Read Online Interzone 251 by edited by Andy Cox - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: edited by Andy Cox
Tags: Fiction, Science-Fiction, Fantasy, Reviews, Jonathan McCalmont, Greg Kurzawa, Ansible Link, David Langford, Nick Lowe, Tony Lee, Jim Burns, Richard Wagner, Martin Hanford, John Grant, Karl Bunker, Gareth L. Powell, Tracie Welser, Suzanne Palmer
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easy to find you at first. There were so many of you. But now—” He shook his head. “You hide so well.”
The surgeon turned from the window, frame still in hand. “You don’t want to stay here, do you? In the city?”
Simon bit back his immediate reply. He would not be tricked. “I survive well enough,” he said.
“Yes,” the surgeon conceded. “On rats. You’re afraid to go outside.” With the frame, he gestured to the landing. “Afraid to open your own door.”
“The mummers—”
“Are everywhere,” the surgeon finished for him. “I know. But you miss your family, don’t you?” He tapped the frame. “You miss—” He turned it to peek at the back. “Nora?”
“Yes.”
The surgeon opened a hand, as though displaying all logic and reason, his case stated and proved. “Then we must leave.”
“You know the way out?”
“Of course.”
“How will we get there?”
“We will walk.”
“I’m too old. I can’t walk that far.”
“It’s not as far as you think. And you forget—” the surgeon hefted his bag “—I’m a surgeon.”
Simon eyed the black bag with suspicion.
“My instruments,” the surgeon explained. “Would you like to see?”
Simon stepped from behind the door. Keeping a safe distance, he watched the surgeon crouch and flip open the latches of his bag. Simon leaned forward, and the surgeon tilted his bag so he could better see.
There were saws with serrated and hooked blades, and various curiously angled clamps. There were pincers, and something like an icepick. The surgeon removed a leather wallet, which he unfolded in three equal parts to display a collection of neatly arranged scalpels. He looked up, and Simon saw a terrible sadness in his eyes, as though these were tools he employed with as much regret as proficiency.
Awed, Simon touched his chest with feeble fingers.
“I can make you better,” the surgeon said, answered the unasked question. “And I will. But you have to come with me.”
Simon nodded.
The surgeon tilted his head to catch Simon’s eye. “Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” The surgeon flipped his wallet of scalpels closed, replaced it, and snapped his bag shut. “But you can’t go like that.” He made a gesture that seemed to indicate all of Simon. “We have to get you clean first, and wash your clothes, too. You have a bath?”
Simon gestured to a curtained doorway at the back of the garret. “But there’s no water,” he said.
The surgeon looked troubled. “No water?”
“Not from the pipes. There’s a ditch behind the building. And I push barrels under the gutters for when it rains.”
“Good,” said the surgeon. “We’ll use your pail to fill the bath.”
“I could wash in the ditch,” Simon said.
After a moment’s thought the surgeon frowned. “No,” he said. “The bath is better.”
So Simon pulled up the thick wool scarf he used to protect himself from the poisoned air outside, then he and the surgeon went down together to fill his pail from the ditch.
Seven trips and the tub was more than half full.
After they had emptied the last pail, the surgeon opened his bag and began to lay out his instruments. Simon watched until the surgeon looked up and gestured at him with a set of forceps. “Your clothes,” he said.
Hindered by a sense of modesty and shame, Simon nodded to the curtain. “Wait out there,” he said.
The surgeon shook his head. “Let me help.”
In the cramped quarters of the closet, Simon allowed the surgeon to aid in prying off his soiled clothing. When he had been stripped completely, and was utterly exposed, he felt like hot bones wrapped in ghastly white sheeting. He covered himself with his hands.
The surgeon took his arm and helped him step into the tub. Supported by the surgeon’s arm, Simon lowered himself into the tepid water, where dry scabs of filth peeled away. While Simon scooped water over his arms and chest, the surgeon dragged a sopping rag over his back.
“Now
The surgeon turned from the window, frame still in hand. “You don’t want to stay here, do you? In the city?”
Simon bit back his immediate reply. He would not be tricked. “I survive well enough,” he said.
“Yes,” the surgeon conceded. “On rats. You’re afraid to go outside.” With the frame, he gestured to the landing. “Afraid to open your own door.”
“The mummers—”
“Are everywhere,” the surgeon finished for him. “I know. But you miss your family, don’t you?” He tapped the frame. “You miss—” He turned it to peek at the back. “Nora?”
“Yes.”
The surgeon opened a hand, as though displaying all logic and reason, his case stated and proved. “Then we must leave.”
“You know the way out?”
“Of course.”
“How will we get there?”
“We will walk.”
“I’m too old. I can’t walk that far.”
“It’s not as far as you think. And you forget—” the surgeon hefted his bag “—I’m a surgeon.”
Simon eyed the black bag with suspicion.
“My instruments,” the surgeon explained. “Would you like to see?”
Simon stepped from behind the door. Keeping a safe distance, he watched the surgeon crouch and flip open the latches of his bag. Simon leaned forward, and the surgeon tilted his bag so he could better see.
There were saws with serrated and hooked blades, and various curiously angled clamps. There were pincers, and something like an icepick. The surgeon removed a leather wallet, which he unfolded in three equal parts to display a collection of neatly arranged scalpels. He looked up, and Simon saw a terrible sadness in his eyes, as though these were tools he employed with as much regret as proficiency.
Awed, Simon touched his chest with feeble fingers.
“I can make you better,” the surgeon said, answered the unasked question. “And I will. But you have to come with me.”
Simon nodded.
The surgeon tilted his head to catch Simon’s eye. “Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” The surgeon flipped his wallet of scalpels closed, replaced it, and snapped his bag shut. “But you can’t go like that.” He made a gesture that seemed to indicate all of Simon. “We have to get you clean first, and wash your clothes, too. You have a bath?”
Simon gestured to a curtained doorway at the back of the garret. “But there’s no water,” he said.
The surgeon looked troubled. “No water?”
“Not from the pipes. There’s a ditch behind the building. And I push barrels under the gutters for when it rains.”
“Good,” said the surgeon. “We’ll use your pail to fill the bath.”
“I could wash in the ditch,” Simon said.
After a moment’s thought the surgeon frowned. “No,” he said. “The bath is better.”
So Simon pulled up the thick wool scarf he used to protect himself from the poisoned air outside, then he and the surgeon went down together to fill his pail from the ditch.
Seven trips and the tub was more than half full.
After they had emptied the last pail, the surgeon opened his bag and began to lay out his instruments. Simon watched until the surgeon looked up and gestured at him with a set of forceps. “Your clothes,” he said.
Hindered by a sense of modesty and shame, Simon nodded to the curtain. “Wait out there,” he said.
The surgeon shook his head. “Let me help.”
In the cramped quarters of the closet, Simon allowed the surgeon to aid in prying off his soiled clothing. When he had been stripped completely, and was utterly exposed, he felt like hot bones wrapped in ghastly white sheeting. He covered himself with his hands.
The surgeon took his arm and helped him step into the tub. Supported by the surgeon’s arm, Simon lowered himself into the tepid water, where dry scabs of filth peeled away. While Simon scooped water over his arms and chest, the surgeon dragged a sopping rag over his back.
“Now
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