Jonathan Lethem - The Wall of the Sky, the Wall of the Eye

Douglas’s eyes played over the scene: the gun, the vials, the alien sitting like a giant snake-skinned cougar on the carpet.

He reached down and picked up the gun.

“Ann, why don’t you go lock yourself in the bedroom,” he said.

“ Doug -las,” she whined.

“Do it.”

“Don’t be a chump,” said Don. “This is her place.”

“Shut up. I know all about you. We’re going to have a little talk. Go , Ann.”

“I told you,” Annette said to Don as she got up from the couch. “Uh, nice to meet you, Paul. Sorry.”

As she slouched her way to the bedroom, the Sufferer jumped up and followed her. Douglas took a step back, startled. I watched the gun. Douglas handled it badly, but I was pretty sure the safety was still in place.

The Sufferer was suddenly, inexplicably agitated. It ran ahead of her into the bedroom, looked out the far window at the lights of the building across 83rd Street, and back at us.

“What’s it doing?” said Doug angrily.

Don shrugged. Annette stood waiting at the doorway.

“Get it out of there,” said Doug, gesturing with the gun.

“Hey, that’s not my responsibility,” said Don. “You’re the dude who’s taking charge.”

The Sufferer wrinkled its ears forward and stared glumly at Don. Don glowered at Douglas.

“Here,” I said. I went in and pushed at the Sufferer. Its flesh was like a dense black pudding, and it felt like it weighed about a thousand pounds. I tried to prod it towards the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Annette came into the bedroom and tried to help me push, to no avail.

Don, his movements exaggerated and slow, put a rock of coke into the glass pipe and flicked his lighter enticingly. The Sufferer trotted forward, like it had read the script, and Annette and I almost fell on our faces.

Douglas didn’t find it funny. “Get back out here,” he said to me, and when I obliged he reached over and slammed the door shut with Annette inside. “Sit down,” he told me, and I did it.

The Sufferer, of course, paid him no mind. It went past us all, into the kitchen.

“What’s on your mind?” said Don drawlingly, lighting the pipe.

“I want you and your monster out of Annette’s life, Light ,” said Douglas. “She’s told me plenty about you.”

“Why not? I’m her boyfriend.”

“You’re not her boyfriend,” snarled Douglas. “You’re her dealer. Only you’re not even around enough to do a good job of that.” From the kitchen came a crash of breaking glass. Douglas looked in, then turned back to Don. “You get Annette hooked and then she’s gotta go out and find her own because you smoked up your whole shipment. You pathetic piece of human garbage.”

“Fuck told you that shit?”

“What, is it a shock to find out that you’re known, you sleazeball?”

Another crash from the kitchen, and then a sound like chimes: the Sufferer wading through the glass or ceramic it had broken.

“What’s your — monster-thing doing?” said Douglas. I got the feeling that his castigating Don was the fulfillment of a long-standing fantasy, only the Sufferer wasn’t part of the scenario.

“I told you, it’s not my thing, I don’t tell it what to do, man.”

“Is that why you’re trying to unload all this stuff on my sister — the monster won’t let you use it anymore?”

Don just smirked. “The monster’s ‘using it’ with me. I don’t tell it what to do and it don’t tell me what to do.”

“It’s following you because you’re dead, you loser. You’re smoking your life away — it’s like your death angel.”

“That’s not right,” I said. “It’s nothing like that. It’s an empathy thing, it’s responding to the life in Don—”

“Yeah, right. The life. You people are walking corpses.

And I’ll finish you off myself if you don’t leave my sister alone.”

“You wanna kill me, huh?” said Don.

“I will if I have to. Before you destroy my sister’s life like you destroyed your own. Before one of those death creatures comes prowling around for her.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “You never met a Sufferer before, you have no idea how they operate.”

“You never met me before, either,” said Don.

“I heard all I need to know from your sleazebag pusher friends,” said Douglas.

“What?” said Don, suddenly attentive.

“When you disappeared, Annette started buying from this black dude who called around for you. Real pimpy type of guy. I had to call the cops on him. I should call the cops on you.”

“Who — Annette!” Don jumped up.

“Randall,” said Douglas. “Randall whose shipment you singlehandedly smoked up. I’m surprised you’re not dead by now.”

Annette looked out of the bedroom. “You gave him my number, Light, remember? He called here looking for you about, I don’t know, four or five days ago—”

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” said Don. “Give me my gun.” He knelt down and began scooping the vials back into his parka.

“Take your crap with you,” said Douglas. “Go get nice and high on it. But I think I’d better keep the gun.”

“ Fuck you, man—”

“No, fuck you .” Douglas clicked the safety off. I was surprised he knew how. Then he put his foot on Don’s shoulder and shoved him back on his ass on the carpet. “No more bullshit, Light. You leave Annette alone, no calls, no late-night visits, got it? And I’m keeping the gun. You’re lucky I don’t call the cops.”

“Call the cops, see if I give a damn, man. You don’t have a fucking clue.” Don stood up. He came up to Douglas’s shoulder, but he was crowding the gun, and Douglas took a step back. I thought about trying to step in and realized my whole body was trembling.

The Sufferer came out of the kitchen, pumping forward on its massive black legs, and rushed up to where Douglas stood. It opened its strange black mouth and emitted a sound, something between a howl and a moan. Actually, it sounded like a man bellowing as he fell down a bottomless well, complete with echoes and Doppler effects.

At the same time chunks of broken glass fell out of its mouth at Douglas’s feet, and on his shoes.

Douglas pointed the gun and fired, at almost the exact same spot on the alien’s big bulldog chest. The noise, in the quiet apartment, was deafening. Douglas dropped the weapon and grabbed his hand, wincing.

Don immediately picked it up.

“Go,” he said to me, and nodded at the door. Then he bent back down to collect the last of his vials, sweeping up the empties along with them.

Douglas stood holding his hand, watching the Sufferer. The creature had rolled back on its haunches at the impact of the gunshot, and now it was shaking its head vigorously, and spitting out more shards of glass.

Don pushed the gun back into his belt and hustled me towards the door, and then turned and slapped Douglas ever so lightly on the cheek. Like he wanted to wake him up, not hurt him. “You mess up your hand?” he said. Douglas didn’t say anything.

“Maybe your sister can rub it for you. See ya.”

We ran to the elevator, the Sufferer leaping after us.

Out on the street Don said: “Hell was it doing?”

“It got you your gun back,” I said.

“Yeah, but what was it doing, eating the dishes?” He knelt down and looked in the Sufferer’s mouth. “Jesus.” He reached in and pulled out a chunk of glass that was lodged there. The Sufferer snorted and shook its head.

“It’s like the one soft spot, the whatchacallit, Achilles tendon,” Don said. “I wonder if I could kill it by shooting it in the mouth?”