Мариам Петросян - The Gray House

“What about you? I don't want to hold him.”

“I can’t. I'm too fragile.”

They struggle to pull Tubby up to sit on Smoker's knees, and then Tabaqui quickly splits. Smoker attempts to wheel after him, but finds it impossible with Tubby in the way. He's so uncomfortable that when Tubby again begins to wiggle, Smoker pushes him off, turns on the flashlight, and observes him speedily crawling away into the darkness.

There's already a sizable throng by the doors to the teachers’ bathroom. Everyone shines their flashlights away from their faces, so it's hard to tell who's here. They all mostly illuminate the doorframe. Finally R One appears. He's hauling someone who can't walk by himself, and that someone is dripping. A sickening sound.

“Someone with a light, to the hospital wing!” Ralph shouts, adjusting his burden.

One of the spectators steps forward, casting a hook-nosed shadow on the wall. Vulture leaves, lighting Ralph's way.

“Well, I’ll be! That was Red,” Tabaqui hisses, fiddling with Smoker's shirt. “Where's Tubby? Where did you drop him?”

Butterfly crawls out, shielding his eyes.

“Get your shiners away!” he says testily.

The beams point to the floor.

“My wheelchair was supposed to be here somewhere. Where is it?”

Butterfly scuttles in a circle, like a singed moth. Tabaqui bumps him with his backpack.

“Hey! What just happened?”

Butterfly mumbles something indistinctly. Tabaqui bumps harder. Butterfly hisses and tries to swat away the backpack.

“How would I know? I was taking a dump! I've got diarrhea! I haven't seen anything. I was sitting on the can the whole time. Could be that Red got cut. Or maybe it wasn't Red. I don't know nothing. Get me my wheelchair!”

Tabaqui leaves him to his troubles.

“Useless,” he complains to Smoker. “He's playing dumb.”

“Let's go,” Smoker pleads. “I've had enough excitement for one night. Honest. I'm done.”

Tabaqui looks around, aiding himself with the flashlight.

“Still, where's Tubby? I thought I told you to keep an eye on him!”

“I don't know. He crawled off somewhere. Let's go.”

Tabaqui shines the light in Smoker's eyes accusingly.

“We were supposed to take care of him. And you failed. We have to find him.”

“All right. Let's go find him.”

Tabaqui is in no hurry. He directs the beam at the departing stragglers.

“Wait a minute,” he mutters. “Now this is interesting. Look ...”

Something heavy flies at them out of a dark corner. Tabaqui takes a hint and reluctantly switches off the flashlight.

“Have you seen that?”

“Tabaqui, what are you doing here?” says a familiar voice. “And why did you have to bring this ...”

Tabaqui fidgets guiltily.

“Smoker and I just went out for a stroll. Couldn't sleep, for some reason. And then—shouting, Ralph, commotion. So we came to look. Who wouldn’t?”

“All right, we’ll talk later. Take him back to the dorm.”

“We need to find Tubby first! Ralph told us. Tubby ran away. No wheelchair, no nothing. I mean, no anything.”

“Go back. I’ll look for him myself.”

“All right. As you wish, Blind,” Tabaqui says, turning around his wheelchair. “We're going.”

They are not the only ones. Tires squeak somewhere in front of them. Those in front pick up speed from time to time, apparently confident that they are driving down the middle, and immediately crash into the wall. The noise they are making allows Tabaqui to correct his trajectory. Smoker, heartened by Blind's order, dutifully struggles to reach the dorm as quickly as possible. If Tabaqui could have his way he'd linger gladly, but he's not sure that Blind isn't following them. So he's in a hurry too. Butterfly, some distance ahead, wheezily brags that his diarrhea has just saved someone's life.

Ralph walks out of the hospital wing and sees Vulture waiting for him on the landing. He is amusing himself with painting zigzags on the ceiling with the flashlight.

“You didn't have to wait,” Ralph says.

“I figured you wouldn't want to go back in the dark. I’ll walk you over.”

“Thanks.”

Ralph heads for his office. Vulture limps by his side, shining light on the floorboards underfoot. They stop at the door. Vulture directs the beam at the keyhole.

“You may go,” Ralph says, unlocking the door. “Thanks for your help.”

“Take this, R One,” Vulture says. He rummages in his pocket and hands Ralph something. “You're going to need it.”

It's a joint. Ralph takes it without a word.

“Good night,” Vulture says.

Ralph slams the door behind him and turns on the light. He studies his face in the wardrobe mirror. It features a strip of surgical tape, all the way down his cheek. The cut is superficial, but Ralph can't stop thinking that he's gotten away with something. Half an inch to the left and it would have been good-bye, eye.

“Sons of bitches,” Ralph says to his reflection. He walks to the window, pulls up the blind, and looks out. Then looks at his watch. Then shakes it. By his reckoning it should be morning already. The darkness outside is still impenetrable. But that's not what's frightening. Winter nights have a habit of lingering. What's scary is the way the watch hands seem to be stuck permanently on one minute before two. And it's the same with the wall clock.

“Calm down,” Ralph says. “There probably is a reasonable explanation.”

Except he can't find it. He could swear that when he was leaving Sheriff's room—the Rat Shepherd had a birthday bash, and it was a proper one—he looked at the watch and it was quarter to two. A lot of time has passed since then. It couldn't have been less than half an hour for the hospital wing alone. Ralph stares at the long hand, hypnotizing it. The watch runs on batteries. Batteries run out. But... what about the clock, then? It keeps ticking, lulling him, enveloping in domestic comfort.

Ralph draws the blinds and takes a magazine off the desk. Thumbs through it standing up. Stumbles on an article about a popular singer, notes the time, and starts reading. The article about the singer, then three more—the world of algae, this winter's fashions, sheep husbandry. He skims through the sports section and flings the magazine on the floor. The clock deigned to move to two exactly. The watch still insists on one minute to. Ralph looks at it, for what seems like another eternity, and then finally decides, with a sigh of relief, that it must be broken. And the clock as well. Yes, simultaneously. Well, it could happen, and it clearly did.

Ralph carefully takes the watch off his wrist and lowers it into the desk drawer. Vulture's present sits untouched on the armrest of the sofa. Were he to smoke it, many things would become markedly less sinister.

“Something's wrong with the time,” Ralph says loudly.

A faint scratching noise makes him spin around. He notices a slip of paper being pushed under the door. He reaches the door in a single bound and throws it open. Then curses himself and opens the outer one, but it's too late. The night visitor has vanished. Ralph stands there for a moment, peering into the darkness, then goes back and picks up the sheet marked with the ridged print of his own shoe. The letters, evidently scrawled in a rush, straggle up and down and barely fit on the scrap.

Blind snuffed Pompey. Everyone saw.

Back in the Fourth, Tabaqui takes careful aim, drops the backpack on the sleeping cat, waits out a short pause, and then screams at those who jumped up on the beds.

“You can't even imagine what just happened! Unbelievable!”

His shouting wakes up everyone who managed to sleep through the yowl of the cat.

Blind's clothes stink of outhouse, of Butterfly's sickness, of Red's blood and fear. He treads slowly. His face is untroubled, like that of someone sleeping peacefully. His fingers run ahead and then return when he remembers the way. Now is the time of the crack between the worlds. Between the House and the Forest. He prefers to cross it in his sleep. When he's inside it his memory stumbles over familiar obstacles, and the body stumbles with it. When he's inside it he doesn't have command over his hearing. He doesn't hear things that are there, or hears the ones that aren’t. When in the crack he doubts whether he would be able to find those he's seeking, and then forgets whom he was seeking. He could enter the Forest and become a part of it—then he'd be able to find anyone. But the Forest twice in one night is dangerous, even more dangerous than the crack that consumes his memory and hearing. Blind moves slowly. His hands move faster. They dart through the holes in the sweater's sleeves—the sleeves were too long for him so he slit them with a knife all the way down from the elbows. His bare heels, black as soot, stick to the floorboards.