The Gray Caps

Music by Steve Kilbey, Peter Koppes, Tim Powles, Marty Willson-Piper
Words from the book Shriek: An Afterword by Jeff VanderMeer

Appears On:

The words on this track are abridged from Shriek: An Afterword, Part One, end of Chapter 5 – pp. 108-111 (Ltd. Ed. pp. 96-99).

Narration

[rev. May 21, 2010]

"Do you think she can see us from in there?"
"Naw—she's busy."
"She's deep in thought, she is—but what could she be thinking about?"

"How long's she been in there?"
"Seven days. I bring her food and drink. I take it out again. She's got enough paper in there to last another week."

"Wasn't her brother the mad historian who went digging into the secrets of the gray caps? Didn't he go under the city?"
"He's there now, some say, along with the snails and the cursed gray caps."
"What's she do then?"
"Not much of anything now."
"What could she be typing so furiously?"
"The story of your life. A history of pubs and bars. How should I know."
"Whatever it is, it must be important. To her."
"Funny. That typewriter's like an echo. It falls away when we stop talking."
"Yes, yes it does! Do you think she's...?"
"Naw—I must be wrong. Hasn't got anything to do with us. Hasn't got anything to do with us."

Narration from the beginning of the short film:

"Do you think she can see us from in there?"
"Naw—she's busy."
"She's deep in thought, she is—but what could she be thinking about?"
"About the next word she puts her finger to."

"How long's she been in there?"
"Seven days. I bring her food and drink. I take it out again. She's got enough paper in there to last another week."

"Does she tip well?"
"Well enough. I don't mind her. She's no trouble. Not like you lot.
"That's a rough thing to say."
They are starting to annoy me. I can't keep them out of the text. Everything around me is feeding into it—every dust mote, every nick in the floor, the surface of this desk, the cloudiness of the windows. I cannot keep it out right now.

"Wasn't her brother the mad historian who went digging into the secrets of the gray caps? Didn't he go under the city?"
"He's there now, some say, along with the snails and the cursed gray caps."
"What's she do then?"
"She's an art gallery owner, or was. Not much of anything now. Used to always be seen with that friend of hers, Sybel, I think."
"What could she be typing so furiously?"
"The story of your life. A history of pubs and bars. How should I know."
"Whatever it is, it must be important. To her."
"Her typewriter's like an echo. It falls away when we stop talking."
"Yes, yes it does! Do you think she's...?"
She's what? Typing your inane speech, perhaps?
"Naw—I must be wrong. She's not typing us. Hasn't got anything to do with us."
My hands are cramping. My stomach growls. The clock on the wall tells me I've been here so much longer than I thought. And I am sick of these fools.
Even ghosts can take a walk, so why not me?

Original Text from Shriek: An Afterword:

"Do you think she can see us from in there?"
"Naw—she's busy."
"She's deep in thought, she is—but what could she be thinking about, do you think?"
"About the next word she puts her hard finger to."
Distractions abound. Sometimes they become part of the story. Anyway:
The careful reader will remember that when I last left off the story of my final confrontation with Mary Sabon and her necklace of flesh—which, if you will remember, consisted, before the metaphor came to life and lurched forward, of two dozen of those social climbers who had become convinced she was the best historian since my brother—I was walking down the marble stairs in their direction.
I descended to the foot of the stairs. The marble shone like glass; my face and those of the others reflected back at me. The assembled guests slowly fell apart into their separate bead selves. Blank-eyes beads wink-winking at me as they formed a corridor to Sabon. Smelling of too little or too much perfume. Shedding light by embracing shadows. A series of stick-figures in a comedy play.
"What can she be typing so furiously?"
"How long's she been in there?"
"At least five days. I bring her food and drink. I take it out again. She's enough paper in there to last another week."

"Does she tip well?"
"Well enough. I don't mind her. She's no trouble. Not like you lot."
"That's a rough thing to say."
They are beginning to annoy me. I cannot keep them out of the text. Everything around me is going into the text—every dust mote, every scuff upon the floor, the unevenness of this desk, the clouded quality of the windows. I cannot keep it out right now.

"I say again: What's she typing in there? Clack-clack-clack—it's disturbing my peace of mind."
"Wasn't her brother the writer?"
"Obviously not the only one in the family."
"You must be new to this conversation."
"What's she writing, do you think?"
"The story of your life, Steen. A history of the Cappans. How should I know?"
"Whatever it is, it must be important. To her."
Pickled eyes in pickled light. A glimpse of cheddar-wedge nose.
"Funny. It's like an echo. It falls away when we stop talking."
...
"See. No typing. Do you think she's...?"
She's what? Typing your inane speech, perhaps? Why not? You've become my companions after a fashion. Although I've never talked to them, I've shared this place with them for days now. I ought to feel grateful for their interest. I ought to get out of this dank back room and go over and suggest a game of darts.
"Naw—she's not typing us. Hasn't got anything to do with us."
I think I'll go for a walk. I'm going to go for a walk. My hands are cramping. My stomach growls. The clock on the wall tells me I've been here much longer than I thought.
Even ghosts can take a walk, so why not me?