End of Graves

By David Lloyd

Oliver thought he was just an average fellow, living an ordinary life. In the twilight days of a dystopian society, Oliver is just trying to make it through the day before it all falls apart. But when he crosses the border of life and death, his simple life and that of every man, woman and child takes on a whole new perspective.

Desperate and alone, all he wants is to find the gateway back to his world. But evil is everywhere, and has its own plans for Oliver. Deep within the city, an unknown force is amassing a great legion for a dark purpose. At some point, these two will meet and only one can enter the gateway.

Oliver enlists the help of some odd travelling companions, including Alison, a woman who could be his sister, and the wild and enigmatic Towel, a small girl who is wise beyond her apparent years. Together they must embark upon an epic journey, one that will bring them face to face with what it means to be human.

Souls of the living past are at war, causing the world to spiral towards an impending cataclysm that may bring life and death together for eternity. Will there be an end of graves for us all?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Feb 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781452508658

David Lloyd

DAVID LLOYD is the Distinguished Professor of English at the University of California, Riverside. Among his many publications are Arc & Sill: Poems 1979–2009; Beckett’s Thing: Painting and Theatre; Under Representation: The Racial Regime of Aesthetics; and Counterpoetics of Modernity: On Irish Poetry and Modernism. His play, The Press/Le Placard, is available in a bilingual edition from Presses Universitaires du Midi.

Book preview

END OF

GRAVES

David Lloyd

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Copyright © 2013 David Lloyd

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4525-0864-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-0865-8 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Balboa Press rev. date: 1/8/2013

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PROLOGUE

PART ONE      THE MIRROR

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

PART TWO      THE JOURNEY

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

PART THREE      THE CITY

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

EPILOGUE

POST SCRIPT

For Judi

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Huge thanks must go to the following people whose kind support and assistance made this book possible: Diana Lester, for the chair-leg theory; Shona Warnes, for helping read and having such a vibrant soul; Jo Taylor, for hours of proofreading; and Judith Cowley, for endless cups of tea. Finally, thanks to my parents, Norman and Barbara Lloyd, for encouraging me to read in the first place.

A good book is the precious life-blood of a master spirit, embalmed

and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life.

John Milton, 1608-1674

PROLOGUE

Oliver

Rain fell in torrents onto colourless streets, cleansing the gutters of gathered filth. Menacing grey clouds filled the sky to all points on the horizon. Thunder boomed like a call from angered gods, its echo rattling through concrete canyons before dissipating into infinity. Down in the streets people busied like ants in their nest, paying little heed to the tortured sky. Perhaps they’d seen this mood all too often before.

A lone figure shuffled through the rain, clutching a package under his left arm. He pushed open the double doors to enter a world of beer and noise, punctuated only by the forest of animated patrons. Dust motes hung delicately in light shafts emanating from the mezzanine floor, suspended on invisible hairs. Layers of people moved about the room, their parallel universes converging and separating.

Do you believe in fairies? a voice queried from within as shapes floated through his vision. He stood quietly surveying the scene, rainwater pooled at his feet.

Friday was always busy time at the POCOCK Inn. It was after ten now and the place was heaving. Just inside the main door he could see a large window that had recently been replaced during renovations. Through the large frame he saw that the world was still; eternal darkness fell like a cloak. Somewhere through the bleak evening, thunder boomed and black streams began to run mournfully down the window. Interestingly the entire room was reflected in the glass, like he was looking into an adjacent room. Weaving his way carefully through several conversations, Oliver suddenly found himself face to face with himself, through the veil of black tears.

I do, replied the voice in his head, echoing a painful past, when She was still alive, still his, the girl who had become the other half of himself.

A figure rose in the mirrored image and carved its way through the crowd, leaving a petite-blonde-shaped silhouette in the crowd. All girls reminded him of Her now; all of them were shaped the same, looked the same, laughed the same. But they weren’t the same. The all-pervading solitude now followed him like an unwanted curse, too fast becoming his only reality. He was not going to spend his days in grim acceptance. Ambition had become a new word in his vocabulary. Just climb right up there off the flat line of ordinary life and hang on. Gripping the parcel under his arm tighter, the young man slowly turned from the reflection, walked to the door, and disappeared into the night.

After he tossed his rain-spattered jacket onto the back of his comfy chair, the front door banged shut behind him, echoing twice about the room. He strolled to the kitchen, a feeble warmth creeping around him protectively as he threw on the light switch and a flourescent strip flickered into action. A kitchen cupboard produced a tube of Pringles, so he rolled a line of crisps onto the counter. Even though it was three in the morning, he had no inclination for bed, so he poured a generous scotch and returned to the sofa via the stereo, choosing soft music. Collapsing back into his chair he stared blankly at the package against the wall as if looking through it. His mind tumbled over many things as he sipped at the drink. This solitary life he embraced right now was fun at times, but it was the creeping emptiness that returned to accompany him on nights such as this. Whisky had become the crutch that had helped dispel the loneliness he felt about himself and the life he had built since the terrible accident now almost two years adrift.

The image of silhouettes walking through the reflection at the pub came to him again and he shivered. That was what all his miseries really were, ghosts that whisper to you when you’re alone, ghosts that return to taunt you when you least want them to, ghosts that remind you what you should have done, could have done, perhaps in a another universe. His was a cerebral haunting. The music faded and the flat remained silent.

He drained his scotch and so went to pour another and steal more Pringles.

Full speed ahead, he muttered as he returned to the parcel and ripped the paper, searching for the contents.

Left, right. Oliver had to get on with life. He had told himself as much so many times.

Left.

Game commenced; journey resumed.

Right.

But there was still a missing cog in the machine, something that ate him up, something that nagged at him, feeling like a tangible presence. He didn’t like exhuming the old family skeletons; it was morbid and utterly useless going over something that could not be changed. Never cross old bridges was the maxim he had used for years, but sometimes you had to admit that burning bridges gave off enough light in which to see the way forward. Oliver had always thought that sounded rather wise, and he liked pocket wisdoms—simple philosophies that gave meaning and direction to the fast yet mediocre world he lived in.

The package revealed itself; it was an old convex mirror he’d found at the Rochester market that very day.

Aye, from a lord’s house it was, all legal mind. It was one of the family ‘hair-looms’ that went with all the rest of the stuff when he passed on, aye.

How much? Oliver asked tentatively.

Forty quid to a gentleman.

Hey! I want to buy your mirror, not your business.

Its Victorian, y’know, very old. Older than my wife’s mother, I’ll wager, and with many a prettier line on its face an’ all.

Give you twenty-five.

They settled for thirty, and now it was in Oliver’s house and staring up at him. He looked at his own face as if looking through a puddle. He wiped it with his sleeve and cleared some of the grime. Looking back up at himself he smiled briefly.

Chill night air brought him back to the present. Walking to the windows he confirmed they were shut, but still there was a slight sense of breeze; the chill was clear but cloudy, all in one. Feeling that a pullover was needed, he went across to an open doorway, finding one hanging over the kitchen chair in the only adjacent room. Upon his return he stopped on the stairs, pulling the favourite sweatshirt over his ears.

The mirror looked up at him from the floor, and a distorted Oliver looked back at himself. Streetlight pierced the old drapes and cast its faint rays all about the room, bouncing gleefully off all the mirrors in the room—all twenty-three of them. Oliver had begun collecting mirrors some years ago as a hobby, not realizing it at the time that it had been as a response to grief—grief caused when Alison, his sister, had disappeared so many years ago. Isn’t life strange? Here one day, gone tomorrow, without so much as a letter.

She had been old enough, at fifteen, to take care of herself, he supposed. But why never make contact? Why not even a single goodbye? Why so suddenly? It was another of those impossible conversations he had with himself occasionally.

White rabbits! he said, suddenly raising his glass just like the old days. Both girls who had made his life complete liked to say this on the first day of the month—to give good luck, of course! they would admonish him. Both girls believed in fairies too. He loved their whimsical nature, their innocent and carefree love of life. A single tear tracked its way down his cheek.

They had been great mates until Alison disappeared, and then they both mourned the loss of Alison until Emily got into that car, with that boy, at that party. From that time all life as he had known it ceased. It was like a great tidal wave of emotion had taken him by force, beaching him along the shoreline of despair.

Emily had been quite petite and crowned with the liveliest light brown hair. It would bounce wildly about her head as she walked as though seeking to be free. Her spirit inspired him, enthused him, energised him. But her spirit had now departed.

In a void of despair Oliver had sought oblivion by taking to the bottle vigorously, thereby putting himself in hospital, his body tormented by the poisons it was forced to cope with. Twelve months later, with memories of the past ragged and distant, he began the long journey of patching himself together. Now he was marching forward in their memory.

Yes. He was learning to believe in fairies.

The room was silent, the music ambient.

Most of the time it felt like his life was an unfinished book that lay open, all the chapters lying scattered haphazardly. All the pages ahead were blank, to be sure, but there was no escaping the creepy feeling that some unseen ghostwriter was penning his future as he stood there thinking about it.

He looked into his whisky glass and saw his reflection stare back.

The ghostwriter.

A tingling along his spine alerted him to a presence. When glancing about confirmed that there was nobody with him, he smiled. The presence was all about at times like these. He hoped it was his girls watching over him. He would honour them by his actions.

They were now peaceful in their graves.

So was his father. Rest his poor tormented soul.

As was his mother.

In fact all connections with family were now severed.

His past was dead.

Five little tombstones lay all in a row.

Five little graves.

He held up his hand and saw five tombstones reach out of the darkness.

With this I’ll build my future.

They were all still here in Gravesend, as he himself would be one day soon. And when he finally took his rest, here, there would be an end to the graves and rest for all.

It was a popular urban myth that this place was the last place for burial of victims in the great plague many centuries previous, and this tickled his morbid sense of humour. The truth was rather simpler, but Oliver loved the magic of stories, poetry, and tales.

Gravesend was a fitting place for the end of the line.

A place for graves.

The end of the graves.

But no graves for Oliver.

Not yet. Slowly the five tombstones curled defiantly into a fist.

There would be no graves for him until he was ready.

He was in a standoff with life, he supposed. If there was a God, and he wasn’t going to take Oliver just yet, there must be something more in this miserable life to look forward to. There had to be.

Left. Right.

He would make sure of it.

PART ONE

THE MIRROR

CHAPTER ONE

Through the double-glazing, Oliver couldn’t hear much activity in the street, nor could he tell what sort of weather he was in for. The haze of post-alcohol stupor had apparently dulled his senses so that his mouth was dry like a desert, feeling as though he had spent the whole night chewing his pillow. Climbing from bed, he sat at the end with legs dangling, inspecting himself in the mirror. Not a pretty sight, he concluded.

In a matter of minutes, he had showered and dressed and was listening to Radio 2 whilst waiting for the toast to pop. The pungent aroma of burnt crusts and an overheated grill tray wafted out of the kitchenette, mingling with a million cousin smells that either lived in the house or were just passing through.

A song came on the radio that he liked, an oldie from over a lifetime ago: Put Your Lights On from the Santana album Supernatural. Oliver recalled practising his air guitar routines to the CD. The song had its origins around the turn of the century, now so many years distant.

Throwing a jacket over his shoulder, he cracked open the front door. Turning to survey the room through the mute opening, he pondered the interior, looking so innocent and quiet. Sometimes it seemed almost too quiet, like it was trying to tell him something or gain his attention. He shivered inadvertently and looked at the mirrors. They were all watching him leave for work. He nodded au revoir at them affectionately and exited. The door whispered its reply and then clicked into place.

Looking up and down the busy street, he quickly located his wheels. Sliding his arms into his sleeves, he pulled out his gloves against the cold and found his van.

Oliver never had a problem driving deliveries for a living. It was all part of the plan to build up ready cash whilst getting to know the local businesses; then, when he came to open his own shop, he would have lots of contacts. He fancied that he could buy and sell secondhand furniture, trinkets, and objets d’art. It was becoming quite a booming business over the Internet, so why not put all his energy into a shop in town? Maybe he would even set up his own website. He liked always going somewhere different, sometimes as far as London itself, twenty-seven miles to the west, in search of new markets and suppliers. One job had taken him all the way to Dover, and that had been a nice day too—a quick pint of John Smith’s enjoyed at the Ship Inn, then back home in time for lunch and more deliveries.

Gravesend was a nice spot too, he supposed. It wasn’t far from some of the finest country in Kent. The rolling hills to the south, with their windy lanes, weren’t much good for trying to get from A to B in a hurry, but they took in some of the prettiest countryside. In his boyhood, he used to ride his faithful bicycle around those particular roads, looking for adventures that always came. Those were the days for adventures. These days, adventures came far less frequently.

The depot was quiet, except for his van. He parked outside the closed gates and then walked to the flood barrier holding back the River Thames. Rapidly dissipating mist revealed that the water level had ebbed away, exposing the mud base. Shopping trolleys, a half-incinerated old sofa, several street signs, and a traffic cone lay haphazardly along the muddy beach. Several cables as thick as his wrist were anchored there too, a sign of times when ships used to moor alongside. Across the river at Tilbury Docks, there was little movement; the thrum of distant industry moaned at him through the clearing mist.

The list of first-up jobs was pinned to the counter inside with a note for Del to make sure to pick up more milk for the office—Betty’s careful handwriting.

Here’s a quick one before lunch, Olly. Betty appeared, sticklike fingers gliding a parcel across the benchtop with paperwork tucked neatly under.

Thanks, sweetheart. Oliver smiled.

He glanced at the bottom line. An address. Another destination, a pub in Meopham.

An adventure, perhaps.

"If you could just run it through before ten, pet, it would save us a bovver; should have gone this morning."

Why didn’t it? Oliver asked.

Betty frowned with motherly concern. Well, it would have, but it was left under another delivery. Del found it when he came back from Tonbridge Wells.

Tut tut. I bet Roger’s happy.

Well, he doesn’t know yet, so be a love.

Sorted. Oliver smiled and departed.

Quickly sliding into the van, Oliver took a route that detoured through Southfleet—an indirect way to Meopham, through some rolling country. Oliver always liked to take the quiet roads, obviously not for speedy deliveries but for the tranquillity it presented. He found himself driving under a quiet subway underneath the A2. On this side lay the remnants of the rolling Kent countryside, some of the prettiest and most peaceful land about. Across the highway, houses lined up row after row, terraces echoing into the horizon.

The underpass was long, narrow, and dark. At just over head height, it only barely allowed the van, with mere inches to spare. Still, it meant not having to cross the great motorway. The tunnel was dank and odoursome; it looked as though kids had been living in it at some recent time. Blackened stains dripped up the walls where indiscriminate fires had been lit; Oliver was never sure for what reason, never sure what went through teenagers’ minds nowadays. Debris was scattered about, and at the exit, the remnants of a Ford Fiesta sat rusting in the undergrowth amidst a black circle where it had been torched over a month ago.

Destruction appeared to be a popular pastime for kids; he couldn’t understand why they did it. Surely he and his mates hadn’t been as bad when they were young. Oliver found he couldn’t remember. Better than beating up old ladies, I suppose, he thought.

Later that afternoon, with deliveries all accounted for, Oliver decided to chase up some items of interest of his own, so he returned home in order to get his address book. Instead of driving along the Overcliffe, which overlooked the Thames-side industry, he turned and followed the lower road along the riverbank through darkened brick canyons that smelled musty and old. The tide was almost out again; skeletal shapes of lifeless trolleys drowned in the shallows as muddy ripples skittered along the embankment. He thought about it for a moment and wondered why there were two tides in a day. He knew that it had something to do with the moon, but the moon only went around once a day, and tides were usually twice. Perhaps he should have listened harder at school. It was one of those incredibly baffling mysteries of life.

Fallen rainwater slushed along the gutter as he pulled up.

The doorway yawned its silent scream, and then hinges screamed as it swung to a halt.

Oliver nodded at the mirrors affectionately.

Afternoon, girls!

His shadow lay like a fallen tree across the floor of his front room. Faces watched silently from the walls as he took his boots off and entered. Throwing his coat over a chair, he made for the desk under the stairwell. His new mirror hung proudly in the alcove, watching him approach.

The chill returned to him as he picked up his address book; then, realising he had his work shirt on, he took it off and searched for a more casual T-shirt. A grey one emblazoned with a sporting logo was draped over the bannister, so he reached to grab it. A cold shiver seemed to penetrate his very skin and stopped him in his tracks.

Hello? he called out, loud enough for anyone to hear.

Clammy fingers slowly meandered up from the base of his spine. In the mirror, he thought he could see shadows swimming around, somewhere deep.

Climbing to the top of the landing, he checked the upstairs rooms and then began the descent into the darkened stairwell. There was no sound whatsoever. The lounge room was silent and dark, a different silence than usual—like an empty pit, hungry to greet someone. There was a quiet pause.

Hello? Oliver shivered spontaneously.

A lone tap dripped enthusiastically somewhere.

He watched before going downstairs. Sunbeams flickered through diaphanous curtains and danced wildly about the lower rooms. His mirrors were playing eternal games, like pixies in the depth of an imagined forest hideaway. Thin hairs on the back of his neck curled over with tension; the feeling of a presence became stronger with every step now as he descended the stairs.

Hello? he called out to the kitchen, convinced someone was there. Get a grip on yourself, lad.

The room seemed an enormous void as it opened up to him.

Standing one step above floor level, he saw the shirt had fallen on the floor and went to pick it up. It was only when he stood up that he happened to see the pallid face watching him from the mirror.

Her face. Gazing at him sadly, beckoning.

Oliver shrieked in fright, and the book dropped from his hand.

A whisky glass dropped violently from the edge of the coffee table, shards splintering.

Shiny refractions of light burst all around him.

His sweat turned to ice as he mouthed the name he had almost forgotten.

Alison! he cried in anguish, shaking uncontrollably, beads of cold sweat forming on his forehead. He had thought the visions of his long-lost sister had gone many years ago, that the phase was spent and he had been renewed.

Apparently the gateway to his past had just reopened. She was there, silently calling to him, pleading with him as though through an absurd porthole.

From where?

Rubbing his eyes, he returned them to the mirror and looked into the beseeching eyes. It was as if she were sad or scared. Recollections of her started flooding in through his mind’s eye, and he realised she looked just as she had done when she had disappeared under such mysterious and sudden circumstances. The big sister he’d known as his greatest friend was once more gazing upon him.

A tear welled in her eye and fell down her cheek almost as if it were real.

Where are you?

His head was bursting, his whole being tortured by a surreal madness, but the only thing he could think to do was go to her. He took one step there to the mirror.

She was there, beckoning. This was insanity.

The face appeared to be saying something, but it was only silent mouthing, the situation perilously close to lunacy. He felt like the fabric of his brain was becoming unravelled.

Although the chill had deepened, sweat was dripping off his brow, and his legs were shaking as he stepped to the wall with heavy legs.

Left, right.

She appeared to be repeating something, so he steadied himself at the sofa and tried to read her lips.

Please… I’m sorry… Please… I’m sorry.

Another step and he would be almost within reach of the face in the mirror.

CHAPTER TWO

Alison? he struggled to say as his hand touched the surface of the mirror.

Suddenly, his vision faded as though he was looking at her through a brilliant gossamer veil, unaware that tears had clouded his vision. And there she was, in front of him, awash with grief, having breached the borders of life and death to hold him in her small arms.

My God, Alison, it’s you! It’s all right. It’s all right.

Please don’t hate me. I’m sorry, she poured out in cloudbursts of tears as he calmed her with his all-encompassing arms.

Oliver shook with the emotional cocktail of fear and confusion. They stood there for what seemed to be an awkward eternity, Oliver beginning to wonder if he was having a nightmare—or dream, for that matter. But the firm and real presence of the girl in his arms was impossible to refute. He stroked her head softly and muttered her name as if it were a calming mantra. She shook violently with tremors inside his great bear hug.

Ssssshhhh!

There was something terribly wrong with his room, though. Through fading tears, he saw that the walls were stripped of paint and paper, and there was absolutely no furniture in the room except for a few of his mirrors. The room in fact was barely habitable. My room?

And it was dark and foreboding.

The sun was nowhere to be seen. Once again it had become twilight. All sorts of questions crammed Oliver’s mind as he fought to make sense of the predicament. Alison was calming a little now. He could hear the muffled sobs from his shirt where she had buried her face.

Alison, is that really you? he asked hopelessly.

I’m sorry. I didn’t want to bring you here, but I felt you were our only hope.

Here? What do you mean here? This is my place. Oliver was close to panic, searching her face for answers that he needed so very badly.

A great thumping had begun in his brain.

This is where I live now, she told him plainly.

"But this is my house!"

He didn’t care for the shaking head and pause that followed.

Isn’t it? he asked weakly.

Oliver closed his eyes and tried not to focus on anything except the girl he held so firmly. All of the inconsequential matters of his life disappeared as he began treading the gloomy waters of sanity. Everything became second to the one most important task at hand. Alison. She was back. He would not let her go. He would not question reason. Not yet.

Left, right.

Would not question fact or fiction and would not require answers in black and white.

Yet.

But here on the road of life he was detouring through unknown territory—catharsis county—and it was a vile and rocky road that was causing his nerves to strain, a journey that needed every fibre of his soul, every inch of his concentration.

And he had just picked up a hitchhiker.

My God. What’s happening? His eyes were taking in the scene around him more and more. The room looked like it had been completely ransacked, but that was impossible, because only minutes ago the chair was over there.

Gone.

His glass, and the table.

Gone.

All vestiges of his life, however humble, nonexistent.

All gone.

Maybe he had passed out—or, more surely, this must be a dream.

And it was cold.

So very cold.

Alison. He lifted her head gently so she could see him. Where are we?

On the other side. She sniffed.

The other side of what?

Of the mirror. Of life. Of everything, she said.

Hang on; left, right . . .

Jesus Christ, it doesn’t make sense. He shivered, unbelieving, looking all about in defiance of the strange reality that faced him.

Then let’s just go back. Shall we?

I can’t. You can’t. I don’t know how. She shook with the cold, and tears rolled from her eyes. Oliver stared at her hard and saw the soft features that he remembered from many years ago. But she seemed so much smaller now.

You’ve been away too long, he told her as they wrapped each other with their arms once again.

CHAPTER THREE

Walking through the deserted landscape, they held hands as she led the way. He was familiar with the town and aware of where they were at all times, but things were eerily different. Gazing about, it was all too much for simple explanations; he couldn’t believe this apocalyptic vision was his hometown as recently as last night.

Buildings seemingly long since abandoned filled his vision as if a mighty war had driven out the population, yet there was no evidence of bombing, just aged decay. In a strange twist, trees grew very big here, and in great numbers—massive, gnarled beasts reaching right up out of the broken ground like the devil’s hands. The types of trees were familiar to him, but he couldn’t identify their sort.

Should have listened more at school, he chastised himself lamely.

There was no noise save their own footfalls, suggesting that they were probably the only people around. There was apparently no, or very few, survivors of whatever had caused this. Constant twilight was fed only by the simple pale ring that hung in the sky right where the sun should have been. He interpreted the images as those of nuclear winter.

It is not as if there was a war, she corrected him as they walked. This is the other side to life. It is a reflection of the other world, your world, where people who die come.

I still can’t understand. Like heaven and hell? he asked.

Probably. More like life and death.

But you aren’t dead, he observed.

No. It seems that lately some people have slipped through to this world, often through mirrors, usually old ones, just as you just did, and just as I did.

He stopped, and she jerked to a stop at the end of his arm.

You fell through a mirror? All those years ago?

There’s more than just that to it, but yes, I did.

He stared at her with insanity just a hair’s breadth away. He wanted to ask how, but he knew the answer would be more complicated than he could bear right now. For the hundredth time she took him in her arms, her hug motherly and one of great force.

There’s an awful lot more to tell, and I really don’t know where to begin, so be patient, please?

She took his hand with both of hers and spoke patiently.

There are others here.

Others? He eyed her suspiciously.

When you meet my friends, please don’t be afraid of them. Listen to them. They have a lot of wisdom.

There are people here?

Well, they are people, but, well, you’ll see. Oliver, there is a lot to get used to here. Please be patient. I think you’ll like them, she added.

"Have they fallen through