Page 2 of The Society of Unknowable Objects
“I wasn’t doing anything,” the man said suddenly, his voice almost a whine. “I wasn’t watching you.”
Yes, you were.That’s a lie. The first thing you’ve said to me is a lie.
“That’s okay,” Imelda replied, careful to keep her voice neutral.
Her eyes flicked away to the ground and her mind conjured the memory of an encounter many years before, when she had been a much younger woman alone in an Underground station in London at the end of a long night on the town. A homeless man had been there that night and he had been charming at first, a happy drunk sharing a joke with Imelda. But then, in one shocking moment, he had changed. Imelda could still picture how his smile had instantly become an aggressive sneer, how for no reason, because of nothing she had done, he had suddenly attacked her for the money he had assumed she was carrying. He had charmed her into lowering her guard and then he had beaten her, only relenting when the rush of air and the screech of brakes signalled the arrival of the train. Imelda had never forgotten how vulnerable and weak she had felt that night, lying in tears on the platform as her attacker had fled. Now, on the trail with this strange man who had been watching her and who made her feel seasick, that same horrible vulnerability chilled her to the core.
You’re alone and an hour from the car and it’s almost dark.And there’s something not right about him. What a mess you’ve got yourself into, Imelda.
The man spoke again: “I was here before you.”
Imelda nodded, trying to be agreeable and calm even as adrenaline coursed through her. “Yes,” she agreed. “I know. I’m sorry.”
The man took three awkward, scampering steps down the hillside and came to a stop a few feet in front of her. Imelda moved backwards in response, trying to judge his intent even as her whole body implored her to turn and run.
Turn and hobble, maybe. You’re not going to run anywhere in your condition. You can’t outrun him, can you?
Beneath the cap the man’s face was long and thin, tanned andweather-worn, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors, and his dark eyes kept moving, never settling anywhere and avoiding meeting Imelda’s gaze. She thought he was younger than her, maybe only just into his forties, but it was hard to be sure. The hair beneath his cap was brown, though, with no hint of grey, and he had stubble across his cheeks. There was nothing specifically wrong with the man—if anything his features might have been considered objectively handsome.
And yet...
The hairs on the back of Imelda’s neck prickled at the thought of the man watching her without her knowing. What might he have done if she hadn’t noticed him? And why was he out here in the wilderness at sunset by himself?
“I wasn’t watching you,” he said again, eyes meeting Imelda’s and then darting away.
He has a shifty look. That’s what that is. Shifty.
“I believe you,” Imelda lied.
The man dropped his gaze to Imelda’s bag where it sat on the ground like a half-deflated football. Then he ran his eyes slowly up and down her body, dispassionately, like a dressmaker assessing an outfit on a model. Imelda shivered, her mind working furiously against the overpowering seasickness, trying to understand what it was that was upsetting her sensibilities.
He has the lost thing!
The answer came out of nowhere, immediately making sense of the world. TheAtlashad led her to a lost thing somewhere nearby, and the man had been there the whole time. He had to have it, perhaps in one of his pockets. It had to be the lost thing that was making her feel so unwell.
But that answer led to other questions, other things to worry about.
What thing does he have? What might he do with it? What might he do to you, Imelda?
Imelda took another step backwards, wary of an unknown lost thing in the possession of this odd man. She would pick up her bag and make her excuses and then be on her way. Yet the man’s eyes narrowed as she moved and that simple change in his expression, like a cloud passing overa sun, multiplied her discomfort. It was too much like the change she had seen on the face of the homeless man in the Underground all those years ago, too much like the moment before his attack.
It’s happening again!
Panic exploded out of the restraints she had tried to bind it with, and all rational thought shattered into pieces. Her body made decisions for her, taking two hurried steps backwards towards her bag. On the second stride her foot found only empty space where there should have been solid ground.
Shit!
She realised her mistake immediately and a gasp escaped her. She was suddenly off-kilter, leaning backwards with nothing to counterbalance her. Her arms cartwheeled automatically, seeking purchase, andTheAtlas of Lost Thingsfluttered out of her grip, flapping in the breeze like a baby bird trying to fly. The man’s eyes and mouth widened in surprise. He darted forward, just as Imelda felt herself tipping backwards beyond the point of no return, and grasped at her with thick, dirty fingers as if trying to catch her. Imelda found that she hated the thought of him touching her, even if it was to stop her falling. His fingers made contact, scraping her clothes and catching on the crucifix that was hanging from its chain, the crucifix she had found weeks earlier in Rome. Imelda felt the chain bite into the back of her neck as it took her weight and relief and disbelief washed over her. Then there was an audiblesnikas the chain snapped, and Imelda was released into the air, tumbling out of the light and down into the shadows of the rock-strewn gully.
A memory came to her: an image of the last time she had flown, many years before, Magda smiling beside her in the air. Then the back of Imelda’s head smashed into a boulder twenty feet down the hillside and she was dead instantly.
She would stay that way for almost two years.
Part One
Adventure in the Electric Light
Magda Sparks’s Favourite Place (2025)
