Interzone 251 by edited by Andy Cox Page B

undesirable things.
    “Hello?” the voice said. “Will you let me in? Will you open the door?”
    Moving as quietly as he could, Simon carried his extinguished candle to his pallet of threadbare blankets. He lay on his side facing the door, but did not sleep – or even close his eyes – for a long time.

    ***

    Sometimes while sitting at his window, Simon plied his memory for details of the life he’d had before the garret. He could not recall how long he’d lived there, when he’d first come, or where he’d been before. His memory had rotted through with age and the sameness of his days under the bruise-colored sun.
    What he remembered most clearly was the evacuation. He’d had a family then: parents and siblings, a wife. Children, too, and although he couldn’t remember how many, he did remember that he loved them, and never would have allowed them to endure the suffering that accompanied the collapse of the city. No, those days when the sun suffocated behind a greasy haze and mummers took from them everything they possessed – those were no days for wives and children. Some families had stayed, to their woe. But not Simon’s, no! His family he’d taken out in the evacuation. He’d abandoned everything for their safety. Surely he had.
    Then for some reason he’d returned alone. Perhaps to collect something important left behind, perhaps some
one
.
    He’d never thought he would lose his way.
    Simon scavenged for his basic needs, but never far, and mostly to check his traps for rats. They tasted terrible, the rats, but they kept him alive.
    Of Simon’s few possessions, he treasured only these: a handful of tarnished coins in an ornate jewelry box; an antique book of equations he couldn’t decipher; and a sepia photograph in a wooden frame – a portrait of a young couple. The fellow had a long face and hooded eyes – a face like a horse; she was dark of hair and light of eye. On the back, someone had written in feminine script – now faded:
To Simon. Our first anniversary. Love, Nora
.
    Simon couldn’t recall if the picture was something he’d brought with him to the garret, or something he’d found there. Nor could he precisely remember the woman. Judging by the tight collar of her dress and the dated fashion of the man’s suit, they were of an earlier generation than Simon’s, or else dressed in imitation of one. Despite this, Simon often compared his own weathered face to that of the young man. Though the photograph was faded and scratched, and Simon’s eyesight failing, he found it not impossible that he had once been that young man; and the young woman his bride. This was how he knew – or at least suspected – that his name was Simon.

    ***

    Simon woke to sickly orange light seeping in through the portal window. It could have been evening as easily as morning. The light on the landing had gone, but even after listening at the door for a long time – and hearing nothing – he was too afraid to open it.
    Because plumbing in the city had run dry, it was Simon’s routine to relieve himself in a tin pail, which he emptied in the alley when he ventured out. It wasn’t until the stench of the pail became oppressive that Simon collected it and his rat sack and began to unwind the wire that kept the door shut—
    And a knocking from the other side sent him stumbling back. He lost his grip on the pail, slipped in his own filth, and sat heavily.
    “Hello?” called the voice. “Will you let me in?”
    Furious, Simon kicked at the door. “Go away!” he shouted.
    “You lit a candle,” the voice reminded him.
    Old bones groaning, joints cracking, Simon regained his feet. He looked down at himself in disgust, stained and reeking. For this, he blamed the voice. “Leave me alone,” Simon said.
    “Why would you light a candle if you didn’t want to be found?”
    Simon wiped his filthy hands on the wall, adding fresh streaks to others just like them, put there by someone else long before. “I