Do You Know Me?

Table of Content

Preface

Do You Know Me?

Beau Geste

The Messenger

The Chosen Few

Heart of the Garden

A Weekend in the Country

Bel Canto

Chops and the Stiff

The Secret Child

Chapter One – The Danger Dance

About the Author

Preface

This short book is an eclectic assortment of stories. Unlike most collections, here you will find stories written in many genres, some you may not be used to reading. From literary to science fiction to a little dark fantasy and even a touch of gay erotica, I hope you enjoy the journey as much as I did.

Some of these are brand-new stories, some have been published over the years in various anthologies. If the story is a reprint, I have explained where and when at the title page of each one to give a bit of context.

And here is where I get the chance to thank those supportive people who have helped with this book in some way. Thanks to Nancy Kilpatrick who gave me the encouragement to do this project in the first place. To Cheryl Freedman, whose keen-eyed copyedit rescued me many times over! To Istvan Kadar for his usual wonderful work on the cover. To all those editors who invited me into their anthologies, thus inspiring me to write these stories in the first place.

And last, but definitely not least, to all the readers who have sent me notes of support and especially reviews! I dedicate this to you!

Do You Know Me?

Hello.

The voice is metallic. Measured. Unaccented. I haven’t heard it before and it scares me. I am used to the disembodied voices I hear from time to time in the darkness. But they are human. I think. This one? Unlikely.

Hello.

Again.

Does he want a reply? It, maybe. Does it want a reply?

Hello.

I take a deep breath and it hurts. It’s better if I don’t move. I listen. Nothing. I watch the spiders slowly circling in their odd dance on the curtains. They have long spindly black legs and tiny heads and they move awkwardly as if just getting used to their bodies. I don’t mind them at all. By now, they are almost friends in my addled brain, or rather, an unusual form of entertainment.

From far away comes a more familiar voice, crying out, trying to connect. Why are you doing this to me? Pause. Are you there?

Am I here? I look up at the ceiling where shadows lurk. As I watch, a large circular thing moves slowly, slowly towards the dark window. I blink. It looks just like a spaceship. The spiders seem to be moving more animatedly. Maybe they see it, too. Maybe it’s the mother ship?

Hello...Hello. Gurgle. Gurgle.

That voice comes from behind me somewhere, perhaps above me. How tall are these creatures? I glance at the spiders, but they seem unconcerned.

Hello. Gur-Kel.

A name?

Aar-Keh.

So, no longer anonymous. Somehow this is reassuring. I wonder if they’re interested in my name, in who I am. What I am. That thought swirls away as I notice the UFO on the ceiling is being swallowed by a black shadow. It occurs to me that Gur-Kel and Aar-Keh may be from this place—the saucer that is fast disappearing. Will they be stuck here? Like me?

The two aliens are now conversing jerkily in their own language, a series of gurgles and clicks and beeps that sound vaguely familiar, as if I should recognize it, have heard it all before. But I can’t concentrate. This is disconcerting. I seem to be shattering, pieces of me drifting off as I lie here. Where?

I hear a distant rumble that scatters them completely. I can’t find any threads.

Why are you doing this? comes plaintively from far away as I drift off.

Suddenly alarmed, I open my eyes. A large shape leans over me. I feel hands on my arm, on my wrist. I stiffen. I hear a slur of words but I can’t understand. Something rattles above my head.

I whimper.

How’s the pain?

What? I am the pain.

A rumbling noise comes from the shadows.

Do you know me? I ask.

The answer, if there is one, is swallowed up as someone cries out close by. Maybe they know. Maybe they can hear me.

Do you know me? I call, but even I know my voice is a mere whisper, almost not there, like the shadow of the pain.

Do you know me?

Beau Geste

The Old Bag lived in a huge room with lots of window ledges and half-dead plants. There were always plenty of chairs and cushions crowding around and newspapers piled up everywhere. The Old Bag talked to herself a lot, and sometimes she talked to her husband, who now lived on the mantle in a hideous green vase. I never heard him talk back. Not once.

I used to watch her through the window from the fire escape and a couple of times through the crack in the door, which she left open a lot so she could keep track of Nosy Parker down the hall when he was making one of his frequent shuffle expeditions to the garbage cans out back. On special occasions, the alluring smell of cheddar cheese popcorn came wafting from her microwave, floating around corners, twisting up the stairs, unmistakably beckoning me down from the third floor where I was visiting the Fat Persian.

When I smelled that special perfume, I knew she was entertaining the Old Geezer who lived in the front room with his yappy dog, Fritz. She always closed the door and pulled the tattered old velvet drapes, too. Like I cared what catarumpus they got up to together.

It was that violent storm last fall that drove me inside. I was soaked to the skin and must have weighed another few pounds with all the wetness clinging to me. I could feel the onslaught of the water against my back, as if it was trying to strip me naked. She leaned out and scooped me up and made disgusting cooing noises. She wrapped me in a big towel she took out of her cedar chest. She lighted a small fire in the fireplace, although I don’t know why she bothered. It was so small, an ant wouldn’t have felt any warmth from it. But maybe it was just the idea of the fire that appealed to her. Women. Who knows with them? But I digress.

Anyway, when she opened a can of salmon, I soon forgot about the minute fire. It was Fancy Red Sockeye. My favorite. The kind you don’t find much in dumpsters, you know. After that, I made it my business to drop in real regular and keep an eye on the Little Old Dear. She enjoyed the company. I never answered her back, either. Did I notice a few things not quite kosher around the place? A few things here and there my light-fingered pal may have picked up on the never-never for real? Like the salmon, perhaps? Who am I to judge.

So anyway, I was real upset when I leaped through the window on Wednesday and found the whole room full of big shoes and boots, cops and firemen and whatnot. First, I thought the Old Bag of Bones had keeled over on me, but no. There she was, sitting on her captains bed in one corner, her long skinny feet in the lace-up shoes barely touching the floor, sniveling her eyes out into a shredding tissue. She looked real bad, but not as bad as the Old Geezer, her beau, as she called him. He lay on the floor at her feet, his head at an odd angle, a blue-green bruise blossoming on his forehead.

Do you always go out about 9:15? asked the cop with the black furry head.

"Well, I always go down to Luigi’s on the corner to pick up the Globe and Mail, she said. We used to have it delivered when Oliver was alive, you know, but this way it gives me a reason to go out. And I usually have a few words with Angela in the coffee shop before coming back."

And everyone knows about this routine?

"Well, I don’t expect everyone knows," she said, obviously taken aback by the thought that someone might be interested in her innocent morning constitutional.

There was a commotion by the door as a gurney was wheeled in, knocking over a pile of newspapers and a dried-out pot of mums. The Old Bag jumped and covered her mouth with both hands. Her eyes behind the tortoiseshell glasses were round like big wet buttons.

Oh, poor Lester, she sobbed. Poor dear man.

Ah, could you move over there, ma’am? Furry Head grasped her skinny elbow firmly and maneuvered her neatly past the corpse and over to the window. I noticed she was still with it enough to pull the chintz curtain across the alcove where she kept her hotplate and electric tea kettle. 

I leapt up on the mantle to get a better view of the room, noting the usual film of grey dust was missing all around the base of the green vase.  Odd. But my attention snapped back to Furry Head and the Bag of Bones as the policeman steered her back on track.

Mrs. Saunders, if we could just—

I’m trying to give you some useful background, she said, bridling.

Yes, I appreciate that. Now, could you tell me who else knew about your morning walk to get the paper?

Nosy Parker, I thought, settling down on the mantel. Below my perch, the Old Geezer was being photographed and examined and I don’t know what all by the troop of men and women who stepped about as if choreographed by Bob Fosse. But my attention focused again on the two by the window.

Did Lester have a key, Ms...?

"Mrs. Mrs. Saunders. Yes. It’s no use expecting