“Good evening, Mr. Hershey.” His English sounds more expensively schooled British than sibilant Icelandic.
I’m gratified, I admit. “My. Odd place to be recognized.”
He takes a few paces until we’re at arm’s length. He looks pleased. “I’m an admirer. My name’s Hugo Lamb.” Then he smiles with charisma and warmth, as if I’m a trusted friend he’s known for years. For my part, I feel an unwanted craving for his approval.
“Nice, uh, to meet you then, Hugo. Look, this is all a bit embarrassing, but I’ve gone and mislaid the car park …”
He nods and his face turns thoughtful again. “Бsbyrgi plays these tricks on everybody, Mr. Hershey.”
“Could you point me in the right direction, then?”
“I could. I will. But, first, I have a few questions.”
I take a step back. “You mean … about my books?”
“No, about Holly Sykes. You’ve become close, we see.”
With dismay I realize this Hugo’s one of Holly’s weirdos. Then with anger, as I realize, no, he’s a tabloid “reporter”; she’s had some bother with the telephoto lens gang at her new house in Rye. “I’d loveto give you the lowdown on me ’n’ Hol,” I sneer at Handsome Pants, “but here’s the thing, sunshine: It’s none of your fuckingbusiness.”
Hugo Lamb is utterly unriled. “Ah, but you’re wrong. Holly Sykes’s business is very much our concern.”
I start walking off, backwards, watchfully. “Whatever. Goodbye.”
“You’ll need my assistance to get out of Бsbyrgi,” says the youth.
“Your assistance will fit neatly up your small intestine. Holly’s a private person, and so am I, and I’ll find my own way ba—”
Hugo Lamb has made a peculiar gesture with his hand, and my body is lifted ten feet into the air and squeezed in an invisible giant’s fist: My ribs crunch; the nerves in my spine crackle and the agony is indescribable; begging for mercy or screaming is impossible, and so is enduring this torture for a second longer, but seconds pass, I think they’re seconds, they could be days, until I’m thrown, not dropped, onto the forest floor.
My face is pressed into leaf mold. I’m grunting, quivering, and whimpering even as the agony fades. I look up. Hugo Lamb’s face is that of a boy dismembering a daddy longlegs; mild interest and gleeful malevolence. A Taser might explain the incapacitating pain, but what about the ten-feet-off-the-ground bit? Something atavistic snuffs my curiosity now, however; I need to get away from him. I’ve pissed myself but I don’t even care. My feet don’t work, and a far-off voice might be roaring at me, “You’ll never walk alone again,” but I won’t listen, I can’t, I daren’t. I crawl backwards, then pull myself upright, against a big tree stump. Hugo Lamb makes another gesture and my legs fold under me. There’s no pain this time. Worse, almost, there’s nothing. From my waist down, all sensation has gone. I touch my thigh. My fingers register my thigh but my thigh registers nothing. Hugo Lamb walks over—I cower—and perches on the tree stump. “Legs do come in handy,” he says. “Do you want yours back?”
My voice is shaky as heck: “What areyou?”
“Dangerous, as you see. You’ll recognize these two cuties.” He removes a little square from his pocket and shows me the passport photo of me, Anaпs, and Juno that I lost a few days ago. “Answer my questions honestly, and they’ll have as decent a chance of a long and happy life as any child at Outremont Lycйe.”
This good-looking youth is the stuff of a bad acid trip. Obviously he stole the photo, but when and how, I cannot guess. I nod.
“Let’s begin. Who is most precious to Holly Sykes?”
“Her daughter,” I say hoarsely. “Aoife. That’s no secret.”
“Good. Are you and Holly lovers?”
“No. No. We’re just friends. Really.”
“With a woman? Is that typical for you, Mr. Hershey?”
“I guess not, but it’s how it is with Holly.”
“Has Holly ever mentioned Esther Little?”
I swallow and shake my head. “No.”
“Think very carefully: Esther Little.”
I think, or try to. “I don’t know the name. I swear.” I can hear how petrified I sound.
“What has Holly told you about her cognitive gifts?”
“Only what’s in her book. In The Radio People.”
“Yes, a real page-turner. Have you witnessed her channeling a voice?” Hugo Lamb notices my hesitation. “Don’t make me count down from five, like some hokey interrogator in a third-rate movie, before I fry you. Your fans know how you detest clichй.”
The hollow deepens as the trees lean over. “Two years ago, on Rottnest Island, near Perth, Holly fainted, and a weird voice came out of her mouth. I thought it was epilepsy, but she said how the prisoners had suffered, and then … she spoke in Aborigine … and—that’s all. She hit her head. Then she was back.”
Hugo Lamb tap-tap-taps the photo. Some part of me still able to analyze notices that although his face is young something about his eyes and intentness is much older. “What about the Dusk Chapel?”
“The what chapel?”
“Or the Anchorites? Or the Blind Cathar? Or Black Wine?”
“I never heard of any of those things. I swear.”
Tap-tap-tap goes Hugo Lamb’s finger on the photo of me and the girls. “What does Horology mean to you?”
This feels like some demonic pub quiz: “Horology? The study of the measurement of time. Or old clocks.”
He leans over me; I feel like a microbe on a slide. “Tell me what you know about Marinus.”
Wretched as a snitch and hopeful this will save my daughters, I tell my eerie interrogator that Marinus was a child psychiatrist at Gravesend Hospital. “He’s mentioned in Holly’s book as well.”
“Has she met Marinus during the time you’ve known her?”
I shake my head. “He’ll be ancient now. If he’s still alive.”
Is a woman laughing on the outer edge of my hearing?
“What is,” Hugo Lamb watches me carefully, “the Star of Riga?”
“The capital of Estonia. No. Latvia. Or Lithuania. I’m not sure. One of the Baltic states, anyway. I’m sorry.”
Hugo Lamb considers me. “We’re finished.”
“I—I told you the truth. Completely. Don’t hurt my kids.”
He swings off the mossy boulder and walks away, telling me, “If their daddy’s an honest man, Juno and Anaпs have nothing to fear.”
“You—you’re—you’re letting me go?” I touch my legs. They’re still dead. “Hey! My legs! Please!”
“Knew I’d forgotten something.” Hugo Lamb turns around. “By the by, Mr. Hershey, the critics’ treatment of Echo Must Diewas egregious. But, hey, you shafted Richard Cheeseman royallyin return, didn’t you?” Lamb’s smile is puckered and conspiratorial. “He’ll never guess, unless someone plants the idea in his head. Sorry about your trousers; the car park is left at the last fork. That much you’ll remember. Everything else I’ll redact. Ready?” His eyes fixing mine, Hugo Lamb twists the air into threads between his forefingers and thumbs, then pulls tight …
… a mossy boulder, big as a troll’s head, on its side and brooding over an ancient wrong. I’m sitting on the ground with no memory of tripping, though I must have done; I’m aching all over. How the sodding hell did I get down here? A mini-stroke? Magicked by the elves of Бsbyrgi? I must have … what? Sat down for a breather, then nodded off. A breeze passes, the trees shiver, and a yellow leaf loop-the-loops, landing by a fluke of air currents on my palm. Look at that. For the second time today, I think of Mr. Chimes the conjuror. Not far away, a woman’s laughing. The campsite’s near. I get up—and notice a big cold stain down my thigh. Oh. Okay. The Wild Child of British Letters has suffered a somnambulant urethral mishap. Lucky there’s no Piccadilly Reviewdiarist around. I’m only fifty-three—surely still a bit young for incontinence pads? It’s all chilly and clammy, like it happened a couple of minutes ago. Thank God I’m so close to the parking area, clean boxers, and trousers. Back to the fork, then turn left. Let us hurry, dear reader. It’ll be night before you know it.