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THERE IS AN EVIL IN powder. It has been so for centuries too numerous to count. Some powders may reach your eyes and blind you from the world; forever to stagger through darkness. Some may stain men’s lips as they make pale the brothels of Paris. And others—those sprinkled throughout the poor and rich alike—create a world no mind would dare build alone, and those addicted to its force would never willingly release it. And there I stood, entranced by the mystery of it all, with white grains spread before me on the hotel table. Each was a piece of sand; many among its members. They were the sands of time. They were the boundary between logic and fantasy. Love and hate. Strong and sickly. Life and death.
How bountiful the harvest of sins.
And yet, I did not hesitate to dip my finger into the white pile and drop a pinch onto my tongue as Keane entered from his own bedroom.
“Lawrence, I must congratulate you on a plan well enforced, but perhaps you should refrain from tasting the sugar.” And sugar it indeed was; sweet to the tongue, but deceitful to the eye when presented in a blurred, grey form darkly engrained onto a photographer’s paper. I reformed the bountiful pile, only for the miniscule pieces to tremble out of place as Keane set three identical bottles on the table mere inches away. “These are the last of James’ collection. I had thought I had found the entire stash weeks ago. Seithí olc go maith.”
Evil hides well.
I nodded and backed away from the display. Evil does indeed hide well, but that in plain sight disappears easily within mortal ignorance and insecurities. Even we were secluded carefully from light. Dark curtains had been pinned over the more fashionable drapes, and a string of red light bulbs had been flung around the hatrack near trays of various chemicals. We had left the lights on, but once the photographs were taken, there would be not but darkness, spotted with eerie red eyes leering at our shoulders.
Within an hour, we were inspecting a set of dripping photographs strung across the washroom door frame with an old shoelace. I had seen Keane tromping about the cliffs of Devon with a camera slung around his neck, but so often I had passed it for one of his many hobbies. How wrong I had been. Every line—every granular outline—was perfectly clear in the darkened grey; most certainly not the work of a mere hobbyist.
As the photographs dried and were slipped into a manilla envelope, the necessity of the crimson glow waned away. Keane turned on the lights, revealing an open cigarette case and lighter at the ready. I waited patiently for the rich smoke to begin straining at the thin end before tearing down the dark sheets and winding the strings of red bulbs over my arm. My companion, shirtsleeves still rolled above his forearm, sat thoughtfully in an armchair with the brief streams of white unfurling into the air.
“‘By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.’”
“Of all the works of Benjamin Franklin, you might have chosen something more optimistic.” I countered coolly.
“Optimism? Come now, Lawrence, is there really anything optimistic about our situation. Here I am, willingly throwing my reputation to the wolves for bait while you talk about some vain positivity of this world. But then, I admit you must have some nervousness—”
“Damn right I do.” I dropped a clothespin to the floor with a taunting chatter. “It’s indecent how calm you are about this entire lie. These men are killers, Keane. Killers. Not door to door salesmen looking to make an extra income to send some spindly tike off to university. Killers. Murderers. Cheats. Liars. And—God, hand me that cigarette.” I snatched the glowing object from his fingertips, took a long draw, and handed it back to my infuriatingly amused companion.
“You could light your own. Heaven knows I have plenty.” I shook my head, rubbing the sore spot taunting me from the base of my neck.
“What? And be a smoker?” I waited for his chuckling to filter away before begrudgingly seating myself on the edge of the sofa nearest to himself. “I suppose I will have to move hotels then? Keeping up appearances and all that?” A hiss of bitter tobacco smoke jutted into the air.
“Or you could simply change floors. There is a great psychological distance within a few flights of stairs.” A great distance for both the prey and hunter alike, and, at that moment, I was not entirely certain which we were.
I sighed and accepted the cigarette as it was passed between us.
“I don’t believe I fully considered the consequences of our little skirmish. I did not think that we—that I—would be abandoning you, and—”
“My dear Lawrence, you are hardly abandoning me. You are only appearing to society’s eye that it is the case. As for considering consequences, you did not have time to look beyond the exact moment.” He stubbed out the last ends of his cigarette into an ashtray and began the slow, methodic ritual of starting another. His long fingers slipped one from the silver case, tapped the end mere millimeters from the bullet’s dent, and pressed it between his lips. Lighting the cigarette was a faster affair; the sulfuric hiss of a match, an orange glow, and, at last, smoke. Keane had spent the entirety of that time carefully formulating his words. Perhaps they had meant to be amusing, but the humour had dried over into the thin crust of fact.
“I would be a stubborn old fool if I did not admit to the existence of danger. There is always some danger in life. Any one of us could be knocked from life at even the most inconvenient moments. Tell me, Lawrence, in those glorious boxing days of yours, did you retreat to the corner when your opponent might take an offensive stance? Of course not.”
“But there should be another plan, in case I . . .” Fail? Is that what I was so damnably afraid of? Failure? Certainly my pride has sustained enough incidents that it was of no general consequence; however, mine was not the only life relying on my actions, just as pushing myself backwards over that bridge’s rail was as much for my benefit as it was firm knowledge that Keane was safe. As long as he was alive, James Harrison still had a chance at mortal redemption. Surely the man deserved a chance at that? He had ridded himself of unnatural demons, enduring withdrawal and nightmares forced upon him by the bountiful faults of mankind. He had waded through the shadow of sorrow and hopelessness.
Was I really afraid of failure?
Keane stood and moved to sit on the table; leaning forward with that same storm-like intensity I had seen when the ocean lashed powerfully at the cliffs of Éire.
“Your insecurities astound me, Lawrence, though I shall more readily categorize it with your youth than character.” A long, thin hand stayed me from any remarks. “However, understand that I have known you for more than seven years. I know your strengths better than you do and accept your faults with more mercy than you would ever allow yourself. I have seen your stubbornness and perseverance hone your intelligence into a fine diamond incomparable to any other megre stone. Your knowledge of the world far surpasses those twice your age, and Lord knows you make it quite clear that you are the most valuable jewel of females in the world. I have seen all this in the full awareness that the strength—the coal—was there from the beginning.
I tell you this that you may feel secure in the knowledge that, if you truly feel you cannot do this task, I will accept that without any ill feeling toward your person. You may return to England now, and I shall join you before the Holidays. At the very least, before the new year.” I shifted uneasily on the sofa’s suddenly sharp edge.
“That long?”
“It is inferior, I admit, but what are a few extra months in the game of life? The worst you could fear upon my return would be a collection of those unfortunate American mannerisms.”
“And the play?”
“As you said before, there are hundreds of young women in Los Angeles who would do most anything for such a role. While they may not have your natural talent, one can hardly be too particular in these dyer matters. As usual, the decision is entirely your own. But, Lawrence, whatever you do, I am behind you all the way.” I stared at him for an excruciatingly long moment; absorbing his words as a new wine. The initial melancholy overtones were gradually smoothed by a surprising amount of sentimentality. He was risking his reputation—his life—by producing the photographs tucked away in the envelope. He was opening himself to a blackmailer’s sword for the sake of a friend. Were I to make a mistake—some unforgivable error—he, or I, or both could be killed. Should it be me, it would be a tragedy easily dismissable by the world. My novels were more set toward the young intellectuals of the age, rather than drabble for the sake of society’s ignorant consensus. Few people recognised my name, and less my life. I would not be missed by most. Should it be Keane; however, the scientific world would no doubt stutter and crumble at its loss. Though his name might not be known at a carefree party, his theories had begun to shape and mold the world so magnificently he could be viewed as nothing but a genius. The world would not mourn me, but it would cry for him. He was risking everything. How could I give nothing?
“Even in the most horrific of storms,” I whispered shakely. “A rainbow can be found.” Keane smiled gently, a warmth running over with satisfaction.
Suddenly, my face was pinned to his chest and the strength of his arms enfolded me in his embrace. The world stopped. Life was nonexistent. Time disappeared into the scents of cologne. And—for perhaps the first time in my tattered and torn life—I became the child I was never able to become. Innocence washed upon me in a wave of security.
And, like a child, I began to weep.