Amberville - By Tim Davys Page 0,8

department store, which meant that he didn’t complain about having missed out on the vegetable soup.

In silence they continued due south, and after a half hour or so they could no longer distinguish one block from the next. Gray concrete buildings, four or five stories high, whose lowest floors were covered with sun-bleached graffiti over rain-tattered advertisements. Here and there were shops that lacked names and that often sold unexpected combinations of wares: vegetables and handbags, liquor and plastic furniture. Eric and Tom-Tom were alone on the streets, and yet they felt they were being watched.

“Damn, how I hate this,” said Tom-Tom.

“Don’t forget that you’re the one who’s big and dangerous,” Eric reminded him.

Tom-Tom nodded to himself. He appreciated being addressed in a sort of familiar understanding, like two grownup stuffed animals making conversation. Eric Bear was the only one who used that tone of voice with him.

Just when Tom-Tom was thinking for the third time about asking whether Eric really knew where he was going, the bear nodded toward a narrow, grass-green alley some ten meters farther along on the left side. The alley seemed to disappear down a steep slope between the buildings, and it was so narrow that Tom-Tom was unsure whether there would be room for him with his wings.

“There,” said Eric.

“Are you sure? I mean, it’s frigging hard to find your way around here,” Tom-Tom pointed out, taking the last pretzels from the bag. “But I’m guessing you must have been here before.”

Eric nodded. True, it was a long time ago, so long that it almost didn’t count, but yesterday afternoon he had hastily checked. Sam Gazelle was still living at 152 Yiala’s Arch, which, by the way, was one of the few green streets in this neighborhood.

“Hope the poor devil is home,” said Tom-Tom.

“Worst case, we’ll just have to wait,” said Eric.

“Hope he’s alive,” said Tom-Tom.

“He’s the type who never dies,” said Eric.

Tom-Tom nodded and smiled. There was something to that.

The alley was not quite as narrow as the crow had thought, but the stench of urine was so overpowering that he almost turned around because of it. In some remarkable way, he had the idea that the buildings were closing behind him. When he looked over his shoulder he realized that there was nowhere to flee, if that should be required. In these neighborhoods you never knew. The crow was filled with fear. The reason he’d abandoned his previous life and started working in the notions department at Grand Divino was that he never wanted to feel like this again. Others related what happened when he fell into his black holes of panic; he himself recalled nothing. Sometimes it went well, other times not so well. It was after one of these memory losses—after he’d long since left the Casino—that he’d returned to consciousness in a small sewing notions boutique in Lanceheim. The event had awakened an interest in handwork that surprised him, and when he started at Grand Divino, life took a positive turn. His needs were not great, either. To be able to one day finish his embroidered wall hanging was a dream sufficient to give the crow happiness for many years to come.

It hadn’t taken more than an hour with Eric Bear before Tom-Tom again found himself in the situation that he thought he’d left behind for all time. His pulse pounded so that it hurt. He looked around yet again, and he thought he glimpsed something or someone there, far away. Fear seized him with a firm grasp, and the world began to spin.

“Here it is,” said Eric.

“What?”

“It’s here.”

Eric nodded toward an entryway, the first and only door in the entire long, narrow slope.

“Sam lives here?”

Eric nodded.

“What the hell!” said Tom-Tom with emphasis.

The entryway to 152 Yiala’s Arch was broken. The bear and the crow went into the building without encountering anyone, and when they reached the first stairway landing the screams were heard.

“He’s home,” declared the crow.

Eric nodded. The scream they heard was one of pain, but there had also been a concealed note of pleasure. They continued purposefully up the stairs, and right before they reached the fourth floor it became silent.

On three floors there were two closed, unmarked doors, and Eric was on his way over to the one on the right when he became hesitant. He stopped, taking a step to the left, but then made a decision.

“No, it’s the one to the right, I’m sure,” he said.

“We could always knock and ask,” suggested the