The answer soon presented itself, in the shape of the sharply defined geography surrounding me. A steep rock face rose behind the car, and on the other side of the road the hill disappeared abruptly—the only vegetation was bushes and gnarled grey trees that seemed to be making a big point of just what a hard time they were having. The warm air smelt of dust, and with no city glow the stars were bright in the blackness above.
I was on the old interior road that leads down the Baja from Tijuana to Ensenada, twisting through the dark country up along the hills. There was a time when it was the only road in those parts, but now it’s not lit, in bad repair, and nobody with any sense drives this way any more.
Now that I was out of the car I was able to recognise it as mine, and to dimly remember climbing into it in LA much earlier in the day. But this realisation faded in and out like a signal from a television station where the power is unreliable. Other memories were trying to shoulder it aside, clamouring for their time in the sun. They were artificially sharp and distinct, and trying to hide this by melding with my own recollections; but they couldn’t because the memories weren’t mine and they had no real home to go to. All they could do was overlay what was already there, like a double exposure, sometimes at the front, sometimes merely tickling like a word on the tip of your tongue.
I walked back to the car and fumbled in the glove compartment, hoping to find something else I could recognise as mine. I immediately discovered a lot of cigarettes, including an opened pack, but they weren’t my brand. I smoke Camel Lights, always have: these were Kim. Nonetheless it was likely that I’d bought them, because the opened pack still had the cellophane round the bottom half. It’s a habit of mine to leave it there, which has given my best friend Deck hours of fun taking it off and sneaking it onto the top half of the pack when I’m in the John. The memory of Deck’s trademark cackle as I yanked and snarled at a pack after such an incident suddenly bloomed in my mind, grounding me for a moment in who I was.
I screwed up my eyes tightly for a moment, and when I opened them again, I felt a little better.
The passenger seat was strewn with twists of foil and a number of cracked vials, and it didn’t take me long to work out why. A long time ago, in a past life, I used to deal a drug called Fresh. Fresh removes the ennui which comes from custom and acquaintance, and presents everything to you—every sight, emotion and experience—as if it’s happening for the first time. Part of how Fresh does this is by masking your memories, to stop them grabbing new experience and turning it into just the same old thing. Evidently I’d been trying to replicate this effect with a cocktail of other recreational pharmaceuticals, and had ended up blacking out. On an unlit mountain road, in Mexico, at night.
Great going.
But it had evidently worked, because for the time being I was back. I started the car and pulled carefully back onto the road, after a quick mental check to make sure I was pointing in the right direction. Then I tore the filter off a Kim, lit her up, and headed South.
I only passed one other car along the way, which was good, because it meant I could drive down the middle of the road and stay as far as possible from the precipitous drops which line half the route. This left me free to do a kind of internal inventory, and to start panicking about that instead. Most of the last six hours were missing, along with a number of words and facts. I could recall where I lived, for example—on the tenth floor of The Falkland, one of Griffith’s livelier apartment blocks—but not the room number. It simply wasn’t available to me. Presumably I’d remember by sight: I hoped so, because all my stuff was in there and otherwise I’d have nothing to wear.
I could remember Laura Reynolds’ name, and what she’d done to me. She’d evidently been with me for some of the journey down, in spirit at least: it must have been her who bought the cigarettes, though me who opened the pack. I didn’t really know what Laura Reynolds looked like, only how she appeared to herself, and I had no idea where she was. I’d probably had a good reason for heading for Ensenada, or at least a reason of some kind—assuming, of course, that it had been me who made the decision. Either way, now that I was here it seemed I might as well go on.
I made good time, only having to stop once, while a herd of coffee machines crossed the road in front of me. I read somewhere that they often make their way down to Mexico. I can’t see why that would be so, but there was certainly a hell of a lot of them. They came down off the hill-in silence, trooped across the road in a protective huddle, and then waddled off down the slope in an orderly line, searching for a home, or food, or maybe even some coffee beans, for all I knew.
I reached Ensenada just after midnight, and slept in the car on the outskirts of town. I dreamed of a silver sedan and men with lights behind their heads, but the message was confused and frantic, fear dancing through an internal landscape lined with doors that wouldn’t open.
When I woke up, more of my head was back in place, and I got it together to contact Stratten, patching the call through my hacker’s network so it looked like it came from LA. I said I had a migraine and wouldn’t be able to work for a couple of days. I don’t think Stratten believed me, but he didn’t call me on it. I spent the rest of the day fruitlessly searching taco stands and crumbling hotels, or driving aimlessly down rotting streets. By the evening this had led me to an inescapable conclusion.
She wasn’t here.
This edition contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition. NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
SPARES
A Bantam Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 1996
Bantam hardcover edition published/May 1997
Bantam paperback edition/February 1998
All rights reserved.
Copyright© 1997 by Michael Marshall Smith.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 96-24309
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-57398-8
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Part 1 - Dead Code
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part 2 - The Gap
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Part 3 - New Richmond
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
About the Author
Part One
Copyright