Without opening her eyes Stef said "What are you talking about, Roger?"
"About us, aren't I, or am I?" He had to turn away. Perhaps it was an effect of the flickering dimness, but her upturned face seemed almost as flat as the pillow which framed it. He closed his eyes, and presumably the flickering subsided when at last he fell asleep.
Was that the phone? He awoke with a shrill memory filling his skull. He was alone in bed, and the daylight already looked stale. When the bell shrilled again he kicked away the sheets which had been drawn flat over him, and blundered along the hall to the intercom by the front door. "Spum," he declared.
"We've brought your videphone, boss."
The flickering recommenced at once. Speke ran into the main room and, wrestling the window along its track, peered down. Fifteen floors below, two tufts of hair with arms and legs were unloading cartons from a van. They vanished into the entranceway, and a moment later the bell rang again. Speke sprinted to the intercom and shouted "I can't see you now. Go away."
"You asked for us now, it says so here," said the distorted voice. "When do you want us?"
"Never. It could all be fake. You can do anything with sound and vision," Speke protested before he fully realised what he was saying. He rushed back to the open window and watched until the walking scalps returned to the van, then he grabbed enough clothes to cover himself and heard rather than felt the door slam behind him.
He couldn't drive for the flickering. The floors of the tower block had seemed like frames of a stuck film, and now the figures he passed on the pavements of the carriageway resembled images in a film advancing slowly, frame by frame. The film of cars on the road was faster. The side of the carriageway on which he was walking forked, leading him into a diminishing perspective of warehouses. On one otherwise blank wall he found a metal plaque which, as he approached, filled with whitish daylight out of which the legend S & V Studios took form. He leaned all his weight on the colourless door, which seemed insubstantial by comparison with the thick wall, and staggered into a room composed of four monochrome faces as tall as the indirectly lit brick ceiling. A young woman was sitting at a wide low desk with her back to one actor's flat face. "May I help you?" she said.
"Vanessum?" Speke said, distracted by trying to put names to the faces. "Yes?" she said as though he'd caught her out. "Who are you?"
"Don't tell me you don't know."
"I only started properly this morning," she said, pushing a visitor's book towards him. "If I can just have your—"
Speke was already running down the corridor beyond her desk. On both sides of him glass displayed images of rooms full of tape decks or screens that were flickering almost as much as his eyes, and here was one crowded with students whose faces looked unformed. Even Stef's did. She was lecturing to them, though Speke couldn't hear her voice until he flung open the heavy door; then she said less than a word, which hadn't time to sound like her voice. "You said we agreed I'd try to put them out of my head," Speke shouted. "Who? Who are we?"
"Not here, Roger. Not now."
Speke closed his eyes to shut out the flickering faces. "Who's speaking? Who do you think you sound like?"
"I'm sorry, everyone. Please excuse us. He's..."
He didn't know what sign Stef was making as her voice trailed off, and he didn't want to see. "Don't lie to me," he shouted. "Don't try to put me off. I've seen Vanessa. I won't leave until you show me Lesley."
Without warning he was shoved backwards, and the door thumped shut in front of him. "Roger," Stef's flattened voice said in his ear. "You have to remember. Lesley and Vanessa are—It wasn't your fault, you mustn't keep blaming yourself, but they're dead."
Her voice seemed to be reaching him from a long way off, beyond the flickering. "Who says so?" he heard himself ask in as distant a voice.
"You did. You told me and you told the doctor. It was nothing to do with you, remember. It happened after you split up."
"I split up?" Speke repeated in a voice that felt dead. "No, not me. You did, maybe. They did."
"Roger, don't—"
He didn't know which voice was trying to imitate Stef's, but it couldn't call him back. It shrank behind him like an image on a monitor that had been switched off, as no doubt her face was shrinking. He fled between the warehouses, which at least seemed too solid to transform unexpectedly, though wasn't everything a ghost, an image which he perceived only after it had existed? Mustn't that also be true of himself? He didn't want to be alone with that notion, especially when the echoes of his footsteps sounded close to turning into a voice, and so he fled towards the shops, the crowds.
That was a mistake. At a distance the faces that converged on him seemed capable of taking any form, and when they came closer they were too flat, strips of images of faces that were being moved behind one another or through one another by some complicated trick which he was unable to see through. Their hubbub sounded like a single voice which had been electronically transformed in an attempt to give the impression of many, and as far as he could hear it, it seemed to be chanting in a bewildering variety of unrelated rhythms: "Dum, rum, sum, bum..." The faces were swelling, crowding around him wherever he ran with his hands over his ears. When he saw an alley dividing the blank walls of two dress shops he fought his way to it, his elbows encountering obstructions which felt less substantial than they were trying to appear. The walls took away some of the pressure of the voices, and when he lowered his hands from his ears he saw that the alley led to a bar.
It was the realest place he could see—so real that he was almost sure he could smell alcohol. He had plenty to drink at home, but the thought of drinking near the open window on the fifteenth storey aggravated his panic. A few drinks ought to help the image stabilise, and then he might go4iome. He tiptoed to the end of the alley so that his echoes couldn't follow him, and let himself into the bar.
For a moment he was afraid it wasn't open for business. A solitary tube was lit above the counter at the far end of the long room, but nobody was sitting at the small round tables in the dimness. As Speke closed the door behind him, however, a figure came out of a doorway behind the counter. Speke's ears began to throb in time with the flickering as he tried to be prepared to hear what he was afraid to hear. It didn't matter, it mustn't matter, so long as he got his drink. He stepped forward, and the other came to meet him, saying "There's only mum" and then "There's only me." Neither voice was bothering to disguise itself now, even as human. As the face advanced into the light Speke thought that behind every bar was a mirror, and all at once he was afraid to open his mouth.
A Street Was Chosen (1991)
A street was chosen. Within its parameters, homes were randomly selected. Preliminary research yielded details of the occupants as follows:
A (husband, insurance salesman, 30; wife, 28; infant daughter, 18 months)
B (widow, 67)
C (husband, 73; wife, 75; son, library assistant, 38)
D (mother, bank clerk, 32; daughter, 3)
E (husband, social worker, 35; wife, social worker, 34)
F (electrician, male, 51; assistant, male, 25)
G (husband, 42; wife, industrial chemist, 38; son, 4; infant son, 2)
H (mother, 86; son, teacher, 44; son's wife, headmistress, 41; granddaughter, 12; grandson, 11)
I (window-cleaner, male, 53)
J (tax officer, female, 55)
K (milkman, male, 39)
L (waiter, 43)
It was noted that subjects I-L occupied apartments in the same house. Further preliminary observation established that:
subject B wrote letters to newspapers
the children of couples A and G visited each other’s homes to play
granddaughter H sat with child D while mother D was elsewhere on an average of 1 evening per week