that they could scarcely hear themselves speak.

The figure was white, and naked. It
was the figure of a young girl, with her back towards them. Her blonde hair
fanned out in the air as if she were floating in water, rather than standing in
the centre of a room. Springer stepped away from her, but his hand was still
upraised, and his face was set into an expression of intense concentration.

‘Springer! Do you hear me, Springer!’
Henry bellowed.
‘We’ve had enough of these
tricks,
you understand me? We’re going! Now, stop this nonsense and put on the
lights!’

Springer ignored them. Instead, he
made a twisting gesture with his left hand, and the figure of the girl began
slowly to turn around.
‘Springer, what
the hell is going on
here?’1
Henry
roared at him. The crackling noise was louder than ever.

The girl gradually turned to face
them. As before, she was beautiful. This time, her eyes were open, and she was
staring at the three of them with an expression so sad and so hurt that Henry
was completely silenced. Gil jerkily reached out and gripped Henry’s left
shoulder – out of fear, out of a need for companionship; out of the plain fact
that he didn’t know what to do, and all he could hope for was that Henry might
somehow be able to guide them out of the room, away from Springer, away from
the girl who was staring at him so pitifully, although she was dead, drowned
dead, eel-eaten dead, and couldn’t be standing here at all.

The girl’s hair undulated in the
air. Her features appeared to change and shift, as if they were watching her
through water. She opened and closed her mouth several times, giving Susan the
impression that she wanted to say something, that she was trying to appeal for
help.

‘This is how it happened . . .’
blurted Springer’s voice, penetrating the
crackling noise with all the distorted bass of a public-address announcement.
‘This is what she was
like in the beginning... look at her
closely. , . see how beautiful she was. . .’