by Clive Barker
Taking a quick swipe from his glass, he refilled it, and waited.
The noise had stopped altogether, and it became increasingly easier to rearrange the facts: maybe it had been an upstairs neighbor after all. Certainly there was no sound of Reynolds moving around in the flat.
His attention wandered around the room looking for something to occupy it awhile, and came back to the tombstone on the wall.
Flavinus the Standard Bearer.
There was something satisfying about the idea of having your likeness, however crude, carved in stone and put up on the spot where your bones lay, even if some historian was going to separate bones and stone in the fullness of time. Gavin’s father had insisted on burial rather than cremation: How else, he’d always said, was he going to be remembered? Who’d ever go to an urn, in a wall, and cry? The irony was that nobody ever went to his grave either: Gavin had been perhaps twice in the years since his father’s death. A plain stone bearing a name, a date, and a platitude. He couldn’t even remember the year his father died.
People remembered Flavinus though; people who’d never known him, or a life like his, knew him now. Gavin stood up and touched the standard bearer’s name, the crudely chased “FLAVINUS” that was the second word of the inscription.
Suddenly, the noise again, more frenzied than ever. Gavin turned away from the tombstone and looked at the door, half expecting Reynolds to be standing there with a word of explanation. Nobody appeared.
“Damn it.”
The noise continued, a tattoo. Somebody, somewhere, was very angry. And this time there could be no self-deception: the drummer was here, on this floor, a few yards away. Curiosity nibbled Gavin, a coaxing lover. He drained his glass and went out into the hall. The noise stopped as he closed the door behind him.
“Ken?” he ventured. The word seemed to die at his lips.
The hallway was in darkness, except for a wash of light from the far end. Perhaps an open door. Gavin found a switch to his right, but it didn’t work.
“Ken?” he said again.
This time the enquiry met with a response. A moan, and the sound of a body rolling, or being rolled, over. Had Reynolds had an accident? Jesus, he could be lying incapacitated within spitting distance from where Gavin stood: he must help. Why were his feet so reluctant to move? He had the tingling in his balls that always came with nervous anticipation; it reminded him of childhood hide-and-seek: the thrill of the chase. It was almost pleasurable.
And pleasure apart, could he really leave now, without knowing what had become of the punter? He had to go down the corridor.
The first door was ajar; he pushed it open and the room beyond was a book-lined bedroom/study. Street lights through the curtainless window fell on a jumbled desk. No Reynolds, no thrasher. More confident now he’d made the first move Gavin explored further down the hallway. The next door—the kitchen—was also open. There was no light from inside. Gavin’s hands had begun to sweat: he thought of Reynolds trying to pull his gloves off, though they stuck to his palm.
What had he been afraid of? It was more than the pickup: there was somebody else in the apartment: somebody with a violent temper.
Gavin’s stomach turned as his eyes found the smeared hand print on the door; it was blood.
He pushed the door, but it wouldn’t open any further. There was something behind it. He slid through the available space, and into the kitchen. An unemptied waste bin, or a neglected vegetable rack, fouled the air. Gavin smoothed the wall with his palm to find the light switch, and the fluorescent tube spasmed into life.
Reynolds’ Gucci shoes poked out from behind the door. Gavin pushed it to, and Reynolds rolled out of his hiding place. He’d obviously crawled behind the door to take refuge; there was something of the beaten animal in his tucked-up body. When Gavin touched him he shuddered.
“It’s all right ... it’s me.” Gavin prised a bloody hand from Reynold’s face. There was a deep gouge running from his temple to his chin, and another, parallel with it but not as deep, across the middle of his forehead and his nose, as though he’d been raked by a two-pronged fork.
Reynolds opened his eyes. It took him a second only to focus on Gavin, before he said:
“Go away.”
“You’re hurt.”
“Jesus’ sake, go away. Quickly. I’ve changed my mind . .. You understand?”
“I’ll fetch the police.”
The man practically spat: “Get the fucking hell out of here, will you? Fucking bumboy!”
Gavin stood up, trying to make sense out of all this. The guy was in pain, it made him aggressive. Ignore the insults and fetch something to cover the wound. That was it. Cover the wound, and then leave him to his own devices. If he didn’t want the police that was his business. Probably he didn’t want to explain the presence of a pretty boy in his hothouse.
“Just let me get you a bandage—”
Gavin went back into the hallway.
Behind the kitchen door Reynolds said: “Don’t,” but the bumboy didn’t hear him. It wouldn’t have made much difference if he had. Gavin liked disobedience. Don’t was an invitation.
Reynolds put his back to the kitchen door, and tried to edge his way upright, using the doorhandle as purchase. But his head was spinning: a carousel of horrors, round and round, each horse uglier than the last. His legs doubled up under him, and he fell down like the senile fool he was. Damn. Damn. Damn.
Gavin heard Reynolds fall, but he was too busy arming himself to hurry back into the kitchen. If the intruder who’d attacked Reynolds was still in the flat, he wanted to be ready to defend himself. He rummaged through the reports on the desk in the study and alighted on a paper knife which was lying beside a pile of unopened correspondence. Thanking God for it, he snatched it up. It was light, and the blade was thin and brittle, but properly placed it could surely kill.
Happier now, he went back into the hall and took a moment to work out his tactics. The first thing was to locate the bathroom, hopefully there he’d find a bandage for Reynolds. Even a clean towel would help. Maybe then he could get some sense out of the guy, even coax him into an explanation.
Beyond the kitchen the hallway made a sharp left. Gavin turned the corner, and dead ahead the door was ajar. A light burned inside: water shone on tiles. The bathroom.
Clamping his left hand over the right hand that held the knife, Gavin approached the door. The muscles of his arms had become rigid with fear: would that improve his strike if it was required? he wondered. He felt inept, graceless, slightly stupid.
There was blood on the doorjamb, a palm print that was clearly Reynolds’. This was where it had happened—Reynolds had thrown out a hand to support himself as he reeled back from his assailant. If the attacker was still in the flat, he must be here. There was nowhere else for him to hide.
Later, if there was a later, he’d probably analyze this situation and call himself a fool for kicking the door open, for encouraging this confrontation. But even as he contemplated the idiocy of the action he was performing it, and the door was swinging open across tiles strewn with water-blood puddles, and any moment there’d be a figure there, hook-handed, screaming defiance.
No. Not at all. The assailant wasn’t here; and if he wasn’t here, he wasn’t in the flat.
Gavin exhaled, long and slow. The knife sagged in his hand, denied its pricking. Now, despite the sweat, the terror, he was disappointed. Life had let him down, again—snuck his destiny out of the back door and left him with a mop in his hand not a medal. All he could do was play nurse to the old man and go on his way.
The bathroom was decorated in shades of lime; the blood and tiles clashed. The translucent shower curtain, sporting stylized fish and seaweed, was partially drawn. It looked like the scene of a movie murder: not quite real. Blood too bright: light too flat.
Gavin dropped the knife in the sink, and opened the mirrored cabinet. It was well stocked with mouth washes, vitamin supplements, and abandoned toothpaste tube
s, but the only medication was a tin of Elastoplast. As he closed the cabinet door he met his own features in the mirror, a drained face. He turned on the cold tap full, and lowered his head to the sink; a splash of water would clear away the vodka and put some color in his cheeks.
As he cupped the water to his face, something made a noise behind him. He stood up, his heart knocking against his ribs, and turned off the tap. Water dripped off his chin and his eyelashes, and gurgled down the waste pipe.
The knife was still in the sink, a hand’s-length away. The sound was coming from the bath, from in the bath, the inoffensive slosh of water.
Alarm had triggered flows of adrenalin, and his senses distilled the air with new precision. The sharp scent of lemon soap, the brilliance of the turquoise angel fish flitting through lavender kelp on the shower curtain, the cold droplets on his face, the warmth behind his eyes: all sudden experiences, details his mind had passed over ‘til now, too lazy to see and smell and feel to the limits of its reach.
You’re living in the real world, his head said (it was a revelation), and if you’re not very careful you’re going to die there.
Why hadn’t he looked in the bath? Asshole. Why not the bath?
“Who’s there?” he asked, hoping against hope that Reynolds had an otter that was taking a quiet swim. Ridiculous hope. There was blood here, for Christ’s sake.
He turned from the mirror as the lapping subsided—do it! do it!—and slid back the shower curtain on its plastic hooks. In his haste to unveil the mystery he’d left the knife in the sink. Too late now: the turquoise angels concertinaed, and he was looking down into the water.
It was deep, coming up to within an inch or two of the top of the bath, and murky. A brown scum spiralled on the surface, and the smell off it was faintly animal, like the wet fur of a dog. Nothing broke the surface of the water.
Gavin peered in, trying to work out the form at the bottom, his reflection floating amid the scum. He bent closer, unable to puzzle out the relation of shapes in the silt, until he recognized the crudely-formed fingers of a hand and he realized he was looking at a human form curled up into itself like a fetus, lying absolutely still in the filthy water.
He passed his hand over the surface to clear away the muck, his reflection shattered, and the occupant of the bath came clear. It was a statue, carved in the shape of a sleeping figure, only its head, instead of being tucked up tight, was cranked round to stare up out of the blur of sediment towards the surface. Its eyes were painted open, two crude blobs on a roughly carved face; its mouth was a slash, its ears ridiculous handles on its bald head. It was naked: its anatomy no better realized than its features: the work of an apprentice sculptor. In places the paint had been corrupted, perhaps by the soaking, and was lifting off the torso in grey, globular strands. Underneath, a core of dark wood was uncovered.
There was nothing to be frightened of here. An objet d’art in a bath, immersed in water to remove a crass paintjob. The lapping he’d heard behind him had been some bubbles rising from the thing, caused by a chemical reaction. There: the fright was explained. Nothing to panic over. Keep beating my heart, as the barman at the Ambassador used to say when a new beauty appeared on the scene.
Gavin smiled at the irony; this was no Adonis.
“Forget you ever saw it.”
Reynolds was at the door. The bleeding had stopped, staunched by an unsavory rag of a handkerchief pressed to the side of his face. The light of the tiles made his skin bilious: his pallor would have shamed a corpse.
“Are you all right? You don’t look it.”
“I’ll be fine ... just go, please.”
“What happened?”
“I slipped. Water on the floor. I slipped, that’s all.”
“But the noise ...”
Gavin was looking back into the bath. Something about the statue fascinated him. Maybe its nakedness, and that second strip it was slowly performing underwater: the ultimate strip: off with the skin.
“Neighbors, that’s all.”
“What is this?” Gavin asked, still looking at the unfetching dollface in the water.
“It’s nothing to do with you.”
“Why’s it all curled up like that? Is he dying?”
Gavin looked back to Reynolds to see the response to that question, the sourest of smiles, fading.
“You’ll want money.”
“No.”
“Damn you! You’re in business aren’t you? There’s notes beside the bed; take whatever you feel you deserve for your wasted time—” He was appraising Gavin, “—and your silence.”
Again the statue: Gavin couldn’t keep his eyes off it, in all its crudity. His own face, puzzled, floated on the skin of the water, shaming the hand of the artist with its proportions.
“Don’t wonder,” said Reynolds.
“Can’t help it.”
“This is nothing to do with you.”
“You stole it... is that right? This is worth a mint and you stole it.”
Reynolds pondered the question and seemed, at last, too tired to start lying.
“Yes. I stole it.”
“And tonight somebody came back for it—”
Reynolds shrugged.
“—Is that it? Somebody came back for it?”
“That’s right. I stole it...” Reynolds was saying the lines by rote, “... and somebody came back for it.”
“That’s all I wanted to know.”
“Don’t come back here, Gavin whoever you are. And don’t try anything clever, because I won’t be here.”
“You mean extortion?” said Gavin, “I’m no thief.”
Reynolds’ look of appraisal rotted into contempt.
“Thief or not, be thankful. If it’s in you.” Reynolds stepped away from the door to let Gavin pass. Gavin didn’t move.
“Thankful for what?” he demanded. There was an itch of anger in him; he felt, absurdly, rejected, as though he was being foisted off with a half-truth because he wasn’t worthy enough to share this secret.
Reynolds had no more strength left for explanation. He was slumped against the doorframe, exhausted.
“Go,” he said.
Gavin nodded and left the guy at the door. As he passed from bathroom into hallway a glob of paint must have been loosened from the statue. He heard it break surface, heard the lapping at the edge of the bath, could see, in his head, the way the ripples made the body shimmer.
“Goodnight,” said Reynolds, calling after him.
Gavin didn’t reply, nor did he pick up any money on his way out. Let him have his tombstones and his secrets.
On his way to the front door he stepped into the main room to pick up his jacket. The face of Flavinus the Standard Bearer looked down at him from the wall. The man must have been a hero, Gavin thought. Only a hero would have been commemorated in such a fashion. He’d get no remembrance like that; no stone face to mark his passage.
He closed the front door behind him, aware once more that his tooth was aching, and as he did so the noise began again, the beating of a fist against a wall.
Or worse, the sudden fury of a woken heart.
The toothache was really biting the following day, and he went to the dentist midmorning, expecting to coax the girl on the desk into giving him an instant appointment. But his charm was at a low ebb, his eyes weren’t sparkling quite as luxuriantly as usual. She told him he’d have to wait until the following Friday, unless it was an emergency. He told her it was: she told him it wasn’t. It was going to be a bad day: an aching tooth, a lesbian dentist receptionist, ice on the puddles, nattering women on every street corner, ugly children, ugly sky.
That was the day the pursuit began.
Gavin had been chased by admirers before, but never quite like this. Never so subtle, so surreptitious. He’d had people follow him round for days, from bar to bar, from street to street, so doglike it almost drove him mad. Seeing the same longing face night after night, screwing up the courage to buy him a d
rink, perhaps offering him a watch, cocaine, a week in Tunisia, whatever. He’d rapidly come to loathe that sticky adoration that went bad as quickly as milk, and stank to high Heaven once it had. One of his most ardent admirers, a knighted actor he’d been told, never actually came near him, just followed him around, looking and looking. At first the attention had been flattering, but the pleasure soon became irritation, and eventually he’d cornered the guy in a bar and threatened him with a broken head. He’d been so wound up that night, so sick of being devoured by looks, he’d have done some serious harm if the pitiful bastard hadn’t taken the hint. He never saw the guy again; half thought he’d probably gone home and hanged himself.
But this pursuit was nowhere near as obvious, it was scarcely more than a feeling. There was no hard evidence that he had somebody on his tail. Just a prickly sense, every time he glanced round, that someone was slotting themselves into the shadows, or that on a night street a walker was keeping pace with him, matching every click of his heel, every hesitation in his step. It was like paranoia, except that he wasn’t paranoid. If he was paranoid, he reasoned, somebody would tell him.
Besides, there were incidents. One morning the cat woman who lived on the landing below him idly enquired who his visitor was: the funny one who came in late at night and waited on the stairs hour after hour, watching his room. He’d had no such visitor: and knew no one who fitted the description.
Another day, on a busy street, he’d ducked out of the throng into the doorway of an empty shop and was in the act of lighting a cigarette when somebody’s reflection, distorted through the grime on the window, caught his eye. The match burned his finger, he looked down as he dropped it, and when he looked up again the crowd had closed round the watcher like an eager sea.
