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by
Elaine Kehoe
Chapter 1
The well-dressed man in a black coat and bowler hat stood outside the small London bookshop just off Charing Cross Road. With an intense interest that encompassed varying measures of anticipation, amusement, and disdain, he regarded a large, rather garish poster in the window: “Book Signing Today, 4 to 6 p.m.” The latest book by an author of popular fantasy-horror novels. The title superimposed in blood-red over an illustration of several vague black figures: The Hollow People. As an exercise in research, he had read the author’s previous novels, and he was singularly unimpressed. As a stylist the man couldn’t compare to Poe, in spite of the enthusiastic quotes his publisher’s marketing department had somehow dug up for the book jacket. But that was unimportant. It was what the books told him about their author that had interested him, and what they told him had brought him here today.
He stepped into the shop and slipped down an aisle near the door, just out of the queue of admirers waiting for the author’s signature on their newly purchased books. From here he could get a clear view of the man sitting behind the small table the store had set up for him. Quite a good-looking man; appeared to be in his forties. He had a handsome face that somehow combined a rugged masculinity with the particular type of male beauty that ancient Greek sculptors had immortalized. He was muscular and strong-looking, well proportioned; he could as easily be taken for a man who made his living with his body as with his mind. The man in the bowler allowed himself a little smile of self-congratulation; he liked that. It appeared this one would do very well.
Nor was it lost on him that all of the people standing on line were women. Several were holding their books so that the jacket photo of the author faced up; a few snuck surreptitious glances toward the table to compare the man of reality with the one in the photograph. He overheard one woman’s awed, hushed remark to her companion: “God, he’s even better looking in person.” His smile widened into a grin. Yes. Very well indeed.Another book and then another. They slipped under his weary eyes, his tired hand, in unending succession. Their purchasers, hopeful and waiting, streamed toward him in an endless line, like ants up a hill, each indistinguishable from the one before, the one after, except by the names they asked him, some shyly, some assertively, to inscribe: To Cynthia. To Rosemary. To Helen. It was one and a half hours into his two-hour stint, not counting the reading that had preceded this session. He was tired; the faces were blurring before his eyes, the inscriptions so automatic his hand took over the task without connection to his mind. An uncounted number of strangers, waiting to pass quickly through his life as though they were the fictional characters; faces, bodies of flesh and blood, yet they seemed less real to him than were the incorporeal people he created out of pen, paper, and his imagination.
He caught his own drifting thoughts and felt a sudden stirring of remorse. After all, these people were his fans--even now the whole idea of having fans still amazed him--and he owed them more than callous indifference. As if in apology, he looked up directly into the eyes of the next woman in the queue, giving her the most charming smile he could invent. “And what is your name?” he asked as though it were the most important question in the world at that moment.
The woman, small and rather thin, appeared momentarily dazzled; she flushed under the attentive gaze of his gray-green eyes. “Shirley,” she said almost imperceptibly; she had to repeat it for him to hear
He applied his most practiced and elegant hand to the page: “To Shirley. With affection and gratitude.” He signed his pen name with a flourish that his real one had never merited, the two large Cs extending into curving kite-like tails that seemed to betoken confidence and a daring freedom of spirit. More storytelling
He handed the book back to Shirley, who took it with the kind of awe with which she might receive an unexpected and undeserved gift. “Thank you so much,” she breathed. “I’ve really enjoyed all of your books, very much.”
His smile came more naturally this time. “Thank you, Shirley. That means a lot to me.”Still looking slightly dazed, Shirley stepped out of the queue, clutching the book against her thin body, her day made. (The man in the bowler had observed this exchange with a smug satisfaction.)
So it was that easy to make people happy. This was the only way he’d ever found to do it: by creating fantasies for them, large and cataclysmic; fantasies that thrilled them, that gave them elemental conflicts and cathartic resolutions, that took them away from their quotidian concerns and made them believe for a while in the infinite possibilities of life, the soul, the universe. He gave them something they needed: he brought them to the edge of terror for just long enough, then pulled the lifeline back in time, reassuring them that chaos could be tamed, that good could triumph, that each life had meaning. He envied them that easy reassurance.
More books passed beneath his hand. To Jane. To Eleanor. To Susan. Then as he reached for the next one he was surprised. Instead of the expected novel held open to the title page he saw a white-gloved hand extending a card. He looked up quickly. There was an elegantly dressed man with a dark moustache, wearing a black coat and bowler. The man’s eyes glinted almost conspiratorially; his graceful finger placed the card on the table and slid it toward him. The handwriting on it was neat, old-fashioned in style. Meet me directly after this at the Sword and Dragon tavern. I have a business proposition for you. It will be well worth your while. He looked up again, puzzled, but the man had vanished; he was nowhere among the other people in the store, nor was he visible outside.
What in the world could this mean? the novelist wondered. The man hadn’t looked like an agent or a publisher’s rep; certainly none of them had ever approached him in such an unorthodox way. Looking back down at the card, he turned it over. On the other side was printed only the initials NB, in a kind of Gothic script. NB--nota bene. Note well. A warning, or an invitation to opportunity? he wondered a little whimsically. His better judgment told him he should discard the note and ignore the message, but then better judgment had never been his strongest point. And his writer’s curiosity was piqued. Whoever the strange man turned out to be and whatever it was he wanted, it was always possible there might be a story in it....
It was dark and growing chilly when he left the bookstore; he shivered a little as the dampness of the London fall air stripped away the warmth of the store from his skin. A fog was beginning to roll in from the river. He pulled his coat collar higher against the chill and let the habit of solitude resettle on him with the comforting dullness that was his claim to authenticity. Turning into the wind, toward the river, he started down Charing Cross into Trafalgar Square. He knew exactly where he was going, and that fact puzzled and intrigued him more
Why the devil had the fellow chosen the Sword and Dragon? Not only were there are least six other pubs closer to the bookstore, but the Sword and Dragon just happened to be his own favorite pub. He wondered uneasily if it was coincidence or if the stranger had been watching him long enough to have found that out.
He liked the Sword and Dragon because it was a large pub with a few booths in the back corner that afforded a bit of privacy. He liked to go there and sit in one of those booths, observing with a writer’s eyes and ears, yet remaining relatively unobserved himself, as was his preference. He could sit undisturbed for hours, watching people, noting their idiosyncracies, their snatches of conversation, gathering brief glimpses of a hundred lives and capturing them in words in a small notebook he carried. Voyeurism in the service of art. Occasionally he picked up women there. It made things easy: they seemed to be attracted to his rather small measure of fame, and with them he could play the role of the best-selling-author without effort. They were in and out of his life before they could want more, before they learned how little he really had to give.
He shivered slightly, purposely withdrawing his awareness from the chaos of rush hour as he crossed the Strand and walked on toward the little side street that led to the river, not far from the Waterloo Bridge. He shook his head in surprise at himself. Why was he doing this? He was exhausted and hungry; he had been looking forward to going back to his flat, being alone, having some supper and going to sleep. But something was pulling him, at the end of a long day, to walk through the damp, chilled air to a tavern to meet a stranger in a bowler who had a “business proposition” for him.
He had never had much patience for or interest in the business side of his profession. Like these reading/signing sessions. This had been his third one of the day, after a morning stint in Knightsbridge and an early afternoon in Kensington. His editor insisted on these tight schedules--she wanted him to meet the public as often as possible with each new book. She said he had a “commanding presence” that women especially responded to--he had nearly laughed out loud at that; he’d certainly never seen evidence of it in his own life! But she believed that that quality could be carefully exploited into a reputation, one that would bring women out first to see him, and then to buy his books.
Novelist as sex symbol? It struck him as ludicrous, even he hadn’t been the novelist in question. Perhaps the way the woman named Shirley had seemed to react to him today might have persuaded him of the soundness of the strategy, but he had never really put much stock in it and still wasn’t inclined to. Such reputations tended to feed off themselves, building on their own whether or not there was any basis for them, and they tended to die out just as quickly. (He was also quite incidentally building a reputation for sardonic wit. When a recent interviewer had asked him what The Hollow People was about, he’d replied, “it’s autobiographical.” The interviewer had thought he was joking.)
Yet even in his skepticism he marveled at what he saw at each bookstore he visited. To see all these people so affected by the worlds he made for them that they left their own worlds for a while to stand in endless queues, waiting for a chance to see him, speak to him, have him write directly to them--it moved him in an unnameable way. But of course it wasn’t him at all that they came seeking; it was the persona behind that pen name, the one who gave them pleasure. The writer touched the primordial fears in their psyches and helped them conquer them. Why should they care if it was his fears that bled onto the pages and into their minds? He gave them resolution, renewed their faith; what did it matter to them how futilely he searched for his own?
That was another thing he liked about the Sword and Dragon: its name. St. George. Chivalry. Images from the collective unconscious: fearsome monsters and brave knights. The Dark Ages. The romantic fascination of those long-ago times, hazy with legend, pulled compellingly at him; a time when one knew the nature of one’s enemy, when a strong sword or lance could cut through darkness, and courage was all one needed against the seduction of evil. He had transferred that basic world view into his novels, added some modern psychological twists, and managed to convince the world of its truth.
That was why his books were popular. He knew they weren’t great art. They were his way of fighting back against the fog-shrouded regions of his own soul. His particular dragons had nearly destroyed him; if he hadn’t learned to subdue them with the power of words, to twist and shape them until they fit safely into the cages of literary genre conventions, he doubted that any sword ever made would have been effective enough to slay them. But even his success made him feel fraudulent--how could he be so good at leading others to believe in the wonder of life, the power of will and faith, the eternity of the soul, when he himself was so bereft of such conviction?
He was approaching the tavern now, smiling a little to see the brightly colored sign--the green-and-gold dragon, spouting fire, pushed into the sign’s upper corner by the armor-clad knight with a sword as large as he was. As he started to open the door, he heard a small sound and felt a light pressure against his leg. He looked down to see the pub’s stray cat pushing against him, eager to get inside to forage among the tavern regulars--its adopted family--for discarded bits of fish or other food. He was rather fond of the poor animal; it was one of the few living things he felt an affinity with. After all, he was a forager as well, for bits of other people’s lives. They were two lone wanderers in the world. “There you go, boy. Good luck,” he said to the cat, letting it slip by him through the door. The pub was crowded at this time of day. His eyes began skipping impatiently among the patrons for the initiator of this rendezvous.
He was a little surprised to spot the man sitting at the back of the pub in the booth he himself usually occupied. Surprised but not surprised. His mouth twisted a little sardonically. So the man did know his habits. Well, there was obviously a reason for that.
He approached the table. The other man had removed his coat and hat, and he was able to see his face more clearly than he had in the brief seconds he’d caught his eye in the bookstore. He was a handsome, elegant-looking man with dark hair that formed a widow’s peak and a thin moustache. He was dressed quite stylishly in a three-piece suit; all in all he looked too much the gentleman to suit the milieu here.
The man stood and extended a hand toward him, smiling broadly. “Ah, Mr. Shannon. I’m glad you’ve come. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Startled, he stiffened and withdrew his hand, his eyes narrowing. “I no longer use that name,” he said tersely. Suddenly he realized he might have real reason to regret having come here.
The other man’s voice turned appeasing, but he thought there remained a certain slyness in his smile. “Then I apologize. I can understand that. Your nom de plume is so much more colorful. And it has acquired a certain...cachet.”
Before he could reply the waiter brought over two drinks. His favorite cognac. This man had done his homework.
In spite of his misgivings, he was curious enough to surrender to the situation. He slipped into the booth. “Look, Mr.--” he started.
“The name is Blair.”
“Mr. Blair. I don’t know you. And only my publishers--and a few old acquaintances I don’t care to remember--know my real name. I don’t know how you learned it, but I prefer to keep that knowledge extremely limited.”
“Certainly--Mr. St. Clair.” He put a slight stress on the pseudonym. “I respect your wishes.” He took out a cigarette and lit it; he appeared to be very relaxed. “But even though it’s true that we’ve never met, I do know quite a bit about you. And your life.”
“Is that why you got me here? Whatever you want, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. I’ve put my past behind me and I prefer for it to stay there. But I’m not afraid of it.” As a novelist he had learned how to tell a convincing lie.
The cat had found him. It slinked between his legs, mewing softly, then jumped into his lap. He began to stroke it absent-mindedly.
Blair continued. “You’ve done it very well indeed--using your novels as a sort of...exorcism? I congratulate you on that. But that isn’t the reason I asked you to come here. It isn’t your past in itself that interests me, Mr. St. Clair, and it isn’t your books in themselves. Rather, it’s what your books tell me about you.”
“A lot of people think they know what I’m like from my books,” he responded tiredly. “They’re almost always wrong.”
“Ah, but I’m talking about what I believe is the greatest desire of your soul--your deepest passion, as it were--that comes across in all of your work. The one common characteristic of your most memorable and heroic characters.”
“And what do you think that is, Mr. Blair?”
“Immortality, Mr. St. Clair,” he shot back.
“Is that so unusual? There isn’t a man alive who isn’t obsessed with the idea, in one way or another.”
“True. But no other man is being offered the opportunity to obtain it for himself.”
So that was it. The fellow certainly had a dramatic approach. “So you are some kind of agent. What are you proposing--distribution in every country in the world? Translation into 200 languages? Reissuing my entire oeuvre in special editions, or a promotional campaign to crown me the new Poe? Believe me, I don’t have any illusions about the value of my work. I know my books are popular now, but in few years they’ll start going out of print, and that will be that. I don’t produce literature for the ages, Mr. Blair.”
Blair laughed--a rather chilling sound, he thought. “No, no, you don’t understand. I wasn’t referring to immortality for your work. I meant you--your body, your mind--the essence of your existence.”
This was too much. Why hadn’t he suspected this fellow was some kind of lunatic? He struck his hand on the table, beginning to get up. Startled, the cat jumped from his lap. It took effort to keep his voice steady. “Look, Mr. Blair. It’s been a long day. I’m tired. I’m hungry. I only came here because I thought you had something serious to discuss with me. I don’t have the time or the spirit right now for bad jokes.”
Blair’s hand reached out to grab his wrist; he was surprised at the strength of the grip. He spoke in a low but commanding voice. “Please sit down, Mr. St. Clair. I will gladly treat you to dinner in return for your time. But do not dismiss me as some kind of crank. I promise you that I can do exactly what I’ve said I can.” The sharp, dark eyes that penetrated his own were suddenly a force too strong to resist. He sat down, his numbed mind beginning to understand that he’d somehow been trapped.
Blair’s smile had taken on a twist of malevolence; the novelist was suddenly and vividly reminded of one of his own characters. His companion’s gaze fixed on the cat that had just resettled itself in his lap. The animal gave an abrupt, chilling squeal; its body stiffened, and it fell limp across his legs. Shocked, he picked it up, feeling only motionless weight. No breath stirred it. He held it against his body; it was as still as a child’s toy.
“My God--it’s dead!” He stared at Blair in confusion and fear. “What happened? Did you do something to it?”
Blair smirked. “Don’t be upset, Mr. St. Clair. The cat is only dead as long as I want it to be.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“It served my purposes to give you a little demonstration of my power.” He crooked a finger toward the cat. A shudder went through the animal’s body; its legs jerked into motion, its eyes opened. In an instant it wriggled out of his arms and leaped to the floor.
He was too stunned to move or speak.
“Now, Mr. St. Clair,” Blair spoke smoothly. “I assure you that I am no illusionist. Nor am I a mere sideshow magician. I took the life from that cat, and I restored it. And I can do the same for you--permanently--if you accept my offer. You can have life for all eternity. You need not ever die.”
Somehow he managed to find his voice and to keep an even tone. “I have no idea what you’re up to, Mr. Blair, or why you picked me, but I think you’ve chosen the wrong man. I’m afraid I don’t find life appealing enough to want to extend it indefinitely.”
“Ah, but that can change.” Blair leaned toward him across the table, his eyes intent. “You see, I believe I know you very well, Mr. St. Clair.You are a man of great dreams, but your dreams are too grand for this disappointing world. It will never have room for them. It can only crush them--and you--in the end. It has nearly succeeded once already, isn’t that true?”
He felt the blood draining from his face as he stared at the man in shocked silence.
Blair was grinning. “As you see, I do know your history, Mr. St. Clair. The records at St. Patrick’s are closed only to those who have neither the means nor the motivation.”
He felt his breathing coming harder, but he couldn’t take his eyes from Blair’s mesmerizing gaze. He was incapable of responding. He could only listen as his companion continued.
“Now what I am offering you is far more than just eternal life. It’s an entirely new universe, a--new plane of existence, in fact, one that very few men have ever experienced. To conquer death by its own hand--to be reborn beyond its dominion. To live with the fullest passion and the fullest power. You can be freed forever from the bonds of the world, free from fear and uncertainty and human weakness, free to take life on your terms--to create it for yourself just as you create it for your characters. To bend life and time to your own desires. To live above and beyond this crass material world and never let it defeat you again.” He paused for a moment, with a spreading calculating smile designed to draw him in. “Do you want to hear more?”
Somehow, he understood, this man knew him far better than he could have imagined possible. He knew the deepest regions of his soul. The words were already beginning to stir inside him, digging up long-buried dreams, reverberating with the kinds of possibilities he’d thought could be realized only through fiction. Blair had captured him perfectly. Yes. He wanted to hear more.
“Go on, Mr. Blair,” he said cautiously.
“Good. Now then,” his companion continued, triumph dancing in his dark eyes. “I will tell you what I have in mind. It is really a bargain between you and me--a sort of contract. An exchange of services, you might say.....”