The Glister Part 8

Still, she thinks, that's his problem. Hers is that she needs a big fat seeing-to. But that's not available, so she decides she'll take a wander down the old farm road on the East Side to walk off the frustration. It's a nice day, all sunny and clear and, for once, the air smells sweet, like summer in a normal place probably smells, so she heads on down along the hedge line, past the landfill, and out along the dirt road that runs down to the sh.o.r.e. She doesn't expect she'll see anyone out there, but she's not half a mile down the track when she comes across this bloke she's never seen before, some pikey by the look of him, cooking something over a bonfire. She stops a minute and gives him the once-over: and it turns out he's not a pikey at all, he's actually quite nicely dressed, for country-style anyway. In fact, from this angle, he looks quite handsome, with nice light-to-sandy-colored hair, not quite blond, though she can't see his eyes and she knows you should always go by a person's eyes. Still, he looks nice and she can also see that he's got a vehicle, a homely old green van parked over on a patch of wasteland, not far from where he's making a fire. He doesn't have a dog, which is good. Pikeys always have dogs. Usually the dog is nicer than the bloke, especially if it's a lurcher. Though she has to admit that she's generalizing a bit now. Anyway, she goes down the track a few yards, till she's just upwind of the bloke, and she sees that he's making some kind of stew. He's got a big bottle of Fanta or suchlike on a little mat, and a cup and some bread and he's making this stew, maybe rabbit stew, though if he's got any sense, he won't go eating any of the rabbits round here. He's completely absorbed in what he's doing, so he doesn't see her till the last minute. She gets to sneak up on him and deliver her best line before he knows what's. .h.i.t him. "Want a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b, mister?" she says, just as he turns round. He really is handsome, with a kind face and clear, blue-gray eyes.

He looks a bit startled by this, or maybe it's just because he's looking up into the sun. Then he laughs and stands up, wiping his hands down on his jacket. "Well," he says, "if I'm honest, I probably do. But not from you."

She's a bit offended by this, of course, but she acts casual. "So what's wrong with me, then?" she says, putting on her best who-gives-a- s.h.i.+t-what-you-think-anyway face. Only she does give a s.h.i.+t, of course, because she really is in bad need of a f.u.c.k, and if Leonard's not up to it, this guy can happily stand in.

The man laughs again. "There's nothing wrong with you," he says. "It's just that you're only a little girl. You're just a kid, and you shouldn't be wandering around the countryside offering your services to complete strangers."

"I'm eighteen," she says.

He shakes his head. "I doubt that that very much," he says. very much," he says.

"You want me to prove it?"

"How would you do that?"

She grins. "Come over here and I'll show you," she says.

He laughs again. "No," he says, "you don't need to prove it." He takes a quick look to check on his lunch. "Are you hungry?" he says, hunkering down to give the pot a stir.

Now that he mentions it, she is hungry, 'cause she didn't eat before she came out, being in such a rush to meet Leonard, but she's too randy to think about food. This guy has got her all restless and wet, it's like something out of D. H. b.l.o.o.d.y Lawrence. Probably. Still, she's glad to accept what's on offer and they can take it from there. "I'm starving" starving" she says, with a bit too much emphasis. she says, with a bit too much emphasis.

He looks up at her and shakes his head. "Sit down, then," he says. "I'll not send you away starving." starving."

[image]

She doesn't know who he is. Not at first. But when she asks him what he's doing here, he tells her about the moth survey thingy, and she realizes that he's the one Leonard told her about. Which wouldn't stop her from s.h.a.gging him, of course, but he genuinely isn't interested. She pushes the envelope a bit on that, but he just keeps laughing her off. She tells him he can do anything he likes-she's never met a bloke who didn't go for that. If you say to them, all soft and submissive-looking, you can do anything you like, you can do anything you like, they usually just go straight to automatic and then you can just about do what you like with they usually just go straight to automatic and then you can just about do what you like with them. them. Not this bloke, though. He's a nice guy, and handsome and all, but he's a bit dim. It's not like she wants to Not this bloke, though. He's a nice guy, and handsome and all, but he's a bit dim. It's not like she wants to marry marry him or anything, and she's told him she's eighteen so he's fully insured against any legal comeback. Of course, he could be gay. Maybe he likes Leonard. Or maybe he's just some simp going about the countryside catching b.u.t.terflies and counting them. Which, when you think about it, isn't such a bad deal. Gets you out and about. Better than living here. Which, in turn, gives her an idea. They're sitting by the fire now, eating his homemade stew. She doesn't know what's in it, but it tastes all right. "So," she says, going all nice-friendly-conversation, no-big-agenda on him, "where do you come from? You're not from around here." him or anything, and she's told him she's eighteen so he's fully insured against any legal comeback. Of course, he could be gay. Maybe he likes Leonard. Or maybe he's just some simp going about the countryside catching b.u.t.terflies and counting them. Which, when you think about it, isn't such a bad deal. Gets you out and about. Better than living here. Which, in turn, gives her an idea. They're sitting by the fire now, eating his homemade stew. She doesn't know what's in it, but it tastes all right. "So," she says, going all nice-friendly-conversation, no-big-agenda on him, "where do you come from? You're not from around here."

He shakes his head. "I'm not from anywhere," he says. "Or maybe I'm from all over. I even lived here once."

"Here?"

"When I was a kid." He glances off toward the plant and it's like he's looking back through time. He seems like the kind of person who can see what he talks about, what he remembers. Not just words or thoughts, but pictures. "My old man worked here a few times," he says.

"Really?" Elspeth doesn't know of anybody working here who didn't stay right here. "What did he do?"

"He worked for Lister's."

"What's that?"

"George Lister and Son," he said. "One of the companies that built the plant. He helped design it, then he came back, when it all closed down, to help decommission it."

"What does that mean, exactly?"

"He helped to shut it down."

"Oh," she says. "He'd be popular, then."

The man gives a rueful smile. "I don't think so," he says.

"So, what's it like?" she says, to get him off this subject. She wants him a bit more cheerful.

"What's what like?"

"Out there. You know. In the real world."

He laughs. "It's all all real," he says. "But it's different. It varies, place to place." He looks around. "Wherever you go, this is the best of it." real," he says. "But it's different. It varies, place to place." He looks around. "Wherever you go, this is the best of it."

She laughs. "This?" "This?" she says. "You have she says. "You have got got to be kidding." to be kidding."

"Well," he says, "not exactly this particular spot. But the open air, the land. Places where you can sit quiet, or just get on with your work, and n.o.body bothers you. You don't find that very often."

"Tell me about it," she says. She leans forward and rests her chin on her wrist: warm, sympathetic, interested. She can do that stuff in her sleep, if she needs to.

He laughs. "Anyway," he says, like he's avoiding a question she hasn't asked him yet, "I'm almost done here."

"Yeah?"

"Yes," he says.

"So you're leaving?"

He nods. "Soon," he says.

She nods. She's about to give up, at this point, because she can feel him slipping away, but she gives it another try. "Can I come with you?" she asks him.

He looks surprised, but he isn't really. "Why would you want to do that?" he says.

"To get away from here," she says.

"What about your folks?"

"Don't got any folks," she says, which isn't quite true, even though it is really. "Look, all I want is a lift. I won't jump you or anything."

"Is that right?"

"Well," she says, "not unless you want me to."

He smiles. He has a nice smile and she feels a bit wistful, right then. She feels kind of sorry for him, to be honest. He should f.u.c.k her, it would probably cheer him up. It would cheer her her up, that's for sure. Still, there's no point ruling anything out. Farther on down the road, and all that. There's nothing as s.e.xy as heading off down the road at night, not quite sure where you're going. Mile after mile of house lights and country lanes, the fields all around full of dreaming cattle and owls flitting in and out of the headlamps. Just like that French film she saw over at Leonard's house. She wouldn't be surprised if he didn't pull over and give her one before they even got off the peninsula. "Well," he says, after pretending to think it over, "I won't say I'm not tempted. But there's something I still have to take care of before I go." He looks away across the wasteland, toward the old plant. He seems sad, or maybe a little scared, and she wonders what it is he has to do. up, that's for sure. Still, there's no point ruling anything out. Farther on down the road, and all that. There's nothing as s.e.xy as heading off down the road at night, not quite sure where you're going. Mile after mile of house lights and country lanes, the fields all around full of dreaming cattle and owls flitting in and out of the headlamps. Just like that French film she saw over at Leonard's house. She wouldn't be surprised if he didn't pull over and give her one before they even got off the peninsula. "Well," he says, after pretending to think it over, "I won't say I'm not tempted. But there's something I still have to take care of before I go." He looks away across the wasteland, toward the old plant. He seems sad, or maybe a little scared, and she wonders what it is he has to do.

"Your loss," she says, trying to shrug it off and come out with her self-esteem intact, but he's starting to worry her now. He's gone all scary and preoccupied on her, and Elspeth can't help thinking that something terrible is about to happen. Because he's different now and, for a moment, she sees it. It's only a glimpse she catches, and she doesn't understand what it is she is witnessing, but she looks into his face and just for that one moment she sees the dark light of the sun, so she has to turn away, out of fear and confusion. It's only a glimpse, though, and when she looks back, out of the corner of her eye, that dark light is hidden and all that's left is sadness. She feels so sad, in fact, that she's on the verge of bursting into tears, like she does sometimes at home for no reason, watching some stupid film on TV or listening to one of her mum's old records.

The man gives her a long look, then he nods. "I'm sure it is," he says. He leans forward and pokes at the fire. "It's getting cold," he says. "It'll be autumn soon."

He looks up and smiles-but Elspeth feels cold now, cold and tired, and she really does start to cry. "Don't say that," she says.

The man shakes his head. "It's all right," he says.

Elspeth wants to believe him, but she can't. She's really crying now; the tears are running down her cheeks and she wishes that, just this one time, everything would work out the way it was supposed to. She looks at the Moth Man, and she thinks, if he could only have been someone else, if he could have just touched her, it would mend everything. Home and school and Jimmy Van Doren and Leonard and the Innertown-it would all melt away and she would be free forever. All he need do is touch her, and that new story can begin. Roads, bedrooms, cities, oceans. Summer. She wishes he could see that. She wishes he would stop being so scary and just put his arms around her and then, after they have f.u.c.ked for hours in the long gra.s.s by the hedge they would drive away in his green van, and the terrible thing wouldn't happen. The terrible thing wouldn't happen and somebody, somewhere, would stay safe-and that's when she thinks of Leonard, without knowing why, without really believing that he's the one who's in danger. She sees Leonard for a moment, in her mind's eye, lifting his head and putting aside his book to welcome someone he has only just noticed and hadn't expected to see, the way he did that first time, in the library, then the cold and the sadness engulf her, till all she can think of is driving away in a green van, traveling west to where it's still summer. Because it's still summer, somewhere, she knows that. It's always summer, somewhere or other, for someone.

LEONARD.

I WAS BEING FOLLOWED. OR NOT FOLLOWED SO MUCH AS WATCHED. WAS BEING FOLLOWED. OR NOT FOLLOWED SO MUCH AS WATCHED. Someone was watching me, from among the trees, or in one of the ruined kilns. Still, it didn't bother me to begin with. I was scared that Morrison, or somebody, would come for me, but I didn't think this watcher was from the Innertown. Which wasn't that logical, maybe, but I figured, if I was next- and for a couple of days, there, I really was Someone was watching me, from among the trees, or in one of the ruined kilns. Still, it didn't bother me to begin with. I was scared that Morrison, or somebody, would come for me, but I didn't think this watcher was from the Innertown. Which wasn't that logical, maybe, but I figured, if I was next- and for a couple of days, there, I really was convinced convinced that I would be the next kid to be taken-if I was next, if the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds wanted me, they could find me anytime at home, but I didn't think they could touch me out here on the headland. Which was stupid because I had to have known that, if they wanted me, they would just come and get me, and there wasn't anything I could do about it. The police were in on it, that was obvious now, and the town hall was probably in on it too. The Homeland b.l.o.o.d.y Peninsula Company weren't just in on it, they were probably running the whole thing from somewhere in their Outertown offices, some kind of ethnic-cleansing scheme, clearing the streets of potential troublemakers or whatever, or maybe just keeping us all scared, so that when their great Homeland plan finally kicked into motion, they'd have a docile population to man the waste-incineration units or whatever it was they were going to build to replace the plant. Or maybe it was some weird religious thing, like when G.o.d let Satan kill Job's sons, or when He sent the angel to kill all the eldest sons of the Egyptians, but spared the Israelite kids. You had to give it to those Israelites, they were hard b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. They just painted a white mark on the lintel of the door, or whatever, brewed up a mug of Ovaltine, and went off to bed. Some f.u.c.king angel was going to be running through the town killing children, and they just lay down and had a good night's sleep, without a second thought. Me, I'd have felt a bit bad about some of those Egyptian kids. I'd have wanted to tip somebody off, maybe that nice brick merchant across the street, or the baker at the end of the road, the one with the cute wife. Or I'd be up all night, in case it rained and the white mark on my door got washed off. It's your eldest kid for G.o.d's sake. You wouldn't want any misunderstandings. that I would be the next kid to be taken-if I was next, if the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds wanted me, they could find me anytime at home, but I didn't think they could touch me out here on the headland. Which was stupid because I had to have known that, if they wanted me, they would just come and get me, and there wasn't anything I could do about it. The police were in on it, that was obvious now, and the town hall was probably in on it too. The Homeland b.l.o.o.d.y Peninsula Company weren't just in on it, they were probably running the whole thing from somewhere in their Outertown offices, some kind of ethnic-cleansing scheme, clearing the streets of potential troublemakers or whatever, or maybe just keeping us all scared, so that when their great Homeland plan finally kicked into motion, they'd have a docile population to man the waste-incineration units or whatever it was they were going to build to replace the plant. Or maybe it was some weird religious thing, like when G.o.d let Satan kill Job's sons, or when He sent the angel to kill all the eldest sons of the Egyptians, but spared the Israelite kids. You had to give it to those Israelites, they were hard b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. They just painted a white mark on the lintel of the door, or whatever, brewed up a mug of Ovaltine, and went off to bed. Some f.u.c.king angel was going to be running through the town killing children, and they just lay down and had a good night's sleep, without a second thought. Me, I'd have felt a bit bad about some of those Egyptian kids. I'd have wanted to tip somebody off, maybe that nice brick merchant across the street, or the baker at the end of the road, the one with the cute wife. Or I'd be up all night, in case it rained and the white mark on my door got washed off. It's your eldest kid for G.o.d's sake. You wouldn't want any misunderstandings.

I had thought I'd be safe for a day or two, time enough to think what to do about what I knew, which was next to nothing, but I had a start and as a start it was better than torturing that guy Rivers with razor blades. Now, I was being followed. I didn't know who it was and at first they kept their distance, but midmorning the next day I was in one of the old warehouses, one of the big echoey ones with ivy and such growing through the holes everywhere in the roof and birds flying in and out all the time, and I could feel that someone was close. Very close. Only I couldn't see anybody. All I could see was sun and shadow, and bird shapes flitting here and there, and all I could hear was the singing. I stopped dead still and looked around, then I called out: "Jimmy?" That was more wishful thinking than anything else, because Jimmy I could deal with, but I pretty much knew it wasn't Jimmy out there among the shadows. This was something else altogether. This was a person, person, I thought, someone bigger and quieter than Jimmy or any of his crew. Someone who was used to being alone and very quiet. A watcher, like one of those characters in old mystery books. The Watcher in the Shadows. The Watcher of the Skies. Only, now, I didn't know if he was there because he was I thought, someone bigger and quieter than Jimmy or any of his crew. Someone who was used to being alone and very quiet. A watcher, like one of those characters in old mystery books. The Watcher in the Shadows. The Watcher of the Skies. Only, now, I didn't know if he was there because he was after after me, or because he wanted to protect me. To watch over me. Or maybe he was just there, watching. It didn't matter that it was me, it could have been anyone. And maybe it wasn't a person at all, maybe it was just a presence. The spirit of the place. They say every place has its own spirit, but when they talk about it in books and poems and stuff, they always mean places like bosky groves, or dark reed beds where Pan sits playing his pipes to some lost nymph, or maybe some lake with a lady sleeping just beneath the surface, but why not an old warehouse, or a cooled furnace? Why not a landfill? Don't they play that game just so that these things-these spirits-get to belong to somebody else? I'd always felt something out at the chemical plant, no matter where I went. You could call it a spirit, or a genius loci-why not? It was present, and I always thought it was trying to talk to me. Not in words, though. Not like that. It was more like pointing. It was there, pointing to something I should know about, something I should have seen beyond the things I was seeing, but it wasn't concerned with what you could say in words. You get a huge moon in an indigo sky, floating over the dusty water by the docks, over the rusty cranes and the old boat eaten away by rust, you get that big moon over the harbor and you can hear owls calling from the woods above, on the West Side-what words are you going to have for that? It's not a description you want, anyway, it's something finer. It's like parsing, or chromatography Sometimes, the whole world points to something you can't see, some essence, some hidden principle. You can't see it, but you can feel it, though you have no idea how to put it into words. And sometimes, it's just that things are beautiful, only what you mean by beautiful is different from what people usually mean when they say that word. It's not sentimental, or choccy box. It's beautiful, and it's terrible too. It takes your breath away, but you don't know if that comes from awe or terror. Sometimes, I wonder why people think so little of beauty, why they think it's just calendars and pictures of little white churches or mountain streams in adverts and travel brochures. Why do they settle for that? I'm only fifteen, and even I can see there's more to it than that. me, or because he wanted to protect me. To watch over me. Or maybe he was just there, watching. It didn't matter that it was me, it could have been anyone. And maybe it wasn't a person at all, maybe it was just a presence. The spirit of the place. They say every place has its own spirit, but when they talk about it in books and poems and stuff, they always mean places like bosky groves, or dark reed beds where Pan sits playing his pipes to some lost nymph, or maybe some lake with a lady sleeping just beneath the surface, but why not an old warehouse, or a cooled furnace? Why not a landfill? Don't they play that game just so that these things-these spirits-get to belong to somebody else? I'd always felt something out at the chemical plant, no matter where I went. You could call it a spirit, or a genius loci-why not? It was present, and I always thought it was trying to talk to me. Not in words, though. Not like that. It was more like pointing. It was there, pointing to something I should know about, something I should have seen beyond the things I was seeing, but it wasn't concerned with what you could say in words. You get a huge moon in an indigo sky, floating over the dusty water by the docks, over the rusty cranes and the old boat eaten away by rust, you get that big moon over the harbor and you can hear owls calling from the woods above, on the West Side-what words are you going to have for that? It's not a description you want, anyway, it's something finer. It's like parsing, or chromatography Sometimes, the whole world points to something you can't see, some essence, some hidden principle. You can't see it, but you can feel it, though you have no idea how to put it into words. And sometimes, it's just that things are beautiful, only what you mean by beautiful is different from what people usually mean when they say that word. It's not sentimental, or choccy box. It's beautiful, and it's terrible too. It takes your breath away, but you don't know if that comes from awe or terror. Sometimes, I wonder why people think so little of beauty, why they think it's just calendars and pictures of little white churches or mountain streams in adverts and travel brochures. Why do they settle for that? I'm only fifteen, and even I can see there's more to it than that.

I know what ugly is, too. That day, in the broken warehouse, standing there in that dance of sunlight and shadow, n.o.body there but me and the birds, and this person, whoever or whatever it was, the world looked more than usually beautiful to me, but I knew that was partly because of the contrast with how ugly things were back in the town. Everybody thought the plant was a terrible thing, that they should finally demolish what was left of it and build something new on the headland, but they were getting it the wrong way round: it was the town they should demolish, the Innertown and the Outertown, the terraces and the villas, the poor and the rich, everything. They should pull everything down and start over, maybe in shacks or mud huts, so the people could learn how to live again, instead of just watching TV all the time and letting their kids run wild. They should move the people farther along the coast and teach them to fish, give them little plots of land to look after, little allotments, and some tools and a few bags of seed, and they should leave them for a generation, learning how to live, and how to teach their children. It wouldn't take any more than that. In one generation, they would have new skills, new homes, new stories. Then they could start moving out from there, a few at a time, moving out into the world to teach others, beautiful nomads, moving from place to place, making it good to be alive again.

I was standing there, thinking all this, and I wasn't sure whether it was me thinking it, or whether it was someone else. Thoughts came into my head of their own accord, from nowhere, or maybe from whoever was out there, watching me: thoughts at first, then pictures and sounds, pieces of memory, fragments, but not fragments, because I could see that somewhere, behind it all, everything was connected to everything else, only I couldn't see all the connections, because I wasn't ready. I wasn't used to connections, I was used to the bits and pieces. I was used to the fragments.

Then, after I don't know how long of just standing there, I looked round and saw a shape. It was the shape of a man, a living man who had just stepped out from somewhere. Only there was nowhere to step out from, he was in the middle of the place, right in the midst of all the song and sun and shadow, and yet, still, he looked like he had just stepped out from somewhere because he had. He had just stepped out of that-out of the light, out of the shadow, out of the birds' singing. He was a man: taller than me, but not much; he was standing very still, just gazing at me, no intentions, nothing to be afraid of.

"Who are you?" I asked him. I really wasn't afraid. I was just curious- only it wasn't the usual curiosity, where part of you wanted to know and part of you didn't really give a d.a.m.n, because what difference does it make anyway, right? This was a pure, sweet, delectable curiosity that was an end in itself, and maybe it didn't have an answer anyhow. It was the wondering that mattered.

It was a long moment before he stepped forward into a pool of sunlight and I saw his face. He looked familiar, but at first I couldn't place him. I'd seen him somewhere, but I didn't get it till he spoke, though even then, I didn't quite hear what he said. It was just a sound, a voice on the air, like something you might hear if you tuned your radio to some new wavelength. For a moment I thought I had wandered into some new place, into some dream of heaven, or the afterlife at least, and I was in the presence of something unworldly, some otherworldly being that, as strange as it might seem, saw me as a friend. Because it seemed to me that this was my my friend. The one I had been looking for, for as long as I could remember. Then he moved, just a little, and I saw that it was the Moth Man. I recognized him now, though he looked different; or rather, he was the same as before, only bigger-not larger, but bigger in himself, more defined and, at the same time, full of possibilities. He was the Moth Man and n.o.body else, yet as he stepped out of the shadows, I thought I saw someone else in him, someone I knew, and I was confused for a moment, and I almost turned away, because I thought something was wrong, but then I looked again and I saw that it really was my friend the Moth Man, and he was smiling. He took another step forward and looked into my face, as if he were checking to see if I were awake or sleepwalking. Then he laughed softly and turned away. "Come on," he said, as he walked away. "I'll make you some tea." friend. The one I had been looking for, for as long as I could remember. Then he moved, just a little, and I saw that it was the Moth Man. I recognized him now, though he looked different; or rather, he was the same as before, only bigger-not larger, but bigger in himself, more defined and, at the same time, full of possibilities. He was the Moth Man and n.o.body else, yet as he stepped out of the shadows, I thought I saw someone else in him, someone I knew, and I was confused for a moment, and I almost turned away, because I thought something was wrong, but then I looked again and I saw that it really was my friend the Moth Man, and he was smiling. He took another step forward and looked into my face, as if he were checking to see if I were awake or sleepwalking. Then he laughed softly and turned away. "Come on," he said, as he walked away. "I'll make you some tea."

[image]

I kept going back and forward from the place where I was sitting by the fire and some other place that I must have seen sometime in a film or a dream, but neither of those places was an illusion and neither was more real than the other. And I was sure I wasn't hallucinating. One moment I was sitting on a low concrete wall, listening as the Moth Man talked about the machine his father had built deep in the inner reaches of the plant, the next, I was standing in a field of bees, up to my waist in oxeye daisies and golden-rod, the bees swaying in their hundreds back and forth around me, the sun on my face in a place that was impossibly clean, the air scented with gra.s.s and pollen. Then I was back by the fire, looking up at him, listening. I had no idea what was in the tea he'd just given me, but it had made me sleep and in that sleep a dream had come, though now, almost awake, I couldn't remember it exactly, I could only see pictures. I knew I had only slept for a short time because it was still daylight there, in the campsite at the edge of the woods, and then, a moment later, in the wide meadow where I stood in the to-and-fro of the bees. That's a surprise: I don't remember falling asleep, I don't even remember feeling strange or drowsy, but all of a sudden I'm waking up and everything is altered-though it feels, not that I'm still in a dream, but that I'm too awake, every detail of every leaf of gra.s.s and curl of flame is utterly there in my head, so it's almost unbearable, how real and close it all is.

After a while, I realized we were walking, but I didn't know where we were, or where we were going. It surprises me now, looking back, that I didn't recognize the building we were walking toward, or the room that he led me into, after producing a key and opening a real, working lock on the door, but we must have been in a place that I'd never come across before that day, an enormous, dusty room that looked like a school laboratory at one end-three rows of careworn laboratory tables with sinks and gas taps, a single, not quite dead houseplant on a blackened windowsill by the door- then stretched away into a cold, dim s.p.a.ce beyond, a long emptiness as far as my eyes could see in the half-light, as much corridor as it was room. As soon as we were inside, the Moth Man closed the door, and everything went dark.

"Wait a moment," he said, before he ventured into the darkness, leaving me alone in the blackness. I know, looking back, that the wait was no more than a few seconds, but at the time it felt long-so long, even, that I forgot he was there, forgot why I had come to this place, and, like a child lost at a carnival, I had begun to feel abandoned, when a faraway gold light came on and the Moth Man came back for me, his face kindly, and perhaps a little concerned, as if he had read the fear in my eyes and wanted me to know there was nothing to worry about, that everything was good. All will be well and all manner of thing shall be well, I thought, as he reached out and touched me gently on the arm: words from a book, I knew, but they had been something else once, they had been words that someone had thought, in a moment like this one. "Come on," he said. He gazed at me for a moment, his face calm, his eyes empty of all emotion, then he turned and started walking slowly, back into the gold light. I followed. All the way, I had the sense of something watching me-not a person, not people, but something small, something concealed in the fabric of the room. Some animal in the wainscot, whatever a wainscot is, some creature hidden in the shadows.

"This is a sacred place." He was standing in front of some kind of machine, maybe a kiln, or a gas chamber-I couldn't make it out, but then I couldn't make anything out, it was hard to see clearly and it was hard to hear what he was saying. I kept missing things, phrases melting on the air before I could pin them down, his hands moving as he spoke, the metal fascia of this machine I'd never seen before, in a room I didn't even know existed, even though I'd been wandering around this old plant all my life. I made that out, though, that phrase he liked so much. He'd said it before, said it more than once when we were outside, in the woods, or trapping moths in the waste ground between the town and the foresh.o.r.e. I'd laughed the first time he said it, though even then I think I had a glimmer of what he meant. Still, sacred wasn't a common word for people to use when they talked about the plant and I'd laughed.

"Yeah," I'd said. "Sacred. "Sacred. It leaps right out at you." It leaps right out at you."

He'd smiled at that, but he'd persisted with the idea. "You know what sacred means?" he'd asked.

I'd thought for a moment, then shook my head-though I knew where he was going. I always knew where he was going, even when he talked about the bizarre life cycles of the Lepidoptera, or the inner workings of fungus colonies; it was like listening to another version of myself talking about the world, filling me in on all the things I hadn't had time to notice yet. "OK," I'd said, "enlighten me."

He'd laughed. I didn't know how he saw me, if he thought I was another version of him, maybe a there-but-for-the-grace-of version from the Innertown, the smart-a.r.s.ed kid he never got to be growing up. He'd said it often since that first time, how the headland was sacred, but this time it meant something else, something harder, something as dangerous as it was beautiful. This time he's talking about something more specific, some piece of machinery he has made, but I can't really follow because of the tea I've drunk. All I can do is stand there, trying to stay in one place, in my body and in my head, trying not to sway as I watch his lips moving, like someone who's suddenly gone deaf and is trying desperately to lip-read from scratch. Not that it would have mattered, I think. He isn't explaining anything. At one point, I think, he's telling me about how he's found some old drawings and plans on his father's computer system, how he's sat down and worked it out, how they have something to do with the plant. At first, he just thought they were plans for some kind of purification process, maybe something his father designed to help clean up the mess the plant created, but after a while he sees through to something else, some ghost of a notion to begin with, but enough to make him see that what the old man was working on-during his very last days, according to the dates, days when he knew he didn't have very long-what he came close to achieving, is a portal of some kind, a gateway that's already partly built into the plant's inner workings, and has only to be completed. I think think that's what he is saying, though I might have imagined it, or maybe I put it in afterward, to make some sense of what will happen later, when I walk into that huge light without a second thought and come to where I am now. I don't know. What I do know is that he shows me a machine at the dark end of a long, cold room that looks like a cross between a warehouse and a laboratory, then he tells me about something that's going to happen. It concerns me, but it doesn't sound like anything that will matter. It sounds abstract. In another twenty-four hours or so, this machine will be ready-right now, it's going through some special process, like charging up or something-and we will walk, or maybe I will walk, I'm not sure about the details, somebody will walk through this rusty old door and enter into-something. Another world, another time. Or nowhere, never. I can't really follow him, I'm too far gone in my own mind. There are times when I want to laugh, times when I want to cry, but I don't laugh or cry, I just stand in that long room, listening to him speak and swaying in the half-light, not even sure I'm there at all. Not even sure I'm not dreaming. that's what he is saying, though I might have imagined it, or maybe I put it in afterward, to make some sense of what will happen later, when I walk into that huge light without a second thought and come to where I am now. I don't know. What I do know is that he shows me a machine at the dark end of a long, cold room that looks like a cross between a warehouse and a laboratory, then he tells me about something that's going to happen. It concerns me, but it doesn't sound like anything that will matter. It sounds abstract. In another twenty-four hours or so, this machine will be ready-right now, it's going through some special process, like charging up or something-and we will walk, or maybe I will walk, I'm not sure about the details, somebody will walk through this rusty old door and enter into-something. Another world, another time. Or nowhere, never. I can't really follow him, I'm too far gone in my own mind. There are times when I want to laugh, times when I want to cry, but I don't laugh or cry, I just stand in that long room, listening to him speak and swaying in the half-light, not even sure I'm there at all. Not even sure I'm not dreaming.

[image]

Later, when the effects of the tea have almost worn off, I find myself sitting by a fire again, in the same clearing we'd camped in before, just ten or so yards from the old farm road. The Moth Man is sitting opposite me, tending a large pot of what smells like soup or stew, the gold light off the fire playing on his hands and face as he sits gazing into the flames. He appears to have forgotten I'm there-maybe I've been sleeping again-but he looks calm. Not happy, but calm. I can't say for sure, and maybe this is something else that occurs to me afterward, but he looks like a man who has made a final decision about something and is just waiting for events to unfold.

His decision has something to do with me, I know-only I don't know what it is he, or I, or both of us have decided. Something to do with the machine in the enormous room. I want to ask him about it, but the questions just don't form right in my head and I start thinking about other things, like seeing Morrison in the woods, or finding the watch, or the theory I had come up with about the lost boys. I even get myself together enough to start telling him about it all. I want to lay out my suspicions, maybe get his views on who is involved with Morrison. I want him to help me make sense of everything. He's not interested in that, though. As far as he's concerned, we've gone beyond the Innertown. He listens patiently for as long as I talk, but he doesn't say anything. At first I think it's because I'm not making any sense-I'm still pretty confused, and not saying things right-but then I see that it doesn't matter what I say, or how clearly I say it, because he has moved on to things that I haven't even begun to consider, much less understand. Which is true, of course.

"None of this is your concern," he says, after I show him the watch.

I shake my head. I feel like I'm saying the words of a script, like one of the minor characters in some whodunit, telling the great detective about my hopelessly mistaken theory. "Somebody killed all those boys-" I say.

He waves his hand. "Don't bother yourself with that stuff," he says.

And that's it. Case closed. I'm tired and confused, and he has other things on his mind. Yet just when I start to think it's hopeless, he stands up and starts setting out two lots of blankets on the ground by the fire. He's thinking something through, but he's not in any hurry. He lays out the blankets, puts some more wood on the fire, then stands up and looks back toward the woods, in the direction of the Innertown. "Tell you what," he says. "We'll go and have a chat with the constable tomorrow. Maybe then you can forget all this and we can move on."

I am surprised by that. I almost laugh, not at what he's saying, but at the way he says it. Have a chat. Have a chat. It sounds so ordinary; like we'll just pop by the police house and ask Morrison if he's killed five boys and, if he hasn't, does he know who did. I almost laugh. It sounds so ordinary; like we'll just pop by the police house and ask Morrison if he's killed five boys and, if he hasn't, does he know who did. I almost laugh.

He lies down on a groundsheet and pulls some blankets over himself. "Get some rest now," he says. "It's going to be a long day."

[image]

I don't expect to sleep again, but I do. It's the sleep of exhaustion this time, not some drug-induced hypnogogic reverie, though there are dreams in my head that must have come from the hours I was under the influence of the Moth Man's strange tea, dreams from the gaps in the day that I can't remember, not with my conscious mind at least-whatever that is. I am exhausted, and I sleep deep, but when I wake it's still early-and very cold, much colder than I would have expected. I lie on the ground under the Moth Man's camphor-scented blankets and I try to remember, if not everything, then the points at which one thing connects with the next, so that I can tell myself the story of what has happened. The story of what has been decided. I know that I have pledged myself to something, but I'm not sure what it is. It has to do with that machine the Moth Man showed me, it has to do with pa.s.sing through to some other place. At some point during the previous twelve hours, I know I have seen something, and I know that it is sacred to the Moth Man in a different way than anything he's shown me before, and I think it has to do with some kind of deity, or spirit, but I don't know if I have actually seen it, or if he has told me about it, or even if it was something that came up out of a dream and slipped into the story he was telling me in the enormous room-out of a dream, or out of the earth, which is much the same thing by then. Lying there, in the cold dawn, I think that, for the Moth Man, it is a G.o.d, a wildness beyond his imagining that took form one bright afternoon when he was out here alone and showed him another way of being in the world. A wild G.o.d, but not savage. Not cruel. I don't know what is about to happen, or where the silent machine in the enormous room might take me, but I do know, beyond all doubt, that this is so. Whatever happens, wherever the next twenty-four hours take me, I know that the G.o.d of that place is wild but it isn't cruel. Cruelty, I know, is a human quality, and whatever I might find in the enormous room, I know it will not be human.

I sit up. The fire is still burning, though it isn't quite as bright or as warm as it had been when we were talking, before I fell asleep. I look for the Moth Man, but he isn't there. That doesn't worry me, though. I know he won't be far away. He's probably gone to fetch more wood for the fire, or maybe he is gathering leaves to make more of that tea he'd given me. I don't like the idea of that. It was was amazing and beautiful in a way, but I don't like that I can't remember everything that happened. Though it might have been better if I'd forgotten everything. What really unsettles me, though, is the procession of disconnected images running through my head, and the sense I have of a story all disjointed and out of sequence. amazing and beautiful in a way, but I don't like that I can't remember everything that happened. Though it might have been better if I'd forgotten everything. What really unsettles me, though, is the procession of disconnected images running through my head, and the sense I have of a story all disjointed and out of sequence.

I struggle to my feet and walk away from the fire, away from the campsite, out to the edge of the clearing, and through the trees to where the old farm road runs down to the sea. The headland is always at its best in the early morning, but that day it's more beautiful than ever. When I say beautiful, I don't mean tourist-brochure stuff, because it could never have been that. For one thing, there is nothing much to look at, just a wide field spotted here and there with cold, red poppies and a line of twisted trees turning from black to gray in the first light. Overhead, a few gulls are drifting up from the sh.o.r.e, and what might have been a little owl flutters out across the gray-green gra.s.s to the cover of the trees as I cross the road and stand watching, my mind empty-though in a good way, as if absence was what it has promised itself for years. Absence. Nothingness. There's a saying- nothingness haunts being, and I understand what that means, only if you say it in those words it sounds too abstract, too philosophical. Kind of drab, too-which it isn't in the least. John would have said it sounds better in French, but that's not it. It sounds better when you stand at the edge of a field of cold poppies and let the nothingness come, just like that, no huge thing, just that matter-of-fact nothingness. It sounds better when you don't say it in words, when you don't even remark on it, but watch and listen as it takes you away-not some negative thing at all, not some existential condition, but a kind of blossoming, a natural event. Something that, when it finally comes, is no big deal. The self bleeding out. The red of the poppies. The cool of the morning.

[image]

When I get back, the Moth Man is back by the fire, doing what he always does, as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. He looks up when I cross over and stand a few feet away, staring at the fire as if it is some kind of miracle, but he doesn't say anything. He just finishes what he is doing, then he feeds me some breakfast and a cup of regular, non-hallucinogenic coffee. I know I've missed something in what he told me about the machine and his father's blueprints and I'm wondering if he knows it too. If he does, I think, he'll surely say something else, he'll surely try to explain-but he doesn't say anything. We sit around for a while, not saying much, just tending the fire and listening to the woods as they go about their business around us. It's not awkward, there's no tension, no sense of delay or expectation. If anything, it's like any other morning: just two friends out camping in the woods. It's friendly, though, with that light, unspoken sense of being comfortable together in the quiet. We sit there a long time, not saying a word; then we put all his stuff in the van and drive down to the Innertown, like a pair of G.o.d's closest angels, to pluck a man's soul out of h.e.l.l.

DREAMING.

IN THE POLICE HOUSE, ALICE MORRISON IS TRYING NOT TO DREAM. SHE IS awake now but, as she has discovered, this makes no difference, because the dreams keep coming, even when she stands with her head down, her hands pressed to the wall, her eyes wide open. She has always been afraid of what is happening now, afraid that, one day, the shakes won't pa.s.s after a few hours, or even after a day or two, that they will stay with her, always, her permanent, vigilant companions. Now, faces loom up at her out of the floor, or they come leering out from a wall, dead faces, but mocking, mocking and desperate at once, terrible, unknown eyes and mouths, flaring out from wherever she turns. Worse still, though, are the noises in her head-not voices, never voices anymore, just a noise like furniture being moved, wooden table legs dragging across a floor, or saucepan lids falling and clattering on tiles, or maybe the sound of piano wires resonating in the dark, where someone is rocking the frame back and forth, back and forth. Or there are bells in the distance, a sound that should be peaceful, a beautiful sound if the bells were out there in the world, and not inside her head. Then, through all that, through the sudden deceptive moments of quiet, comes the sound of a child, the same child over and over again, sitting or kneeling in a corner somewhere, weeping and whispering to itself, a boy or a girl, she doesn't know, and she can't make out the words the child is saying. All she can hear is this dreadful whisper. awake now but, as she has discovered, this makes no difference, because the dreams keep coming, even when she stands with her head down, her hands pressed to the wall, her eyes wide open. She has always been afraid of what is happening now, afraid that, one day, the shakes won't pa.s.s after a few hours, or even after a day or two, that they will stay with her, always, her permanent, vigilant companions. Now, faces loom up at her out of the floor, or they come leering out from a wall, dead faces, but mocking, mocking and desperate at once, terrible, unknown eyes and mouths, flaring out from wherever she turns. Worse still, though, are the noises in her head-not voices, never voices anymore, just a noise like furniture being moved, wooden table legs dragging across a floor, or saucepan lids falling and clattering on tiles, or maybe the sound of piano wires resonating in the dark, where someone is rocking the frame back and forth, back and forth. Or there are bells in the distance, a sound that should be peaceful, a beautiful sound if the bells were out there in the world, and not inside her head. Then, through all that, through the sudden deceptive moments of quiet, comes the sound of a child, the same child over and over again, sitting or kneeling in a corner somewhere, weeping and whispering to itself, a boy or a girl, she doesn't know, and she can't make out the words the child is saying. All she can hear is this dreadful whisper.

She knows Morrison is somewhere in the house. Somewhere downstairs. He's letting her get on with it, because there have been times when she's told him to leave her alone, and now he is leaving her alone, now he's given up and she has the solitude that she's always wanted. Except that, now, she doesn't want it. She can't take it. She's told herself that this won't last, because this is h.e.l.l, and she's done nothing to deserve h.e.l.l. Smith, Jenner, and the others from the Outertown, they deserve this more than she does. Morrison deserves it. She doesn't know what he's done, but she knows he's done something. n.o.body who works for Smith is innocent. But then, h.e.l.l doesn't come to the guilty. It comes to people like the O'Donnells, who haven't done anything wrong. That's the twist about h.e.l.l, the one they don't tell you about in religious studies, the fact that, in h.e.l.l, it's not the guilty who suffer, it's the innocent. That's what makes it h.e.l.l. Some random principle wanders through the world, choosing people for no good reason and plunging them into h.e.l.l. Grief for a child. Horrifying sickness. Noises and faces coming from nowhere, punctuated by terrible minutes of lucidity, just long enough to take stock of where you are. And you are in h.e.l.l.

h.e.l.l, h.e.l.l, h.e.l.l, h.e.l.l, h.e.l.l. The sound in her head grows and something tightens all along her arms and legs-like cramps, only much worse-and she feels like her body is about to burst open, tendons and muscles snapping and tearing, the bones cracking. She has known about this forever, she has been at the threshold for so long and now it is finally happening. Morrison is downstairs, fixing tea, or reading a paper, ignoring her. She doesn't want him, but she wants The sound in her head grows and something tightens all along her arms and legs-like cramps, only much worse-and she feels like her body is about to burst open, tendons and muscles snapping and tearing, the bones cracking. She has known about this forever, she has been at the threshold for so long and now it is finally happening. Morrison is downstairs, fixing tea, or reading a paper, ignoring her. She doesn't want him, but she wants something. something. She wants help. A drug, maybe. It could be that simple. They could come and give her one tiny injection and this h.e.l.l could end. All she needs is someone to make the call. But she can't do it. She can't ask him. Her whole body wants to scream with the agony, her mind wants to beg for something to free her, and she can't make a sound. She is in h.e.l.l, and h.e.l.l is for eternity. She wants help. A drug, maybe. It could be that simple. They could come and give her one tiny injection and this h.e.l.l could end. All she needs is someone to make the call. But she can't do it. She can't ask him. Her whole body wants to scream with the agony, her mind wants to beg for something to free her, and she can't make a sound. She is in h.e.l.l, and h.e.l.l is for eternity.

She doesn't know when she first sees the man. She thinks this is one more face, screaming out at her from the doorway, as she turns, searching for an exit. A phantom. G.o.d, she knows these are phantoms, she knows these things are hallucinations, or she does some of the time anyway, and it makes no difference. This is the place where mad people live, and she doesn't know how she got here. A few drinks, a few pills? Surely not. She has never believed in that kind of injustice. She has believed in blame and private horrors and shameful acts behind closed doors. She hasn't imagined that the mad deserve their suffering, but she has believed in a route, a road taken, or a history of pain and loneliness, running from the darkest secret of childhood to the asylum, where doctors come and go with needles, and the mad lie down to sleep in oblivion, for precious hours at a time. But where was her route? n.o.body abused her as a child. n.o.body stole her innocence or made her a witness to unbearable truths. She doesn't know how she got here. She doesn't know how her life got to be unbearable.

But then, nothing is unbearable. When she first sees him, he's one phantom among many, but after a while she becomes aware of a real presence, a warmth that fills the room and she looks out from her h.e.l.l and sees him there, standing in his own island of light and yet only a few feet away. He has the shape of a man but his face, when she makes it out, is the face of a boy. A gentle, serene boy, gazing at her, calm, forgiving, silent. She knows he will not speak to her, but she needs to break the chain of sound and pain in her head and, when she finally sees him there, she has to ask. He doesn't reply, and she hasn't expected him to reply, but she repeats the question anyway.

"Who are you?" she says. It's a simple enough question.

He doesn't answer, but he comes closer and reaches out his hand-and that, for one terrible moment, is the most painful thing she can possibly imagine. The reaching, the moment before touching. But when he touches her-his hand laid flat across her face, covering her eyes and mouth-she staggers into some new state, some unknown brightness. He lays his hand over her face and her eyes close, and the noises stop. The noises stop and the pain in her arms stops. The pain ebbs away, like water. The noises stop and her head is silent, cool, empty. The grat.i.tude is almost unbearable, but she knows, at the same time, that he has not come here to bless her. She is someone he has found in pa.s.sing, and his mercy is so huge it costs him nothing to heal her. It's as if she met the Angel of the Lord in some old Bible story, and he has touched her for a moment, and healed her, but she knows that, all the time, his purpose is elsewhere. She falls to the floor then, falling away from his healing hand and into herself, the self she was before, the self she has forgotten in all this noise and pain and fear. So that when she looks up, he is already gone, a shadow pa.s.sing away, on its way to its divine appointment. But she doesn't care. She is still. Her body is silent. She is capable of sleep.

It may be minutes later, it may be longer, when she hears something from downstairs, from one of the rooms below. Morrison's voice calls out, maybe in fear, maybe in anger, she can't tell, and she can't make out what he says. She is only mildly curious, though, and after a moment the silence returns. The silence of her exhaustion. Outside, somewhere in the trees, a pair of owls is hunting, and closer in, near the window, she hears a gust of wind. Fresh new sounds, sounds that come from beyond her own pain. She hears one thing, then she hears another, but it's fading even as it happens, because she is finding her way to a place where sleep is total, and on the far side of that, a new life. Her name is Alice. Her father loved her, and she had a happy childhood, for the most part. Sleep is her due, and she takes it, with grat.i.tude and relief, and it barely troubles her that, as she slips down and into that dreamless place, the last thing she registers, the last tiny fragment of awareness, is that Morrison is gone and she is in the police house, alone.

MORRISON.

WHEN HE WAKES, MORRISON IS UPRIGHT, VERY UPRIGHT, IN A WOODEN chair that is too small for him, a heavy, polished old-fas.h.i.+oned chair with a padded back and armrests, the kind of chair that n.o.body has made for years. He is cold, which doesn't surprise him, because he is also naked, his skin surprisingly white and loose under the unforgiving white light that comes from somewhere above. He is immediately aware of the restraints that someone has fastened around his arms and legs: tight, not rope, maybe leather, or some kind of insulating tape, wound around his arms from the wrist to the elbow, and around his legs from the ankles to the knees, holding him almost incapable of motion, pinned in the chair like an insect pinned to a specimen board. His legs have been bound in such a way that his knees jut slightly outward, his soles raised off the floor, so he cannot gain purchase and push himself up. Whoever did this has very specialized skills-and his mind goes straight to Jenner, who has probably been waiting years for an opportunity to do exactly this, and so eliminate a potential problem. That's the kind of man Jenner is: tidy, ruthless, cool, but, at the same time, someone who takes real care in his work, a man who doesn't like loose ends. chair that is too small for him, a heavy, polished old-fas.h.i.+oned chair with a padded back and armrests, the kind of chair that n.o.body has made for years. He is cold, which doesn't surprise him, because he is also naked, his skin surprisingly white and loose under the unforgiving white light that comes from somewhere above. He is immediately aware of the restraints that someone has fastened around his arms and legs: tight, not rope, maybe leather, or some kind of insulating tape, wound around his arms from the wrist to the elbow, and around his legs from the ankles to the knees, holding him almost incapable of motion, pinned in the chair like an insect pinned to a specimen board. His legs have been bound in such a way that his knees jut slightly outward, his soles raised off the floor, so he cannot gain purchase and push himself up. Whoever did this has very specialized skills-and his mind goes straight to Jenner, who has probably been waiting years for an opportunity to do exactly this, and so eliminate a potential problem. That's the kind of man Jenner is: tidy, ruthless, cool, but, at the same time, someone who takes real care in his work, a man who doesn't like loose ends.

The chair to which Morrison is pinned is set in the middle of what feels like a large, empty s.p.a.ce, a wide, echoey s.p.a.ce under a single lightbulb, suspended above his head, casting a pool of light that spreads for several feet around him, though it's not enough to fill the room, which feels vast-and Morrison knows, without knowing why, that someone is out there, just a few yards into the dark, invisible, but watching him, waiting for him to be awake, as he now is. Somebody out there wants his fear-a fear that Morrison is suddenly, defiantly, pointlessly determined to conceal, no matter what.

"h.e.l.lo?" He gives a short, mocking laugh and turns his head as far as he can, first to the right, then leftward; though he knows whoever has him is somewhere directly ahead. "Is anybody there?"

He listens. There is nothing to hear, but he knows someone is watching. He can feel it. He can feel breathing, he can feel a tension, like someone standing very still, keeping himself in check, breathing quietly and slowly, watching, listening. Observing: yes, that's it. This man-and he is sure, now, that it is not Jenner, who would have done things simply, quickly- this patient, self-contained man is one of life's watchers, one of the observers. This is what he works for, not because he enjoys what he does, when it comes to the last act, but for this, this moment of power. A careful planner, obviously, but not possessed of animosity or any other emotion, simply someone who enjoys having power over others. With someone like this, there is no strategy other than delay, a chance to work out what will gratify him, and maybe find some kind of compromise. Try to get him to forget his initial plan, or take things beyond the initial bounds of that plan, or possibly of his instruction set, so he might possibly come to a place he had not antic.i.p.ated. Maybe, if the initial plan fails, he will do something else, make a mistake, show his hand.

"Who's there?" he calls again. He's strangely confused by his predicament. On the one hand, he is angry at being tied up, angry, too, that he has been restrained with such expertise, but part of him doesn't care anymore, even about that. He is tired. He doesn't know where this is-somewhere out in the plant, no doubt, but he's never seen the interior of this particular building before. He looks up. The room has a high roof, with crossbeams and what looks like a gantry somewhere in the shadows off to his left. He feels cold, slightly damp. "Jenner?" Morrison is almost certain that it isn't Jenner out there, but he can't think of anyone else who would be capable of this. "Jenner, if that's you, just tell me what it is you want."