Desolation by Tim Lebbon

sorry,” the clown said, wiping her hand on her outfit and offering it for him to shake. “I’m Magenta from Flat Three.”
    Cain looked blank, trying to absorb what she had said.
    â€œFlat Three, downstairs from you,” the clown said, frowning, smiling again, shaking her hands and spraying Cain with water from false fingertips. She laughed.
    â€œHow do you know me?” he said.
    â€œYou’ve been wandering in and out ever since you arrived yesterday,” she said. “I make it my business to know who’s living in the same building as me. That’s only sensible. It’s only
safe
. I wouldn’t want to share a building with a mass murderer, now, would I?”
    â€œI suppose not,” Cain said. Had she been standing behind her door all along? he thought. Watching through the peephole as he passed by, sizing him up, her feet turned at right angles so that her ridiculous shoes did not scratch the door and give her away?
    â€œWell, are you?”
    â€œPardon?”
    â€œA mass murderer?”
    Her appearance had thrown him completely, and now she was playing word games. Surprised and confused though he was, Cain had spent years of his life talking to himself, often not knowing what he was going to say next. Sometimes, it was almost like talking to someone else. He could do word games too.
    â€œNot yet,” he said. “I’m still studying the theory.”
    â€œAh!” she said, her fake smile startling some pigeons aloft. “A comedian! Excellent. I like a man with a sense of humor.”
    His gaze was drawn to her chest again, as if her comment had made her womanhood more visible beneath the baggy clothing.
    â€œHumor is one thing that building lacks. There’s George, I suppose . . . but I laugh at him, not with him. Peter has a sense of humor, but he doesn’t actually live there.”
    â€œNo, he lives in Heaven,” Cain said. Magenta froze. Even her suit was still beneath her outstretched arms. For a second, she was a statue.
    â€œHave you been in there?” she asked, and her question carried so much import, the weight of his answer obviously of great concern to this strange clown.
    â€œNo,” Cain said. She seemed to relax a little, but the playfulness had gone. Even her suit seemed deflated, more scruffy and stained than before. “Have you?” he asked.
    â€œCoffee? There’s a little café around the corner—they do a great latte, and peach cake to die for.” Magenta turned and started walking away without waiting for an answer. Cain followed. As he walked he thought about whether or not he wanted coffee and cake, his eyes were drawn to her shapely behind, and he realized with a strange stab of guilt that right here and now he was no longer afraid of the siren. With everything that had happened over the past couple of minutes—the colors, the shapes, Magenta’s strange talk—it would have struck him by now if it was going to.
    Where it had gone, he did not know. But the last thing he was about to do was question it. This was his first full day alone. He was still terrified, but already he was seeing some good signs. This clown woman calmed him in some way he had yet to understand. Perhaps because, other than Peter, she was the first person he had
really
spoken to.
    â€œOr maybe I just want to fuck her,” he muttered, and she spun around and glared at him as if she had heard. But a car was passing and he had barelywhispered, and so no, she could not have heard, never.
    His vague guilt at turning away from the challenge of the bustling city was lifting. And his confidence had already taken a boost from this strange encounter. He no longer felt scared, and that was something new.
    A car screamed by and tooted its horn, and Cain shrank back against the wall of the café. He cursed himself for the reaction and his eyes watered from sheer anger. The siren remained silent, but it was still