Spares - Michael Marshall Smith [132]
Finally I saw Suej, not sad but laughing.
A low grating sound heralded the opening of two enormous doors at the far end of the room. Naturally the entrance to the chapel was as far as possible from where we were standing, to make once again the point of how large the room was. It was surprising, in fact, that we hadn’t all been shown some other humbling treats yet, like sofas fashioned from silicon or a scale model of the Milky Way in diamonds. Maybe that would come later, after the service. If so, I would never get to see it.
Because as I fell in step with the other mourners and started the long trek across the room, I knew what I was going to do. I was going to pull the veils from Maxen in front of his congregation, to show that even men made of points of light are capable of sin.
On the way across the anteroom I spotted Chief of Police McAuley amongst the crowd, and hung well back. He, of all the people there, would recognize me on sight. Thankfully, McAuley was too busy smarming some dignitary to look in my direction. I stayed well at the back of the room when we entered the chapel, and sat at the end of a row. The chapel was dark and surprisingly small, and the guests would fill it to capacity. In front of me I could sense scuffles as people fought as politely as possible for the best seats, but the sound meant little to me. I seemed to be retreating inside my own head, into some inner space where all was quiet.
I was going home. Perhaps all it ever takes is a little effort, a realization that you’ve spent too long living in the front of your mind, and that you can throw the doors to the back room wide. I knew that I had made the right decision, and that if my timing was right, I might even be able to carry it through before I went down.
As I waited for the service to start, my eyes wandered over the chapel walls, which were dark with stained and polished wood. After so many years of running, I was surprised to find myself, at last, in a place of such peace. The columns in the room had been made out of single tree trunks, varnished but left irregular and true. Probably no one else in the room understood that this chapel had nothing to do with Christianity, and was instead a tribute to the secrets Maxen had learned during his own time as a soldier in The Gap. Sure, there were crucifixes and icons in all the right places; but the only illumination was from the thousands of candles which stood in rows on every surface, and the light they gave off, soft and buttery, could be a reminder of only one place. All it needed was a few blue lights hidden in corners, and everything would have been perfect.
Everyone was seated eventually, and the service started. I was remembering times spent crouched behind trees, in the calm before firestorms, every fiber of my soul attuned and listening for the music of life and death. A small choir sang something old and well-meant, probably the choice of Louella’s mother: The archaic, carved phrases echoed round the chapel like bewildered birds trying to find their nest.
Louella’s brother stood up then, and made his way to the lectern. He gave a short speech, with due emphasis on how productive a member of society his sister had been. His words were perfectly relayed around the room by the PA system, and the old woman sitting next to me started to cry, messing up the sleeve of her dress. It didn’t really matter; she wouldn’t be wearing it again. I couldn’t believe she’d known Louella, and I wished Nearly was with me. This was what I’d been trying to tell her the night before—that our bodies are pushed into action by emotion they have no control over, and I had no patience with it anymore. The real world had to learn how to deal with The Gap, or nothing would ever make sense.
Then there was more singing from the choir. As the