The Talisman

trying to help you, and I wish you’d remember that. I have all the papers, Lily. All you have to do is sign them. Once you do, you and your son are taken care of for life.’ Sloat regarded Lily with an expression of satisfied gloom. ‘I haven’t had much luck in locating Jack, by the way. Spoken to him lately?’
    ‘You know I haven’t,’ she said. And did not weep, as he had hoped.
    ‘I really do think the boy ought to be here, don’t you?’
    ‘Piss up a stick,’ Lily said.
    ‘I think I will use your bathroom, if you don’t mind,’ he said, and stood up. Lily closed her eyes again, ignoring him. ‘I hope he’s staying out of trouble, anyhow,’ Sloat said, slowly walking down the side of the bed. ‘Terrible things happen to boys on the road.’ Lily still did not respond. ‘Things I hate to think about.’ He reached the end of the bed and continued on to the bathroom door. Lily lay under her sheets and blankets like a crumpled piece of tissue paper. Sloat went into the bathroom.
    He rubbed his hands together, gently closed the door, and turned on both taps over the sink. From the pocket of his suitcoat he extracted a small brown two-gram vial, from his inner jacket pocket a small case containing a mirror, a razor blade, and a short brass straw. Onto the mirror he tapped about an eighth of a gram of the purest Peruvian Flake cocaine he’d been able to find. Then he chopped it ritualistically with his blade, forming it into two stubby lines. He snorted the lines through the brass straw, gasped, inhaled sharply, and held his breath for a second or two. ‘Aah.’ His nasal passages opened up as wide as tunnels. Way back there, a drip began to deliver the goodies. Sloat ran his hands under the water, then for the sake of his nose drew a little of the moisture on his thumb and index finger up into his nostrils. He dried his hands and his face.
    That lovely train , he allowed himself to think, that lovely lovely train, I bet I’m prouder of it than I am of my own son .
    Morgan Sloat revelled in the vision of his precious train, which was the same in both worlds and the first concrete manifestation of his long-held plan to import modern technology into the Territories, arriving in Point Venuti loaded with its useful cargo. Point Venuti! Sloat smiled as the coke blasted through his brain, bringing its usual message that all would be well, all would be well. Little Jacky Sawyer would be a very lucky boy ever to leave the odd little town of Point Venuti. In fact, he’d be lucky ever to get there in the first place, considering that he’d have to make his way across the Blasted Lands. But the drug reminded Sloat that in some ways he’d prefer Jack to make it to dangerous, warped little Point Venuti, he’d even prefer Jack to survive his exposure to the black hotel, which was not merely boards and nails, bricks and stone, but was also somehow alive . . . because it was possible that he might walk out with the Talisman in his thieving little hands. And if that were to happen . . .
    Yes, if that absolutely wonderful event were to take place, all would indeed be well.
    And both Jack Sawyer and the Talisman would be broken in half.
    And he, Morgan Sloat, would finally have the canvas his talents deserved. For a second he saw himself spreading his arms over starry vastnesses, over worlds folded together like lovers on a bed, over all that the Talisman protected, and all that he had coveted so when he’d bought the Agincourt, years back. Jack could get all that for him. Sweetness. Glory.
    To celebrate this thought, Sloat brought the vial out of his pocket again and did not bother with the ritual of razor and mirror, but simply used the attached little spoon to raise the medicinal white powder to first one nostril, then the other. Sweetness, yes.
    Sniffing, he came back into the bedroom. Lily appeared slightly more animated, but his mood now was so good that even this evidence of her continuing life did not darken it. Bright and oddly hollow within their circles of bone, her eyes followed him. ‘Uncle Bloat has a new loathsome habit,’ she said.
    ‘And you’re dying,’ he said. ‘Which one would you choose?’
    ‘Do enough of that stuff, and you’ll be dying, too.’
    Undeterred by her hostility, Sloat returned to the rickety wooden chair. ‘For God’s sake, Lily, grow up,’ he said. ‘Everybody does coke now. You’re out of touch – you’ve been out of touch for years. You wanna try some?’