THE SIXTH GUEST: Chapter Seven - Part Six

 “He went this way, hurry,” said Clare, circling her fancy Peugeot convertible and heading to the right.

Mike followed her, as unsure if this was a good idea as he was of what exactly had happened in there. “Surely it was a practical joke... or something.”

Clare’s approximation of a response was simply the words, “Come on.” She didn’t look back and was several paces ahead of him.

“I mean it was weird, yeah. It was kind of fucked up. But God? You didn’t believe any of that.” Still no response. “Clare?”

She stopped dead, surprising him. He’d thought she hadn’t heard. She looked back at him and her eyes were full of the light from the streetlight at front of her house, caught in the moisture of simmering tears.

Her expression caught him off guard and the ongoing gabble of self-justification lost its thread. “You didn’t... You...” He was going to ask, Did you believe him? But it seemed as crazy a query as the very idea of it. It made him think of the characters in a horror movie wondering if the strange noises are caused by ghosts while everyone in the cinema thinks they’re acting like stupid dicks. Of course they were caused by ghosts!

Without a word, Clare pressed on. The man was nowhere in sight down the road. Mike shut up, his own thoughts batting back and forth sufficiently to occupy his mind. The junction was maybe forty yards down from the boarding house: a cross roads. On the near corner was a little hairdresser’s, pretty girls with elaborate hairdos smiling from behind the blackened glass. Clare walked to the centre of the crossroads, looking each direction then back the way they’d come. She crossed to the opposite pavement and peered down the obscured length of the parked cars.

“He’s gone. Damn it!” She wandered back onto the road and Mike met her half way.

He didn’t say anything. He was kind of glad. The idea of catching up with the guy... To say what? Don’t go? We do believe that you’re God?

“Shit,” muttered Clare.

“What do you wanna do?”

She met his gaze and seemed suddenly to see him, or more particularly to recognise him. He couldn’t read minds, but he knew enough to name that look. She was remembering their history. Now that the moment with that crazy bearded man was over she was asking herself if it wasn’t a monumentally bad idea to let him stay the night.  Gave her a flash of his old smile and the frown on her brow deepened. Not a good idea. Better to divert the conversation back to other matters.

“Did you believe him?”

“Huh?”

“The man. The crazy man. Did you believe him when he said...” It was absurd to even say it aloud. It couldn’t be true. Mike chuckled. “It had to be bullshit, right?”

Clare gave a half head shake then looked back down the road the way they’d come. They’d been through a lot together in the good old/bad old days and Mike had never seen this side to her. His mind was fumbling through its memory logs to find an adequate simile. The closest it came to it was the look an animal got when it was startled.

Spooked.

“Let’s go back,” he said, resisting the idea the popped up to take her by the hand.

It was an uncomfortable walk back, even though it wasn’t far. Neither one of them was talking. The reality was settling back in, and with it some incredulity. The logistics of where he was going to sleep, what he would do with his stuff, what the plan would be in the morning. Whether asking for a second night or longer would be taking the piss.

Clare kept her eyes down, blandly staring at the pavement as she silently walked. Mike glanced at her and she chose that exact moment to stop and turn at him. “Look Mike, I need to set a few things straight...” She stopped talking, and only then did Mike realise that he was looking at something past her in the alley that ran there between two houses to garages at the back. She’d seen his expression and that semi-hostile impetus died as she first gaped back at him then followed the line of his sight herself.

It was black in the alley; really black. It wasn’t a wide channel and beyond the opening the shining streetlamp-light made it seem darker if anything. But near the foot of the wall was a glimmer of something that Mike couldn’t identify. It looked... like a fire that had been left untended to die from starvation. The two of them stood watching, both of them unsure what they were looking at. Then with no open communication they both started closing the distance; faltering; walking on.

It was some kind of lumpen mass – it was impossible still to tell what – but the edges of it were glowing like a stick might if it had been on fire and now merely smoked, but was then blown on. A smidgeon of smoke came forward enough to catch the light from the streetlamp.

“What the hell is that?” asked Mike.

Clare went closer, looking down, then suddenly she squatted right next to it and Mike almost reached to pull her back.

“Careful.”

His view was blocked now by her back but he didn’t feel comfortable getting any closer. Clare bent over, getting nearer.

“What is it?”

She reached a hand in to touch it but clearly thought better of it before she did. Instead she looked back and up at him and in a little girl whisper said, “I think this is him.”