Streaking (32 page)

“That's true,” she conceded, eventually. “In fact, you're right. I really ought to stop letting it all out on you, just because I can't say anything to Mum and Dad, or Ellen...or anyone else, really. You're the one who's providing the anchor, not me. This need thing seems to be mutual. And you're right about taking it slowly, leaving the age-old decent interval. We need to know that we wouldn't drive one another completely crazy, and working together on the book would certainly put that to the test. Okay, I'll come clean. I really wanted you to ask me do this, or something like it, and I feel a little stupid now for pretending so hard that I didn't. Fuck Lissa Lo—or not, I really don't want to know about that right now. Shit, who am I to complain—the luckiest man in Yorkshire thinks that getting off with me might count as an extension of his lucky streak, How lucky is that? Now I'm babbling. A gentleman would probably have interrupted by now to save me from further embarrassment.”

“We don't have to do that any more,” he told her. “From now on, we can let our vulnerabilities show. We don't have to do anything reckless, like telling one another the whole truth, but we can stop hiding quite as determinedly as we were before. Okay?”

“Fine. You do realize that our Ellen is going to kill me, don't you? She's bound to twig, probably long before anyone else.”

“She'll be happy for you,” he told her. “She was telling me just the other day how unlucky and unwise I'd been to let all three of you slip through my fingers. She offered me Marie, but I don't think she was serious. If you tell her all about it she'll be so grateful for the gossip that she won't even think of being annoyed. Not that there's any rush, mind. For now, all that you need tell her about is the possibility of writing the book, and getting access to all the Kilcannon family secrets. That's all I intend to tell Bentley.”

Alice squinted slightly as she looked into his eyes, and Canny made a mental note to get a more powerful bulb for the desk lamp before they attempted any serious work in the inmost part of the library. She seemed to be able to see him clearly enough, though. “You've changed,” she said. “I can't quite put my finger on it, but you're different.”

“No I'm not,” he told. “The world's different, but I'm not. I've been through a few things—a close brush with death, a close brush with its opposite—but I'm the same. Not just the same luck, but the same style...except that it's not really a style at all. It's just a habit—a matter of taking things to much for granted. Maybe I should have learned better, but that kind of habit is hard to shake, and when you get right down to it, it's not something a sane man would want to shake. It's part of my luck—my real, measurable, authentic luck. Sometimes, you see, psychology really does reflect probability. Some of us really do have a house percentage to draw on, whether or not we follow the rules. You won't cure me of that, Alice, and you shouldn't want to.”

“You're wrong, you know,” Alice said. “Ellen's going to be really,
really
pissed when she finds out that we're screwing around. She was always the glamorous one, you know. I was just loud. She might not have been serious about Marie—although it might help set poor Jack's mind at rest—but if Marie thought she had a chance....”

“What do you mean,
set poor Jack's mind at rest
?”

“Ellen always swore she was his, and I always knew that she was telling the truth, but Jack was never that certain. Why do you think it took him so long to make an honest woman of her? Let's not get into that, though. Are you sure it's me you want?”

“I can talk to you,” Canny said, truthfully.

“Fucking Yorkshireman,” she retorted. “Romantic as a stone skull.”

“Snap,” he came back, wishing that he didn't feel quite so much like a cheat, when he was really nothing of the kind. He was being as honest as he could be, and as honest as the world would ever let him be. Everything else was just a pattern of phantoms in his skull, with no real referent in the world they shared—just a symptom of some wayward nEurological disorder.

He could still see the future, although it wasn't as clear as it once had been. He
would
marry Alice, in St Peter's—not for a while yet, but when all the inconveniences were out of the way and the traditional decent interval had elapsed. Stevie Larkin would be his best man, Ellen Ormondroyd would be her maid-of-honor and Marie would be a bridesmaid—who would probably try harder than most to make use of the bridesmaid's traditional
droit-de-demoiselle
in respect of the best man. Alice would bear a child the following year: a son, who would renew and eventually inherit his father's gift and title, as well as the royalties from his mother's books, many more of which would follow successfully in the wake of her fascinating account of the secrets of the Kilcannon fortune. Canny would love his son as much as any father could, and share their common funds with him as liberally as he could bear to do. He would love his wife very dearly too, and share far more with her than his father had ever shared with his mother. They would make the most of their life together, and that was all there was to it. There as no need for anxiety, no need for pain, no need to regret anything that had not happened and never could have.

They would be happy together.

If Canny ever had his portrait painted, he would smile. He would know himself far too well to frown, or to look like the kind of guilty fool who might have made a pact with the devil. He would live to an over-ripe old age, and keep what looks he had a little longer than nature intended. He would labor long and hard in the vineyards of chance and reap therefrom an abundant crop. He would keep his journal as best he could—save that he would refrain from recording any blatant impossibilities or obvious symptoms of madness—and he would maintain his library for those who came after him, even though he felt even now that it was more like a prison than a fount of wisdom, and more like a tomb than a key to life.

In the end, he knew, he would feel a great deal better than he had felt for the last few days. He would never forget, or forgive, but he would become distanced, and calm, and appropriately grateful for the luck he had had in the past, and the luck he would have in the future.

On his deathbed, he would tell his son not worry about the black lightning.

“The black lightning is nothing but the dark between the stars,” he would say. The whole cosmos is black lightning, with just a few scattered specks of starry light and cold grey dust. The void isn't empty, you see: it's a seething mass of potential particles, potential universes. It's nothing because it hasn't become anything yet, but the potential is always there. It isn't anything to be afraid of. Look for the light, son—always look for the light—and don't be afraid to be dazzled. It won't let you down. You're a Kilcannon, and it will never let you fall too far, or hurt yourself too badly, no matter how many times you stumble.”

While this reverie possessed him, he looked into Alice's eyes. In the dim light her pupils had grown large, and they were full of mystery and potential.

“Life itself defies the darkness,” he said, aloud. “Life is light, even if it's just a random freak of chance or a reaction to stress.”

“Just what I was thinking myself,” Alice said, dryly. “Sometimes, Canny, you can be a bit of an idiot.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I was just thinking. You'll get used to it—I hope.”

“I hope so too,” she said.

So he carried on. And on. And on. He didn't make any resolutions he couldn't keep, but he did make one that he could. One thing he would certainly never do again, he resolved—under any circumstances whatsoever—was bet on zero on any spinning wheel, or its equivalent in any glossy mirror of whirling fate...not because he feared that it might not come up for a second time, but because he could be absolutely certain that it would. From now on, he intended to stick to positive numbers: the ones that counted.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Brian Stableford
was born in Yorkshire in 1948. He taught at the University of Reading for several years, but is now a full-time writer. He has written many science-fiction and fantasy novels, including
The Empire of Fear
,
The Werewolves of London
,
Year Zero
,
The Curse of the Coral Bride
,
The Stones of Camelot
, and
Prelude to Eternity
. Collections of his short stories include a long series of
Tales of the Biotech Revolution
, and such idiosyncratic items as
Sheena and Other Gothic Tales
and
The Innsmouth Heritage and Other Sequels
. He has written numerous nonfiction books, including
Scientific Romance in Britain, 1890-1950
;
Glorious Perversity: The Decline and Fall of Literary Decadence
;
Science Fact and Science Fiction: An Encyclopedia
; and
The Devil's Party: A Brief History of Satanic Abuse
. He has contributed hundreds of biographical and critical articles to reference books, and has also translated numerous novels from the French language, including books by Paul Féval, Albert Robida, Maurice Renard, and J. H. Rosny the Elder.