by Clive Barker
“Are they all men?” Phoebe wanted to know.
“Most of them.”
“Hmm.”
“So Kissoon was one of a group of these people, they were called the Shoal, and they were dedicated to keeping the rest of us from ever knowing about—” She paused here a moment.
“Go on,” said Phoebe. “I’m listening.”
“About a place called Quiddity.”
“Quiddity?”
“That’s right. It’s a sea, where we go sometimes in dreams.”
“And why aren’t we supposed to know about it?” Phoebe asked. “If we go there in dreams, what’s the big secret?”
Tesla chewed on this a moment. “You know, I don’t know? I always assumed—what did I assume?—I guess I assumed that the Shoal were the wise ones, and if they lived and died keeping this secret it was because the secret needed to be kept. But now that you mention it, I don’t really know why.”
“But they’re all dead now anyway.”
“All dead. Kissoon murdered them.”
“Why?”
“So that he could eventually have control over the greatest power in the world. A power called the Art.”
“And what’s that?”
“I don’t think anyone really knows.”
“Not even this guy Kissoon?”
Tesla pondered this a moment. “No,” she said eventually, “not even Kissoon.”
“So he committed these murders to get something when he didn’t even know what the something was?” she said, her incredulity perfectly plain.
“Oh, he did more than murder. He hid the bodies in the past—”
“Oh come on.”
“I swear. He’d killed some of the most important people in the world. More important than the pope or the president. He had to hide the bodies where they’d never be found. He chose a place called Trinity.”
“What’s that?”
“The when’s more important than the where,” Tesla said. “Trinity’s where the first A-bomb was detonated. Sixteenth of June, nineteen forty-five. In New Mexico.”
“And you’re telling me that’s where he took the people he’d murdered.”
“That’s where he took ’em Except—”
“What?”
“Once he was there, he made a mistake—a little mistake—and he got himself trapped.”
“Trapped in the past?”
“Right. With the bomb ticking away. So—he made a loop of time, that went round and round on itself, always keeping that moment at bay.” Phoebe smiled and shook her head. “What?” said Tesla.
“I don’t know whether you’re crazy or what, but if you made all this up, you should be selling it. I mean, you could make a movie for TV—”
“It’s not a movie. It’s the truth. I know, because I was there three times. Three times, in and out of Kissoon’s Loop.”
“So you actually met this guy?” Phoebe said.
“Oh sure, I met him,” Tesla replied.
“And—?”
“What was he like?” Phoebe nodded; Tesla shrugged. “Hard to find the words,” she said.
“Try.”
“I’ve spent five years trying not to think of him. But he’s there all the time. Every day something—something dirty, something cruel, maybe just the smell of my own shit—reminds me of him. He wasn’t much to look at, you know? He was this runt of a guy, old and dried up. But he could turn you inside out with a look. See inside your head. See inside your guts. Work you, fuck you.” She rubbed her palms together, to warm them, but they wouldn’t be warmed.
“What happened to him?”
“He couldn’t hold the moment.”
Phoebe looked vacant. “What?”
“The little loop of time that kept the bomb from being detonated,” Tesla explained, “he couldn’t hold it.”
“So the bomb went off?”
“The bomb went off and he went with it.”
“You were there?”
“Not right there, or I would have gone up with him. But I was the last out, I’m sure of that.” She settled back in her chair. “That’s it. Or as much of it as I can tell you right now.”
“It’s quite a story.”
“And you don’t believe a word of it.”
“Some bits I almost believe. Some bits just sound ridiculous to me. And some bits—some bits I don’t want to believe. They frighten me too much.”
“So you won’t be coming with me to Erwin’s house?”
“I didn’t say that,” Phoebe replied.
Tesla smiled, and dug into the pocket of her leather jacket.
“What are you looking for?”
“Some cash,” she said. “If you’re willing to dare Lix with me, the least I can do is pay for the pizza.”
TEN
I
As the streets started to empty, Erwin began to regret his contretemps with Dolan. Though his feet ached, and he felt weary to his imagined marrow, he knew without putting it to the test that phantoms didn’t sleep. He would be awake through the hours of darkness, while the living citizens of Everville, safe behind locked doors and bolted windows, took a trip to dreamland. He wandered down the middle of Main Street like a lonely drunk, wishing he could find the woman he’d whispered to outside Kitty’s Diner. She at least had heard him, if only remotely, whereas nobody else with a heart beating in their chests even glanced his way, however loud he shouted. There’d been something special about that woman, he decided. Perhaps she’d been psychic.
He did not go entirely ignored. At the corner of Apple Street he encountered Bill and Maisie Waits, out walking their two chocolate labradors. As they approached Erwin the dogs seemed to sense his presence. Did they smell him or see him? He couldn’t be sure. But they responded with raised hackles and growls, the bitch standing her ground, the male dashing away down Apple Street, trailing his leash. Bill—who was in his fifties and far from fit—went after him, yelling.
The animal’s response distressed Erwin. He’d never owned a dog, but by and large he liked the species. Was being a phantom so profoundly unnatural a state that the nearest whiff of him was enough to make the beasts crazy?
He went down on his haunches, and softly called to the bitch.
“It’s okay . . . it’s okay . . . ” he said, extending his hand, “I’m not going to hurt anybody—”
The animal barked on ferociously, while Maisie watched her husband pursue the other dog. Erwin crept a little closer, still murmuring words of reassurance, and the bitch showed signs of hearing him. She cocked her head, and her barking became more sporadic.
“That’s it,” Erwin said, “that’s it. See, that’s not so bad, now is it?” His open hand was now maybe two feet from her nose. Her din had lost all its ferocity, and was now reduced to little more than an occasional bark. Erwin reached a little further, and touched her head. She stopped barking entirely now, and lay down, rolling onto her back to have her stomach scratched.
Maisie Waits looked down at her. “Katy, what on earth are you doing?” she said. “Get up.” She lugged on the leash, to raise the animal, but Katy was enjoying Erwin’s attentions too much. She made a little growl as though vaguely remembering that her stroker had frightened her a minute or two before, and then gave up even on that.
“Katy,” Maisie Waits said, exasperated now, then, to her husband, “Did you find him?”
“Does it look like I found him?” Bill gasped. “He’s headed off down towards the creek. He’ll find his way home.”
“But the traffic—”
“There is no traffic,” Bill said. “Well, hardly any. And he’s got lost before, for God’s sake.” Bill had reached the corner of the street now, and he stared at the recumbent Katy. “Look at you, you soft old thing,” he said fondly, and went down on his haunches beside the dog. “I don’t know what spooked him that way.”
“Me,” Erwin said, stroking the bitch’s belly along with Bill. The dog heard. She pricked her ears and looked at E
rwin. Bill, of course, heard nothing. Erwin kept talking anyway, the words tumbling out. “Listen, will you, Waits? If a mutt can hear me you damn well can. Just listen. I’m Erwin Toothaker—”
“As long as you’re sure,” Maisie was saying.
“Erwin Toothaker.”
“I’m sure,” Bill replied. “He’ll probably be home before us.” He patted Katy’s solid belly, and got to his feet. “Come on, old girl,” he said. Then, with a sly glance at his wife: “You too, Katy.”
Maisie Waits nudged him in the ribs. “William Waits,” she said in a tone of mock outrage.
Bill leaned a little closer to her. “Want to fool around some?” he said to her.
“It’s late—”
“It’s Saturday tomorrow,” Bill said, slipping his arm around his wife’s waist. “It’s either that or I ravish you in your sleep.”
Maisie giggled, and with one quick jerk on the leash got Katy to her feet. Bill kissed Maisie’s cheek, and then whispered something into his wife’s ear. Erwin wasn’t close enough to hear everything, but he caught pillow and like always. Whatever he said, Maisie returned his kiss, and they headed off down the street, with Katy casting a wistful glance back at her phantom admirer.
“Were you ever married, Erwin?”
It was Dolan. He was sitting in the doorway of Lively’s Lighting and Furniture Store, picking his nose.
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Mine went off to Seattle after I passed over. Took her seven weeks and two days to uproot and go. Sold the house, sold most of the furniture, let the lease go on the store. I was so mad. I howled around this damn town for a month, weeping and wailing. I even tried to go after her.”
“And?”
Dolan shook his head. “I don’t advise it. The further I went from Everville the more . . . vague . . . I became.”
“Any idea why?”
“Just guessing, but I suppose me and this place must be connected, after all these years. Maybe I can’t imagine myself in any other place. Anyhow, I don’t weep and wail any more. I know where I belong.” He looked at Erwin. “Speaking of which, I came looking for you for a reason.”
“What?”
“I was talking to a few friends of mine. Telling them about you and what happened outside my old store, and they wanted to see you.”
“This is more—”
“Go on. You can say it.”
“Ghosts?”
“We prefer revenants. But yeah, ghosts’ll do it.”
“Why do they want to see me?”
Dolan got up. “What the hell does it matter to you?” he hollered, suddenly exasperated, “got something better to be doing?”
“No,” Erwin said after a moment.
“So are you coming or not? Makes no odds to me.”
“I’m coming.”
* * *
II
Buddenbaum woke up in a white room, with a splitting headache. There was a sallow young man standing at the bottom of the bed, watching him.
“There you are,” the young man said.
Clearly the youth knew him. But Buddenbaum couldn’t put a name to his face. His puzzlement was apparently plain, because the kid said, “Owen? It’s me. It’s Seth.”
“Seth.” The name made a dozen images flicker in Buddenbaum’s head, like single frames of film, each from a different scene, strung together on a loop. Round and round they went, ten, twenty times. He glimpsed bare skin, a raging face, sky, more faces, now looking down at him.
“I fell.”
“Yes.”
Buddenbaum ran his palms over his chest, neck, and stomach. “I’m intact.”
“You broke some ribs, and cracked some vertebrae and fractured the base of your skull.”
“I did?” Buddenbaum’s hands went to his head. It was heavily bandaged. “How long have I been unconscious?”
“Coming up to eight hours.”
“Eight hours?” He sat up in bed. “Oh my Lord.”
“You have to lie down.”
“No time. I’ve got things to do. Important things.” He put his hand to his brow. “There’s people coming. I’ve got to be . . . got to be . . . Jesus, it’s gone out of my head.” He looked up at Seth, with desperation on his face. “This is bad,” he said, “this is very bad.” He grabbed hold of Seth, and drew him closer. “There was some liaison, yes?” Seth didn’t know the word. “You and I, we were coupling—”
“Oh. That. Yes. Yes, we were goin’ at it, and this guy Bosley, he’s a real Christian—”
“Never mind the Christians.” Buddenbaum snarled. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course I trust you,” Seth said, putting his hand to Buddenbaum’s face. “You told me what’s going to happen.”
“I did, did I? And what did I say?”
“You said there’s avatars coming.” Seth pronounced the word haltingly. “They’re more than angels, you said.”
Comprehension replaced the despair on Buddenbaum’s face. “The avatars,” he said. “Of course.” He started to swing his legs off the bed.
“You can’t get up,” Seth said, “you’re hurt.”
“I’ve survived worse than this, believe me,” Buddenbaum said. “Now where are my clothes?” He stood up, and made for the small dresser in the corner of the room. “Are we still in Everville?”
“No, we’re in Silverton.”
“How far’s that?”
“Thirty-five miles.”
“So how did you get here?”
“I borrowed my mother’s car. But Owen, you’re not well—”
“There’s more at risk here than a cracked skull,” Buddenbaum replied, opening the dresser, and taking out his clothes. “A lot more.”
“Like what?”
“It’s too complicated—”
“I catch on quickly,” Seth replied. “You know I do. You said I do.”
“Help me dress.”
“Is that all I’m good for?” Seth protested. “I’m not just some idiot kid you picked up.”
“Then stop acting like one!” Buddenbaum snapped.
Seth immediately withdrew. “Well I guess that’s plain enough,” he said.
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“You want somebody to dress you, ask the nurse. You want a ride back home, hire a cab.”
“Seth—”
It was too late. The boy was already out of the door, slamming it behind him.
Owen didn’t try to go after him. This was no time to waste energy arguing. The boy would come round, given time. And if he didn’t, he didn’t. In a few hours he would not need the aid—or the affection—of Seth or any other self-willed youth. He would be free of every frailty, including love; free to live out of time, out of place, out of every particular. He would be unmade, the way divinities were unmade, because divinities were without beginning and without end: a rare and wonderful condition.
As he was halfway through dressing, the doctor—a whey-faced young man with wispy blond hair—appeared.
“Mr. Buddenbaum, what are you doing?” he asked.
“I would have thought that perfectly obvious,” Owen replied.
“You can’t leave.”
“On the contrary. I can’t stay. I have work to do.”
“I’m amazed you’re even standing,” the doctor said. “I insist you get back into bed.”
He crossed to Owen, who raised his arms. “Leave me be,” he said. “If you want to make yourself useful, call me a cab.”
“If you attempt to leave,” the doctor said, “I will not be responsible for the consequences.”
“Fine by me,” Owen replied. “Now will you please leave me to dress in peace?”
* * *
III
For a city of such modest scale, Everville boasted an unusually large number of cemeteries. St. Mary’s Catholic Cemetery lay two miles outside the city limits on the Mulino road, but the other three, the Pioneer Cemetery (the smallest and most historically significant),
the Potter Cemetery (named for the family who had buried more people in the region than any other), and the plain old Everville Cemetery, were all within the bounds of the city. It was to the Potter Cemetery, which lay on Lambroll Drive, close to the Old Post Office building, that Dolan took Erwin.
He chatted in his lively fashion as they went, mostly about how much the city had changed in the last few years. None of it was for the better, in his opinion. So many of the things that had been part of Everville’s history—the family businesses, the older buildings, even the streetlamps—were being uprooted or destroyed.
“I didn’t think much about that kind of thing when I was breathing,” Dolan remarked. “You don’t, do you? You get on with your life as best you can. Hope the taxman doesn’t come after you; hope you can still get it up on Saturday night; hope your hair doesn’t fall out too quickly. You don’t have time to think about the past, until you’re part of it. And then—”
“Then?”
“Then you realize what’s gone is gone forever, and that’s a damn shame if it was something worth keeping.” He pointed over at the Post Office building, which had been left to fall into dereliction since a larger and more centralized facility had opened in Salem. “I mean look at that,” he said. “That could have been preserved, right? Turned into something for the community.”
“What community?” said Erwin. “There isn’t one. There’s just a few thousand people who happen to live next door to one another, and hate the sight of each other eighty percent of the time. Believe me, I saw a lot of that in my business. People suing each other ’cause a fence was in the wrong place, or a tree had been cut down. Nice neighbors, you’d say, looking at them: regular folks with good hearts. But let me tell you, if the law allowed it, they’d murder each other at the drop of a hat.”
This last remark was out of his mouth before he realized quite what he’d said. “I was just trying to protect the children,” Dolan muttered.
“I wasn’t talking about you,” Erwin replied. “What you did—”
