The Vorrh

talked quietly, while he nodded and frowned at her version of the last few days.
    The drug that the doctor administered to him was Soneryl; he would use it, and others, for the next thirteen barren years of his life. As its effects wore off, a great, hollow pain opened out inside him. He stopped nodding, and Charlotte’s words lost their meaning. Her voice was like a song, a chanter that made tears rise up and fill his flickering eyes. She stopped when she saw her companion’s growing distress. Moving to his side, she held his small body in her arms. He sat forward, and she saw that his pillow was blotched pink with perspiration and blood. Beneath his silk pyjamas, his wounds and abrasions had been bandaged and covered in lint.
    ‘It’s alright,’ she said, ‘you are safe now. You are tired and bruised, but without any real injuries. Do you remember what happened to you and your friend?’
    ‘Friend?’ he said, in a voice that surprised him. ‘What friend?’
    Charlotte explained that he had left to meet a man who was taking him into the Vorrh. They had planned to be there for only one day but, in fact, he had been gone for four. She told him of her growing panic and the plans she had been ready to put into place, before she had seen him on the street.
    ‘What was his name?’ he asked weakly.
    ‘I don’t know, my dear, you called him many things. I think you said Silka, or something like that?’
    ‘Silka,’ he repeated, shaking his head. ‘Well, what did he look like?’ he murmured.
    ‘I am sorry, but I did not see him. You said he was young and black.’
    ‘Did I?’
    Charlotte nodded and he thought hard, but there was nothing there. Not a single trace of the last five days existed between this stained pillow and the previous one, which had been bloodied by dream; not even a rind of memory clung to the empty space in his skull. What boiled and hollowed him was below, in his heart: a vast, pleading hurt that sucked at his being, a loss beyond all other feelings, an overpowering sadness that should have been an overpowering joy.
    ‘Charlotte, I think I am in love,’ he said, tears streaming down his face as his body shook and wheezed in her frightened arms. They stayed like that until he sobbed himself asleep. Charlotte tucked him back into the bed and lowered the blinds against the late, slanting afternoon sunlight. She tiptoed about the room, silently packing their belongings back into the suitcases, trying not to think of what he had just said. The warm, dim quiet was hushed and measured by his rhythmic breathing.
    Three days later, he was standing in the lobby of the hotel, dressed in one of his immaculate white suits. Charlotte had booked the ship to carry them home. The monstrous, black mobile caravan chugged outside, waiting, brimming with their possessions. He dithered as he clung to her arm, looking out into the blinding light of the street. His bone Eskimo spectacles had been changed for a much larger, more contemporary pair, which wrapped around his pinched face, making him appear insect-like.
    ‘Shall we go?’ she asked, squeezing his arm affectionately.
    He gulped and nodded, and she guided him through the warm glass doors and down the faltering steps. Just before he entered the massive vehicle, he looked up and into the milling crowd, through the little island of trees which sat across the road. He looked hopelessly for someone he did not know, somebody who might know him; a last chance to repair the tearing wound that was devouring him. He looked for recognition in a wave or a touch or a smile. Nobody in the crowd stood out. Nobody saw him in the brightness and swirling dust. He stepped into the car, and it lumbered out of the city, across the arid landscape, towards the coast. In the passenger wing mirror, which had been adjusted for his view, the dark line of the Vorrh receded until it was erased by haze, dust and vibration. His eyes never left the reflection until they reached the sea.
    * * *

    Hoffman was walking across the city. He had been called to the house of August Daren, one of Essenwald’s richest businessmen, who had demanded his presence immediately. Daren’s wife had been attacked in the street by a mob of delinquents, who had pulled her from her carriage. He was furious, demanding the criminals be brought to a rough, instant and painful justice. He ranted so much about the perpetrators that he forgot to mention any of his wife’s injuries, and Hoffman had no