The Lost District and Other Stories by Joel Lane

Author:Joel Lane [Lane, Joel]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: British Literature, Horror, Short Stories, Fiction
ISBN: 9781597800396
Publisher: Night Shade Books
Published: 2015-11-28T00:00:00+00:00

THE OUTSIDE WORLD

Sometimes there was a visual due: long sleeves in summer, wristbands or strategically placed bracelets. More often it was just a kind of air they had, a fragile energy. The people who shone brightest on their good days were usually the ones living under a black cloud. He’d got used to watching people’s faces and gestures for evidence of the hidden darkness, and the slight bravado that came from having touched the underground river but not crossed it.

Maybe there was some real existential quality, or maybe it was just trial and error on his part. Nobody could affect him in the same way as failed suicides. He’d been drawn to them for as long as he could remember wanting anyone. And there was always the question. Somehow, even if it cost him their friendship or the chance of intimacy, he had to ask. These days, he’d get as close as he could before trying.

Sometimes the circumstances of his life—moving from one city to another, working in bars, some low-profile drug dealing—brought him close to what he was looking for. But not close enough. The real despair wasn’t found in short-stay accommodation, but in council flats: people locked into families and relationships that destroyed them. People who lived alone tended to be good survivors, and not to be very deep. As for drug users—well, they didn’t count. If you could remember a heroin OD, you weren’t there. Not that Martin ever dealt in narcotics. It was too likely to get you a third eye, and not in the Tantric sense. Pills were easier to get and sell.

It was a Friday night, the second week in April. Outside, there was frost on the ground. But the Canary Club was hot and sweaty, as usual. Cigarette smoke hung in the air like the grains in a newspaper photo. Martin was serving in the upstairs bar, the only quiet part of the club. People came up here to talk and pick each other up, away from the dark crucible of the dance floor. It was nearly two a.m. and he’d been working since nine, but he wasn’t tired. Filaments of quiet music drifted between the wall speakers. Martin rang for last orders, but no one came to the bar. The Northern lad who’d been drinking rum and Cokes since midnight looked up at him. Martin reached for a fresh glass, then realised the boys glass was still full. Their eyes met and held. “You ok there?” Martin said. The boy nodded, then smiled. “What’s your name?”

“Kerry.” The last syllable was like the flourish at the end of a signature. Mancunian, possibly. His face had a kind of waxy sheen, pale but not unhealthy. His black hair dropped in a fringe across his left eyebrow. There was a sardonic twist to his mouth. Martin stared into his eyes for an unguarded moment and saw a flicker of unease, a shadow behind the hazel iris. They talked for a few minutes; whenever Martin broke off to serve a late customer, Kerry watched him.

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