The Best Horror of the Year. Volume 4

LOOKER David Nickle

I met her on the beach.

It was one of Len’s parties — one of the last he threw, before he had to stop. You were there too. But we didn’t speak. I remember watching you talking with Jonathan on the deck, an absurdly large tumbler for such a small splash of Merlot wedged at your elbow as you nodded, eyes fixed on his so as not to meet mine. If you noticed me, I hope you also noticed I didn’t linger.

Instead, I took my own wineglass, filled it up properly, climbed down that treacherous wooden staircase, and kicked off my shoes. It was early enough that the sand was still warm from the sun — late enough that the sun was just dabs of pink on the dark ocean and I could tell myself I had the beach to myself.

She was, I’m sure, telling herself the same thing. She had brought a pipe and a lighter with her in her jeans, and was perched on a picnic table, surreptitiously puffing away. The pipe disappeared as I neared her. It came back soon enough, when she saw my wineglass, maybe recognized me from the party.

I didn’t recognize her. She was a small woman, but wide across the shoulders and the tiniest bit chubby. Hair was dark, pulled back into a ponytail. Pretty, but not pretty enough; she would fade at a party like Len’s.

“Yeah, I agree,” she said to me and I paused on my slow gambol to the surf.

“It’s too bright,” she said, and as I took a long pull from my wine, watching her curiously, she added, “look at him.”

“Look at me,” I said, and she laughed.

“You on the phone?” I asked, and she dropped her head in extravagant mea culpa.

“No,” she said. “Just…”

“Don’t fret. What’s the point of insanity if you can’t enjoy a little conversation?”

Oh, I am smooth. She laughed again, and motioned me over, and waved the pipe and asked if I’d like to share.

Sure I said, and she scooted aside to make room on the table. Her name was Lucy. Lucille, actually, was how she introduced herself but she said Lucy was fine. I introduced myself. “Tom’s a nice name,” she said.

The night grew. Lungs filled with smoke and mouths with wine; questions asked, questions answered. How do you know Len? What do you do? What brings you to the beach when so much is going on inside? It went both ways.

Lucy knew Len scarcely at all. They’d met through a friend who worked at Len’s firm. Through the usual convolutions of dinners and pubs and excursions, she’d insinuated herself onto the cc list of the ur-mail by which Len advertised his parties. She worked cash at a bookstore chain in town and didn’t really have a lot of ambition past that right now. Which tended to make her feel seriously out of her weight class at Len’s parties or so she said; the beach, therefore, was an attractive option.

She finished my wine for me, and we walked. I’d been on my way to the water’s edge and Lucy thought that was a fine idea. The sun was all gone by now and stars were peeking out. One of the things I liked about Len’s place — it was just far enough away from town you could make out stars at night. Not like the deep woods, or the mountains. But constellations weren’t just theoretical there.

“Hey Tom,” she said as the surf touched our toes, “want to go for a swim? I know we don’t have suits, but…”

Why not? As you might remember, I’ve a weakness for the midnight dunk. We both did, as I recall.

I stepped back a few yards to where the sand was dry, set down my glass and stripped off my shirt, my trousers. Lucy unbuttoned her blouse, the top button of her jeans. I cast off my briefs. “Well?” I said, standing in flagrante delicto in front of her.

“Get in,” she said, “I’ll be right behind you.”

It didn’t occur to me that this might be a trick until I was well out at sea. Wouldn’t it be the simplest thing, I thought, as I dove under a breaking wave, to wait until I was out far enough, gather my trousers, find the wallet and the mobile phone, toss the clothes into the surf and run to a waiting car? I’m developing my suspicious mind, really, my dearest — but it still has a time delay on it, even after everything…

I came up, broke my stroke, and turned to look back at the beach.

She waved at me. I was pleased — and relieved — to see that she was naked too. My valuables were safe as they could be. And Lucy had quite a nice figure, as it turned out: fine full breasts — wide, muscular hips — a small bulge at the tummy, true… but taken with the whole, far from offensive.

I waved back, took a deep breath and dove again, this time deep enough to touch bottom. My fingers brushed sea-rounded rock and stirred up sand, and I turned and kicked and broke out to the moonless night, and only then it occurred to me — how clearly I’d seen her on the beach, two dozen yards off, maybe further.

There lay the problem. There wasn’t enough light. I shouldn’t have seen anything.

I treaded water, thinking back at how I’d seen her… glistening, flickering, with tiny points of red, of green… winking in and out… like stars themselves? Spread across not sky, but flesh?

I began to wonder: Had I seen her at all?

There was no sign of her now. The beach was a line of black, crowned with the lights from Len’s place, and above that… the stars.

How much had I smoked? I wondered. What had I smoked, for that matter? I hadn’t had a lot of wine — I’d quaffed a glass at Len’s before venturing outside, and I’d shared the second glass with Lucy. Not even two glasses…

But it was Len’s wine.

I’d made up my mind to start back in when she emerged from the waves — literally in front of my face.

“You look lost,” Lucy said, and splashed me, and dove again. Two feet came up, and scissored, and vanished. Some part of her brushed against my hip.

I took it as my cue and ducked.

The ocean was nearly a perfect black. I dove and turned and dove again, reaching wide in my strokes, fingers spreading in a curious, and yes, hungry grasp. I turned, and came near enough the surface that I felt my foot break it, splashing down again, and spun—

— and I saw her.

Or better, I saw the constellation of Lucy — a dusting of brilliant red points of light, defining her thighs — and then turning, and more along her midriff; a burst of blue stipple, shaping her breasts, the backs of her arms. I kicked toward her as she turned in the water, my own arms held straight ahead, to lay hold of that fine, if I may say, celestial body.

But she anticipated me, and kicked deeper, and I’d reached my lungs’ limits so I broke surface, gasping at the night air. She was beside me an instant later, spitting and laughing. No funny lights this time; just Lucy, soaking wet and treading water beside me.

“We don’t have towels,” she said. “I just thought of that. We’re going to freeze.”

“We won’t freeze,” I said.

“It’s colder than you think.”

“Oh, I know it’s cold. We just won’t freeze.”

She splashed me and laughed again and wondered what I meant by that, but we both knew what I meant by that, and after we’d not-quite tired ourselves out in the surf, we made back for the shore.

I wonder how things went for you, right then? I know that you always fancied Jonathan; I know what happened later. I hope you don’t think I’m being bitter or ironic when I say I hope you had a good time with him. If he misbehaved — well, I trust you did too.

Shall I tell you how we misbehaved?

Well—

In some ways, it was as you might expect; nothing you haven’t seen, nothing you haven’t felt, my dear.

In others…

Through the whole of it, Lucy muttered.

“He is,” she would say as I pressed against her breasts and nibbled on her earlobe; and “Quiet!” as I ran my tongue along the rim of her aureole… “I said no,” as I thrust into her, and I paused, and then she continued: “Why are you stopping, Tommy?”

This went on through the whole of it. As I buried my face between her legs, and she commented, “Isn’t he, though?”, I thought again of Lucy on the shore, under the water. “Too bright,” she moaned, and I remembered my visions of the sky, on her skin.

And as I thought of these things, my hands went exploring: along her thighs, across her breasts — along her belly…

She gasped and giggled as I ran my thumb across her navel… and she said, “Tommy?” as my forefinger touched her navel again… and “What are you doing?” as the palm of my hand, making its way along the ridge of her hip-bone… found her navel once more.

I lifted my head and moved my hand slowly aside. For an instant, there was a flash of dim red light — reflecting off my palm like a candle-flame. But only an instant. I moved my hand aside and ran the edge of my thumb over the flesh there. It was smooth. “Tom?” she said sharply, and started on about unfinished business. “Shh,” I said, and lowered my face — to the ridge of her hip-bone, or rather the smooth flesh inward of it. And slowly, paying minute attention, I licked her salted skin.

I would not have found it with my crude, calloused fingertips; my tongue was better attuned the task. I came upon it first as a small bump in the smooth flesh: like a pimple, a cyst. As I circled it, I sensed movement, as though a hard thing were rolling inside. Running across the tiny peak of it, I sensed a line — like a slit in the flesh, pushed tightly closed. Encouraged, I surrounded it with my lips and began to suck, as I kept probing it with my tongue. “I’m sorry,” she said, and then, “Oh!” as my tongue pushed through. It touched a cool, wet thing — rolling on my tongue like an unripened berry.

And then… I was airborne… it was though I were flying up, and falling deep. And I landed hard on my side and it all resolved, the world once more. Icy water lapped against me. And Lucy was swearing at me.

I looked at her, unbelieving. She looked back.

She, and a multitude.

For now I could see that what I’d first thought were star-points, were nothing of the sort. Her flesh was pocked with eyes. They were small, and reflective, like a cat’s.

Nocturnal eyes.

In her shoulders — the swell of her breasts — along the line of her throat… They blinked — some individually, some in pairs, and on her belly, six points of cobalt blue, formed into a nearly perfect hexagon. Tiny slits of pupils widened to take in the sight of me. The whole of her flesh seemed to writhe with their squinting.

It didn’t seem to cause her discomfort. Far from it; Lucy’s own eyes — the ones in her head — narrowed to slits, and her mouth perked in a little smile. “He is that,” she said, “yes, you’re right.” And it struck me then: those strange things she was saying weren’t intended for me or anyone else.

She was talking to the eyes.

“He can’t have known,” she continued, her hand creeping down to her groin, “and if he did, well now he knows better.”

I drew my legs to my chest and my own hands moved instinctively to my privates, as the implications of all these eyes, of her words, came together.

These weren’t her eyes; they were from another creature, or many creatures. And they were all looking upon me: naked, sea-shrivelled, crouching in the dirt.

Turning away from her, I got to my feet, ran up the beach and gathered my shirt and trousers, and clutching them to my chest, fairly bolted for the stairs. I pulled on my shirt and trousers, hunted around for my shoes, and made my way up the stairs. At the top, I looked back for the glow of Lucy. But the beach was dark.

The eyes were shut.

You and Jonathan were gone by the time I came back to the house.

I wasn’t surprised; Len had switched to his Sarah Vaughan / Etta James play-list, and I remember how fond you are of those two. And it was late. The party had waxed and waned during my excursion with Lucy on the beach and those who remained were the die-hards: Ben and Dru, sprawled on the sectional, finishing off a bottle of Shiraz; Dennis, holding court in the kitchen with Emile and Prabh and the dates they’d not thought to introduce — at least not to me; maybe a half-dozen others that neither of us wouldn’t recognize if we met them on the street. Len’s party had proceeded without me.

I wasn’t surprised, and I wasn’t unhappy about it. Skinny dipping on the ocean and fucking on the beach are two activities that hardly leave one presentable to polite company. Best then to wait until the polite company had moved along, leaving only the depraved ones.

I made for the bathroom — the second floor bath, which yes, I know, was a faux-pas at Len’s parties, particularly late into the evening. But there was a small crowd around the two-piece off the kitchen, and I needed to tidy up sooner, so I slipped upstairs and made for the master bath. Which, happily, was vacant. The lights flickered on as I stepped inside and I slid the pocket door shut, and confronted myself in the long mirror opposite the showers.

I didn’t think I took that long; just splashed water in my face, ran a wet comb through my hair, shook the sand out of my shirt and tucked it in properly before giving myself another inspection. By my own reckoning, it couldn’t have been more than five minutes. But the hammering on the door said otherwise.

It was Kimi, Len’s Kimi.

In a week, she’d be on a plane back to New York, done with all of us, gone from Len’s circle for good. That party, she was on the verge of it. I slid open the door and apologized. “You shouldn’t be up here,” she said, “not this time of night,” and I agreed.

“Ask forgiveness not permission? That it, Tommy?” she said and brushed past me. She had been spending time in Len’s rooms, and it had gone about as badly as it did toward the end. You could tell. Do you remember that time Len had us all on that boat he’d hired for the summer? And she came hammering on our cabin door — with that fish-hook stuck in just below the collar-bone? And when you opened it, she was so quiet, asking if you knew where they kept the first-aid kit on the boat because “Len isn’t sure.” You knew something awful had happened, I knew something awful had happened. We talked about it after we got the hook out and the wound cleaned and bandaged and Kimi, smiling brightly, had excused herself and skipped back to the cabin she and Len were sharing. What did you say? “One day, that armour of hers is going to crack. When it does, she’ll either leave or she’ll die.”

It was a good line; I laughed as hard as you did.

Well there in the upstairs bath, the armour was cracking. And Kimi wasn’t dead. But she wasn’t leaving either. She leaned against the vanity, arms crossed over her chest. She was wearing a short black skirt. Her shoulders, arms, and legs were bare. There were no visible bruises. No fish-hooks either. She studied me, maybe looking for the same things.

“You go for a swim?” she said finally. “You look like you went for a swim in the ocean.”

“Guilty.”

Her eyes flickered away a moment as she waved a hand. “Nobody’s guilty of taking a fucking swim. And it’s a good look for you.” Then she looked again, reassessing. “But you didn’t just go for a swim.”

“You were right. I took a fucking swim,” I said, and started to laugh, and she got it and laughed too.

“How’s your night going?” I asked. She made a little sneer with her lips — as if she was trying to fish a piece of food out of her teeth. Put her bare feet together on the slate tile floor, made a show of inspecting the nails.

“Len’s very tired,” she said.

I raised my eyebrows. “Oh dear. That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not as bad as that.”

“If you say so.”

She looked at me. “Are you hitting on me, Tommy?”

I said I wasn’t.

“Then why the fuck are you still here?”

There was an answer to that question, but not one I could really articulate — not the way she was looking at me then. I wanted to talk to her about Lucy, about the eyes… I thought — hoped — that she would be able to help me parse the experience somehow. Or failing that, help me put it away, someplace quiet.

But her armour was cracked. She had nothing to offer me. And although I wouldn’t know for sure until a week later — she wasn’t leaving that night, she stayed the whole time — she was almost certainly planning her escape.

So I left her to it. “I’m very tired too,” I said, and stepped into the hall.

That one didn’t get a laugh. The bathroom door slid shut behind me, hitting the door-jamb hard enough to quiver in its track.

“You’re still thinking about her,” said Kimi through the wood. “Well give it up, Tommy. It’s obvious to everybody. She’s done with you.”

Oh, don’t worry. I know you’re done with me. I’m done with you too.

I joined the conversation in the kitchen, or rather hovered at its edge. Dennis had stepped away, and now Emile was talking about Dubai, which was hardly a new topic for him. But the girls he and Prabh had brought were new. They hung on every word. I leaned against the stove, poured myself the dregs of a Chardonnay into a little plastic cup and swallowed the whole thing. Prabh found me a Malbec from Portugal and poured a refill.

“Yeah, you look like shit,” he said. “Bad night?”

“Not exactly bad,” I said. “Strange. Not exactly bad.”

Prabh nodded and turned back to his girl. She was very pretty, I had to hand it to him: tall, with streaked blond hair and a dancer’s body. Twenty-seven years old, no older. I’d turn back to her too.

So I kept drinking, and Prabh kept filling my cup, and after awhile, I’d moved from the periphery of the conversation to the juicy middle. And there, I asked as innocently as I could manage: “Any of you know Lucy?”

Shrugs all around. I showed a level hand to indicate her height. Another to show how long her hair was. “We don’t know her, Tom,” said Emile, and Prabh poured me another glass. “Maybe you want to sit down?” asked one of the girls.

It was an excellent suggestion. I made my way to the sectional in the living room with only a little help here and there, as necessary.

Really, I don’t think I made that much of a spectacle of myself. But I had had too much to drink and I’d had it all too quickly. I was speaking extemporaneously you might say. So I concluded it be best not to speak at all.

I fitted myself into the corner of the sectional. Dru and Ben a few feet to my left, made a point of staying engrossed in one another — and as soon as it was polite to do so, got up and found spots at the dining room table. And I was left to myself.

By this time it was well past midnight. You know how that is. It’s a time when you start asking questions about things that in the light of day you wouldn’t consider twice. It’s a time… well, we both know how it goes, in the dark hour.

I was left to myself.

I began to feel badly about leaving Lucy on the beach. I wondered if I might have handled things differently. I worried that I might have impregnated her, or caught a venereal disease. Briefly, I worried that some of those eyes might have migrated from her skin to mine — if I’d caught a case of leaping, burrowing and uniquely ocular crabs. If I closed my own eyes, would I see a thousand dim refractions of the room from the point of view of my belly?

The notion made me laugh — a little too loudly, I think. Dennis, reeking of weed and vodka cooler, just about turned on his heel at the sight of me and fled back to the deck. But it got me back wondering at the nature of Lucy’s peculiar disease, if that’s what it was. If not she, then who was looking out through those eyes? And so, in circles, went my thoughts.

The front door opened and closed once, twice, five times. Water ran in the kitchen sink. Lights dimmed in rooms not far from this one.

“Hey Tom. How you keeping?”

I looked up and blinked.

“Hey Len,” I said. “Haven’t seen you all night.”

He nodded. “I’ve been a rotten host.”

Len was wearing his kimono, that red one with the lotus-design. He’d lost a lot of weight — you couldn’t mistake it, the kimono hung so loose on him. His hair was coming back in, but it was still thin, downy. He sat down beside me.

“You met Lucille,” he said.

“How did you know?” I asked, but I didn’t need to; as I spoke, I saw Kimi over the breakfast bar in the kitchen, putting glasses into the dishwasher. She’d told him about our conversation in the washroom. He’d put it together.

“Yeah,” said Len, “you were on the beach. Two of you. Had yourself a time, didn’t you Tom?”

“We had ourselves a time.”

Len put a bony hand on my thigh, gave it a squeeze of surprising strength, and nodded.

“Now you’re drunk in my living room, when everybody else has had sense to get out. Too drunk to drive yourself, am I right?”

That was true.

“And you don’t have cab fare, do you?”

I didn’t have cab fare.

“You’re a fucking leech, Tom. You smell like a fucking leech.”

“It’s the ocean,” I said.

Kimi turned her back to us, lowered her head and raised her shoulder blades, like wings, as she ran water in the kitchen sink.

“Yeah, we know that’s not so,” said Len. “You smell of Lucy.” He licked his lips, and not looking up, Kimi called out, “that’s not nice, Len,” and Len chuckled and jacked a thumb in her direction and shrugged.

“Did she leave?” I asked. “Lucy I mean.”

“Miss her too now?” Did I miss her like you, he meant, obviously.

“I just didn’t see her leave.”

“What’d I just say? Everybody else had the sense to get out.”

A plate clattered loudly in the sink. Len shouted at Kimi to be fuckin’ careful with that. Then he coughed and turned an eye to me. His expression changed.

“You saw,” he said quietly. “Didn’t you?”

“I saw.”

He looked like he wanted to say more. But he stopped himself, the way he does: tucking his chin down, pursing his lips… like he’s doing some math, which is maybe close to the mark of what he is doing until he finally speaks.

“Did she tell you how we met?”

“Friend of a friend,” I said, then remembered: “Not just a friend; one of your partners. And then you just kept inviting her out.”

“Always that simple, isn’t it?”

“It’s never that simple,” I said, “you’re going to tell me.”

“It is that simple,” he said. “Lucille Carroll is a high-school friend of Linda James. Linda isn’t a partner now and I won’t likely live to see the day that she is. But she did work for me. With me. And she used to come out sometimes. And she brought Lucille one day. And not long after, Linda stopped coming around. Lucille still shows up.” He sighed. “Simple.”

Kimi flipped a switch under the counter and the dishwasher hummed to life. “I’m turning in,” she announced, and when Len didn’t say anything, she climbed the stairs.

“It’s not that simple,” I said when Kimi was gone. Now, I thought, was the time when Len would spell it out for me: tell me what had happened, really.

“And she doesn’t like to talk about it,” was what he said instead. “It’s private, Tom.”

What came next? Well, I might have handled it better. But you know how I hate it when my friends hide things from me. We both remember the weekend at the lake, with your sister and her boys. Did I ever properly apologize for that? It’s difficult to, when all I’ve spoken is God’s truth.

But I could have handled it better.

“It’s not private,” I said, “it’s the opposite. She’s the least private person I’ve met. The eyes…”

“Her skin condition you mean.”

“You do know about them.” I may have jabbed him in the chest. That may have been unwise. “Maybe you like them? Watching everything you do? Maybe they flatter your vanity…”

Len shook his head. He stopped me.

“You know what, Tom? I’m sick of you. I’ve been sick of you for a long time. But I’m also sick, and I’ll tell you — that clarifies things for a man. So here’s what I see:

“You come here to my house — you moon around like some fucking puppy dog — you drink my wine… the friends of mine you don’t fuck, you bother with your repetitive, self-involved shit. Jesus, Tom. You’re a leech.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, because really — what else do you say to something like that? To someone like Len, for Christ’s sake?

“Yeah,” he said. “Heard that one before. Lucy’s a special girl, Tom. She’s helping me in ways you couldn’t imagine. And it has nothing to do with my fucking vanity. Not a fucking thing. Lucy’s my… assurance. And she’s always welcome here.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I got that. Now are you okay to drive yet, Tom?”

I wasn’t. But I said sure.

“Then you get out of my house. Get back to your place. Stay there. I don’t think you should come back here again.”

Yes. That’s why you hadn’t seen me at Len’s after that. He cast me out — into the wilderness — left me to my own devices.

I wasn’t avoiding you.

Far from it.

Lucy wasn’t that hard to find.

She had a Facebook page, and I had enough information to narrow her down from the list of those other Lucy Carrolls who said they were from here. So I sent her a note apologizing for being such an asshole, and she sent me a friend request and I agreed — and she asked me to pick a place, and that’s where we met. It’s the Tokyo Grill in the Pier District. I don’t think we ever went there, you and I. But at 12:15 on a Tuesday in June, it’s very bright.

Lucy wore a rose print dress, not quite as pale as her skin. She had freckles and her hair was more reddish than brunette. Perhaps it was the effect of wearing a dress and not a pair of jeans, but she seemed more svelte on the patio than she did that night on the beach. Her eyes were hazel.

Do you remember how I courted you? Did you ever doubt that I was anything but spontaneous? That when I laughed so hard at that joke of yours, it was because I thought it was the funniest thing I’d ever heard?

You didn’t? You should have. I’m not good at everything in life, oh that I’ll admit. But I am good at this part. I am smooth.

And that’s how I was at the Tokyo Grill that Tuesday.

Lucy wasn’t sure about me and she made that explicit pretty early. I’d seemed nice at first, but running off like that… well, it had been hurtful. It made her feel as though there was something wrong with her, and as she made explicit somewhat later on, there wasn’t anything wrong with her.

“It’s not you — it’s the rest of the world,” I said, and when she took offense, I explained I wasn’t making fun.

“The world’s an evil place. Lots wrong with it. Look at… think about Len, as an example.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well. How he treats people. How he uses them. Like Kimi.”

“He’s an important man,” she said quickly. “I imagine it takes a toll. All those clients he’s got to look after.” She sighed. “Clients can be very demanding.”

“Clients.” I made a little smile. “That’s a good word. Len has clients like other people have friends.”

Yes, I suppose I was being dramatic. But Lucy didn’t think so; she laughed, very hard, and agreed.

“So what about you?” she asked. “Are you client or friend?”

“Something else.”

I explained how Lucy wasn’t the only one I’d offended with my bad behaviour that night — and again, I layered contrition on top of itself, and doing so took another step to winning her over.

Working through it, I could almost forget that Lucy was a woman containing a multitude — that as she sat here opposite me in the Pier District, the lids up and down her body squinted shut like tiny incision scars against the bright daylight.

Like clients.

I had to forget. Because I couldn’t mention them; Len was right — she didn’t want to talk about it. She may not have even been capable.

And keeping silent on the subject, and knowing of that alien scrutiny, resting behind translucent lids…

I couldn’t have done what I had to do.

Lucy’s next shift at the bookstore was Wednesday afternoon, so she had the rest of the day to herself, and as we finished our sashimi, she made a point of saying the afternoon shift meant she could stay out as late as she liked.

So we took a walk. We found my car. We drove back to my apartment. And behind drawn blinds, we stripped off our clothes and lay down together on fresh white sheets.

Oh dear. I can tell you’re upset — not by anything I’ve done, but what you think I’m about to do: relay some detailed account of how it was for Lucy and I, rutting on the very same sheets where you and I lolled, those long Sunday mornings, when… well, before you came to your senses is how you might put it…

I’ll try and be circumspect.

Lucy talked through it all, same as she had on the beach: those half-formed statements: “He’s the same,” and “The third floor,” and “I do not agree.” Of course, she was talking to them — fielding questions: Is he the handsome fellow from the beach? On what floor is this fellow’s apartment? Don’t you think he’s a bit much — being too…

too…

To which she answered: I do not agree.

I’d drawn the curtains in my rooms, to make it dim enough for the curious eyes to open without being blinded — and sure enough, this is what they did. As I ran my tongue along her shoulder-blade, I found myself looking into a tiny blue orb, no bigger than a rat’s. It blinked curiously at me as I moved past, to the nape of her neck, and there, in the wispy curls at the base of her skull, I uncovered two yellow eyes, set close together, in the forest of her hair. Were they disapproving? I imagine they must have been, affixed on Lucy’s skull, less than an inch from her brain. I winked and moved on.

“Tell them,” I whispered into her ear, looking into a squinting, infinitely old eye fixed in her temple, “that I understand.”

“He understands,” she murmured.

“Tell them I’m not afraid.”

“He’s not afraid.”

“Tell them,” I said, before I moved from her ear to her mouth, and rolled her onto her back, and slid atop her, “that I’m ready.”

And the rest of it?

Well, I did tell you I’d be circumspect. Suffice it to say… just as poor old Len would, not long after…

I entered her.

You looked good at my funeral. You and Jonathan both. The dress you wore — was it new? Did you buy it especially for the occasion? It would be nice to think that you had.

In any event, I must say that Jonathan was very supportive of you. He held your hand so very tightly through the eulogies. Had you needed it, I’m sure he would have provided a handkerchief; if it had rained at the graveside, he’d have held the umbrella. He seems that sort of upright fellow. A real keeper.

You look great now, too. You have a lovely smile, you always have, and the shorter haircut — it suits you. It really frames your face. I can’t hear what you’re saying, here in Emile’s house in town, over the dregs of what I recall as being an acceptable cab-franc from Chile.

Still, you’re laughing, and that’s good. You’ve left Kimi and poor dying Len behind. You’re cementing new friendships… with Prabh and Emile and, perhaps, Lucy?

Perhaps.

It’s impossible to say of course — I haven’t been at this long enough to learn how to read lips, particularly with that damned brooch in the way. I never could guess your mind on this sort of thing. But you seem… open to it, to this new friend who works the cash in your favourite bookstore. You are. Aren’t you?

Ah well. I must learn patience here in my new place. After all, Lucy will tell me everything — in due time, in a quiet moment, when the lights are low:

She says she misses you. She says she can’t believe she let you go. Now that you’re gone.

She says that she and I will be great friends.

And then, if all goes well… if you and Lucy really do hit it off…

I can’t promise, other than to say I’ll do my best. I’ll try not to let my gaze linger.