by Clive Barker
No; not over.
Not quite over. A cluster of unwelcome sensations swarmed over him, intruding on the privacy of his death. A breeze warmed his face, assaulting his nerve ends. An ungracious breath choked him, pressing into his flaccid lungs without the least invitation.
He fought the resurrection, but his savior was insistent. The room began to reassemble itself around him. First light, then form. Now color, albeit drained and grimy. The noises—fiery rivers and liquid stone alike — were gone. He was hearing himself cough, and smelling his own vomit. Despair mocked him. Could he not even kill himself successfully?
Somebody said his name. He shook his head, but the voice came again, and this time his upturned eyes found a face.
And oh it was not over: far from it. He had not been delivered into Heaven or Hell. Neither would dare boast the face he was now staring up into.
“I thought I’d lost you, Anthony,” said the Last European.
He had righted the chair Breer had stood on for his suicide attempt, and was sitting on it, looking as unsullied as ever. Breer tried to say something, but his tongue felt too fat for his mouth, and when he felt it his fingers came back bloody.
“You bit your tongue in your enthusiasm,” said the European. “You won’t be able to eat or speak too well for a while. But it’ll heal, Anthony. Everything heals given time.”
Breer had no energy to get up off the floor; all he could do was lie there, the noose still tight around his neck, staring up at the severed rope depending from the light fixture. The European had obviously just cut him down and let him fall. His body had begun to shake; his teeth were chattering like a mad monkey’s.
“You’re in shock,” said the European. “You lie there … I’ll make some tea, shall I? Sweet tea is just the thing.”
It took some effort, but Breer managed to haul himself off the floor and on to the bed. His trousers were soiled, front and back: he felt disgusting. But the European didn’t mind. He forgave all, Breer knew that. No other man Breer had ever met was quite so capable of forgiveness; it humbled him to be in the company and the care of such easy humanity. Here was a man who knew the secret heart of his corruption, and never once spoke a word of censure.
Propped up on the bed, feeling the signs of life reappearing in his wracked body, Breer watched the European making the tea. They were very different people. Breer had always felt awed by this man. Yet hadn’t the European told him once: “J am the last of my tribe, Anthony, just as you are the last of yours. We are in so many ways the same.” Breer hadn’t understood the significance of the remark when he’d first heard it, but he’d come to understand in time. “I am the last true European; you are the last of the Razor-Eaters. We should try to help each other.” And the European had gone on to do just that, keeping Breer from capture on two or three occasions, celebrating his trespasses, teaching him that to be a Razor-Eater was a worthy estate. In return for this education he’d asked scarcely anything: a few minor services, no more. But Breer wasn’t so trusting that he didn’t suspect a time would come when the Last European — please call me Mr. Mamoulian, he used to say, but Breer had never really got his tongue round that comical name—when this strange companion would ask for help in his turn. It wouldn’t be an odd-job or two he’d ask either; it would be something terrible. Breer knew that, and feared it.
In dying he had hoped to escape the debt ever being called in. The longer he’d been away from Mr. Mamoulian—and it was six years since they’d last met—the more the memory of the man had come to frighten Breer. The European’s image had not faded with time: quite the contrary. His eyes, his hands, the caress of his voice had stayed crystal-clear when yesterday’s events had become a blur. It was as if Mamoulian had never quite gone, as though he’d left a sliver of himself in Breer’s head to polish up his picture when time dirtied it; to keep a watch on his servant’s every deed.
No surprise then, that the man had come in when he had, interrupting the death scene before it could be played out. No surprise either that he was talking to Breer now as though they’d never been parted, as though he was the loving husband to Breer’s devoted wife, and the years had never intervened. Breer watched Mamoulian move from sink to table as he prepared the tea, locating the pot, setting out the cups, performing each domestic act with hypnotic economy. The debt would have to be paid, he knew that now. There would be no darkness until it was paid. At the thought, Breer began to sob quietly.
“Don’t cry,” said Mamoulian, not turning from the sink.
“I wanted to die,” Breer murmured. The words came out as though through a mouthful of pebbles.
“You can’t perish yet, Anthony. You owe me a little time. Surely you must see that?”
“I wanted to die,” was all Breer could repeat in response. He was trying not to hate the European, because the man would know. He’d feel it for certain, and maybe lose his temper. But it was so difficult: resentment bubbled up through the sobbing.
“Has life been treating you badly?” the European asked.
Breer sniffed. He didn’t want a father-confessor, he wanted the dark. Couldn’t Mamoulian understand that he was past explanations, past healing? He was shit on the shoe of a Mongol, the most worthless, irredeemable thing in creation. The image of himself as a Razor-Eater, as the last representative of a once-terrible tribe, had kept his self-esteem intact for a few perilous years, but the fantasy had long since lost its power to sanctify his vileness. There was no possibility of working the same trick twice. And it was a trick, just a trick, Breer knew that, and hated Mamoulian all the more for his manipulations. I want to be dead, was all he could think.
Did he say the words out loud? He hadn’t heard himself speak, but Mamoulian answered him as though he had.
“Of course you do. I understand, I really do. You think it’s all an illusion: tribes, and dreams of salvation. But take it from me, it isn’t. There’s purpose in the world yet. For both of us.”
Breer drew the back of his hand across his swollen eyes, and tried to control his sobs. His teeth no longer chattered; that was something.
“Have the years been so cruel?” the European inquired.
“Yes,” Breer said sullenly.
The other nodded, looking across at the Razor-Eater with compassion in his eyes; or at least an adequate impersonation of same.
“At least they didn’t lock you away,” he said. “You’ve been careful.”
“You taught me how,” Breer conceded.
“I showed you only what you already knew, but were too confused by other people to see. If you’ve forgotten, I can show you again.”
Breer looked down at the cup of sweet, milkless tea the European had set on the bedside table.
“Or do you no longer trust me?”
“Things have changed,” Breer mumbled with his thick mouth.
Now it was Mamoulian’s turn to sigh. He sat on the chair again, and sipped at his own tea before replying.
“Yes, I’m afraid you’re right. There’s less and less place for us here. But does that mean we should throw up our hands and die?”
Looking at the sober, aristocratic face, at the haunted hollows of his eyes, Breer began to remember why he’d trusted this man. The fear he’d felt was dwindling, the anger too. There was a calm in the air, and it was seeping into Breer’s system.
“Drink your tea, Anthony.”
“Thank you.”
“Then I think you should change your trousers.”
Breer blushed, he couldn’t help himself.
“Your body responded quite naturally, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Semen and shit make the world go round.”
The European laughed, softly, into his tea cup, and Breer, not feeling the joke to be at his expense, joined in.
“I never forgot you,” Mamoulian said. “I told you I’d come back for you and I meant what I said.”
Breer nursed his cup in hands that still trembled, and met Mamoulian’s gaze. The look was as
unfathomable as he’d remembered, but he felt warm toward the man. As the European said, he hadn’t forgotten, he hadn’t gone away never to return. Maybe he had his own reasons for being here now, maybe he’d come to squeeze payment out of a long-standing debtor, but that was better, wasn’t it, than being forgotten entirely?
“Why come back now?” he asked, putting down his cup.
“I have business,” Mamoulian replied.
“And you need my help?”
“That’s right.”
Breer nodded. The tears had stopped entirely. The tea had done him good: he felt strong enough to ask an insolent question or two.
“What about me?” came the reply.
The European frowned at the inquiry. The lamp beside the bed flickered, as though the bulb was at crisis-point, and about to go out.
“What about you?” he asked
Breer was aware that he was on tricky ground, but he was determined not to be weak. If Mamoulian wanted help, then he should be prepared to deliver something in exchange.
“What’s in it for me?” he asked.
“You can be with me again,” the European said.
Breer grunted. The offer was less than tempting.
“Is that not enough?” Mamoulian wanted to know. The lamplight was more fitful by the moment, and Breer had suddenly lost his taste for impertinence.
“Answer me, Anthony,” the European insisted. “If you’ve got an objection, voice it.”
The flickering was worsening, and Breer knew he’d made an error, pressing Mamoulian for a covenant. Why hadn’t he remembered that the European loathed bargains and bargainers alike? Instinctively he fingered the noose-groove around his neck. It was deep, and permanent.
“I’m sorry …,” he said, rather lamely.
Just before the lamp bulb gave out completely, he saw Mamoulian shake his head. A tiny shake, like a tick. Then the room was drowned in darkness.
“Are you with me, Anthony?” the Last European murmured.
The voice, normally so even, was twisted out of true.
“Yes …,” Breer replied. His lazy eyes weren’t becoming accustomed to the dark with their usual speed. He squinted, trying to sort out the European’s form in the surrounding gloom. He needn’t have troubled himself. Scant seconds later something across the room from him seemed to ignite, and suddenly, awesomely, the European was providing his own illumination.
Now, with this lurid lantern show to set his sanity reeling, tea and apologies were forgotten. The dark, life itself, were forgotten; and there was only time, in a room turned inside out with terrors and petals, to stare and stare and maybe, if one had a sense of the ridiculous, to say a little prayer.
From Sacrament
There was a meager lamp burning beside Hugo’s bed, its sallow light throwing a monumental shadow of the man upon the wall. He was semirecumbent amid a Himalayan mass of pillows, his eyes closed.
He’d grown a beard, and nurtured it to a formidable size. A solid ten inches long, trimmed and waxed in emulation of the beards of great dead men: Kant, Nietzsche, Tolstoy. The minds by which Hugo had always judged contemporary thought and art, and found it wanting. The beard was more gray than black, with streams of white running in it from the corners of his mouth, as though he’d dribbled cream into it. His hair, by contrast, had been clipped short and lay flat to his scalp, delineating the Roman dome of his skull. Will watched him for fifteen or twenty seconds, thinking how magisterial he looked. Then Hugo’s lips parted, and very quietly he said:
“So you came back.”
Now his eyes opened and found Will. Though there was a pair of spectacles at the bedside table, he stared at his visitor as though he had Will in perfect focus, his stare as unrelenting as ever; and as judgmental.
“Hello, Pa,” Will said.
“Into the light,” Hugo said, beckoning for Will to approach the bed. “Let me see you.” Will duly stepped into the throw of the lamp to be scrutinized. “The years are showing on you,” he said. “It’s the sun. If you have to tramp the world at least wear a hat.”
“I’ll remember.”
“Where were you lurking this time?”
“I wasn’t lurking, Pa. I was—”
“I thought you’d deserted me. Where’s Adele? Is she here?” He reached out to pluck his glasses off the nightstand. In his haste he instead knocked them to the ground. “Damn things!”
“They’re not broken,” Will said, picking them up.
Hugo put them on, one-handed. Will knew better than to help. “Where is she?”
“Waiting outside. She wanted us to have a little quality time together.”
Now, paradoxically, he didn’t look at Will, but studied the folds in the bedcover, and his hands, his manner perfectly detached. “Quality time?” he said. “Is that an Americanism?”
“Probably.”
“What does it mean exactly?”
“Oh …” Will sighed. “Are we reduced to that already?”
“No, I’m just interested,” Hugo said. “Quality time.” He pursed his lips.
“It’s a stupid turn of phrase,” Will conceded. “I don’t know why I used it.”
Stymied, Hugo looked at the ceiling. Then: “Maybe you could just ask Adele to come in. I need a few toiletry items brought—”
“Who did it?”
“Just some toothpaste and some—”
“Pa. Who did it?”
The man paused, his mouth working as though he were chewing a piece of gristle. “Why do you assume I know?” he said.
“Why do you have to be so argumentative? This isn’t a seminar. I’m not your student. I’m your son.”
“Why did you take so long to come back?” Hugo said, his eyes returning to Will. “You knew where to find me.”
“Would I have been welcome?”
Hugo’s stare didn’t waver. “Not by me, particularly,” he said with great precision. “But your mother was very hurt by your silence.”
“Does Eleanor know that you’re in here?”
“I certainly haven’t told her. And I doubt Adele has. They hated one another.”
“Shouldn’t she be told?”
“Why?”
“Because she’ll be concerned.”
“Then why tell her?” Hugo said neatly. “I don’t want her here. There’s no love lost between us. She’s got her life. I’ve got mine. The only thing we have in common is you.”
“You make that sound like an accusation.”
“No. You simply hear it that way. Some children are palliatives in a troubled marriage. You weren’t. I don’t blame you for that.”
“So can we get back to the subject?”
“Which was?”
“Who did this?”
Hugo returned his gaze to the ceiling. “I read a piece you wrote in The Times, about eighteen months ago—”
“What the hell has-”
“Something about elephants. You did write it?”
“It had my name on it.”
“I thought perhaps you’d had some amanuensis write it for you. I daresay you thought you were waxing poetic, but Christ, how could you put your name to that kind of indulgence?”
“I was describing what I felt.”
“There you are then,” Hugo said, his tone one of weary resignation. “If you feel it then it must be true.”
“How I disappoint you,” Will said.
“No. No. I never hoped, so how could I be disappointed?” There was such a profundity of bitterness in this, it took Will’s breath away. “None of it means a damn thing, anyway. It’s all shit in the end.”
“Is it?”
“Christ, yes.” He looked at Will with feigned surprise. “Isn’t that what you’ve been shrieking about all these years?”
“I don’t shriek.”
“Put it this way. It’s a little shrill for most people’s ears. Maybe that’s why it’s not having any effect. Maybe that’s why your beloved Mother Earth-”
; “Fuck Mother Earth—”
“No, you first, I insist.”
Will raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, you win,” he said. “I don’t have the appetite for this. So …
“‘Oh, come now.”
“I’ll fetch Adele,” he said, turning from the bed.
“Wait-”
“What for? I didn’t come here to be sniped at. If you don’t want a peaceful conversation, then we won’t have any conversation.” He was almost at the door.
“I said wait,” Hugo demanded.
Will halted, but didn’t turn.
“It was him,” Hugo said, very softly. Now Will glanced over his shoulder. His father had taken off his spectacles and was staring into middle distance.
“Who?”
“Don’t be so dense,” Hugo said, his voice a monotone. “You know who.”
Will heard his heart quicken. “Steep?” he said. Hugo didn’t reply. Will turned back to face the bed. “Steep did this to you?”
Silence. And then, very quietly, almost reverentially, “This is your revenge. So enjoy it.”
“Why?”
“Because you won’t get another like it.”
“No, why did he do this to you?”
“Oh. To get to you. For some reason that’s important to him. He did state his devotion. Make what you will of that.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police?” Again, Hugo kept his counsel, until Will came back to the bedside. “You should have told them.”
“What would I tell them? I don’t want any part of this … connection … between you and these creatures.”
“There’s nothing sexual, if that’s what you think.”
“Oh, I don’t give a damn about your bedroom habits. Humani nil a me alienum puto. Terence—”
“I know the quote, Dad,” Will said wearily. “Nothing human is alien to me. But that doesn’t apply here, does it?”
Hugo narrowed his puffy eyes. “This is the moment you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it?” he said, his lip curling. “You feel quite the master of ceremonies. You came in here, pretending you wanted to make peace but what you really want is revenge.”
