Read Online The Faceless by Simon Bestwick - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Simon Bestwick
Tags: Horror
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And that level is the world... of spirit.” He smiled. “When you come down to it, it’s just a change of address.”
Laughter. Vera scanned the audience for potential hecklers: militant atheists or religious maniacs, come to brand Allen a fake or the Devil’s spawn. And the biggest fear, of course – the one who’d come to wound with more than words.
He’s a fucking angel, you bastards. If you knew what he’d suffered, how damaged he still is. You bastards. You want to send us back to that, or never have left it . You’re no better than Fitton or Walsh, or the copper, or that fucking priest.
“We can’t see the world of spirit,” Allen said, “but we can’t see infra-red or ultra-violet light. Or radio waves. Are they any less real? Of course not. They just exist on a frequency beyond our normal aural or visual range. My only talent is that I can hear – sometimes see – slightly higher, or lower, frequencies than most people. That’s all it is. And because of that, the departed will come to me, at times such as this, because they’re aware of my gift, and know their loved ones are here too, seeking knowledge and reassurance.”
Vera bit her lip, pressed a knuckle to her chin.
Allen closed his eyes; his ragged breathing echoed through the theatre, amplified by the microphone on his lapel. His eyes, Vera knew from past experience, would be rolling under their lids. And then he began to speak.
A FTER THE SHOW, the round of autographs and book signings. Requests for private readings went to Vera, who explained the pay rates, checked the diary and made the appointments. It took up time; it was close to eleven when they were done, which was why she’d booked the restaurant for that time.
“Still want to eat?” she asked.
Allen grinned. “Thought you’d never ask. Bloody starving.”
They ate at Savjani’s in Rusholme, on the Curry Mile; it offered both discretion and an upstairs room for privacy. Vera picked over her chicken biryani while Allen shovelled down lamb madras, pilau rice, and two garlic naans.
“Gym for you tomorrow, my lad,” she said.
He laughed, but the charge was already ebbing out of him. By half-twelve he was flagging, eyelids starting to sag. She called a taxi and steered him to it.
The performances often did this to him; euphoric at first, then crashing suddenly into sheer exhaustion. Performances, yes; of course none of it was real, and thank Christ for that. Tonight it had all been an act; a spectacular piece of improvisation, nothing more. Vera had seen the real thing; seen it, and what it did to him. She and only she knew it when she saw it; even Allen didn’t seem to anymore. He believed his own lies. And that couldn’t be healthy either. He needed to get out of this, to retire and rest. Everything pointed to that. And he would. He would. She promised he would, and soon. Just not yet. Not quite yet.
Back at the hotel, she helped him to their twin room. She helped Allen off with shoes and trousers, jacket and shirt, unclipped his watch and bracelet and put them on the bedside table. Allen’s eyes were closed already, but still she took her nightdress into the bathroom to change for bed; they’d known one another all their lives, and shared a home throughout, but still, there was decorum to observe.
S UDDENLY, A LLEN’S WIDE awake. He blinks. The room is silent. That’s not right. It’s Friday night in Manchester; something should be filtering in from outside, however faint and distant. But he hears nothing. Not even Vera’s snores. He looks: yes, she’s there, in the opposite bed. Asleep and snoring, but he can’t hear her, not now.
The digital clock at his bedside gives the time as zero. The red numbers on its screen don’t blink; it hasn’t reset after a power cut. They’re frozen at zero, not moving at all.
And so he knows. He did already, of course. That thick smothering silence always means the same thing.
The boys are back in
Laughter. Vera scanned the audience for potential hecklers: militant atheists or religious maniacs, come to brand Allen a fake or the Devil’s spawn. And the biggest fear, of course – the one who’d come to wound with more than words.
He’s a fucking angel, you bastards. If you knew what he’d suffered, how damaged he still is. You bastards. You want to send us back to that, or never have left it . You’re no better than Fitton or Walsh, or the copper, or that fucking priest.
“We can’t see the world of spirit,” Allen said, “but we can’t see infra-red or ultra-violet light. Or radio waves. Are they any less real? Of course not. They just exist on a frequency beyond our normal aural or visual range. My only talent is that I can hear – sometimes see – slightly higher, or lower, frequencies than most people. That’s all it is. And because of that, the departed will come to me, at times such as this, because they’re aware of my gift, and know their loved ones are here too, seeking knowledge and reassurance.”
Vera bit her lip, pressed a knuckle to her chin.
Allen closed his eyes; his ragged breathing echoed through the theatre, amplified by the microphone on his lapel. His eyes, Vera knew from past experience, would be rolling under their lids. And then he began to speak.
A FTER THE SHOW, the round of autographs and book signings. Requests for private readings went to Vera, who explained the pay rates, checked the diary and made the appointments. It took up time; it was close to eleven when they were done, which was why she’d booked the restaurant for that time.
“Still want to eat?” she asked.
Allen grinned. “Thought you’d never ask. Bloody starving.”
They ate at Savjani’s in Rusholme, on the Curry Mile; it offered both discretion and an upstairs room for privacy. Vera picked over her chicken biryani while Allen shovelled down lamb madras, pilau rice, and two garlic naans.
“Gym for you tomorrow, my lad,” she said.
He laughed, but the charge was already ebbing out of him. By half-twelve he was flagging, eyelids starting to sag. She called a taxi and steered him to it.
The performances often did this to him; euphoric at first, then crashing suddenly into sheer exhaustion. Performances, yes; of course none of it was real, and thank Christ for that. Tonight it had all been an act; a spectacular piece of improvisation, nothing more. Vera had seen the real thing; seen it, and what it did to him. She and only she knew it when she saw it; even Allen didn’t seem to anymore. He believed his own lies. And that couldn’t be healthy either. He needed to get out of this, to retire and rest. Everything pointed to that. And he would. He would. She promised he would, and soon. Just not yet. Not quite yet.
Back at the hotel, she helped him to their twin room. She helped Allen off with shoes and trousers, jacket and shirt, unclipped his watch and bracelet and put them on the bedside table. Allen’s eyes were closed already, but still she took her nightdress into the bathroom to change for bed; they’d known one another all their lives, and shared a home throughout, but still, there was decorum to observe.
S UDDENLY, A LLEN’S WIDE awake. He blinks. The room is silent. That’s not right. It’s Friday night in Manchester; something should be filtering in from outside, however faint and distant. But he hears nothing. Not even Vera’s snores. He looks: yes, she’s there, in the opposite bed. Asleep and snoring, but he can’t hear her, not now.
The digital clock at his bedside gives the time as zero. The red numbers on its screen don’t blink; it hasn’t reset after a power cut. They’re frozen at zero, not moving at all.
And so he knows. He did already, of course. That thick smothering silence always means the same thing.
The boys are back in
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