THIS BOOK WILL KILL YOU

12_outcast_

I call Flint while I'm walking to the subway station, but she's too pissed at me to answer. I call again, and this time I leave a message. It's a whole thirty seconds of me trying to find the right words, then settling for the wrong ones.

"I think something's happening, I'm not sure. I think it's to do with the girl, with Cara." I shake my head. "I'm sorry, Flint, I'm just a little freaked out. Call me, yeah?"

It's only just past nine but the sun has forgotten to wake up. The skies are dark, the clouds low, a drizzle turning everything gloss. It's not like I want to be out here, but I don't want to be at home either. It feels like something has broken there, that something has pulled loose. It's ridiculous, of course. I'm just wired, on edge. They are tiny little tricks of a tired mind. But every time I think this I find myself wondering if Cara thought the same thing, if she thought she was sliding into madness too.

Maybe she was.

Maybe she wasn't.

I drop down into the cemetery quiet of the subway, the platforms all but deserted. The trains are too loud, too hot, too empty, and I'm almost weeping with happiness by the time I climb the stairs onto Peterson North. This side of the city is brighter, not quite spring but not quite winter either. I lose my way twice trying to find 4th, and even when I do it takes me another half an hour to locate the bar. It's in a basement, and the only indication that it's there at all is a tiny label on the bottom right corner of the glass door. The only other thing on the door is an eviction notice. It's dated last week, and already the place looks dead, the mail piling up inside, one window fractured.

I try the door anyway, because I've come all this way, and the feeling I have when it opens is mixed. I look down the street, both ways, but there's nobody here, nobody in the windows, nobody driving. It's like this part of the city has been forgotten by everybody except me.

I have to use my shoulder to shunt the door open past an avalanche of letters. There's a staircase ahead, heading down, and there has to be somebody there because there's a light on and I can hear the clink of glassware. It's impossible to find the air to call out with, so I head down, hearing the door click shut behind me, feeling my ears pop like this place is an airlock, like it's much deeper here that it lets on.

It gets brighter, though, and when I reach the bottom of the stairs I see a big bar, tables and chairs neatly arranged, the smell of polish hanging in the air. Everything's in shades of red and black and brass, a patterned carpet leading across the room to a huge, mirror-backed bar. There's a woman there, a girl really, maybe the same age as Tanner. She's polishing shot glasses, lining them up on the bar, six of them in a neat little row.

"Hey," I say, clearing my throat and saying it louder. She doesn't hear me, just takes another glass from beneath the bar, polishes it with her cloth, then puts in next to the others. I head across the room, my footsteps swallowed whole by the carpet. Ornate lights hang from the ceiling and I notice that they're all swaying, just slightly, like a subway train has passed nearby, or a bomb has dropped overhead. The thought of it makes my throat close up but I push the image of collapsing buildings out of my head, walk to the bar. I hang back a short distance, though, six feet, hovering there like I'm afraid to land. I'm right there in the mirror and it's tilted, it makes me look like I'm growing out of the barwoman's head. I'm not sure if it's the glass, or the light, or maybe both, but I look grey.

"Hey," I say again. "Hello."

She pauses halfway to putting the next shot glass on the bar, finally sees me. She manages a smile but it doesn't come anywhere near her eyes. I wonder if she's lost in thoughts of repossession.

"Hey," she says, putting the glass down. "Sorry, miles away." She looks around, as if remembering. "We're closed. Can't serve you."

"It's okay," I say. It feels wrong to be standing so far away but something's holding me here, something magnetic, repulsive. "I was actually just looking for somebody. Tanner."

"Tanner?" she says, shaking her head. "You won't find him here, we lost him days ago."

"I know," I say, chewing my lip while the barmaid places another glass on the bar, nudging it into line with the others. Six of them. "I've been trying to reach him."

"You his girlfriend?" she asks, an edge to her voice.

"No," I start, but she speaks over me.

"One of his girlfriends, I should say. If you were, I feel sorry for you. Stringing us along like kites. Wherever he is, I hope it's cold and dark and underground. But not a bar, you get me?"

"I'm not," I say. "I'm his... his sister. But from another mister. We're cousins."

"You're Julia?" she asks. "You know, I never really heard Tanner say anything good about anyone, but he thought you were a damned queen. You over from Pasadena, right?"

I nod, hoping the lighting covers up the blush.

"We're worried," I say. "Nobody's heard from him. I was wondering if you knew where he was?"

The barmaid polishes another glass, places it in the line, takes another from the shelf.

"You know, it's his fault this place closed. Don't ask me how, but it was. It's..." she shudders so hard the glass in her hand drops to the bar. She picks it up, polishes it again, puts it down, takes another. "I don't know what he was doing. I don't know what he did. But it... it's... Whatever he did it stuck."

"What?" I say. "I don't understand."

"It stuck," she said again.

I'm getting that sick feeling again, like I've downed a pint of cooking oil. I look back to where I know the stairs are but they seem further away. The whole room seems bigger and it's almost like there are people hovering on the edge of it, but when I look at them they're not there, they're just shadows caused by the swinging lights.

"Please," I say to the girl. "Tell me where he lives. I need to speak to him."

"It won't do you any good," she says. "He's not there."

"Then where is he?" I ask.

She sighs, the glass squeaking as she runs her rag over it.

"He's here," she said. "But you won't find him. He's too deep, he's too slow."

She places the glass down next to the others. Six of them. Still just six of them, in a neat little row.