Finding Duncan

by F.W. Armstrong

Chapter 3

He heard singing. It was a quick sound that seemed to come from high within the building's upper levels. He listened, thought it would repeat itself, but it didn't, and he decided it was only a memory which swells and dissipates. The building had to be home to a million such memories that flitted about like insects, as short-lived as Mayflies.

*****

"Mr. Biergarten, this is my son. His name's Duncan. That's a foolish name, I know. It was his mother's idea. He popped out, and she declared that Duncan was his name, and that I could go piss up a rope if I didn't like it."

Ryerson gave Towne a quick, sullen nod, then looked at Duncan again--smooth, slightly jaundiced complexion, dark, narrow eyebrows, thinning black hair, deep brown eyes open partway, as if he were near sleep. "You said he was how old, Mr. Towne?"

"He's twenty-nine. He'll be thirty in March. Got his damned doctorate when he was twenty. Pretty good, wouldn't you say? I never went to college. He started when he was fifteen."

"That can be a burden in itself," Ryerson said, more to himself than to Towne.

"Sure it can," Towne said. "I know it can. Shit, it wasn't his only burden."

"Oh?" Ryerson glanced at Towne, who shrugged. "He shouldered more burdens than most of us, Biergarten. More than I've ever shouldered, anyway. And I'd say more than you have, too."

*****

Ryerson saw three gray metal doors; all bore a small square window laced with what looked like chicken wire. Two of these doors were closed, but another, closest to him, stood open a few inches. "The elevator's not working, Mr. Biergarten," the city historian had told him, "so if you find it necessary to go above the first floor, you're going to have to take the stairs. I believe most of the doors are locked, though the master key I gave you will work."

Ryerson heard the chirpings of birds close by. Two or three small birds, he guessed. Not pigeons. Smaller than pigeons, and quieter. Perhaps they were beyond the partially open door—it was marked "Stairway." Perhaps they had gotten into the building from above, through a broken window. Perhaps they lived in the building—parakeets or budgies once used in therapy. Such birds made a soothing noise. And their lives were simple.

The birdsong ended abruptly and Ryerson remembered listening once at his bedroom window to the mingled chirping and twittering of many small morning birds. He thought there must have been fifty of them, and he listened for a few minutes, cheered by their happy noise. Then the noise stopped all at once, exactly as if someone had flipped an "off" switch. Within moments, the birdsong started again. And, seconds later, it stopped. No birds lingered on a note—the various, mingled songs ended abruptly, in unison. What an amazing example of communication, Ryerson thought, for clearly there had been a common purpose to their song—once that purpose had been satisfied, or interrupted, the song ended abruptly. And clearly now, too, the birds on the other side of the gray metal door marked "Stairway" were done with their song, for the moment. What a comforting idea in a place such as this—a building given over to the treatment of mental anarchy and anguish becomes, in its abandonment, a home for songbirds.

The twittering and chirping started again, though louder now, less comforting, and more shrill, as if the birds were in a panic. Within seconds, the twittering and chirping stopped in unison. Predator? Ryerson thought.

So many right angles. So much gray and beige. It was architecture designed simply to achieve static neutrality. He frowned.

"Hello," he heard. He looked quickly left, right, saw no one.

I heard no hello, he told himself. He had heard merely one of a million memories flitting about in this place, one of a million Hellos floating in the dead past.

"Hello," he heard. "Hello," he heard again, in a different voice, the voice of a child. "Hello," he heard.

"Hello," he whispered.

"Hello," he heard.

"How are you, then?" he heard.

"Hello," he heard.

"How are you, then?"

"I'm tired," he heard.

"Hello."

"Hello," Ryerson whispered.

"How are you, then? Are you feeling better?"

"Yes," Ryerson whispered.

"Are you feeling better? Are you feeling better?"

"Yes," Ryerson whispered.

"I'm feeling okay," he heard.

"No," he heard.

"My face itches," he heard. "Scratch my face. It itches. It itches."

"Please, how are you, then?"

"My face itches."

"Can't you see it?"

"Yes," Ryerson whispered to the dead air.

"My blood hurts."

"How are you, then? You look well."

"No," Ryerson whispered to no one in particular.

"My blood hurts. It has nails in it. See them?"

"We have just the cure for that."

"Hello," Ryerson heard.

"Hello," he whispered.

He felt something touch his shoulder from behind. He whirled about.

A short, round-faced, smiling man with lots of salt and pepper hair who smelled faintly of onions, and who was dressed in gray overalls, said, "Hello. Can I help you?" The man carried a mop, which rested against his shoulder.

Ryerson sighed. "You scared the Bejessus out of me."

The man's smile grew broader. "I haven't heard that word in a long time."

Ryerson noted the man's name in blue stitching above his left breast pocket—Tony. Ryerson said, "Tony, I have permission to be here—"

"Of course you do," Tony cut in. "I know you do." His broad smile seemed to be stuck on his face. He went on, "You hear them, too, ain't that right?"

Ryerson hesitated only a moment, then said, "Yes. I do."

"Ghosts," Tony said, and glanced about. "You can't see 'em, but you can hear 'em." He smiled again.

"You're the janitor?" Ryerson asked.
Tony glanced at his mop, forehead creased, as if he were confused. Then he nodded, looked at Ryerson, and said, "Uh-huh. And you are?"

"Ryerson Biergarten." He extended his hand.

Tony glanced at Ryerson's hand, then at Ryerson's face, then at Ryerson's hand again. At last, he took Ryerson's hand, gripped it hard, shook it once, twice, then abruptly let go of it. "Odd name," he said. "Biergarten. Germanic?"

Germanic? Ryerson thought. "Yes," he said.

Tony nodded thoughtfully. "Had a sister name Gwendolyn who was Germanic. Died in the big war."

"The big war? You mean the first world war?" The man didn't look to be much past fifty-five, hardly old enough to have had a sister in the first world war.

Tony nodded, his gaze on the white ceiling. "Gwendolyn, yes. Good person. Easy to know. Died from eating bad pies. Blueberry." He looked confused again, and added, "Or maybe it was pumpkin." He looked at Ryerson. "I loved her dearly. We all did. She died in the big war."

"Yes, so you said."

"I know, I know." He smiled again. "We grow old, we grow old, we grow repetitious." He grinned, as if at a private joke. "You will too, someday." He gestured with his free hand toward the partially open door. "You hear the birds?"

Ryerson nodded. "I did, yes."

Tony shook his head a little. "Ain't birds."

"Sorry?"

"You think they're birds, you think they're birds, but they ain't birds." He smiled again, very broadly, revealing lots of large teeth and gray gums. The faint odor of onions grew less faint.

Ryerson said, "I'm surprised they keep a janitor working here—"

"Sanitary engineer," Tony corrected.

"Certainly."

"And what about that first name, eh? Ryerson. Ain't Germanic, I'm sure. 'Bout as Germanic as egg foo young. I'm thinkin' it's...what? English? Welsh?"

"English."

"'Course it is. 'Bout as English as Winston Churchill. Very English. What'd you have—English mother and Germanic father?"

Ryerson nodded. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

Tony nodded slowly. "I had a Germanic mother. She died in the war. Not the big war. Gwendolyn died in the big war. Bad pies. I told you that. My mother died in the other war. No bad pies in that war. She died of magnificence."

"Sorry? 'Magnificence'?"

Tony smiled again. His teeth were larger, now. His gums were darker. The smell of onions had become overpowering. He said, "She's here." He lifted his chin to indicate the floors above. "Up there. Go see her. She'd love it. Gets no visitors. Ever. Can you imagine that?" He lowered his chin; his smile evaporated. He cocked his head, looked confused, glanced at his mop, still resting against his shoulder, glanced at Ryerson, the ceiling, the mop, the ceiling again, Ryerson. "Huh?" he said. And he was gone.

The strong odor of onions lingered for a few seconds, and then it too was gone.

"Good Lord," Ryerson said.

*****

Copyright 2003 by F.W. Armstrong

F.W. Armstrong has been in and out of the world of dark fantasy for a decade and a half. His first two novels, “ The Changing,” (TOR BOOKS, NYC, 1985) and “The Devouring,” (TOR, 1987) were critical successes, but he has yet to release a third novel. “Finding Duncan,” he tells us, should be released by Leisure Books, NYC, some time in 2005.