Read Online The Faceless by Simon Bestwick - Free Book Online Page A

eyes, pleading. Tell me. About my mother, my father. My brother, my sister. My daughter, my son. She could feel the force of their need even from here. On stage it must be like a wind, dragging you every way at once, threatening to tear you apart.
    Best go check on Allen. No. Not best go . Better go . She’d taken the elocution lessons too, even though she didn’t perform for audiences. She’d just wanted it gone from every part of her – Kempforth, the Dunwich, the bastard North. She tapped on the dressing-room door.
    “Who is it?” High and choked with panic.
    “Vera.”
    “Come in.”
    Inside, Allen was staring at his reflection. He wore a light blue suit jacket and trousers, a white roll-neck sweater. A difficult colour to wear, but it gave the right image. Besides, he worked out, ran every day, ate right. Vera made sure of it. A small gold cross at his throat. A thin gold bracelet on his wrist. Black hair with little traces of silvery-grey.
    His forehead gleamed. She picked up a powder puff; he flinched away. “Don’t fuss, woman.” A trace of Lancashire in his voice too. Always was, when he was stressed. Stage fright. Christ, if only that was all it was.
    “Just making sure you look right.”
    “I’m fine, for Christ’s sake. Fussing over me like a bloody mother hen.” His breathing was ragged. She took his hand; he pulled away. She took it again, stroked the back of it with her thumb.
    “You’ll be OK.”
    “Don’t know how much longer I can do this,” he whispered.
    He said it every time, but it always sent a twinge through her. This was all they had, why they had the house on the Downs, the Bentley, the Land Rover, the servants – servants , for two Dunwich kids like them. Lose it, and what remained?
    “You’ll be fine,” she said. And he would. His breathing had slowed and deepened. His forehead was dry now. He was calming.
    They had money in bank accounts. A share portfolio. Gold in a safe at home. It could all be lost, this way or that. Starting as low as they had, could she ever be sure of not falling back? Could they ever be high enough for that? Vera closed her eyes, squeezed his hand hard; perhaps for her there could never be enough distance. She was killing him, for money.
    “I’ll be right there,” she said. “I’ve got us a table booked later. Or back to the hotel. Whichever you want.”
    One day, perhaps, he could stop. Maybe. Before this killed him. When she was sure they were safe. Then they could rest, enjoy the fruits of their labours. The best care for him, to help him heal. Until then, this had to carry on. Nights like this. The fear and the calming. The nightmares and the comfort. Binding him tighter to the killing wheel.
    But then, it wasn’t just her binding him there. So many thought him a liar and a fraud. And sometimes – even often – he was. But not always. And that, even more than her, wouldn’t let him rest.
    “Ready?” she asked.
    “Nah.” Then he grinned. “But what the hell, let’s crack on anyway, eh?”
    She laughed softly, and kissed the back of his hand.
     
     
    I N THE LIGHTING box, she watched. A couple of the lighting techies glanced her way, then looked back at the stage below.
    “Thank you – all of you – for coming here tonight. I know why you’ve come. Why you all come. You’re looking for answers...”
    She tried to relax; her part was done. She handled publicity photos and press releases, tax returns, website updates and investments; this part was Allen’s.
    “First,” he said, “there’s no such thing as death. If you’ve come to one of these before you’ll know that. If it’s your first time, that’s what you have to understand. All that happens when we ‘die’ is that we abandon a garment. That’s all our physical bodies are. What we are – what we truly are – can never die, only change form. We’re all sparks; sparks of divine light. That’s what we truly are, and death frees us to exist wholly at that level.