Walk on the Wild Side - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,101

over a century of age, and that you were photographed being buggered by Oscar Wilde in drag?”

“I don’t know what to think. Not for certain.” Collins pocketed the photographs. “I was in London during the Blitz. All of my records were destroyed in the course. Evidently I was buried in the rubble when my house took a direct hit. I lay in a coma for more than a week. No one could say how I survived. After, I had no memories. I had to learn to walk and speak all over again. But there were no scars.”

Victoria reached for a cigarette. She was trying to quit, but... “So you’re going on sixty-something. You’re certainly keeping fit.”

“I put it to good diet and regular exercise,” said Collins. “But after I discovered these photographs, strange memories of a life before the War began to haunt me.”

“Memories of a previous life?”

“Of this same life.”

Victoria glanced at her mantel clock. She usually booked sessions for one hour, but this time she must find a way to cut it short.

Collins went on: “You’ve read Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray?”

“I have,” she said carefully.

Collins withdrew the photographs and looked at them again. “I believe that the premise of the story is true. And I believe that Wilde based the character Dorian Gray on me.”

“I’m sorry.” Victoria was pouring herself more tea. “You believe that you are Dorian Gray?”

“No. Just a model for his character. I was young and pretty. Wilde used me like a woman. I think one of his set did paint a portrait of me a portrait that aged through the years, whilst I’ve remained the same.”

“And why have you just now come upon this conclusion?” Victoria had two Tarot readings scheduled for the afternoon, then an evening crystal gazing.

“I told you: these photographs,” said Collins, still fumbling with them. “Memories came back. Began to distill.”

Likely distilled single malt whiskey, Victoria thought. “What is it you wish me to do?”

Collins seemed desperate. “If this is true, then I have to find my portrait so that I can protect it.”

“Didn’t it go up with that bomb?”

“No. Of course not. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

Victoria composed herself. Loonies paid. “What you need to do, Mr Collins, is to channel your thoughts back to the last century. By doing so, you may follow the path of your portrait and rediscover your lost years. I have some gems and crystals that will assist you—aquamarine, black tourmaline and rose quartz. They are pendant to a silver chain which you must wear as you meditate upon these thoughts. You may need to reenact past experiences of profound emotional energy to help the crystals lead you back.” And she took him for fifty quid, mainly for the baubles, and after Collins left, she made doubly certain of the bolts.

Victoria Starlight then picked up her favorite cat, a monstrously obese gray tabby, and cradled her. “Oxfam, that was bloody well the craziest git we’ve ever let into our flat.”

Jonathan Collins actually had held a number of positions since the War. He was very good at middle management, but shifted positions frequently—banks, hotels, brokerage firms—before he actually reached boardroom level. He was generally well liked by his fellow workers, who gossiped that he dyed his hair, lied about his age and worked out regularly. The latter two were correct. He was a quiet, polite man, something of a womanizer, seldom drank, but would stand a round or two. When the subject of conversation turned to Collins, it was agreed that he was one of the last of the old school, born out of his age. Only a few associates, mainly female, had ever seen his collection of fin de siècle pornography.

To the best of his knowledge, Jonathan Collins had never had or considered having a homosexual experience of any sort. Then he discovered the photographs. Strange and disturbing memories began to overwhelm his dreams. Why could he remember the taste of Oscar Wilde’s come when he awoke?

Collins tried to meditate with the stones. He only grew bored, then fell asleep. After several such failures, he decided that either he didn’t know how to meditate or the woman was no more than a well-paid fake. Nonetheless, she had advised him that he might need to reenact past experiences of profound emotional energy in order to channel.

Collins waited another week, then explored the phone boxes. His dreams had become disremembered fantasies, leaving him with only a sleepless haze of uncertainty. His fellow workers