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  The laughing man turned around and said, ‘I thought I told you all to shut the fuck up! But that’s good advice, grandpa. Wouldn’t like to see this poor guy eyeless and dickless, would we, just on account of some misguided point of honor?’

  The scowling man got off the bus and went over to the Buick. Meanwhile, Neville sat down in the driver’s seat, with a runnel of blood dripping down the middle of his nose. He started up the bus’s engine and closed the doors. It was raining even harder now, and he had to switch the windshield wipers on at full speed.

  The scowling man started up the Buick, too, and drove it slowly over the curb, across the sidewalk, and on to the grass of Bon Air Park. Neville looked around, hoping that some passer-by would notice that something very unusual was going on, but there was nobody in sight.

  ‘What are you waiting for, Rastus?’ said the laughing man. ‘Follow him, and stay real close.’

  Neville steered the bus over the sidewalk and across the grass. His passengers were jostled from side to side as he drove over the curb, but none of them said a word. Mrs Tiplady was dabbing at her nose with a blood-soaked tissue and Miss Elwood was still quietly sobbing, while Mr Kaminsky was trying in vain to fit the right lens back into his spectacles.

  The Buick slowly made its way between the trees, and Neville followed, making sure that he kept no more than ten feet behind it. The rain continued to drum on the roof of the bus, with occasional syncopated patters as they drove beneath the branches.

  After a few minutes, when they were out of sight of the road, the Buick stopped, and Neville stopped the bus, too. Through the ribs of rain that were running down the windshield, Neville saw the scowling man climb out of the Buick, open its trunk, and take out a large gray laundry bag. He came up to the side of the bus and the laughing man said to Neville, ‘Open the door, Rastus.’

  The scowling man climbed up into the bus. He tugged open the cord of the laundry bag and tipped its contents on to the floor: a crumpled assortment of hospital gowns, with pale green patterns on them. They were all filthy, stained with what looked like dried blood and excrement, and they smelled sweaty and sour.

  The laughing man leaned down and picked one up. He held it up so that everybody on the bus could see it, and said, ‘We’re going to perform our ceremony now and these are your ceremonial robes.’

  ‘What?’ said Mr Carradine. ‘You don’t expect us to put those on? They’re disgusting!’

  ‘Hey, grandpa, did I give you permission to speak?’ the laughing man snapped at him. ‘Did I say you could question what we’re doing here? No, I did not. So shut up and do as you’re told. You don’t even deserve an explanation, but I’m going to be good enough to give you one.’

  The bus passengers turned and looked at each other and all of their faces were drawn with fear. Even Mr Kaminsky’s eyes were filled with tears, and he hadn’t cried since his wife died five years ago.

  ‘Now then,’ said the laughing man, ‘this is what you old coots are going to do for me. You’re going to pretend that you’re dementia patients, those of you who aren’t half-demented already. You’re going to dress the part and you’re going to act the part. Any one of you who doesn’t is going to be sorry.’

  Neville said, ‘Man, you can’t do this! These people, they’re completely defenseless!’

  The laughing man laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘That’s the point, Rastus. That’s entirely the point.’

  TEN

  Amelia stood at the window of Doctor Feldstein’s consulting room, staring out at the rain. The thunder was further away now, rumbling in the distance, but it still appeared to unsettle her. She repeatedly twisted the pink ribbon in her hair, around and around, and whenever it thundered she started to pant, as if she were panicking.

  Doctor Feldstein leaned forward in his chair and picked up Amelia’s notes. ‘I’ll tell you, Ruth, I don’t honestly think that these anxiety attacks are triggered by Amelia’s meds. The benzothiazepine seems to be keeping her vascular dilation in check, without upsetting her digestion, and the dicycloverine has been working a treat for her colic. Is she still taking telcagepant capsules for her migraines?’

  Ruth nodded. ‘They’re fine. They don’t make her sick like that Zomig. But if it’s not her meds, I can’t think what else could have started this off.’

  Doctor Feldstein stood up. He was very tall, over six-two, with wild black hair, thick horn-rimmed spectacles and a nose like a predatory hawk. He had taken an unfailing interest in Amelia’s progress ever since she was born, and he had followed every development in the treatment of William’s Syndrome so closely that he had become something of an expert on it.

  He laid his large hairy hand on Amelia’s shoulder, and looked down at her with a benevolent smile. ‘It could be that you’re simply growing up, Amelia. Lots of young women suffer from anxiety attacks when their hormones are out of whack, and you’re more sensitive to any changes in your body chemistry than most.

  ‘All the same,’ he said, ‘why don’t you talk to Doctor Beech? She may be able to suggest a way in which you can handle this anxiety – put it in perspective for you.’

  ‘Doctor Beech is a psychiatrist,’ said Ruth. ‘You don’t really think that Ammy needs a shrink?’

  ‘I don’t know. Considering her condition, she seems to be in excellent health, so apart from a hormonal imbalance I can’t see any physical cause for her anxiety. There’s no harm in her talking to Doctor Beech, is there? And there might be some genuine benefit.’

  The thunder grumbled again, out to the north-east, over the airport. It seemed to be prowling around the city like a junkyard dog. Amelia looked up at Doctor Feldstein wide-eyed, and her breathing quickened. ‘Don’t you worry, young lady,’ he told her. ‘We’ll get to the bottom of this, and before long you’ll be laughing about it, believe me.’

  He went back to his desk, pressed his intercom and said, ‘Zelda? Are you free right now? That’s great. There’s somebody I’d very much like you to meet.’

  After a few minutes, the door to Doctor Feldstein’s consulting room opened and Doctor Beech came in. She was mid-thirties, with a mass of brunette curls, and a heart-shaped face. She was wearing a tight black skirt and a gray silk blouse that was open at least two more buttons than Ruth would have worn it, but unlike Ruth she had very small breasts and she wasn’t even wearing a bra.

  ‘Zelda, this is Amelia. You remember we were talking about the bright young lady with WS? This is her, and this is her mother, Ruth.’

  ‘Hey, I’m so pleased to know you,’ said Doctor Beech. ‘You work for the Fire Department, don’t you, Ruth? I was reading about you in the Trib the other day. Such a fascinating job that must be.’

  ‘Very dull, most of the time,’ Ruth told her. ‘Most of the time it’s insurance fraud, especially these days. Bankrupt restaurateurs leaving the gas on, or realtors dropping lighted cigarettes into wastebaskets.’

  ‘Our local dry-cleaner burned out last week,’ said Doctor Beech. ‘Sparkleen, on Home Avenue? I lost two dresses and my favorite white sweater. You didn’t investigate that one, did you?’

  ‘I shouldn’t tell you this, but the Sparkleen fire was arson,’ Ruth told her. ‘The owner splashed perc around, but perc vapors never ignite spontaneously, so I knew at once that it was deliberate.’

  ‘In that case, I shall definitely sue,’ Doctor Beech smiled. ‘And you can be my expert witness.’

  Doctor Feldstein said, ‘Amelia here has been having some worries, haven’t you, Amelia?’

  ‘OK,’ said Doctor Beech. ‘Why don’t you sit down and tell me about them? You don’t mind your mom being here, do you, or Doctor Feldstein?’

  Amelia shook her head. She sat on the tapestry couch beside the window, holding an embroidered cushion on her lap, and Doctor Beech sat down next to her.

  Doctor Beech said, ‘So . . . what have you been worried about, Amelia?’

  Amelia hesitated for a moment, and then she said, very quietly, ‘People co
ming through.’

  ‘I see. What people?’

  ‘They come from downstairs. They didn’t realize before now that they could come back through, but now they do.’

  ‘When you say “downstairs”, is that downstairs at your house?’

  ‘No.’ Amelia thought for a moment, and then she said, ‘Actually, it’s more like underneath than downstairs.’

  ‘Underneath where? Underneath here? Underneath this floor?’

  ‘Underneath everywhere. They had to go there but now they’ve found a way to come back up.’

  ‘Do you know who they are? Have you seen them?’

  ‘I’ve seen one of them. He’s a boy. He was standing outside our house yesterday and the day before and he wears a black T-shirt and red jeans and he’s creepy. I call him the Creepy Kid because he’s so creepy.’

  ‘I’ve seen him too,’ Ruth put in. ‘I saw him on Tuesday on South McCann Street, when I was attending that fire there, and I saw him on both occasions outside of our house. He wasn’t doing anything. He was just standing there, staring.’

  ‘So he’s a real kid, this Creepy Kid?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ruth. ‘Except that each time I tried to confront him to ask him what he was doing there, he vanished. Like, totally without trace. I even took a photograph of him on South McCann Street – at least I thought I took a photograph of him – but he didn’t appear in it.’

  Doctor Beech turned back to Amelia. ‘So the Creepy Kid is the only one of these people you’ve actually seen? You haven’t seen any of the others?’

  Amelia shook her head again.

  ‘OK . . . but if you haven’t seen them, how do you know for sure that they’re there?’

  ‘Because I know they are. Because I can feel them, and I can hear them.’

  ‘What kind of feeling do they give you? Can you describe it?’

  Amelia closed her eyes for a moment. Then she slowly rubbed her upper arms, and said, ‘Some of them are rough.’

  ‘I see. What do you mean by rough? They act rough?’

  ‘No, not really. They push each other. They’re all trying to get through, like when people go to a ball game and they’re all trying to get to the best seats first. But their skin is rough. It’s all dry and flaky.’

  ‘Can you think why that is? Do they have some kind of skin disease?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I don’t know. I can just feel it.’

  Doctor Beech sat and looked at Amelia for a few moments, with a faint frown on her face, thinking. Then she said, ‘You told me that only some of them are rough. Are there any others who aren’t rough?’

  Amelia nodded. ‘Lots of them. They’re more like dust than people. And they whisper. Whisper-whisper-whisper. It’s like they’re all whispering together. It’s like sand, when the wind blows it.’

  ‘Like sand, when the wind blows it,’ Doctor Beech repeated, as if she were trying to understand what Amelia meant. Then, ‘How long would you say you’ve been having these feelings?’

  ‘Not very long. Only since Tuesday. Mom had to go to that fire on South McCann Street, and when Uncle Jack called her I just felt like she shouldn’t go. I mean I really, really felt like she shouldn’t go.’

  ‘Why did you feel like that? Can you explain it?’

  ‘Because they’d find out who she was, and I didn’t want them to.’

  ‘You thought they might be some kind of threat?’

  ‘I don’t know. Yes. They scare me. I don’t know what they’re trying to do, but I know that it’s something terrible.’

  ‘And since Tuesday? How many times have you had the feelings since then?’

  ‘Two or three times a day. More. But I always know in the back of my mind that they’re coming, all the time.’

  Doctor Beech took hold of Amelia’s hands and gave her a reassuring smile. ‘I think we can find a way to help you,’ she said. Then she turned to Ruth. ‘You may not agree to this, and if you have any qualms about it at all, please say so. But I met a young man at a psychiatric seminar in Chicago last fall, and he had experienced some strikingly similar feelings to your Amelia. “Men and women are coming through from underneath,” that’s what he said.’

  ‘Really? He used those exact words?’

  Doctor Beech nodded. ‘Not only that, but he spoke of a boy who kept watching his house. He seemed very rational, this young man – very sincere – but I’m afraid to say that I dismissed him as some kind of oddball at the time. You get a whole lot of very strange people at those seminars, especially at the fringe meetings. People who believe that plants have a consciousness, people who think that Down’s Syndrome sufferers can communicate with aliens. But now I’ve talked to Amelia . . . well, unless you’re dead set against it, I really would like to get in touch with this young man and see if he can help her to understand exactly why she’s experiencing this particular anxiety.’

  Ruth said, ‘I’m not at all sure. I mean, when you say young, how old is he? And what exactly did he tell you about this “coming through from underneath” thing? I don’t want to make Ammy’s condition any worse. Does he think that – what? – it’s all some kind of delusion? Or does he believe that it’s real?’

  Doctor Beech shrugged. ‘To tell you the truth, I only spoke to him for five minutes. Like I say, I thought at first that he was just another oddball. But he said that he’d written a book about it. I can’t remember what the title was, The Nine Circles of Something. Wait just a moment. I have his name and his number in my diary.’

  While Doctor Beech went back to her office, Ruth looked across at Doctor Feldstein. ‘What do you think, Doctor?’ she asked him. ‘I don’t want anybody telling Ammy that these people are all real, if they’re not. She has enough problems already, doesn’t she?’

  Doctor Feldstein held up both hands. ‘Ruth – I totally understand your concern. But Zelda Beech is a highly responsible psychiatrist. She would never do anything that put any of her patients under unnecessary stress, or jeopardize their mental stability. Besides, I wouldn’t let her upset Amelia, you know that. Amelia’s my special girl, aren’t you, Amelia?’

  ‘But if this man is having the same kind of delusions—’

  ‘We don’t know for sure that they are delusions, do we? You just said that you saw at least one of them for yourself. What did Amelia call him? The Creepy Kid. Maybe this fellow can shed some light on whatever it is that’s making Amelia feel so anxious. I don’t see that there’s any harm in your getting together and comparing symptoms. And let’s face it – Amelia may be disadvantaged in many ways, but she’s not easily fooled, is she? People who are congenitally incapable of telling lies always know when other people are speaking with forked tongues.’

  Doctor Beech came back with her diary. ‘Here it is: Martin Watchman, six-six-seven-four West Byron Street, Chicago. And his telephone number, too.’

  Ruth went over and sat on the couch next to Amelia. ‘I think this is your choice, Amelia. Do you want to meet a man who thinks that people are coming through from underneath, just like you do?’

  Doctor Beech said, ‘You don’t have to, Amelia. I’m not putting any pressure on you. But I do think that if you two meet, and talk over your anxieties, it might enable me to see your condition from another point of view. Give it another dimension, so to speak, like a CT scan.’

  Amelia thought for a long while, and then she said, ‘Does Martin Watchman have William’s?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t.’

  ‘He won’t think I’m strange, will he?’

  ‘Of course not, because you’re not strange. You’re just distinctive.’

  Amelia looked down at the cushion on her lap. It was embroidered with the words Always Be True. Outside, there was another rumble of thunder, closer this time, and the rain suddenly began to beat against the consulting-room window like a plague of locusts.

  It was raining harder in Bon Air Park, too, and because of that, the park was deserted. No dog-walkers, no children playing on the swin
g-sets, no police patrolmen, no park attendants. Only an old black Buick Riviera with a sagging suspension, and the Spirit of Kokomo senior citizens’ bus, hidden amongst the trees.

  The laughing man walked slowly up the aisle of the bus, and tossed a filthy hospital gown at each passenger.

  ‘You want to know where these came from?’ he asked them. ‘Saint Bartholomew’s, Barrettstown, where they send dribbling, babbling, incontinent geriatrics to spend their last miserable days, not knowing whether it’s night or day, not recognizing any of their loved ones, not even knowing who they are, themselves.’

  He pushed his mask into Mrs Tiplady’s face, and said, ‘Do you remember who you are, old lady? Or has it all melted away?’

  Mrs Tiplady lifted up her blood-caked face in defiance. ‘You go screw yourself, buster. I know who I am. How about you? At least I’m not so chickenshit that I have to hide my identity behind some stupid carnival mask.’

  The laughing man hesitated for almost a quarter of a minute, breathing noisily in and out behind his mask. Then he punched Mrs Tiplady in the face again, and fresh blood burst out of her nostrils.

  The laughing man looked at each of the bus passengers in turn.

  ‘Anyone else want to get uppity? I truly don’t mind. I enjoy it.’

  He waited, and when nobody spoke up he said, ‘These gowns we’ve just handed out to you, these are what you wear when you lose the last vestige of being human. These are what you wear when your brain has left the building, and all that’s left is a zombie. Well, you know what happens in those zombie movies, don’t you? They tear each other to pieces. That’s what they do. They tear each other to pieces with their bare hands.’

  He paced up and down the aisle with a jumpy, excited strut. He drummed black leather fingers on the luggage rack rail, and every now and then he let out a little ‘yip, wow!’

  Each time he passed, the elderly passengers turned fearfully away, and Mr Carradine even raised his scarf up over his face and put his eyeglasses on top of it, so that he resembled the invisible man.

  ‘Now then,’ said the laughing man, lifting his index fingers and spinning around on his heels, as if he were line-dancing. ‘What you have to do now is take off all of your clothes and put on these gowns. You want to look authentically doolally, don’t you?’