Doyle After Death by John Shirley Page A

hang?”
    â€œThey haven’t hung me yet,” I said. “That I remember.”
    Bolliver looked at me. “I didn’t mean you.” He looked me up and down—­literally starting at my head. “You one of the new ones?”
    â€œNick Fogg,” I said, sticking out my hand.
    Bolliver shook hands. His grip was limp and tentative, as if he were afraid I’d steal his fingers. He dropped his hand, turned his head to watch Mrs. Singh as she went in the house with her husband.
    â€œBeen behaving yourself, Bolliver?” Doyle asked.
    Bolliver grinned wolfishly, then shut the grin suddenly away. “Me? How about you? How about him?” He pointed at me. “And them in the house! How about them! Don’t pick on me. I had enough of that in life. I won’t take it, not from the mayor and not from any of the oh so delicate ­people in town and not even from you, Sherlock.”
    â€œMy name is Conan Doyle,” said the creator of Sherlock Holmes wearily. “It is certainly not Sherlock. What brings you to our house formulating, Bolliver? It was understood to be by invitation.”
    Bolliver covered his mouth with his hand. Then he put his hands in his pockets, suddenly emanating self-­consciousness. “Passing by. Was taking a walk on the trail. Was looking. Was seeing things.”
    â€œYeah?” I asked. “What things?”
    â€œForgetters. And that crazy bastard Moore.” Bolliver grinned again. “And who knows what else?”
    He shrugged theatrically, and walked off, thrusting his hands in his khaki pockets.
    â€œThe time will come,” Doyle muttered, “when I’ll have to have a regrettably extensive conversation with that deplorable man.”

 
    FIFTH
    I went with the major back to his bar, had a ­couple of drinks, and thought about all I’d seen. In a way, building things here wasn’t so very different from back in the Before. There, too, you had to imagine what you were going to build, and take substances from the world around you, combine them, and build it all up so it held together. But in the afterworld, if you had formulation skills you didn’t need tools for most of it. You thought and felt it into existence. But it wasn’t instantaneous or easy—­it required top-­notch proficiency. It made me wonder, again, what Merchant’s place was like. Mayor Chauncey seemed to hint it was as tasteless as it was impressive.
    â€œWe go through the swamp to get to Merchant’s place, Major?” I asked, idly spinning my empty highball glass on the bar. “Why’s Merchant live so far from town?”
    Brummigen shrugged, and took the glass from my hand before I could break it. “Merchant needs plenty of room to expand, he says.” He looked toward the door. “Here comes Doyle . . .”
    Significantly less jolly than before whatever “luncheon” had been, Doyle waved at me from the open door. “Ready?”
    â€œNever more. Hell, I sound like a raven. Let’s go.”
    â€œI actually heard a bird damnably like a raven say that once, down the street here,” Brummigen said, as I paid for my drinks.
    We headed out, Doyle seeming very quiet, not his usual affable self.
    â€œHere, mind if we stop by my digs?” he asked, when we got to the corner. “Just for a tick. Need a quick look-­in.”
    â€œSure, Mr. Doyle.” We turned the corner, going down a side street luxuriant with blossoming shrubs and fully leafed trees. Birds sang—­it sounded like they were singing old television theme songs, but they probably weren’t.
    I glanced at Doyle. “Uh—­should I call you ‘Sir Arthur’?”
    â€œNo need for the formalities. There are no knights, no barons, nothing of that kind here, and it’s better for it. I never wanted the knighting—­accepted it to make my mother happy. And I never much