better.
Even if he hadnât kept the shining almost entirely to himself over the years, Dan would not have presumed to contradict a dying man . . . especially one with such coldly inquisitive blue eyes. The truth, however, was that one or both of his double dreams were often predictive, usually in ways he only half understood or did not understand at all. But as he sat on the toilet seat in his underwear, now shivering (and not just because the room was cold), he understood much more than he wanted to.
Tommy was dead. Murdered by his abusive uncle, most likely. The mother had committed suicide not long after. As for the rest ofthe dream . . . or the phantom hat heâd seen earlier, spinning down the sidewalk . . .
Stay away from the woman in the hat. Sheâs the Queen Bitch of Castle Hell.
âI donât care,â Dan said.
If you mess with her, sheâll eat you alive .
He had no intention of meeting her, let alone messing with her. As for Deenie, he wasnât responsible for either her short-fused brother or her child neglect. He didnât even have to carry around the guilt about her lousy seventy dollars anymore; she had sold the cocaineâhe was sure that part of the dream was absolutely trueâand they were square. More than square, actually.
What he cared about was getting a drink. Getting drunk, not to put too fine a point on it. Standing-up, falling-down, pissy-assed drunk. Warm morning sunshine was good, and the pleasant feeling of muscles that had been worked hard, and waking up in the morning without a hangover, but the priceâall these crazy dreams and visions, not to mention the random thoughts of passing strangers that sometimes found their way past his defensesâwas too high.
Too high to bear.
15
He sat in the roomâs only chair and read his John Sandford novel by the light of the roomâs only lamp until the two town churches with bells rang in seven oâclock. Then he pulled on his new (new to him, anyway) boots and duffel coat. He headed out into a world that had changed and softened. There wasnât a sharp edge anywhere. The snow was still falling, but gently now.
I should get out of here. Go back to Florida. Fuck New Hampshire, where it probably even snows on the Fourth of July in odd-numbered years .
Hallorannâs voice answered him, the tone as kind as he remembered from his childhood, when Dan had been Danny, butthere was hard steel underneath. You better stay somewhere, honey, or you wonât be able to stay anywhere .
âFuck you, oldtimer,â he muttered.
He went back to the Red Apple because the stores that sold hard liquor wouldnât be open for at least another hour. He walked slowly back and forth between the wine cooler and the beer cooler, debating, and finally decided if he was going to get drunk, he might as well do it as nastily as possible. He grabbed two bottles of Thunderbird (eighteen percent alcohol, a good enough number when whiskey was temporarily out of reach), started up the aisle to the register, then stopped.
Give it one more day. Give yourself one more chance .
He supposed he could do that, but why? So he could wake up in bed with Tommy again? Tommy with half of his skull caved in? Or maybe next time it would be Deenie, who had lain in that tub for two days before the super finally got tired of knocking, used his passkey, and found her. He couldnât know that, if Emil Kemmer had been here he would have agreed most emphatically, but he did. He did know. So why bother?
Maybe this hyperawareness will pass. Maybe itâs just a phase, the psychic equivalent of the DTs. Maybe if you just give it a little more time . . .
But time changed. That was something only drunks and junkies understood. When you couldnât sleep, when you were afraid to look around because of what you might see, time elongated and grew sharp teeth.
âHelp you?â the clerk asked, and
Even if he hadnât kept the shining almost entirely to himself over the years, Dan would not have presumed to contradict a dying man . . . especially one with such coldly inquisitive blue eyes. The truth, however, was that one or both of his double dreams were often predictive, usually in ways he only half understood or did not understand at all. But as he sat on the toilet seat in his underwear, now shivering (and not just because the room was cold), he understood much more than he wanted to.
Tommy was dead. Murdered by his abusive uncle, most likely. The mother had committed suicide not long after. As for the rest ofthe dream . . . or the phantom hat heâd seen earlier, spinning down the sidewalk . . .
Stay away from the woman in the hat. Sheâs the Queen Bitch of Castle Hell.
âI donât care,â Dan said.
If you mess with her, sheâll eat you alive .
He had no intention of meeting her, let alone messing with her. As for Deenie, he wasnât responsible for either her short-fused brother or her child neglect. He didnât even have to carry around the guilt about her lousy seventy dollars anymore; she had sold the cocaineâhe was sure that part of the dream was absolutely trueâand they were square. More than square, actually.
What he cared about was getting a drink. Getting drunk, not to put too fine a point on it. Standing-up, falling-down, pissy-assed drunk. Warm morning sunshine was good, and the pleasant feeling of muscles that had been worked hard, and waking up in the morning without a hangover, but the priceâall these crazy dreams and visions, not to mention the random thoughts of passing strangers that sometimes found their way past his defensesâwas too high.
Too high to bear.
15
He sat in the roomâs only chair and read his John Sandford novel by the light of the roomâs only lamp until the two town churches with bells rang in seven oâclock. Then he pulled on his new (new to him, anyway) boots and duffel coat. He headed out into a world that had changed and softened. There wasnât a sharp edge anywhere. The snow was still falling, but gently now.
I should get out of here. Go back to Florida. Fuck New Hampshire, where it probably even snows on the Fourth of July in odd-numbered years .
Hallorannâs voice answered him, the tone as kind as he remembered from his childhood, when Dan had been Danny, butthere was hard steel underneath. You better stay somewhere, honey, or you wonât be able to stay anywhere .
âFuck you, oldtimer,â he muttered.
He went back to the Red Apple because the stores that sold hard liquor wouldnât be open for at least another hour. He walked slowly back and forth between the wine cooler and the beer cooler, debating, and finally decided if he was going to get drunk, he might as well do it as nastily as possible. He grabbed two bottles of Thunderbird (eighteen percent alcohol, a good enough number when whiskey was temporarily out of reach), started up the aisle to the register, then stopped.
Give it one more day. Give yourself one more chance .
He supposed he could do that, but why? So he could wake up in bed with Tommy again? Tommy with half of his skull caved in? Or maybe next time it would be Deenie, who had lain in that tub for two days before the super finally got tired of knocking, used his passkey, and found her. He couldnât know that, if Emil Kemmer had been here he would have agreed most emphatically, but he did. He did know. So why bother?
Maybe this hyperawareness will pass. Maybe itâs just a phase, the psychic equivalent of the DTs. Maybe if you just give it a little more time . . .
But time changed. That was something only drunks and junkies understood. When you couldnât sleep, when you were afraid to look around because of what you might see, time elongated and grew sharp teeth.
âHelp you?â the clerk asked, and
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