he didn't feel the way he had in the past about the diving super, not the way he ought to, because he wasn't really Eddie any more. He only looked like Eddie; inside, he was now something else.
It remained beneath the surface and moved a little closer to the awful, floating thing called a rig. It knew what it was, the way it knew so much more of this other world, now that it could be a part of it, be one of them.
The view from inside this pathetic creature was very limiting, but there were advantages. It could draw on the human's memory, at least that part it had managed to glimpse before Eddie had stopped thinking. From these memories, it knew something of what these humans were and why they were here. And it knew quite intimate things about some of the other creatures this one had associated with.
It knew that the one who had been looking out at it was Jack Pierce, that he was something called a diving supervisor, and that Eddie had liked him. They were friends. It wasn't sure what a friend really was, having none of its own - It didn't think it had - but the feeling was warm and not unpleasant.
There was another thought - it wondered how Jack Pierce would react if, now that he was dead, Eddie came up to meet him and said: "I'll bet ye did nay think tay see me again, Jack?" That might be fun, but it was pretty sure that the time wasn't right. Later, maybe, when it was more used to this peculiar shell it now inhabited.
CHAPTER TWO
1
"Sounds nice." Del Presswood mumbled the response automatically, not meaning a word. What the hell did he care about the landscaping around a backyard swimming pool? Admittedly, the cab driver was just making pleasant conversation and it cost nothing to humour him, but if people didn't insist on bragging about what they had and how great it was, then maybe his own life would seem less like an object lesson in failure.
"Which way now?" The taxi coasted to a standstill at the T-intersection and the driver waited patiently.
Del tried to get his bearings. Everything appeared different at night and it was almost impossible to read street signs, if you could find them at all. "Left," he said. The cab pulled away again. After a short distance, Del realised that he should have said 'right'. It didn't matter: all roads led to Rome and he wasn't exactly looking forward to the reception when he got back.
He watched a couple of dogs getting it together on a front lawn and envied them for a moment. They seemed to be enjoying themselves with no thought for the consequences of their actions, or the future in general. Then he remembered how that same attitude had been responsible for the mess he was in now. It wouldn't have been quite so bad if he knew that he could go back and change it, but he was fairly sure that if he were able to re-live the past three years, he'd make the same mistakes all over again. He began to feel nauseous and said: "Drop me off on this next corner, will you?"
The driver pulled up and the two of them went through the usual ritual of payment and the exchange of polite courtesies. Then the cab was moving off, the driver waving, Del waving back, everything for the sake of appearances. One time, he ought to pay at the start of the journey, or say: "You're a lousy driver and I hope your cat dies," but whenever these rebellious notions came to mind it was always too late.
The wind was bitterly cold. He kind-of hitched his shoulders up the way people do and felt a warm buzz around his body. He didn't know why that should be. Perhaps it made the hairs stand on end. The sensation didn't last, however, so he quickened his pace, hoping to generate some heat that way. When he felt even colder, he began to wonder if it was retribution for being indecisive.
The walk wasn't helping the way he'd thought it might. It was the middle of the night. The streets were deserted. No-one with half a brain would be out, unless, of course, they needed space, like him. The solitude should have brought him back to reality when, in fact, it was driving him deeper into make-believe. He just kept picturing unlikely situations - he'd say: "Hi, hon, I'm back. I missed you." She'd run up, throw her arms around his neck and reply: "And I missed you, my darling." Now, that was about as far-removed from reality as you could get.
He would have to face the truth sometime - their marriage was on the rocks: when a woman started talking divorce instead of simply going home to mother, she expected more than an apology and a bunch of red roses. Not that he had given Sally either. Carnations, maybe, and a: "Surely to God we can work this out?" His only other contribution had been to watch her digging in her heels and then follow suit himself. That was how their last skirmish had ended, with neither of them prepared to give an inch to break the resulting stalemate. He'd appealed, of course: "Be reasonable, for Christ's sake!"
Sally probably figured she was: "Get a nine-to-five job like any normal person." It wasn't intended as a suggestion, and in case he was under the mistaken impression that she might not have been serious, she'd added: "Or find yourself another family!"
The ultimatum had been impeccably timed, delivered just as he was climbing into the cab to leave for his last shift. The driver hadn't helped matters any. "I always thought my missus was the only Godzilla." he'd commented after they'd pulled out of earshot. "I never realised two of them had escaped."
Del had managed to restrain his true feelings. At least, he didn't talk about it to anyone, but he'd gathered that something must have showed because after just one day back on the rig, the men began treating him like an unexploded bomb, and were probably glad to see the back of him. That wasn't good: the toolpusher of a drilling crew ought to command respect, not fear. Maybe the same thing was happening at home, he thought. Maybe Sally was retaliating because she was afraid of him. After a few more minutes of walking, the idea seemed ludicrous - Godzilla II was afraid of no man.
He reached the house, frozen to the marrow and stood by the gate looking along the path to the front door. It didn't seem like home, merely an expensive hobby he had neither the time nor the money to pursue with any conviction. Once, he'd thought of it as their love nest, Utopia - he was young and stupid three years ago - now he only stayed for the sake of his son, Danny. A boy needed his father, certainly better guidance than his mother was prepared to offer. There was never a more pertinent example than the child's bike which had been left neglected and rusting on the front lawn. Two months ago it had been brand new, his present for Danny's third birthday; now it was ready for the tip. He couldn't blame the kid - Danny wasn't old enough to know any different. Sally was the problem.
He walked to the door and eased his key into the cylinder. The latch stuck when he tried to turn it - another one of those jobs he'd been going to do for so long it was laughable. He jiggled the key until it finally worked. He was good at that - jiggling - except, he was far better with mechanical things than he was with situations and people.
The front entrance led straight into the lounge. He closed the door quietly behind him and glanced habitually at the time on the illuminated panel of the VCR. She would be asleep. He stood in the dark, acclimatising himself, noticing how the shadows had changed since he was here last - she'd been re-arranging the furniture again. He tried not to groan out loud. Suddenly, his jaw was set and he was grinding his teeth. There was an unfamiliar smell about the place. It took him a moment or two to track it down and recognise stale pipe tobacco. Perhaps it meant nothing, but he had a nagging suspicion that he was no longer the only jiggler in Sally's life.
He tried to tell himself it didn't matter, that it was to be expected. A woman with a bastard for a husband who was only there one month in two needed more than a kid and a framed 8 x 10, to remind her that she was still a woman. Then he started to think about his needs and he stopped making excuses for her. He could feel his anger rising and the answer seemed to be a beer. It was 3.30 in the morning, he was freezing his nuts off and he couldn't think further than a cold beer! Presswood, he said to himself, you really are pathetic!
Accepting
