A forgotten story...(Part the Third)

I woke, something clutched within my grasp, and for a few moments, my mind lingered at the crossroad between waking and dreaming; the cruel voice from my fading nightmare had been distorted by the decay of time but the words were delivered just as horribly.

“Well there you are,” a familiar voice said.  I looked up, and standing at the gate was an old friend from the University, Abernathy Griswold.  His real name was Tim, but he’d wanted to be a writer and had insisted he needed a name more suitable for an auteur.  In reply to my shocked look: “You weren’t at home, you weren’t at the club and since you still haven’t a woman in your life, where else would I look?”

I must have frowned in response to my friend having neatly summed up the constraints of my daily life--and a reminder that it had been some weeks since I had gone to see Inga--because he held up both hands: “A joke, Bradley, nothing cruel intended.  So you’ve lost your tongue and your memory, is it?  Dammit, man, can I come in?”

“Yes, of course,” He’d been dutifully waiting at the gate and I waved him over.  I offered an apology and a handshake and it was only then, as the crumpled envelope fell from my hand, that I remembered the letter I had been holding upon waking.  I snatched the letter up and placed it on top of the others, his eyes narrowing but before he could speak I word I cut him off: “I can only assume if you’ve been sent out on the hunt, that I’ve forgotten some important event.”

“The new gallery on Reading and then the park.”

“Oh, yes, that.”

“You don’t remember do you?”

“I’m sorry, Abe,” I apologized again, not sure what else to say.  I think I’m going crazy doesn’t have the same ring to it.

“It’s alright, Jenny is under the weather, and you know Will and Heath disappear at the first hint of a failed plan.”

My eyes drifted to the letter.  I couldn’t be certain--that was how things had been going ever since we’d returned from Loch Skene--but I swore to myself that that letter had not been one that had been in the pile I had removed from the mail slot.

“Bradley?”  He had caught my eyes.  A stupid mistake: him coming here was not out character, he was, to put it nicely, the “naturally inquisitive” type.  I didn’t want him asking questions and especially not the ones I didn’t want to answer.  

“Yes?”  

His eyes were lingering on the letter.  “What the hell are you doing, sleeping on his porch?  It isn’t right seeing you like this.  You’ve been different since you’ve been back in town, well, since he left.  You’re avoiding us.”

“I’m not--”

“Remember the hound the Tanner’s had?  When their father died, damned if that thing didn’t sit at the front door every day howling.”

“Heath had to put a bullet in the poor beast’s head, if I recall correctly.”  Funny how loyalty and love can be repaid sometimes.  

“He absolutely did.”

“Did you come here to tell me you intend to shoot me in the head?”

“Stop Bradley, this is exactly what I’m talking about.  This self-pitying isn’t you.”

“It was a joke,” i replied weakly, knowing the truth.

“Look, maybe you’re thinking all different reasons why I’m here.  It’s not because I’m being nosy and it is not because I am bored.  We’ve been talking, Jenny and I, and we’re worried about you.  He left and gave you naught more than a few spare words, in a hastily scrawled letter, if my memory is still sound.”

Because he knew I wouldn’t have let him leave if he’d told me in person.  “We all go through things, sometimes we just have to deal with them ourselves.”

“Still making excuses for him.  Fine, sweep his porch, collect his mail, pay his bills, sit by his front door like a loyal pup.  I’ll leave you alone if you come out with us one night.  You know Jenny has that friend who has intimated she was interested--more than once, mind you.  It would be good for you, Bradley.”  He rubbed his hands and looked away, “Besides, you know, doing all this, it doesn’t help…”

“Doesn’t help what?”

“You know what some people say about you and him.”

“They say people say all sorts of things.”

“It just doesn’t look good, Bradley.”

“I don’t care!”

We looked at each other in silence for a few moments, both waiting for my apology.  I stuttered for a few moments.

“Eh, it’s alright.  Just reinforces things for me.”

“We help people, Abe.”

“Is it still we?” I stammered over another response.  “Spare me, Bradley.  I’ve heard it from you before.  Everyone always thinks what they’re doing is the most important thing around. Who have you been helping since he left?  What about helping yourself?”

That one cut through all the fog.  Who have I been helping?  I’ve even left Inga neglected.  “Yes, you’re right, Abe.  We both know it.”

“I know it.  Nothing’s going to change until you do.  Well, can I count on you for Saturday night?”  He wasn’t making eye contact again.  A dozen excuses crawled through my mind on spindly legs.  I pushed them away.

“Yes, alright.  I’ll be there.”

That seemed to comfort him.  “Good! That will be good.  She’s a nice girl, Bradley.  You wont' regret coming, I promise.  Not so strange like the last two you found on your own.  Besides if you don't like her we can always leave them behind."  A smile started to cross his face.  “And for chrissake Bradley, do go give yourself a bath.”

As we said our goodbyes, I pulled him in close: “Thank you, Abe.”  He gave both me and the stack of letters one last look, his mouth opened as if to say something, but decided to leave while his victory was still intact.

I watched him melt back into the thoroughfare, my gaze beholden to the mess of London life passing by.  I could feel myself inching a bit closer back toward the collective conscious, Abe’s visit serving to clear some rust from the cogs of my emotions; a brief respite from the self-loathing I had been clinging to so desperately since Montgomery had left.  That was the first time I wondered, with any lucidity, if it was not the Pale Spider’s touch that had sent me spiraling downward but that Montgomery had left me with nothing more than a few scribbled words.

An image of Montgomery came to me: he huddled by a gas lamp, an acrid cloud of tobacco hanging between us like a nighttime fog, one of his father’s books open before him.  His voice low, monotone, unemotional as always: ...they are the cohorts of the unnamed chaos--their touch is the seed of madness.  It starts with self-doubt which grows into the doubting of those around you, and then the doubting of the very world you live in.

The revelation came then--it was both of these things taken together that had been enough to completely unwind me: the madness that had been passed unto me in the manor at Loch Skene, and that Montgomery had left knowing my affliction.  I hadn’t considered that before, that he--with a definite certainty as we had had two conversations about that very fact--had known and still chose to leave me behind--the fact that he would spin it into something trivial if he ever returned, only incensed me further.

I grabbed the letters and the hidden key, and entered his home.  There was a thick musty stench, as if all the seconds that had passed since I had last entered, had remained behind, hanging in the open air to rot.  All the curtains were drawn, leaving only a few cracks of light where they fell short of the windows’ edges to guide me by--not that I needed light.  I ignored the fixtures that waited in the darkness: the books, the curios, the armchairs.

The fire was burning strong enough for my intended task.  Let him, if he ever cares enough to return, sort this out directly with his creditors.  It was a burden of spite and though I knew that this was not that type of change Abe had been encouraging in me, I still dared to go through with it.  At the precipice I paused, glancing down at the stack of mail in my hand.

On the top was the letter that had been in my hands when I woke, which I had since forgotten thrice.  Unlike the others it was addressed to “M & B” and I knew then that this was what I had been waiting six months for.

Who had I helped since Montgomery left?  Not a soul.  It was time to change that.

Author's Note: We get there eventually.  I hadn't intended this to be so long but once Abernathy forced his way into the scene I had to let it play out.  I thought the actual contents of the letter would be the hook, but I think this works just as well.  I am going to try to keep the word count down and still get to the end so a break here should let me do some "fast-forwarding".