Philip K. Dick - The Hanging Stranger.pdf - Philip K.Dick - margozap

THE HANGING

STRANGER

Philip K. Dick

At five o'clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his

car out and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired.

His back and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement and

wheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had done

okay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and he

liked the idea of repairing the foundations himself.

It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurrying

commuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles and

packages, students, swarming home from the university, mixing with

clerks and businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for

a red light and then started it up again. The store had been open without

him; he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over the

records of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He drove

slowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, the town

park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES AND

SERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn.

Again he passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountain

and bench and single lamppost.

From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,

swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolled

down his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display of some

kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in the

square.

Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the

park and concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it

was a display it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and he

swallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands.

It was a body. A human body.

"Look at it!" Loyce snapped. "Come on out here!"

Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripe

coat with dignity. "This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guy standing

there."

"See it?" Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted up

against the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. "There it is.

How the hell long has it been there?" His voice rose excitedly. "What's

wrong with everybody? They just walk on past!"

Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. "Take it easy, old man. There must

be a good reason, or it wouldn't be there."

"A reason! What kind of a reason?"

Fergusson shrugged. "Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put that

wrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know?"

Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. "What's up, boys?"

"There's a body hanging from the lamppost," Loyce said. "I'm going to

call the cops."

"They must know about it," Potter said. "Or otherwise it wouldn't be

there."

"I got to get back in." Fergusson headed back into the store. "Business

before pleasure."

Loyce began to get hysterical. "You see it? You see it hanging there? A

man's body! A dead man!"

"Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee."

"You mean it's been there all afternoon?"

"Sure. What's the matter?" Potter glanced at his watch. "Have to run.

See you later, Ed."

Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along the sidewalk.

Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiously at the

dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid any

attention.

"I'm going nuts," Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb and

crossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him. He

gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green.

The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a

gray suit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had never

seen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned away, and in

the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skin was

gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. A pair of

steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. His eyes

bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue.

"For Heaven's sake," Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his

nausea and made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over,

with revulsion—and fear.

Why? Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it

mean?

And—why didn't anybody notice?

He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. "Watch it!"

the man grated. "Oh, it's you, Ed."

Ed nodded dazedly. "Hello, Jenkins."

"What's the matter?" The stationery clerk caught Ed's aim "You look

sick."

"The body. There in the park."

"Sure, Ed." Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES AND

SERVICE. "Take it easy."

Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. "Something

wrong?"

"Ed's not feeling well."

Loyce yanked himself free. "How can you stand here? Don't you see it?

For God's sake—"

"What's he talking about?" Margaret asked nervously.

"The body!" Ed shouted. "The body hanging there!"

More people collected. "Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed?"

"The body!" Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught

at him. He tore loose. "Let me go! The police! Get the police!"

"Ed—"

"Better get a doctor!"

"He must be sick."

"Or drunk."

Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.

Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Men

and women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past them

toward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man, showing

him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the service counter,

setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically. His voice was

lost in the roar of traffic and the murmuring around him.

"Do something!" he screamed. "Don't stand there! Do something!

Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on!"

The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops moving

efficiently toward Loyce.

"Name?" the cop with the notebook murmured.

"Loyce." He mopped his forehead wearily. "Edward C. Loyce. Listen to

me. Back there—"

"Address?" the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly through

traffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against the seat,

exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath.

"1368 Hurst Road."

"That's here in Pikeville?"

"That's right." Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. "Listen to

me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost—"

"Where were you today?" the cop behind the wheel demanded.

"Where?" Loyce echoed.

"You weren't in your shop, were you?"

"No." He shook his head. "No, I was home. Down in the basement."

"In the basement?"

"Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement

frame. Why? What has that to do with—"

"Was anybody else down there with you?"

"No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school." Loyce looked

from one heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flickered across his face, wild

hope. "You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I

didn't get in on it? Like everybody else?"

After a pause the cop with the notebook said: "That's right. You missed

the explanation."

"Then it's official? The body—it's supposed to be hanging there?"

"It's supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see."

Ed Loyce grinned weakly. "Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deep

end. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something like

the Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists taking

over." He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his hands

shaking. "I'm glad to know it's on the level."

"It's on the level." The police car was getting near the Hall of Justice.

The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lights had not yet

come on.

"I feel better," Loyce said. "I was pretty excited there, for a minute. I

guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need to take

me in, is there?"

The two cops said nothing.

"I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm all right,

now. No more trouble. Is there any need of—"

"This won't take long," the cop behind the wheel interrupted. "A short

process. Only a few minutes."

"I hope it's short," Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for a stoplight.

Philip K. Dick - The Hanging Stranger.pdf

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