Cara's Choice
Part Four
By Andrew Warwick

***********

This file is free to be distributed, but can not be changed, reproduced or sold in any form, and all content is Copyright © 2009 by Andrew Warwick.

This story is part of the Pure Escapism collection, further stories, as well as regular updates, of which can be found at 

***********

A dinner interrupted.

As they entered the small Indian restaurant, it became readily apparent from the reactions of the staff within that Max had not only been there before, but was something of a regular.  The young lady who ushered them to the back of the restaurant where a small table waited for them laughed and chatted amiably away with him.
While the words that were being were reaching Cara, they were passing her by without registering meanings; the events of the last couple of days had begun to catch up with her and she was beginning to feel bone weary, utterly exhausted.  She barely noticed as they took their seats, or the menus being set before them.  It took her brain a few moments to alert her to what her ears were telling her, that Max had been speaking to her.
"Cara?"  There was a touch of concern on the scruffy haired man's face.
She replied with a wan smile, apologetic and tired.  "Sorry.  I was miles away."
Max nodded.  "I can see that.  It is understandable though."
"What was it you were asking?"
His reply was half a smile.  "Nothing of importance.  Just asking what you thought you might like to have."
"Oh.  Oh.  I'm not too sure really.  What do you recommend."
He picked up the menu before him.  "Depends on how hot you like it," he replied, smile broadening into a grin.  "They mark the dishes with stars on the menu to tell you how hot they are, comparatively.    If it has one star, it is mild.  Two is for moderate dishes and three for so hot it is like a mouthful of molten lava burning out your taste buds.  I recommend sticking clear of that unless you like really hot food."
Cara decided in the end to go with the buttered chicken, accompanied by spicy naan bread and a glass of juice.  She didn't quite catch the name of the dish that Max ordered, but when it arrived, the smell alone almost brought tears to the eye.  It looked hot, with chillies floating around in some thick red stew.
"That looks lethal."
"Near enough," Max said.  "First time I ever tried it, I almost blacked out," he told her, no trace of a joke in his tone.  "I had sweat pouring off me, my vision was blurring and I could feel my heart thumping away.  It was amazing."
Cara slowly shook her head.  "You are crazy."
"More than a little," he agreed.  "I don't suffer from insanity though, I enjoy it.  Seeing what I have, it pays to be a little mad at times."
"So how did you get mixed up in all of this then?"
"I was recruited," Max explained between mouthfuls of his meal.  "Originally I was just a police officer.  Nothing special, just your average officer out on the beat, doing my job day in and day out.  Them one day, a couple of men approached me, looking for some assistance."  He dipped some of his naan bread into the rich red stew, taking a bite from it.  "At first I thought they were trying to suss me out, seeing whether I could be bought off.  Turns out though that they worked for Mister Cavanaugh and they were simply seeking someone with my skills."
"A cop."
Max gave a wry smile.  "Partially, yes.  I was already aware of all that other stuff before I became a police officer though."
"You knew about it before you were a cop?"
Max nodded slowly, dipping some more bread into his stew.  "Yes.  I grew up hearing stories about old Great Aunt Maude and mad Uncle Andrew and what they used to get up too.  Not that I believed they were anything more than stories at first, but later on, well, there was evidence you couldn't ignore.  Even without that, I am sure that I would have figured it out, sooner or later.  You can’t see the things we did out on the street and not be aware that something is a little odd."
"You mean as a cop?" Cara asked him.
"Yes.  There was too much weird stuff going on to simply ignore.  Nothing overt, mind, nothing that you could use as definitive proof.  Just hints and echoes and shadows, whispers in the dark. And neither could you really talk about it, least they thought you were going crazy," he added, a wry smile playing across his face.  "Or crazier.  Still, after you got a few drinks in you, stories did start to come out.  Edward was more interested in the fact I had seen this and knew the world, more than that I was simply a police officer.  So I ended up doing a few odd jobs for him.  After that?"  He shrugged.  "After that my old job seemed less important.  There were others who could do it just as well, if not better, but very few who were aware of what I knew and could protect society from what lurked in the shadows, even if they were unaware that anything lurked in them to start with.  So here I am today."
Cara was about to speak in response when Max's phone rang.  He held up a finger to interrupt her as he removed the phone from his pocket, flipping it open and raising it to his ear.
"Max here."
Whoever it was that spoke went on for some time, Max subconsciously nodding in reply as he listened.  "Now?" he finally asked.  "Yes, yes.  Give me, oh, fifteen minutes.  Right, yes, see you then.  Bye."  He snapped the phone shut and returned it to his pocket.  "Sorry about that, but something has come up."
"You have to go, don’t you?"
Max nodded, an almost scowl forming.  "Yes, unfortunately.  Will you be okay to find your way back?  I don't know how long I'll be."
"I can manage I am sure."
Max gave a brief grin.  "It is always the case.  I'll settle the bill on the way out."
"There is no need for that," Cara protested.
"I insist," he told her, pulling on his jacket.  "Have a good evening Cara, and I am certain that I shall see you again soon."

***********

Of memories and the long walk home.

Cara finished her meal in silence, the smooth taste of it barely registering as slowly, part by part, her mind and body began to switch off.  She checked her watch.
It was barely past eight, still early in the evening, but all she wanted to do was to get home and to crawl into bed and fall asleep.
Home.  It seemed a strange thing to say, let alone to come to terms with.  Home.  A simple word, yet it was profound with meaning.  It seemed too early to call a place she had not yet even slept in home, yet it was the word that first came to mind.
Slowly she rose from the table and made her way out, thanking the staff for the meal.  They wished her a good evening and expressed a hope to see her again.
Clouds had rolled in during the day and the sky was gloomy with them, the lights of the city reflecting off them.  A light mizzle was falling, drifting down from the sky.  Pulling her coat tighter about her, tiny droplets of moisture settling upon it, Cara set off, heading back towards The Gallery and the apartment that was above it.
Her thoughts meandered, much as she did as she walked along, drifting to and fro with little concentration on any one thing in particular, simply ticking over from place and place.  Thoughts and memories and crazy notions that strung together such that she forgot what had triggered one into the next in the first place.
Amongst the rambling train of thought, something tried to grab her attention.  She pushed away the flow of thoughts, trying to reason what it was.  There were footsteps behind, growing closer.  They were too heavy to be those of a woman and though the tread seemed unhurried, it was nonetheless, step by step, growing steadily closer.
Memories of the alleyway and Thomas flared strong in her mind, memories she had no wish to recall, least of all now.  Scenarios raced to the fore, each worse than the last.  She was alone and now something was coming for her, Cara told herself.
She picked up her pace, a faint tremor beginning in her left arm, hand shaking.  She balled the hand into a tight fist, trying to control it, but it had little effect.  Her heart began to pound, and the sound of it throbbed in her ears, her breath coming faster.
Ahead was a corner and she ducked around it, breaking into a run the moment she was out of sight of whoever was behind her.  She fled, feet pounding on the damp sidewalk, as a fear began to rise in her, brought on by the memories of Thomas.  Every sound, every shadow only served to heighten it.
By the time she had reached the doorway to the apartment, her whole body was trembling, limbs and lungs burning with fatigue.  She tried to hold back terror-wrought tears as with a shaky hand she attempted to unlock the door.  It took a number of attempts but finally it was unlocked and she all but wrenched it open, slamming it shut again behind her once she was inside and quickly bolting it tight.
A sob escaped her, one of pure relief, but the shaking had not yet subsided.    Cara headed into the kitchen and found the kettle.  Filling it with water she plugged it in before rummaging around in the cupboards for a mug and some herbal tea.
When the kettle finally boiled the shakes had come to an end.  She poured the boiling water into the mug, the strong aroma of the tea rising into the air.  Cradling the mug between her hands, feeling the warmth of it flow into her, Cara  made her way into the bedroom.  Pulling a blanket around her, she slid down to sit with her back to the wall, closing her eyes and sipping at the tea.  She felt it slowly relax her and the fears that had assailed her slip away.
There was the burning desire to talk to someone, a need to release the fears in words and conversation, but who was there?  Her friends and family?  For most, she had lost contact with them over the previous year, and those that remained would never understand.  There were few options.
As she mulled it over, sipping her tea, she caught the sound of a faint noise, coming through the wall.  From the studio.  There was someone in there.  It was only because she was sitting against the wall that she had heard it.
Shrugging off the blanket, Cara rose back to her feet, heading towards the doorway and the studio.  Max had told her that there were some odd characters that used the studio, but whoever it was that was there, they would at least be someone to talk with.

***********

In which Cara meets Phineas, the Painter.

The lights within the studio were fairly dim as she opened the doors, but there was the unmistakable sound of someone humming away absently to themself, though to a tune with which Cara was unfamiliar.
Stepping inside, she looked around.  The room, at first glance, seemed empty despite the humming.  Then a flicker of movement caught her eye.  She switched on the lights and looked to where an easel and canvas had been set up.  Before it, hanging in the air by itself, was a paintbrush, dabbing away at the canvas.  There was nothing to be seen supporting it as it painted away.
After a moment a voice spoke.  "Oh, hello."
Before the easel a man faded into sight, holding onto the paintbrush.  He was an odd looking sort, with a waistcoat and top hat, big bushy sideburns and a moustache.  All that was missing, Cara felt, her mind rebelling at what she had seen, was the monocle.  The man appeared to be faintly hazy to the eye, and, more so, slightly transparent, the wall behind apparent through him.
"Do come in, do come in," the man said with a clipped accent, each word pronounced clearly and precisely.  "'Pon my word, where are my manners today.  I am Phineas Smythe-Jones, at your service.  You would be Miss Bailey, I would presume."  He removed his top hat and bowed towards her, yet, Cara noted, the paintbrush continued to work away as he released his hold upon it.
Cara's mouth opened and shut a few times as she sort for words.  She set her mug of tea down on a bench beside her, trying to compose herself.  "Um, hi," she ventured.
"Oh dear," Phineas sighed as he replaced his top hat.  "I would have expected that they would have forewarned you as to what to expect, but I am much afeared by your reaction that that appears not to have been the case."
"Not as such." Cara replied uncertainly, unable to take her eyes off of the paintbrush as it continued to work independently.  "Max did mentioned that some of the artists who use this place were a little different, but he wouldn't say how."
"That sounds precisely like something that young pup would so," Phineas said, taking a hold of the paintbrush in a translucent hand again.
"Excuse me," Cara began timidly, "But are you?  I mean, you are a.  Um."  She couldn't quite bring herself to complete the question.  It was preposterous.
"A ghost?"  Phineas seemed unconcerned by her question.  "Yes my dear, I am one of the dearly returned.  I hope you don't mind, but I let myself in seeing there was no one around to ask."
"Let yourself in?  But the door was locked.  Oh."  Realisation dawned on Cara.  Doors would not be an issue for Phineas.
Phineas hummed a brief snatch of song as he made a few brushstrokes.  "They are not exactly a concern for the likes of me," he noted cheerfully.
"If you can do that, what is to stop others coming and going likewise, and into my apartment as well?"  The thought of ghosts poking around while she slept, or worse, it was unnerving.
"I am what they call a Casper," Phineas said, without explaining who exactly they were.  "There are wards about this place.  For want of a better word, let us call them magical defences.  They stop folks from coming and going uninvited.  For those, like myself, who are deemed friendly, the wards are attuned to let us pass through unhindered into certain areas."
"And if you aren't attuned."
"Not only does it prevent you from entering, it gets a tad uncomfortable as well.  Those of us who are permitted entry, we tend to keep to ourselves and cause no troubles."  He chortled after a moment.  "Well, almost.  From time to time we like to help lend credence to the reputation this locale enjoys.  Nothing untoward, mind, just the occasional rattle of the door for visitors, or a falling object or unearthly noise."
Cara picked up her mug again to take a sip.  "I never would have thought a, um, ghost would be a painter," she said, searching for something to say, still having trouble adjusting to the unreality of the situation.
"Oh, we are generally pleasant enough chaps for the most part," Phineas replied.  "We do need something to do to pass the long years, and in my case it is painting." He paused in what he was doing and looked across at Cara.  "If it is not too presumptuous to ask, perhaps you would allow me to do a portrait of you?"
"Me?  Um, sure, I guess."
Phineas gave a nonchalant, languid wave of his hand and the canvas he had been working on slowly rose into the air and drifted away to lean against the wall.  A second, blank, canvas floated across to take its place.  Humming, Phineas once more took hold of the paintbrush in a ghostly hand and commenced work.
"Do you want me to stand anywhere in particular?" Cara asked.
"No, no.  Anywhere is fine.  It makes little difference.  If one could hazard a guess, one would think that you, perhaps, are rather new to all this?"
Cara nodded.  "Two days ago I was living an ordinary life.  Sort of.  Now?  Vampires and ghosts and magic.  It has all landed on me so quickly and no one has taken the time yet to explain anything to me."
"What is it you wish to know precisely?"
"Well, everything."
"That may take a while longer than we have available to us right now," Phineas replied, a smile splitting his spectral face.  "It would be best, I feel, to commence with the fairies and monsters."
"I was told the fae do not like to be called that."
"And so they don't.  Nor do the monsters like to be called monsters either, yet that is what they are. I can get away with it though," Phineas said cheerfully.  "I am already dead, you see.  Not much they can do to me that hasn't already been done."
"Do they have names for you?"
"Oh, many," Phineas told her with apparent lack of concern.  "Ghosts, spectres, spirits, poltergeists, the undead, the dearly returned.  They are merely words though, merely a trifle and hardly what one would call a major concern."
"Are there many of these, um, magical creatures?" Cara asked, searching for a term that seemed inoffensive.
"Not as many as there once were, alas.  Where do you think the old tales came from, my dear?  Once the fairies and monsters lived alongside humans, a great many of them.  But we humans being what we are, we were easily frightened and grew fearful of what was different.  We drove them away and destroyed those that could not hide themselves.  Those that remain are the ones who could mingle amongst humans unnoticed, or found places to hide within, such as the fairies did."
"Places to hide?  Like where?"
"Pockets of unreality."
The meaning of Phineas' reply didn’t quite make sense to Cara.  "You mean something like alternate worlds?"
"If you accept other worlds that are very, very small, then yes."  Phineas stopped painting and studied the canvas, then over to Cara.  "Yes, that appears done."
He has only just started, Cara thought.  That is impossible.  "That was rather fast," she said cautiously.
The ghost looked slightly embarrassed.  "Yes, well, I will admit that I cheated a little.  The brush does not paint as fast as the mind can, and sometimes I get carried away."
"Can I see it?"
"Please, be my guest."
Cara walked over to join Phineas at the canvas.
The painting was of her.  There was no doubt of that.  Yet, at the same time, it wasn't exactly her, at least not a version of her she had seen before.  The woman on the canvas unmistakably had her face, though perhaps a touch generous in the rendition.  The painted her had long hair, which she hadn't had for years, a few loose strands streaming on a faint breeze.
The painting was  set at night on a street somewhere in the city, skyscrapers rising in the background.  Street light gleamed off puddles of water while in the background a scruffy dog lurked.  Around her there seemed to hang a faint nimbus of light, gleaming softly.
Above the city skyline in the darkened sky, three moons were present; one full, the ones to either side of it waxing and waning.  At the sight of them she felt a chill run through her, and a strange premonition of foreboding.  Something about them seemed wrong, felt wrong.  She had never experienced a feeling like it before, but some little instinct told her that the reaction was not a good one.
"What is it?" she asked finally.
Phineas looked confused by the question.  "It is a painting."
"It doesn't look like me, not exactly.  And what is with the other details in it?"
"Ah.  You see, I paint it how I see it, not necessarily how it is.  This is you as I see you, how you are, or will be or perhaps have been.  I am simply the painter, not the one that can read the painting."
"Who can then?"
Cara had never before considered the possibility that a ghost could look troubled, yet Phineas looked so.  Deeply concerned.  "There is someone, but they are not the type you wish to meet.  No, most defiantly not."
"Who?' Cara asked, this time a touch more firmly.
"I do not recommend it, but if you are to seek answers, the one you are after is simply call the Seer."

***********