Joseph McElroy: Lookout Cartridge

Incremona was dead, I knew it as surely as I knew that even if the police acquired the three filmless tapes the words would be an impenetrable if interesting surface, and it was as unlikely that the authorities would get the tapes from whichever part of the group now had Incremona as that they would get the random letters I’d taken from Dagger and Alba’s and stuffed in my parka pocket.

A high street lamp had come on. There was something in the street that looked red.

The woman who got out of the first cab looked up, and it was Constance. Her driver stood by his door on the street side. The driver of the car had stopped half a block up and was coming back; Incremona’s cabdriver closed the rear door, got in, and drove off past the man in the street who was yelling and gesturing. Incremona had seemed to become motionless as soon as the car hit him and he had passed through the air as if fixed between times.

Everyone was looking up at me and Sub, and I was not sure what I had seen but I knew what we had done.

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