Desolation by Tim Lebbon Page A

taunting him from deep inside, deeper than he would probably ever be able to dig. On his own, at least.
    He looked through the café window and saw Magenta at the counter. And he decided that, yes, right now he really wanted coffee and cake.
    Cain’s father had told him that Pure Sight was the ability to perceive truth. It was not actual sight, but rather knowledge, experience, and certainty. As a concept few considered or knew of it, and of those who did even fewer found themselves anywhere close to possessing it. It saw through—and stripped away—all facets of humanity that tended to bring us close to “civilized.” Civilization, his father said, was an unfortunate by-product of the power of reason.
Do you think we’re really here to live together peacefully, spend all our time considering everyone else first?
he asked.
A pride of lions will attack another pride if they intrude on their territory
. He never explained his statements, as if eager for Cain to make out their meanings for himself.
    Cain was his father’s project. His father wanted him to achieve Pure Sight. He talked about it incessantly, trying to pump its wonder into his son, but Cain was only in his teens when his father died. He was confused, disoriented, badly damaged by the deprived state he had been kept in for all those years. As such, Pure Sight was as remote to him now as the concept of fatherly affection.
    Still, since his father died and Cain was taken away from that house, he often wondered just how diligently his subconscious still sought Pure Sight of its own accord.
    Cain carried his latte and slice of peach cake to the window seat next to Magenta. She had snatched a handful of paper serviettes from the counter, and now she wiped at her makeup, smearing vibrant colors across her face into a single bland mess. She wiped and wiped, spitting into the paper towels, her hand moving faster.
    â€œCareful,” Cain said, “you’ll wear away your skin.”
    â€œThere’s always new skin,” she said, closing her eyes as she rubbed at her forehead.
    â€œSo where have you been?” he asked.
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œTo play the clown?”
    â€œOh, nowhere. Here. One show’s over, the next could begin at any time.”
    â€œStreet performer, then.”
    â€œI’m an impersonator, Cain. Always working.” She grinned, and he saw her real smile for the first time, the clown’s face having been rubbed intooblivion. It was challenging and attractive, confident and brash. It dared him to talk back.
    â€œSo who are you without the makeup? Still Magenta?”
    â€œI’m always Magenta.” She dropped the paper towels, sighed, leaned to the side so that she could see her reflection in the window. She looked for a full thirty seconds, as if it was the first time she had really seen herself. “That’ll have to do for now.” She took a long sip of her coffee.
    Cain drank, looked around, but his gaze was always drawn back to Magenta. Her eyes pulled him in, green, gorgeous, intelligent, sparkling with wit. And she was strong, he could see that. She intimidated him. He glanced at her breasts and away again. She smiled.
    â€œSo how do you like your flat?”
    â€œIt’s fantastic!” he said, pleased for the distraction. “Much better than I expected from . . .”
    â€œFrom the outside? Yeah, everyone says that. It’s a shit hole from the outside, but I think Peter does that on purpose. Keeps away the undesirables.”
    Cain shrugged. “It’s the inside that matters.”
    â€œYou think so?” Magenta asked, staring with an intensity that made Cain shift in his seat. “You think the facade is unimportant? Surely it’s part of the whole effect?”
    Word games again
, Cain thought, but he only shrugged again. He wanted to chat to this woman—his neighbor—not enter into some deep philosophical