Nightingale Songs (20 page)

Perhaps, had I stayed home, I would have inevitably heard talk about Gahan McKaye. After all, I can't imagine it was considered anything but news. As it was, I missed the drama over the intervening year, and when things took their turn there was no way for me to know it and no one who spoke English enough to tell me. Or, if they had, I'd been too preoccupied by my own thoughts to listen.

I didn't find out anything until I returned to WeirdCon the following year, and when I arrived I could feel something in the air ... though for the life of me I didn't know what. Everyone seemed quieter, talking amongst themselves in hushed tones, and had I been a less secure man I would have seriously questioned why the rooms quieted the closer I came to them. I saw McKaye's small circle of cohorts in the crowd at one point and as I approached them they looked as though they would have run had they not been cornered. I asked whether McKaye had arrived yet, and the look they passed to each other, then to me, was dire to say the least.

"Did he --?" I didn't want to speak the words, afraid of the answer. "Is he ... dead?" Instantly, I wondered why
that
had been my first guess. His group of friends didn't seem as surprised.

"It's a lot worse than that," I was told after some thought. I asked what that meant and received shaking heads in response. "You're going to have to see for yourself."

I don't recall what I expected then, but I remember a keen sense of unease trailing me through the small crowds as I investigated that year's convention, waiting with nervous energy for the late morning "What is Horror?" panel at which Gahan McKaye was scheduled to appear. Walking the rooms I recognized many of the same faces in the crowd that I'd seen in the past, and I found it pleasing that not all of them were of the same age as I. The field needed to attract more young blood, I felt, if it was ever going to retain its hold on the dwindling marketplace of readers. There was a time when WeirdCon would have required a hotel twice the size of the Intercontinental to hold all its visitors, but those days ran out many years ago, and even now we're working hard to woo those readers back.

I found the familiar Simcoe room in time to get a good seat at the front, yet there was still a panelist missing, and as the minutes dwindled I spent an increasing amount of time checking the clock, then the door, for Gahan's arrival. I could feel the audience behind me doing the same -- the longer the chair on the panel was unoccupied, the quieter the crowd became, until the moderator, Dr. Simmer (the self-described "Professor of the Macabre") stood amid the barest whispers. I couldn't even hear the room's air conditioners running, but I knew they were considering how cold the place had become.

"Welcome to --" was all the good doctor spoke before the doors flew open and Gahan McKaye appeared. Not that I recognized him at first. He wore large sunglasses, his cropped hair tousled as though he'd just come from bed, and around his unshaven throat was a tightly tied cravat, the ends tucked into a faded amber shirt. Were he tanned, I would have thought him fresh off a boat from the Mediterranean; all he needed was a mouth full of olives and a hand-rolled cigarette. A few steps behind him trailed an overweight and pasty old man I mistook for a misshapen child. He walked with a pronounced limp, his face hung so low he might have been staring at his feet, perhaps so he might concentrate on not falling. The sight revolted me, though intellectually I could see no reason for it -- certainly it wasn't based on any bigotry on my part. I'd known all sorts of odd shapes in my day, but nothing as
psychologically
off-putting. There was a foul aura around him -- I can think of no other word for it -- and I didn't know how Gahan could stand to be near him, let alone able to stoop down and whisper into that oddly-pointed ear. The man turned his head to respond and Gahan slowly nodded, and then went to his seat behind the podium. The small man then turned his face to the crowd and for the first time I got a look at his pale stretched features and his overlarge bottom lip, cleft in the middle as though formed from two pieces of flesh fused inexpertly together. His eyes were tiny dots, wide apart, and when I realized he saw me from the front of the room those black orbs fixed on my own and I saw nothing behind them. The shiver that ran down my spine reminded me where I'd seen the little man before. He jittered, and then seemed to regain control and limped to an empty chair in the front row. Like me, the rest of the audience and panel were spellbound by the entrance, and it wasn't until the odd man took his seat that Dr. Simmer found his voice again.

"Er-- as I was saying: Welcome to 'What is Horror?'"

As he continued, I saw Gahan lean back. Beside him once again sat television "star" Martin Stemmel, but sharing the panel with them was a young man I'd never met before but who had started his own line of books earlier in the year. He was very polite, and I really ought to remember his name, but it's been some time and, frankly, I never saw him again. I think I heard he lost a lot of money trying to make a go of things and it ruined him, but frankly I've heard that same story so many times over the years I may be misattributing it. Regardless, he was quiet and timid and little more than prey for the rest of the panel. One almost felt sorry for the foal. Also at the table was the critic Atticus Bloom, a man so pompous I doubted his name was real. (I always suspected he was hiding from creditors.) He looked to me more like a bloated "Ralph" than an "Atticus,” and the way Gahan smirked at him I suspected I'd see some fireworks. And I did, though not the kind I was expecting.

"What does the term 'Horror' mean to you?" Simmer asked each panelist, and as he went down the row those of us in attendance heard the same definitions we'd heard before. As I've said: conventions are awash with repetition. There are so few new things to discuss that the same facts are simply repeated
ad nauseam
. But when Simmer reached McKaye, I don't think anybody expected to hear, "Frankly, it means very little to me. I don't much care for Horror to be honest." I heard the room gasp, though it was possible it was I alone who did so. "Most of it's a jerk-fest. I stopped reading it a while ago. What's the point?" Even Simmer seemed knocked off-kilter by McKaye's comments. My scruffy friend did little to help him back onto his figurative feet.

"That's surprising to hear. Didn't you write a series of articles about the genre and its importance?"

He coughed and laughed. Or vice versa.

"The 'genre'? The genre is comprised of a bunch of adolescent posturing and faux angst. Look at them," he said, pointing to the sea of darkly clothed youths in the audience. "They aren't readers, they're consumers, and it doesn't matter what I say because the bulk of them won't understand or care, and you know what? That's fine. They don't read Horror for anything other than escape, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with that."

"And you're fine with that? Escapist fiction?" Martin Stemmel looked surprised, though it could have been his enormous glasses that lent him that bug-eyed appearance. McKaye smiled, and I saw him casually look at the bald little man in the front row. Some inscrutable look passed between them.

"Why not? Listen, I wasted
years
trying to write 'Art' when nobody really cared for it. I'd get critics like Bloom here talking about the use of metaphor and allegories, but more often than not those reviews translated into lost sales. No one ever became famous writing well; they became famous for writing what the airport market loves. That's where most books are bought nowadays. It's much smarter -- and lucrative -- to concentrate on writing something fun rather than challenging. That's what most readers want, right?"

He paused and looked out at the crowd, as though daring them to stand and cheer. At first, nothing happened, but after a few moments someone in a far corner began to applaud. Then others followed, until the ballroom was full of uproarious clapping. I looked around and saw only a few of my older peers shaking their heads, relaying part of my own feelings on the subject. I didn't know what had changed in my friend Gahan, but as he lapped up the adulations of the crowd I made plans to find out what had happened to him during his absence.

I found Gahan outside the Simcoe room afterward, surrounded by a throng of young girls with piercings and boys with tattoos. It amazed me that they stood in awe of a man who had launched a derisive attack on them not less than thirty minutes earlier. I was a towering presence, of course, but I was quiet, and I waited patiently until they'd had their time with him. I spotted a familiar face among the crowd -- the young woman I'd sat beside the previous year -- and I suspect she recognized me as well ... at least, judging by the contemptuous glance she gave me as I stood there. Among the crowd stood the small bald man, his flat-face and glazed round eyes lending him the ghoulish illusion that he could not stop smiling. His pudgy fingers were interwoven but he could not hide their clawishness, nor could he hide the oily sheen of his skin. I shivered discreetly. Gahan eventually saw me there; first glancing, and then looking for longer periods as though my face were coming slowly toward him from a great distance. Perhaps it was my beard and hair -- they had turned slightly greyer in the intervening year, and no doubt my features were travelling southward. Nevertheless, I soon saw the old spark of recognition in his eyes from within the crowd -- though I think I saw something else in those eyes of his misshapen companion.

"Simon! How are you doing, old man? I haven't seen you in ... well, I don't know how long it's been."

"Since you went to the doctor after last year's convention, I'd think."

"The doctor? I don't recall that." He looked to the pale old man whose glazed expression had not altered. Still, those staring eyes continued to unnerve me. Gahan shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I'm glad you're here now, and just in time to help me celebrate."

"Celebrate?"

"Haven't you heard? I just made the New York Times best-seller list! After WeirdCon last year I rewrote my novel; it started a bidding war, if you can believe it. HarperCollins picked it up and sent an advance with so many zeroes I almost fainted. The thing came out earlier this month to stellar reviews both here and overseas. I'm amazed you didn't know about it."

"I'm horribly ill-informed when it comes to that sort of thing. Still, you must be proud," I said. "How did you manage to solve the issues you were having? I recall last year you were ready to destroy it."

"Like I said in the panel: it was easier than I expected. I just dumped the 'arty' stuff -- it got in the way of the storytelling -- and I also realized it wasn't
scary
enough."

"Really?" It was all I could think to say.

We stood there staring at each other, the convention moving around us as though we were trapped in amber. Neither of us spoke, not until the silence was broken by the wet gurgle of the little fat man sniffling. I glanced at him but not for long; from his upturned nose a line of mucus was crawling down his placid face. It was clear Gahan hadn't noticed.

"You know my friend, don't you?"

"I don't think we've had the pleasure." I slightly bowed out of sheer formality and extended my hand. He didn't look at it but rather continued to stare ahead, his large wet nostrils flared. Then just as I was about to retract my hand he reached out quickly with his own small claw and took it. I wished dearly at that moment he had not. His grip was clammy, cold, and those tiny fingers lay limply among my own.

"His name is Mr. Kneale," Gahan said. "He's been a big boon to me, helping me fix the mistakes in the book and get it in publishable condition. He really knows the field and how it works. I owe all my recent success to him -- he's really helped push my career forward."

"Maybe he could help with mine," I offered -- without a hint of mockery, I assure you -- and Gahan smiled wide enough that I couldn't help but notice his yellowing teeth and the grey color of the gums around them. He did not look healthful, regardless of how energetic he'd appeared during the panel. He took off his glasses and wiped them on the front of his shirt, and the sight of his small bloodshot eyes was enough to startle me. I grew increasingly concerned, and looked toward his small friend who had not stopped staring straight ahead.

"Anyway, Mr. Kneale and I ought to get going; we're running late for a lunch meeting with my agent. Apparently, there's been interest in optioning the entire series of books. I didn't even know it was going to
be
a series," he laughed, and fussed with the tightly tied cravat, pulling at it only enough to flash a glimpse of something beneath, something wet. "It really should be quite fun. I'll catch up with you some other time. I promise."

He took Mr. Kneale by his tiny hand and led him out as though he were a small child. Too dumbstruck to do anything but watch, I did not move until Gahan called back to the crowd around me, "Enjoy the rest of the convention, everyone!" before the two, like father and child, disappeared from WeirdCon. His circle of young fans appeared unfocused and confused, devoid of their star they stared at each other and then at me. I smiled nervously. They scowled, then one at a time dispersed, leaving me to wonder just what I had witnessed. Whatever it was, it was strange, and it gave me something I hadn't had in some time. It gave me a good idea.