by Clive Barker
“Keep talking,” Tesla murmured. The longer Howie kept Tommy-Ray distracted, the more hope she had of getting the child out.
With some gentle persuasion she succeeded in loosing Amy’s hand from Grillo’s finger, and now began to lift her over Grillo’s body, shimmying backwards as she did so, belly to the roof of the car. The baby was eerily quiet throughout. Shock, Tesla presumed.
“It’s okay,” she cooed, attempting a smile of reassurance. Amy looked back at her blankly.
They were almost free of the wreckage now. Certain that she would not lay eyes on Grillo again, she took a moment to study his face.
“Soon,” she promised him. “Very soon.”
Then she knelt up, gathering the baby to her body, and started to get to her feet.
On the other side of the wreckage, Tommy-Ray was yelling. There was a complexity in his voice Tesla had never heard before, as though he had assembled a chorus of the dead he’d devoured, and they were weaving their voices with his.
“Tell him—” the voices were saying to Jo-Beth, “tell him the truth—”
Clear of the wreckage now, Tesla dared to stand, assuming (correctly) the Death-Boy would be too preoccupied to look in her direction. He was standing a little way behind his sister, his hands on her shoulders.
“Tell him how it is between us,” the voices out of him said.
Jo-Beth’s features were no longer a blank. Face to face with her husband, whose distress was all too apparent, she could not help but be moved. Tommy-Ray shook her a little. “Why don’t you just spit it out!” he said.
Finally, she spoke. “I don’t know any more,” she said.
At the sound of her voice, the baby in Tesla’s arms began crying. Tesla froze, as three pairs of eyes were turned towards her.
“Amy!” Jo-Beth sobbed, and breaking from her place between the two men, she started towards Tesla, arms outstretched.
“Give her to me!”
She was a yard or two from the wreckage when Tommy-Ray yelled, “Wait!”
There was such vehemence in his voice she obeyed on the instinct.
“Before you touch that kid,” Tommy-Ray demanded, “I want you to tell him who it belongs to.”
Tesla could see Jo-Beth’s face; the men could not. She could see the conflict written on it. “W-w-what are you t-t-t-talking about?” Howie said.
“I don’t think she wants to tell you,” Tommy-Ray said. “But I do. I want you to know once and for all. I came calling quite a while back, just to see how my little sister was doing, and we—got together, like you wouldn’t believe. The kid’s mine, Katz.”
Howie’s eyes were on Jo-Beth. “Tell him he’s a liar,” he said. The girl didn’t move. “Jo-Beth? Tell him h-h-he’s a liar!”
He had taken the gun out of his jacket—Tesla had seen him drop it in the parking lot; he’d obviously snatched it up again before climbing on the back of the bike—and he waved it in Jo-Beth’s general direction.
“I w-w-want you t-t-to tell him!” he yelled at her. “H-h-he’s a liar!”
Tesla’s gaze went from his face to the gun to Jo-Beth to the wet ground, and images of the Mall in Palomo Grove filled her head. Fletcher, soaked in gasoline and eager for death by fire. The gun, clutched in her own hand, ready to strike a spark—
Not again, she prayed. Please God, not again.
Tommy-Ray was still ranting.
“You never had her, Katz. Not really. You thought you did, but she goes deeper than you could ever get.” He jiggled his lips as he spoke. “Real deep.”
Howie looked down at the gasoline around his enemy’s feet, and without hesitation, fired. The whole sequence of events—the looking and the firing—could only have occupied three or four seconds, but it was long enough for Tesla to wonder what place synchronicity had upon the story tree.
Then the spark came, and the flame followed, and the air around Tommy-Ray turned gold.
Howie let out a whoop of triumph. Then he turned his gaze on Jo-Beth.
“You still want him?” he yelled.
Jo-Beth let out a sob. “He loves me,” she said.
“No!” Howie yelled, striding towards her now. “No! No! No! I’m the one who loves you—” He stabbed at his chest with his finger. “Always did. Before I met you I loved you—”
As he approached her the fire that had bloomed around the Death-Boy moved across the ground in her direction. She didn’t see it. She was too busy yelling at Howie to Stop, please stop—
“Howie!” Tesla yelled. He looked her way. “The fire, Howie—”
He saw it now. Dropped his gun and raced towards Jo-Beth, shouting to her as he went. Before he’d halved the distance between them the flames that had obscured the Death-Boy parted like a curtain, and Tommy-Ray strode into view. He was blazing from head to foot; fire spurting from his mouth and eye-sockets, from his belly, from his groin. His immolation seemed not to concern him overmuch, however. He advanced upon his sister with an almost casual lope.
She had seen his approach, and would surely have run from him, but the ground at her feet was alight, and as she retreated the flames ignited her dress. She began to shriek, and beat at the fire with her hands, but it quickly consumed the light fabric, leaving her nearly naked for its play.
Howie was a couple of yards from the flames now, and without hesitation he plunged into them, arms outstretched to claim his wife. But the Death-Boy was a yard from him, and caught hold of his jacket collar in his fiery fist. Howie half-turned to beat him back, grabbing at the shrieking Jo-Beth with his free hand. The fire had reached her long hair, and it suddenly ignited, a column of fire rising off her scalp. Howie reached for her, plainly intending to carry her out of the fire. Her arms were open, and as he took hold of her, they closed around him.
Tesla had witnessed horrors aplenty along the road that had brought her to this moment, but nothing—not in the Loop, not at Point Zero—as terrible as this. Jo-Beth was no longer shrieking now. Her body was jerking around as though she was in the throes of a fit, her spasms so violent Howie could not carry her out of the fire. Nor could he detach himself. Her blackened arms were molded around him, keeping him a prisoner in the midst of the pyre.
Tommy-Ray had started to shout now: a shrill, lunatic din. He started to tear Howie away from Jo-Beth, or at least tried to, but the fire had spilled from wife to husband, and their bodies had become a single column of flame and flesh. Jo-Beth’s spasms had ceased. She was surely dead. But there was life left in Howie still. Enough to raise his hand behind his wife’s head, and let it loll on his shoulder, as though the heat were nothing and they were slow-dancing in the flames.
This tender gesture was his last. His withered legs gave out, and he went down onto his knees, carrying Jo-Beth down with him. He made no sound, even to the last. The couple seemed to kneel face to face in the flames, Howie’s hand still cradling Jo-Beth’s head, Jo-Beth’s head still laid upon Howie’s shoulder.
As for Tommy-Ray, he now retreated from the bodies towards the far side of the road, where his ghost-legion lingered after their punishment. Whether at his instruction or no, they came to him, and rose around him, blanketing him. The flames were smothered, and he sank down into the midst of his entourage. Sobs escaped him. So did his sister’s name, repeated over and over.
Tesla looked back at the fire around Howie and Jo-Beth. With its fuel almost devoured, it had quickly died down. The bodies were shriveled, but it was still possible to make out their arms, wrapped tightly around one another.
Behind her, Tesla heard somebody sob. She didn’t bother to turn. She knew who it was.
“Satisfied now?” she said to the little girl. “Going to go home?”
“Soon—” came the reply.
This time it was not the floating voice of the child who replied. Puzzled, Tesla looked round. There was a grassy slope behind her, with perhaps half a dozen large bushes planted upon it, all dead. The three witnesses were perched upon the uppermost branches, but so l
ightly it seemed unlikely they had any weight whatsoever. They had put off their previous appearances in favor of what Tesla assumed were their real faces. They reminded her of porcelain puppets, their heads small, their features simple, their skin nearly white. They were cocooned, however, in garments of papal excess, layer upon gilded layer. There was very little variation among their appearance, but she assumed the individual closest to her had been little Miss Perfection, by the way she now addressed Tesla.
“I knew we chose well,” she, he, or it said. “You are all we hoped you’d be.”
Tesla glanced back at Tommy-Ray. He was still blanketed in mist, still grieving. But he’d come for the child sooner or later. This was no time to be quizzing her unwanted patrons in depth. Just a few questions, and she’d have to go.
“Who the hell are you?”
“We are Jai-Wai,” the creature replied. “And I am Rare Utu. Yie and Haheh you already know.”
“That doesn’t tell me anything,” Tesla replied. “I want to know what the fuck you are.”
“Too long a story to tell you now,” Rare Utu replied.
“Then I’m never going to hear it,” Tesla said.
“Perhaps it’s better that way,” Yie replied. “Better you go on your way.”
“Yes, go on,” the third of the trio said. “We want to know what happens next—”
“Haven’t you seen enough?” Tesla said.
“Never,” said Rare Utu, almost sorrowfully. “Buddenbaum showed us so much. So much.”
“But never enough,” Yie said.
“Maybe you should try getting involved,” Tesla said.
Rare Utu actually shuddered. “We could never do that,” she said. “Never.”
“Then you’ll never be satisfied,” Tesla said, and turning from them, she started back towards her bike, casting glances at Tommy-Ray now and again. She needn’t have worried. He was still smothered in the mists of his legion.
She broke a couple of bungee cords out of the tool box and carefully secured the baby to the back seat. Then she started the engine, half expecting the sound to bring the legion scurrying to find her. But no. When she rounded the corner the Death-Boy and his ghosts had not moved. She drove on past them, glancing back once to see if the Jai-Wai had gone from the slope. They had. They’d had the pleasure of the triple tragedy here, damn them, and moved on to find some other entertainment. She felt nothing but contempt for them. Plainly they were of some higher order of being, but their vicarious interest in the spectacle of human suffering sickened her. Tommy-Ray couldn’t help himself. They could.
And yet, for all her rage towards them, the phrase they had repeated over and over kept returning, and would, she supposed, until death deafened her.
What next? That was the eternal inquiry. What next? What next? What next?
EIGHT
I
Are they planning to crucify you, D’Amour?”
Harry turned from the crosses in front of which he stood, and looked at the monkish fellow who was emerging from the mist. He was a study in simplicity, his dark clothes without a single concession to vanity, his hair cropped until it barely shadowed his scalp, his wide, plain face almost colorless. And yet, there was something here Harry knew, something in the eyes.
“Kissoon?” The man’s blank expression soured. “It is, isn’t it?”
“How did you know?”
“Untether me and I’ll tell you,” Harry said. He’d been tied to a stake driven into the ground.
“I’m not that interested,” Kissoon replied. “Did I ever tell you how much I like your name? Not Harold; Harold’s ridiculous. But D’Amour. I may take it, when you’re up there.” He nodded towards the middle cross. Gamaliel and Bartho were in the midst of taking down the woman’s body. “Maybe I’ll have a hundred names,” Kissoon went on. Then, dropping his voice to a whisper: “And maybe none at all.” This seemed to please him. “Yes, that’s for the best. To be nameless.” His hands went up to his cheek. “Maybe faceless too.”
“You think the Iad’s going to make you King of the World?” Harry said.
“You’ve been talking to Tesla.”
“It’s not going to happen, Kissoon.”
“Are you familiar with the works of Filip the Chantiac? No? He was a hermit. Lived on an island, a tiny island, close to the coast of Almoth’s Saw. Very few people dared go there—they feared the currents carrying them past the Chantiac’s island and washing them up on the Iad’s shore—but those who did came back with fragments of his wisdom—”
“Which were?”
“I’ll get to that. The thing is, Filip the Chantiac had been the ruler of the city of b’Kether Sabbat in his time, and he’d been all the things we pray for our leaders to be. But even so there was dissension and violence and hatred in his city. So one day he said, ‘I can’t deal with the taint of Sapas Humana any longer,’ and took himself off to his island. And at the end of his life, when somebody asked him what he wished for the world, he said, ‘I dream only of an end to courage and compassion and devotion. An end to human strength, and to human endurance. An end to brotherhood. An end to sisterhood. An end to defiance in grief, and consolation in laughter. An end to hope. Then we may all return to fishes, and be content.’ ”
“And that’s what you want?” Harry said.
“Oh yes. I want an end—”
“To what?”
“To that damn city for one,” Kissoon replied, nodding down the mountain in the direction of Everville. He came a little closer. Harry scrutinized his face, looking for some crack in the mask, but he could see none. “I spent a lot of time sealing up neirica across the continent,” he said. “Making sure that when the Iad finally came through it would be over this threshold they came.”
“You don’t even know what they are—”
“It doesn’t really matter. They’re bringing the end of things. That’s what’s important.”
“And what’ll happen to you?”
“I’ll have this hill,” Kissoon said, “and I’ll look down from it on a world of fishes.”
“Suppose you’re wrong?”
“About what?”
“About the Iad. Suppose they’re pussycats?”
“They’re everything that’s rotted in us, D’Amour. They’re every fetid, fucked-up thing that feeds on our shit, and waits to be loosed when nobody’s looking.” He came closer still, until he was just out of Harry’s range. His hand had gone to his chest. “Have you looked into the human heart recently?” he said.
“Not in the last couple of days, no.”
“Unspeakable, the things in there—”
“In you, maybe.”
“Everyone, D’Amour, everyone! Rage and hatred and appetite!” He pointed back towards the door. “That’s what coming, D’Amour. It won’t have a human face, but it’ll have a human heart. I guarantee it.”
Behind Harry, the body of Kate O’Farrell was dropped to the ground. He glanced back at her, the agony of her last moments fixed upon her face.
“A terrible thing, the human heart,” Kissoon was saying. “A very terrible thing.”
It took Harry a moment to persuade his eyes from the dead woman’s face, as though some idiot part of him thought he might learn some way to avoid her suffering by studying it. When he looked back at Kissoon, the man had turned away, and was heading up the slope again. “Enjoy the view, D’Amour,” he said, then was gone.
* * *
II
As Joe left the city streets to follow the Iad along the shore—to witness, if nothing more, to witness—the ground began to shudder. To his left, the dream-sea threw itself into a greater frenzy than ever. To his right, the highway that ran along the edge of the beach cracked and buckled, falling away in places.
The mass of Iad, which was now within two hundred yards of the door, was apparently indifferent to the tremors. It had resembled many things to Joe in his brief time knowing it. A wall, a cloud, a diseased body. Now it looked to him
like a swarm of minute insects so dense it kept every speck of light and comprehension out as it seethed towards its destination.
The door had grown considerably in the hours since he’d first stepped through it. Though its lower regions were still wreathed in mist, its highest point was now several hundred yards above the beach, and rising even as he watched, cracking the heavens. If there were angels on the other side, he thought, this would be the time for them to show their faces; to swoop and drive the Iad back with their glory. But the crack went on growing, and the Iad advancing, and the only response was not from heaven, but from the earth on which his spirit stood—
The rock’s convulsions did not go unfelt on Harmon’s Heights. The tremors ran through ground and mist alike, causing some measure of alarm amongst Zury’s faction. Harry couldn’t see them, but he could hear them well enough, their songs of welcome—which they had only recently begun—decaying into sobs of fearful expectation as the violence in the rock escalated.
“Something’s happening on the shore,” Coker said to Erwin.
“We should stay away,” the lawyer counseled, casting a fearful look up at the crosses. “This is worse than I thought.”
“Yes it is,” Coker said. “But that doesn’t mean we should be cowards!”
He hurried on, past the crosses and the tethered D’Amour, up the slope, which was rolling in mounting waves. Reluctantly, Erwin followed, more out of a fear that he would lose his one companion in this insanity than from any genuine urge to know what lay ahead. He wished—ah, how he wished—for the life he’d led before he’d found McPherson’s confession. For pettiness, for triviality; for all the little things that had vexed him. Digging through his fridge for something that smelled bad; finding a stain on his favorite tie; standing in front of the mirror wishing he had more hair and less belly. Perhaps it had been a bland life, puttering on without purpose or direction, but he’d liked its banality, now that he was denied it. Better that than the crosses, and the door, and the whatever was coming through it.
